Cat In An Ultramarine Scheme

Did Temple ever dream she would see the day she and Molina snuggled down with booze to discuss men? No.

“Which men?” Temple asked. “If you’re going to grill me about Max again …”

“No. Max Kinsella is a dead issue.”

Temple cringed. “An official declaration?”

“Totally personal. Or don’t you think I have a personal view?”

“I think it’s all been personal about Max.”

Molina actually winced. “He’s such a natural-born suspect, even you have to admit that. If he was always the counterterrorist operative you claim, that would draw official suspicion, even subconsciously.”

“Maybe,” Temple admitted. “So it’s Max you want me to dissect.”

“Actually, no. I say he was a likely suspect. You say I was persecuting him. He disappeared, probably happy to not be a bone of contention any longer. No, let Max enjoy his anonymity. I’m more interested in knowing what you think about Dirty Larry.”

“Huh?”

“Dirty Larry Podesta. You’ve seen him around crime scenes. The recovering undercover guy.”

“You mean ‘Dirty Blond’ Dirty Larry.”

“If you say so. So you think blond means ‘dumb’? You’re marrying a blond.”

“Do I have to call him Dirty Larry? It’s so seventies.”

Molina cracked a smile. Vodka will do that to even the most poker-faced person. “Yes, he does seem out of some Steve McQueen time zone, doesn’t he?”

“I thought you liked him.”

“I have associated with him. Or, rather, he has associated with me. What do you think?”

“He’s not your type.”

“Do we know what is my type?”

“I guess not,” Temple admitted. “You are an enigma wrapped in a torch singer hiding behind a madonna.”

“We ought to tip a glass more often.” Molina tipped hers, but Temple noticed her vivid blue eyes were completely focused.

That was the problem with striking eyes. Temple’s were a changeable blue-gray, which allowed her to play vague or steel-sharp.

“Dirty Larry.” Temple savored the theatricality of the nickname. “Did he decide to leave the undercover detail, or was he shuffled out?”

“The records on that are vague.”

“Suspicious in itself. Your impression?”

“He showed up suddenly. I could have been flattered. Or I could have decided I got a rash of unknown origin.”

“So you never trusted him.”

“I never trust anyone.”

“That is sad, Carmen.”

“Did I say we were on first-name basis, Temple?”

“You gave me a ring, Carmen.”

The lieutenant burst out laughing. “I would hate to play poker with you, I’ll give you that. Look. My personal and professional life is a mess at the moment, admitted. I bet you’d be busy loving that, except you can’t admit how worried you are about your missing ex, even with the upscale brass ring from another man on your third finger, left hand. I can’t admit how wrong I probably was about your ex, which makes him the elephant in the room. But we aren’t the type to go around blindfolded discussing elephants when we can be doing something productive, are we? Is Dirty Larry dirty or not?”

“He could be. You don’t invite hangers-on, and he’s sure stubborn about that.”

“Exactly,” Molina said. “I’ve watched him as much as I can with a mystery stalker intruding now and then into my house, and my teenage daughter acting out, and me trying to push an invisible man into a corner, where I’ll probably end up getting myself trapped.”

“I’d lose him,” Temple said. “Personally. Watch your back, but lose him.”

Molina nodded and lifted her glass. “Any more where this came from?”

“If you want Crystal Light and no-name vodka, you have hit the mother lode.”

Temple bustled off to refill their glasses. She made Molina’s heavy on the vodka, hers on the Crystal Light. Did she think she could outdrink the Iron Maiden of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department, or Carmen the bar singer, or whatever role Molina was going to whip out of her blazer today? Not without playing a bit dirty. Dirty. The word of the hour. Maybe.

“So,” said Molina, when Temple had returned with the drinks reloaded. “You’ve disposed of Dirty Larry as a bad idea whose time has not come. What about … Detective Alch?”

“Really? We’re supposed to discuss him, as what? A detective? Or a favorite uncle?”

“Your opinion, your choice.”

“He’s kind of like me,” Temple said thoughtfully.

Molina almost spit out her drink in surprise. “How in the world?”

“Fiercer than you’d think.”

Molina thought about it for a long while, then nodded grudgingly. “My best man.”

“Are we still speaking professionally?”

“Your choice.”

“Solid-gold veteran,” Temple declared. “And … a bonus: he gets girls.”

“How do you mean ‘girls’?”

“All ages, all stages.”

“He has an only daughter, grown,” Molina confirmed. “Ah! And a wife?”

“Ex-wife.”

“Somehow I don’t get someone leaving him.”

“It was the other way around, but it wasn’t his fault.”

“No. It wouldn’t be,” Temple said.

“Does Alch know you’re such a fan?”

“Probably, but he wouldn’t think much about it. Does he know you’re such a fan?”

“Did I say that?”

“He’s your right-hand man. I say that.”

Molina nodded and sipped. “And Rafi Nadir.”