Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A White Tie And Tails

“I need the exercise. Both the mental and the physical.”

She nodded. “That I buy.”

“So what’s next? Now that the Barbie Doll Killer and your unprofessional hiring practices have been exposed…”

“I suppose Miss Barr has been sharing my longtime low opinion of you—”

“And it is based solely on bias and my sleight-of-hand reputation. I’m flattered.”

“It was based on the fact that your act at the Goliath Hotel ended the same night a body was found in the surveillance passages over the casino area, and you disappeared that same night.”

“It was a magic act.”

“You bailed and left your loyal live-in squeeze to face the questions.”

“Doesn’t sound like me. I did hear recently you harassed my … then-fiancée for information she didn’t have about my whereabouts. For months.”

“Just doing my job. I don’t like material witnesses disappearing after a murder. They could be perps.”

“You don’t know for sure I witnessed anything. I don’t even know that now.”

“Innocence by absentmindedness. Not a plea you can cop.” She sighed. “Later events have convinced me you were more likely a target than a criminal.”

“You mean that Garry Randolph’s death at the hands of ex-IRA factions in Belfast last week convinced you that real bogeymen were after me in Las Vegas almost two years ago.”

“Don’t sound so bitter. Trust me, that’s no way to live.”

Max raised his eyebrows. “Trust, huh? So what’s happened to Dirty Larry Podesta, or whatever his surname really is.”

“Out of town, out of law enforcement, out of my hair.”

“I’ll give you credit. You played him as much as he might ever have played you.”

“Never, Kinsella. He never played me.”

“Is that a challenge, Lieutenant?”

Their wilted salads had been sampled and then set aside for a round of crisp dialogue. Now they had to shut up and lean back and away from each other as entrées descended on their place settings, a plastic mat surrounded by the Chinese New Year symbols and a color-crayon-ready blank-white center.

“Trust? Try it,” she said. “Meanwhile, your first assignment, should you choose to accept it, is looking into that Goliath murder you skipped out on.”

Max gazed at his plate, a piece of meat more charred than blackened and a small baked potato in its brittle brown jacket. His ancestors had starved by the thousands for the want of these commonplace root vegetables. Even his happy-to-be-back-in-the-USA appetite for kitschy food had picked up its paper napkin and gone.

“I don’t remember a thing about that place, that time, those people.” Max began picking at his meal. “I walk into the Goliath Hotel now and someone, a lot of staff probably, will recognize me and I won’t have a clue.”

She smiled, having eviscerated the fish into flaky bites of white non-taste. “Too proud to be ignorant, are we? That’s the beauty of it. Poking around the Goliath will prod your memory. It will take a smooth, prevaricating SOB to hide your disabilities. You can thank me when you make your first report.”

“But—”

“Yes, you have accurately recalled the disadvantages of your situation. Your ever-helpful ex-redhead-in-residence is not in town right now. You can’t rely on her extra-sharp memory. She’s quite the little snoop and puzzle-solver. You’ll be on your own. Might be interesting.”

“Funny. Nobody mentioned you were a sadist.”

“If you made it across Western Europe dodging assassins, I think you can navigate the Goliath Hotel. Consider it a challenge grant.”

“The pay is lousy.”

“And so is the food. Welcome to a menu of plain, old-fashioned law enforcement, Mr. Kinsella.”

He chewed on her assignment and the rest of the dinner, including the plain, old-fashioned tapioca pudding she insisted on ordering for him, saying it might spark memories of his childhood—she was indeed a sadist.

She also gave a dry, even skimpy, summation of the Goliath murder case files, which were basically the method of murder—knifed above a casino table, interesting—name of victim, and time of death and discovery.

This was a cold case and most likely a criminal hit, not a juicy crime of personal motive. It was the deep-freeze of cold cases and the most personally challenging crime she could ask him to investigate.

Game on.

Chapter 7

Suite Deal

Temple had finished her tour of the suite, cooing over all the posh designer touches.

She returned to Matt in the living room, where he’d slipped off his shoes and was checking out the six-foot HDTV offerings. Just like a guy.

Normally Temple never let bare foot touch hotel carpeting, but this stuff was so soft and expensive, it felt like walking through velvety grass on a golf course only billionaires played.

Louie reclined near Matt in his “King of Sheba” position, glossy black front paws straight out like the Sphinx’s, head high, ears forward, and tail arranged into a graceful S behind him.

In this very pose he had made his rival TV commercial cat, the unlamented Maurice, look like yellow tabby hash at a greasy spoon diner.

“The producers called,” Matt said over his shoulder, clicking past the Home Shopping Network and QVC while Temple quashed a knee-jerk reaction to cry, Wait. Accessory Alert!

“Dinner Sunday okay?” he asked.

“That’s family dinner day.”

“The family get-together will be over by six P.M. Every Sunday dinner is Thanksgiving-size in my family. Given the beer, they’ll be ready for naps. And the producers dine downtown, close by. That’ll work.”

“Do I have to meet the family all in a bunch?”

Matt shrugged, still channel surfing. “Not my choice, but we’re the guests.” He paused the screen to turn to her. “I tried to get Mom to meet us first, but Saturday nights are busy at the restaurant and I guess she couldn’t get off.”

“That big tourist draw must have two hostesses.” Temple sniffed avoidance and Matt nodded agreement, about to say more. Although what can you say about a family so uneager to meet someone who is marrying into it?

“She’s—,” Matt began, sounding apologetic all over again.

The room phone rang, echoed by all the other phones dotting the suite. It made the place sound like an office … or a command post.

Matt leaned over to the sofa table to take the call, then stood and turned to face Temple so she’d get the drift.

“Yes?” he said. And then, “Sure, Mom. Yes, the flight was fine. Except for an incident at the airport. Someone tried to snag Temple’s carrier with her cat in it.” Matt laughed. “He’s a pretty big cat to snatch without pulling a muscle, so we got him right back.”

“Tell them they thought my cat carrier held the crown jewels,” Temple said.

Matt did, and added, “No, no diamonds. Only on her finger.”

He listened, then smiled. “Sure. We’d love to have dinner at your apartment.” His eyes questioned Temple, who nodded extreme agreement. “We’ll cab it. And I guess we can bring the ‘famous’ cat.”

Temple looked at Louie, who was lounging on the sofa like a sultan, one leg now draped over the pillow edge. Despite the playboy pose, he was a rough-and-tumble street cat adept at opening the French doors in her Vegas condominium. One shuddered to think what he might try at thirty-some stories if he decided he didn’t like being left home alone in a hotel suite.

“That’s good, excellent,” Matt told Temple after he’d turned off the portable phone. “Looks like Mom got her courage up despite the situation that’s got the whole family in an uproar.”