Cat In An Aqua Storm

Feeling smug, Temple clicked down the hall to the living room, all business. She really hated Molina’s being here, inspecting the space she and Max had shared, making comparisons and inferences and judgments. At least the place disoriented the policewoman more than anything Temple had yet seen her confront.

Turning by the cocktail table, Temple caught Molina jerking with surprise when Midnight Louie vaulted off the pale sofa onto the floor, looking miffed, as if offended by the very proximity of the law.

Of course it was only some arcane feline reaction, but he certainly did not seem to be unrolling a welcome mat for Molina. Temple was relieved that the scamp had finally bothered to come home from the Goliath.

“That’s the cat from the ABA,” Molina noted.

“Brilliant deduction. But Louie was never from the ABA. He was just visiting, like the rest of us.”

Molina watched the cat swagger slowly to the French doors and sit to lick a front paw. “He sure is a big bruiser.”

“Watchcat,” Temple said smugly. “Did you learn anything important at the murder scene? Anything I should know about when the press comes hounding around?”

“Not much,” Molina said briskly. “I brought the birth dates of the two victims, in case you want to play some more with days of the week.”

“Thanks.”

Temple accepted the gaudy piece of Goliath notepaper—an embossed gold pyramid straddled by guess what? It looked like a cross between legal tender and a Charles Atlas ad—and tried not to smile. Molina’s handwriting was like a doctor’s, loose and hasty, but she could at least read the numbers.

Time for a payback.

“The poster’s in the bedroom,” Temple said. “I’ll get it.” She hadn’t expected Molina to follow, but the detective did. The nerve of some people! Give them a badge and they think they can barge in anywhere.

Temple turned. “If you want to wait in the living room, I’ll be right back.”

“I don’t.”

“Well, you ought to. I didn’t offer you a guided tour.”

Molina’s smile, being rare, seemed suspiciously disarming. “This place is fascinating. Psychologically, I mean. You said once that Kinsella found it?”

“Yes, but I approved it.”

Molina looked around with Midnight Louie’s expressionless curiosity. “Not a right angle in the place. Interesting.

“You don’t need to trail me into the bedroom.” Molina leaned nearer, lowered her bitter-chocolate voice even further. “Clues,” she whispered darkly, mockingly.

Temple hadn’t thought the woman capable of such drama. “What do you expect to find? Colonel Mustard with a meat-ax in the boudoir?”

Molina shrugged. She wasn’t retreating, and at her size that alone made a massive statement.

Temple turned and marched on, wishing looks could kill because then she’d turn and do the dirty deed with a grimace in the front room.

She hadn’t felt up to bending over and making the bed that morning, of course. Nor could she hang up her clothes with her bum shoulder.

“Welcome to the physically challenged ward.”

Molina’s quick eyes skittered over Temple’s belongings, missing nothing but dismissing everything. “Where’s the poster?”

“In the dark at the back of the closet.” Temple opened the folding doors—an exotic South American wood Electra had told her bore the poetic name of purpleheart. That was the award she deserved for putting up with Molina... a Purple Heart.

Rows of high-rise clear plastic boxes confronted Molina. “You could hold your own shoe sale,” the detective commented.

“Why would I? I want to keep every one. Now”—Temple dove into the closet’s far end, thrusting hangers aside and pushing between swaying curtains of blouses and skirts—“here it is.” She handed Molina a long, thin roll of paper.

The lieutenant uncurled the end, then paused to brace herself. Temple realized that she had never seen Max in the flesh tones. She watched Molina unroll the poster carefully, but quickly, as if eager to get the unveiling over with. Molina’s face showed virtually nothing. Virtually. Only long-practiced control kept her reaction so unreadable.

“Hair—is that really black, or dark brown?” she asked.

“Raven black.”

“And his eyes were really this green?”

“Like a cat’s. Could see in the dark, too.”

Molina grimaced slightly. “Height. Weight.”

“Six-four, and I never asked.”

“Any... identifying marks?”

“I said he could see in the dark. I never said I could.”

Molina cocked her head as she studied the poster. Her vivid blue eyes moved around the two-by-three-foot surface held taut between her extended arms.

She brought it to the bed, picked up a midheeled blue satin mule from the floor to anchor the top and pinned the bottom edge with the mate. Then she stepped back to consider the image.

“Did it ever occur to you, Lieutenant,” Temple asked in strained tones, “that it might be as hard for me to look at that poster under these circumstances as to hunt through the mug-shot book for the faces of the men who attacked me?”

. Molina whirled to face Temple, then her eyes dropped. “No. I’m sorry.” She turned back to the poster. “Quite... intense, isn’t he?”