Cat In A White Tie And Tails

“Man fell out of the Crystal Phoenix ceiling, dead.”

“Another ceiling murder? Unsolved?”

She nodded. “He looked a bit like Effinger, but had no ID.”

“Somebody mistook him for Effinger and offed him.”

“Or…”

He got it. “Effinger wanted to be thought dead. He doesn’t strike me as the killer sort. He is from Chicago, though, like Devine. The mob is plenty active there.”

“Don’t think too big,” she cautioned him. “Think personal.”

“Devine! Matt Devine was on his trail. He wanted Matt Devine to think he was dead.” Max reconsidered. “No. Devine wasn’t that big a threat.”

“He was if his dogged search for Effinger was drawing attention, and drawing attention to Effinger. And don’t underestimate Matt Devine. He’s with your girl now, isn’t he?”

“I’m not possessive by nature. I think. You’re pushing the wrong buttons, Lieutenant.”

“Maybe. Then there was that crazy incident involving your ex-girlfriend and her cat being kidnapped from a Shangri-La magic show and being spirited down the highway in a semi filled with magic-act paraphernalia and contraband drugs. I sensed your ghostly fingers at work in the scene of their escape when my people got there. Any memories of tearing the contents of that semi to pieces to find the pair before they suffocated?”

Magical boxes, big enough to conceal an artfully arranged human body, boxes with false bottoms and sides and mirrors. They crowded his memory, begging for recognition. You used me in this illusion. No, Garry did. No, Temple Barr was your assistant and did the switch with you, and then you pulled her cat out of a hat.

He blinked as the deceptive rummage sale images of the past faded away and smiled at Molina. “You are truly a tree of knowledge of good and evil. Or just evil.”

She smiled. “Thanks. My job. Another little tidbit for you. About that old-time magician found dead in the underground safe that your ex-girlfriend tried to use as a promo opportunity.”

“Cosimo Sparks,” Max said. “I heard about him.” Not only that, he’d dreamed about him, had known the man while still living, at the Neon Nightmare. He was a confirmed Synth member, but Molina would laugh that idea off.

“He was stabbed to death, but prodded viciously first.”

“Another reluctant information-giver. Hasn’t someone been arrested for that?”

“We had to let him go. A South American larger-than-life personality known as Santiago, just Santiago. Blood traces too insignificant for court. One always thinks of drugs. That would tie in to the Shangri-La kidnapping.”

“What about that lady magician as a suspect?”

“Dead too.”

“You have a … an outhouse-load of cold cases, Lieutenant.”

“Why do you think I hire freelancers?”

“From what I can see, usually it’s personal reasons.”

“And what would those be in your case?”

“My Irish charm.”

“I favor Latin charm.”

“With those blue eyes? It’s a fact that the Irish and the Spanish mix like whiskey and soda. Soledad O’Brian, the news reporter. I can’t think of others. The memory, you know.”

“What are you and your overblown Irish charm getting at, Kinsella?”

“Have you ever considered the … Irish mob?”

“You talking Boston?”

“I’m talking Northern Ireland.”

She made a tsking sound. “I’ve heard that eternally from your ex. I don’t doubt your counterterrorism work in the past, but that conflict is ninety-eight percent over and done with. Face it. You’re not a downtrodden minority anymore. And your fixation on this topic is obsessive romanticism. The ‘Troubles’ are over. Those political crusades are over, and whatever will you do without them?”

Max stood, and stood at mock attention. “Work for you, Lieutenant, until you can see past your personal, private ‘troubles’ and discern the vast terrorist conspiracy surrounding us all.”

Chapter 31

Missing Links

Temple and Matt trudged toward the baggage claim area, thankful that Louie would have no more close encounters with airport security. These did not turn out well for the carrier-searches.

Temple was in that automatic nirvana of ending a short trip that had been packed with stress and uncertainty, so it was Matt who spotted the fly in the ointment.

“Unwelcome committee of one at three o’clock high,” he warned under his breath.

Temple had seen enough WWII fighter-pilot movies to look to her right at midlevel.

Slouching against the giant rattlesnake sculpture among the famous assembly of desert critters on the terminal floor was … Max.

Fitting. He was long and lean and deadly when in counterterrorist mode. His black ensemble suggested that magician mode was also back and operational, and then some.

He straightened to snag Louie’s gaudy new carrier from Temple without a by-your-leave or by-your-left-or-right and joined their pace without losing a beat. Neither did his opening patter.