Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A White Tie And Tails

“Mob.” She consulted her own perfectly functioning memory. “They’re pretty on the down low these days.”

“This Effinger death was overkill. And he was meant to be found to scare someone else, some mob or gang or other outfit.”

Molina nodded. “You could be right. That might explain … you wouldn’t remember—”

“What?”

“Just remember that you need my input. There was a false alarm about Effinger’s death earlier.”

“Yes?”

“Man fell out of the Crystal Phoenix ceiling, dead.”

“Another ceiling murder? Unsolved?”

She nodded. “He looked a bit like Effinger, but had no ID.”

“Somebody mistook him for Effinger and offed him.”

“Or…”

He got it. “Effinger wanted to be thought dead. He doesn’t strike me as the killer sort. He is from Chicago, though, like Devine. The mob is plenty active there.”

“Don’t think too big,” she cautioned him. “Think personal.”

“Devine! Matt Devine was on his trail. He wanted Matt Devine to think he was dead.” Max reconsidered. “No. Devine wasn’t that big a threat.”

“He was if his dogged search for Effinger was drawing attention, and drawing attention to Effinger. And don’t underestimate Matt Devine. He’s with your girl now, isn’t he?”

“I’m not possessive by nature. I think. You’re pushing the wrong buttons, Lieutenant.”

“Maybe. Then there was that crazy incident involving your ex-girlfriend and her cat being kidnapped from a Shangri-La magic show and being spirited down the highway in a semi filled with magic-act paraphernalia and contraband drugs. I sensed your ghostly fingers at work in the scene of their escape when my people got there. Any memories of tearing the contents of that semi to pieces to find the pair before they suffocated?”

Magical boxes, big enough to conceal an artfully arranged human body, boxes with false bottoms and sides and mirrors. They crowded his memory, begging for recognition. You used me in this illusion. No, Garry did. No, Temple Barr was your assistant and did the switch with you, and then you pulled her cat out of a hat.

He blinked as the deceptive rummage sale images of the past faded away and smiled at Molina. “You are truly a tree of knowledge of good and evil. Or just evil.”

She smiled. “Thanks. My job. Another little tidbit for you. About that old-time magician found dead in the underground safe that your ex-girlfriend tried to use as a promo opportunity.”

“Cosimo Sparks,” Max said. “I heard about him.” Not only that, he’d dreamed about him, had known the man while still living, at the Neon Nightmare. He was a confirmed Synth member, but Molina would laugh that idea off.

“He was stabbed to death, but prodded viciously first.”

“Another reluctant information-giver. Hasn’t someone been arrested for that?”

“We had to let him go. A South American larger-than-life personality known as Santiago, just Santiago. Blood traces too insignificant for court. One always thinks of drugs. That would tie in to the Shangri-La kidnapping.”

“What about that lady magician as a suspect?”

“Dead too.”

“You have a … an outhouse-load of cold cases, Lieutenant.”

“Why do you think I hire freelancers?”

“From what I can see, usually it’s personal reasons.”

“And what would those be in your case?”

“My Irish charm.”

“I favor Latin charm.”

“With those blue eyes? It’s a fact that the Irish and the Spanish mix like whiskey and soda. Soledad O’Brian, the news reporter. I can’t think of others. The memory, you know.”

“What are you and your overblown Irish charm getting at, Kinsella?”

“Have you ever considered the … Irish mob?”

“You talking Boston?”

“I’m talking Northern Ireland.”

She made a tsk ing sound. “I’ve heard that eternally from your ex. I don’t doubt your counterterrorism work in the past, but that conflict is ninety-eight percent over and done with. Face it. You’re not a downtrodden minority anymore. And your fixation on this topic is obsessive romanticism. The ‘Troubles’ are over. Those political crusades are over, and whatever will you do without them?”

Max stood, and stood at mock attention. “Work for you, Lieutenant, until you can see past your personal, private ‘troubles’ and discern the vast terrorist conspiracy surrounding us all.”

Chapter 31

Missing Links

Temple and Matt trudged toward the baggage claim area, thankful that Louie would have no more close encounters with airport security. These did not turn out well for the carrier-searches.

Temple was in that automatic nirvana of ending a short trip that had been packed with stress and uncertainty, so it was Matt who spotted the fly in the ointment.

“Unwelcome committee of one at three o’clock high,” he warned under his breath.

Temple had seen enough WWII fighter-pilot movies to look to her right at midlevel.

Slouching against the giant rattlesnake sculpture among the famous assembly of desert critters on the terminal floor was … Max.

Fitting. He was long and lean and deadly when in counterterrorist mode. His black ensemble suggested that magician mode was also back and operational, and then some.

He straightened to snag Louie’s gaudy new carrier from Temple without a by-your-leave or by-your-left-or-right and joined their pace without losing a beat. Neither did his opening patter.

“Welcome to Las Vegas. Lieutenant C. R. Molina is my new secret boss. In the wee hours of this morning someone tried to electrocute me at the Oasis Hotel’s ‘Lusty Ladies and Laddies’ pirate adventure attraction. And Rafi Nadir could be under suspicion of murder, although any evidence would be only circumstantial. May I give you two—excuse me, three—a lift home?”

Matt took it much better than Temple did. “Are you driving anything with trunk space for luggage these days?”

“And a belted seat for Louie’s carrier?” Temple asked.

“No, but I rented a minivan that fills the bill.”

Temple couldn’t keep from hooting. “You in a minivan. That’d be worth seeing.”

“Then walk this way,” Max said, stepping ahead and feigning an exaggerated limp, like the hunchback of Notre Dame. It was eerie how his height shrank.

Matt sighed and conversation ceased until they got to the close-in parking lot and beside a blue, yes, minivan.

“How did you know where and when—?” Temple asked Max, repossessing Louie’s carrier.

“Font of all knowledge of things Circle Ritz.”

“Electra.” Matt paused in loading their luggage. “You’re relying on gossipy senior citizens these days?”

“Any port in a storm, as we say at the Oasis. Well, perhaps not so much today.”

“And what about Rafi? Murder?” Temple finished arranging Louie’s carrier in the backseat although he was pummeling the canvas sides. He was keeping quiet, though. “Just a short ride home,” she assured him, “and then you’ll be free to be feline.”

Through the black mesh portion she detected a wide, pink-mawed yawn, the cat equivalent of “yadda yadda yadda.”

“Circumstantial evidence,” Max said as he put the Odyssey into gear. Matt rode up front with him, Temple and Louie in the middle bank of seats. Max twisted his head to regard the couple in turn. “You two are dressed mighty like city slickers.”

Like Louie, they kept mum.

“Oh, right. Chicago. I get forgetful.” He lifted a finger off the steering wheel to indicate Matt. “You do the Ann Landers bit on syndicated radio and also do some national TV.”

“OOD,” Temple caroled from the backseat. “Out of date. ‘Dear Abby’ survived the advice column wars when the newspapers were sinking fast. And they were both from Chicago. Imagine, twin sisters who were newspaper column advice queens all their lives, and only one byline survives their deaths.”