Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In An Alien X-Ray

Landlady Electra Lark had chained the doors shut until a locksmith could repair the middle latch’s damage. Matt had promised to fill in the scratches and touch up the paint afterwards. Imagine, all that and handy too.

In three minutes Temple’s Miata was tooling up the highway, she wearing a broad-brimmed hat with a built-in scarf tied under her chin to protect her hairdo from the wind and her skin from the sunlight. Convertibles made hats obligatory for a natural redhead, but were still fun. She felt very Grace Kelly in To Catch a Thief. Too bad her Cary Grant was off on errands today.

In no time the mall’s low adobe-style shops were in view, painted the earth tones of a desert sunset. A Miata could breeze into a small space near the elevators, so Temple was soon through the Mountain, Tree, and Earth Courts and seated in the bustling food court. The echoing voices would make hearing—and overhearing—hard, but it was always a kick to see Molina out of her well-traveled road of home, office, and crime scene.

Temple started musing about Cary—Matt—wondering what he was up to today. And lately. He seemed distracted and yet amazingly unruffled by the lack of news from Chicago about his dream job as a network talk show host.

“Cat got your attention?”

Molina had sneaked up on her, hard for an almost-six-foot-tall woman in a khaki pantsuit. The ambient noise had muffled her clodhopper footsteps. Ugh. The usual unadorned brown loafers. Temple knew guys who’d buy better-looking shoes.

Molina nodded at the surrounding food stands. “Time to do our hunter-gathering thing?”

Temple, perhaps inspired by Silas T. Farnum’s lunch order, got the Little Philly Sliders, in a “six-pack” with chicken instead of steak. Molina went for the Chicagoland Cheesesteak with white American cheese. Both went for dark drinks. Temple’s was Dr Pepper, and Molina’s was iced tea.

“Chicagoland,” Temple noted of Molina’s sandwich as she paid the tab. “Isn’t that mob-appropriate, although the gourmet American cheese is a classy touch.”

“Class is not on my wish list,” Molina answered.

Temple disagreed. Those vintage ’30s velvet gowns Carmen wore while performing were class personified, but it seemed C. R. Molina had stuffed Carmen permanently back in the literal closet. Naturally, a blues-singing female homicide lieutenant didn’t want the guys at work to know she did occasional gigs at the Blue Dahlia supper club.

After they sat down at their little plastic table for four, Molina hefted the sub-style bun before taking a bite. “Isn’t Chicago becoming Matt Devine’s second home these days?”

“It was his first home,” Temple said. “And not a happy one.”

“Our first homes often aren’t. That’s why so many people end up in a pseudo-city like Las Vegas.”

“That’s only the Strip and all its works. Beyond that it’s a pretty normal community.”

“If you say so.”

“And even crazy Vegas has its plus side. Matt’s mother and her new beau just whisked in and out of town to be married here.”

“Were you flower girl?”

“Maid of honor. Louie was ring bearer, though.”

Molina rolled her eyes as she chewed. “Sometimes I think that cat has dog genes. What self-respecting feline would sit still for a bit part in a wedding ceremony?”

“Midnight Louie, as you know, has the self-respect and chutzpah to use this whole town for a litter box.”

“His free-wheeling ways wouldn’t go over in Chicago.”

“Au contraire.” Temple sipped the tangy Dr Pepper before adding, “He was kidnapped by the mob and got two made men arrested.”

“Kidnapped by the mob? Grant you, the only places the mob still parties hard now are in the Northeast and Chicago. But people are too ready to attribute purpose to what pets do, and turn coincidence into beyond-natural motives and acts.”

“What about your domestic pets, Lieutenant?”

“You’ve seen them. Two tabby cats of perfectly ordinary intelligence and instinct. They sleep a lot and always hear the can opener. So?”

“You’ve seen Louie inexplicably present on a few crime scenes.”

“He follows you around like a dog. I don’t suppose that’s beyond the capacity of cats, though it’s unusual. It may be some scent you wear.”

“Like tuna toilet water?”

“Not an appetizing image right now, Miss Barr.”

“We’re sounding like we’re at a tea party,” Temple complained. “That’s not necessary with cheese dribbling down our chins.”

“I agree. I can call you Red.”

“As in ‘better dead than’?”

“You can call me—”

Temple waited breathlessly.

Molina shook her head ruefully. “Wait. You don’t need to call me anything.”

“I was waiting for Blue. You do sing them.”

“The blues? Not so much lately. Now. What do you know about the body on the construction site?”

“It’s more a matter of what I want to know.”

“Me first. Just who is this Silas T. Farnum guy?”

“An out-of-state investor. Company name, Deja View Associates. I checked it out on the Internet and it looks legit.”

“Ah, the Internet. That’ll soon replace police departments and newspapers as ‘impeccable’ sources.”

“I don’t take everything at face value,” Temple said, adding a tinge of indignity to her tone.

“Only Irishmen,” Molina commented.

“I think I could come up with something to call you now, but it’s not suitable for public consumption.”

Molina laughed. “That was catty of me. I wasn’t even catty in grade school. You’re a bad influence.”

“I hope so, because Chico’s is just down the Sun Court.”

Molina sipped iced tea with a grimace. “Everybody wants to remake me.”

“Really. How ‘everybody’?” To Temple’s amazement, Molina answered.

“Teen singing phenom Mariah.”

“Daughters always do that.”

“You just brushed that off. Why?”

“Because I went through that creepy kid stage. The day you notice that Moth-er is Dow-dy. So embarrassing. Someone might notice you’re Not Cool Too.”

“You’ve got that stage down,” Molina agreed. “Why do we always end up discussing trivial things?”

“Because you don’t have any girlfriends?”

“Why would I want any?”

“I rest my case.”

“Who have you got?”

“Well, Mariah, for one.” When Molina winced, Temple went on. “I’m getting to be gal pals with Matt’s mother. Not so much his lovesick younger cousin. Electra is a girlfriend. And a couple media women in town. And, oh, I mustn’t forget my aunt Kit, who’s hardly like a relative at all. And now that she’s married Aldo Fontana, I’m some kinda crazy in-laws to the ten brothers.”

“Aldo Fontana is married? To your aunt? You’re right. That is vaguely … incestuous. And you’re asking me about mobsters?”

“You know the Fontanas are … vestigial mobsters. Mock mobsters.”

“And that truly is all that’s left of the mob in Vegas. The Metro Police and the FBI cleaned up the town in the ’80s. Our big problem now is ethnic gangs.”

“Couldn’t there be a few vestigial made men hanging around town? That body dump on Paradise is very Jimmy Hoffa.”

“What makes Hoffa a mystery is that his body was never found. This Paradise guy was old, though.”

“Like the Glory Hole Gang? Those eighty-something rascals who heisted silver dollars in their youth and run a restaurant at Gangsters?”

“About that age. We don’t see too many elderly murder victims.”

“I suppose age takes people to a point where the usual motives—lust, envy, and vengeance—don’t matter much anymore. Except for greed. That seems ageless.”