Cat In An Alien X-Ray

She settled back against the pillows. “Tell me about your deflowering and I’ll tell you about mine.”

“I know about yours and I’m sorry that I do.”

“Sorry! Don’t be sorry for me. Be sorry for yourself when I’m done with you.” She’d leaped up from the bed and grabbed her constant talisman for these sessions, the straight razor, from the veined marble top of the nightstand.

“Your skin is very white, very sensitive,” he observed.

She immediately unruffled her defenses as a cat’s bristled fur settled down at the sound of a familiar voice, a familiar hand. Seducing, bespelling a man was the only way she could permit herself to be petted.

“Have you used that razor on yourself?”

“What?” She glared, hardly believing the question.

“The thin pale scars would hardly show on that skin of yours. I imagine that was some comfort, to hurt yourself and feel it, rather than being hurt by somebody else and trying not to feel it.”

She flung a string of gutter Irish expletives he could barely understand, much less take offense at. “Manipulating, lying, Judas priest and freaking bastard,” was the decipherable end of it.

“I guess we share that ‘bastard’ label,” he said mildly. Very mildly. “Toast to that?” he lifted his lowball glass.

She slammed the razor back down on the marble and paced between the bed and the wall, a mirrored wall that reflected the long mirror on the opposite wall, so she met herself coming and going. “Smug, superior professional eunuch,” she spat at him, quite literally, her lips wet from a series of savage sips at the drink in her hand. “You’re not man enough to bother seducing.”

“But Max Kinsella was, and is. You seduced Max once, when he was seventeen. Is that why not finding him is so maddening? You need to seduce Max again, but can’t, now that he knows what you are?”

Her knuckles went white on the shaft of the folding razor. “You underestimate yourself, priest. You’re my target now.”

If only, Matt thought, the Northern Ireland peace hadn’t deprived her of a “cause” to justify her fury and sexual manipulations. She had to seduce and bedevil someone.

“Ex-priest,” he said again. Calm. “Tell me about the ones who abused you.”

She sat on the bed’s foot, the razor under her supporting palm, and leaned near. “I’m sure you’ll find this very exciting.”

She certainly did.

Chapter 24

Law and Order: Truce or Consequences

“I thought,” Max said, “I was to be allowed a long leash.”

He was still gobsmacked that Molina had invited him onto her home turf for a conversation, instead of to the usual scuzzy confidential-informant meeting place.

The unexpected civility put him off his game. He actually was sounding apologetic. “I’ve barely had time to survey Goliath and the Oasis Hotels for any lingering taint from the time dead bodies occupied the casino ceiling and were shanghaied onto sinking-ship attractions.”

“Circumstances change,” Molina answered.

They sure had; she’d gone from hunting him as a murderer to accepting his secret counter-terrorism past and finding him a useful covert investigator.

“Your bias against all things ‘me’ certainly has,” he agreed. “You’re asking to see me so often, I’m beginning to wonder if I’m a candidate to take Mariah to the Dad–Daughter dance next fall.”

“You know about my daughter’s school events? How?”

The truce was still iffy. Max laughed. “Scrub that Mama Grizzly look off your face and relax. Since the leading favorite for that honor, Matt Devine, is making visits to Chicago with Temple and cat in tow, he may not even be in Vegas by then. I smell a job opportunity for our golden boy.”

“Really? Apparently you still keep in touch with old acquaintances, even if you don’t remember much of them?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Devine has always visited Chicago regularly for TV talk show gigs. Your rival is a media darling.”

“Ex-rival. I’ve conceded. This most recent Windy City visit by the happy couple is enough to plant suspicions. Your daughter would be crushed to lose her Prince Charming.”

“Maybe not so much now.” Molina sat back on her slouchy family couch. “Mariah is all about becoming a YouTube sensation these days. Why do you think I can even consider … entertaining you at home?”

“She’s off with her girlfriends,” Max speculated, “singing into home karaoke machines and trying out new Girly Gaga looks.”

“Something like that.” Molina’s smile was nostalgic.

“I can see that’s in the genes. How did your secret singing career get started?”

“Church choir.”

Max nodded. “Makes sense. Singing alto on ‘Little Drummer Boy’ is perfect training for crooning torch songs at a neighborhood club.”

Molina wouldn’t be baited. “Your sarcasm,” she said, “is not going to make me ‘sing’ about how my undercover hobby got started. One good thing about today’s teen mania for fame and fortune and American Idol: It keeps them off the streets at night.”