Cat In An Aqua Storm

“The present tense. You give me hope, Lieutenant, of revenge if not reunion,”

“You were right,” Molina answered absently. “He wouldn’t be easy to kill. Was he a good magician?”

“Unbelievable. He wouldn’t work with an assistant. Didn’t like airhead dollies, didn’t need anybody to distract the audience from him.”

“Didn’t want it,” Molina added.

“No.”

“Hmm.”

“You can have it copied?”

Molina’s dark, blunt-cut hair bobbed. “I’ll see they don’t damage it.”

“Why?”

Her head didn’t turn. “You kept it, didn’t you?”

“Stored it.”

“Hmm.” Molina lifted the anchoring slippers, let the poster slowly roll out of sight from the bottom, like a drawn shade. One of her fingers touched the bit of Magic Tape that had been pressed down on the back.

“Is that all you need?” Temple asked pointedly.

Molina turned. “Sorry. Did you keep anything else of his?”

“That wasn’t in the deal.” Temple sighed, then relented. She’d gone this far, and she was too tired to resist. “Only some CDs, and some clothes I hadn’t gotten rid of yet.”

“Clothes?” Molina’s head lifted like a hound’s.

“Back here.” Temple swept her own belongings to the left to bare the closet’s far, shadowed end where the odd shirt, sweater and jacket hung.

Molina stepped up and began paging through the clothes. She plucked out a sweater, a thick-woven wool turtleneck, and took it to the French doors for inspection. “Irish-made,” she declared, sounding as cut and dried as a customs official.

Temple nodded, not surprised.

“Odd for Las Vegas.”

“Winters can get chilly here. Besides, Max performed all over the country—Minneapolis, Boston—Europe even before that.”

“But he left this behind. Expensive. Might indicate... and blue. Beige and blue.” Molina grew so lost in thought she seemed to be mooning over the sweater.

“Lots of men wear those colors,” Temple said, aggravated that Molina would dismiss her clever “Monday’s child” murder theory, yet waste this much time on an abandoned sweater. “Ever notice that the manly among us are limited to a deadly dull and restricted palette?”

“No.” Molina cast Temple an amused glance as she stood there in her deadly dull navy suit. Navy or khaki or gray. Organization woman.

Molina abruptly returned to the closet and replaced the sweater. She retrieved the rolled-up poster from the bed. “I’ll get it back to you as soon as possible.”

Temple nodded, impatient for her to leave.

For once, Molina took the hint and stalked out of the bedroom into the light-drenched living room. She looked around as if memorizing it, then turned to Temple. “This neighbor of yours, Devine. Was he living here when Kinsella disappeared?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“You two seemed to get along. I wondered if that was something new.”

“Awfully interested in the men in my personal life, for a police-person, aren’t you?”

“Maybe I’m just envious,” Molina said.

“Why?”

“Short women get all the tall men.”

“Matt isn’t that tall.”

“Tall enough.”

Temple’s mind flashed back to a mental picture of Matt rising to meet Molina at the emergency room. In her low work heels, Molina stood taller than his five-ten-or-so. Barefoot, they’d be dead even.

“Oh, come on!” Temple found herself saying disdainfully. “You beanpoles have nothing to complain about. You get to play basketball and be models.”

“Short girls get to be cheerleaders and prom queens.”

“I never was!”

“I never modeled.”

“That’s only because you never plucked your eyebrows!”

Molina reared back in surprise. “The natural look is in.”

“Not that natural. And not back then. Even with Hairy Ape eyebrows, tall girls get taken seriously and get voted to be class president and they marry basketball players! There isn’t one thing about short girls that tall girls envy, admit it!”

Molina considered, then shrugged. “Short girls get to wear high heels.”

Temple, speechless, stared back. Then she clapped her hand over her mouth before she began laughing.

Molina didn’t laugh... not quite. She waved the long white roll of the poster. “Thanks for the loan. Watch your step.”

Molina let herself out before Temple could pull herself together and do it. How did they get into eyebrows and high heels? And Matt as well as Max?

She looked around. And where the heck had Midnight Louie gone now? She could use some feline aid and comfort.

25

The Kitty City Connection

The phoneon the nightstand had an electronic panic attack, jolting Temple wide awake. New-fashioned phones rang like a hysterical Moog synthesizer being choked off in the middle of an aria, she thought, grabbing the red plastic high-heeled shoe masquerading as a telephone. According to the amount of light filtering through the miniblinds on the French doors, morning had arrived.

Temple cradled the heel against her ear, hopeful that Molina had reconsidered and wanted to know more about her theory.

“Hi, kiddo!”

“Electra? I called you last thing last night, but you weren’t home. I was worried.”