Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A White Tie And Tails

“Figures?” Matt questioned.

Temple decided then and there to leave out the pack of black cats that closed down the private party minutes later, but she was now committed to describing the figures.

“They were disguised. In black. Head to toe.”

“Head to toe?” Max snorted. “Were they wearing blackface?”

“Gloves and long cloaks with hoods.”

“Old magicians’ tricks to blend in with the background,” Max said. “Houdini used it.”

“That’s not all. Full head masks. I thought of them as the Darth Vaders.”

“Now, that’s an elaborate getup,” Matt said. “Hokey, though. Are you sure that’s what you saw, Temple?”

“It was dark, but I’d entered through a sheltered niche between bookcases and it was like being an audience at a peepshow.” She took measure of the two men’s dubious expressions. “Not that kind of peepshow. Let’s just say it was a gathering of dramatic personalities. The Darth Vaders were clearly the stars. They had guns and they wanted money.”

“Temple!” Matt was shocked. “You put yourself at risk in the middle of some kind of heist? People who rip off casinos go for the extreme disguises, don’t they, Kinsella?”

Max looked quizzical. “You’re relying on my memory? Fortunately, it’s the personal history that’s mostly gone missing. Yeah. Because of the intense visual security and scrutiny in casinos, people who knock over cash transfers at money cages wear masks at least. They’re safe physically.”

Temple wasn’t so sure. “They always get caught.”

“But they are never interfered with as long as they’re armed and dangerous and out on the casino floor among hundreds of clients and players,” Max said. “Hotel security and police want zero collateral damage.”

“So,” Temple said, “you can get out with the money, but your chances of keeping it are—”

“Zero,” Max said.

“What about the plans I overheard, for the Synth magicians to create a multi-Strip free-for-all distraction of illusions to cover a major heist?”

“Again,” Max said. “Great idea. Would work for getting the money. As in every robbery from a modest ATM stick-up to a major planned assault on a Strip casino or Fort Knox, for that matter, the real trick is the disappearing act afterwards.”

Temple nodded. “That’s why the Glory Hole Gang hid out for decades when Jersey Joe Jackson absconded with the train robbery money.”

“Jersey Joe,” Matt reminded her, “got away with the money and cheating his buddies, but he had to hide the ill-gotten goods for so long, he died bankrupt and alone.”

“So this IRA money raised over a couple decades could simply be left hidden forever?” Temple asked.

Max sighed. “The Synth members are pawns. From what you said, they were in it for the revenge and the prestige, in the sense of the payoff in a magical illusionary statement, when jaws drop. So how did you and they escape being mowed down by two Darth Vaders?”

“Jesus,” Matt said prayerfully.

Temple shrugged. “I … just bowed out. They sorta noticed me finally—”

“‘Sorta’?” Matt sounded pre-cardiac.

“And I just said I was looking for a ladies’ room and they were really hard to find here and I wouldn’t be back. Stephanie Plum always gets out of pickles with girly candor.”

“Stephanie who?” Matt demanded, exasperated.

“The book series,” Temple said. “Chick lit mystery.”

Max chuckled. “She must mean Nancy Drew rebooted. You do know who that was?”

Matt shook his head, mystified.

“How do you know about Nancy Drew?” Temple asked Max.

“I don’t know.” He blinked. “I had a younger girl cousin, I guess, in Wisconsin.” His contribution ended in one of his memory-exploring silences.

“I know all about ‘younger girl cousins,’” Temple said, eyeing Matt.

He opted for silence too.

It was all just too nicey-nicey, Temple thought. Everybody was so busy not stomping on everybody’s else’s toes—or previous and current relationships—that any honest analysis was impossible.

If they couldn’t work together, they darn well might hang separately.

“You can see why I’d never mention this Neon Nightmare stuff to Molina,” Temple said into the extending silences. “I’m even sorry I discussed it with you guys. We need to divvy up the cold cases and investigate on our own.”

“How do we ‘divvy up’ this imposing table of multiple murders and possible perps?” Max asked.

“Mathmatically,” Temple said, then quipped, “MaxiMattically.”

Both guys shot more bolt upright at the idea being equated in her investigative formula. Good. Their competitive natures were kicking in after this very refined and very boring Likefest.

“And some say girls can’t do left brain,” Temple finished up.

She consulted her Table of Crime Elements like an efficiency expert, rubbing her hands together.

“Max. Your assignment. Assignments, plural.”

He pulled his long, lounging frame to attention. Temple was happy to see his core muscles and core spirit were, uh, she couldn’t think of a description that didn’t involve “hardening” or “stiffening,” so, like Scarlett O’Hara, she didn’t think about it anymore.

“You understand magicians,” she told Max, “whether you remember that or not, so your assignment will be the Cloaked Conjuror, the role model for the Darth Vaders, and the death of Professor Jefferson Mangel, a lover of magic and your magic act in particular. He was the first victim found dead in the Ophiuchus position and that’s an off-Strip site on the university campus.”

“What about the Goliath and Oasis murders I’ve already looked into?” Max wasn’t so much objecting as reminding her he’d done the groundwork.

“You’ve proved assassins are still out to get you, so you need to keep a low off-Strip profile. One involves Cliff Effinger, so Matt can deal with the Oasis now on that.”

Matt raised his eyebrows, pale as they were. “Uh, free will come into any of this assignment-making?”

“No.” Temple raked her Table of Crime Elements with another rigorous glance. “You’re already neck-deep in Cliff Effinger and his death, so you get the Phoenix ceiling death that looked to be Effinger but wasn’t and the Goliath, courtesy of Max defaulting, but also the scene of the death of the call girl you encountered called Vassar.”

“Wait a minute,” Matt said. “You’ve got me or Kitty the Cutter listed as the possible instigator of that ‘fatal fall.’ Granted I feel horrible about Vassar’s death and I did visit her at the Oasis, but I’m hardly a suspect on the Kathleen O’Connor level.”

“Just being thorough,” Temple sang out, aware that an unspoken rivalry was galvanizing the guys to feel possessive about their assignments, if not specifically about her.

Her best option as queen of the board and the Table of Crime Elements was to be bossy, move them to their best positions of personal safety, and herself take on the untidy murders that didn’t seem directly linked to current kidnapping and death attempts.

“I’ll look into Gloria Fuentes, if Max will e-mail me Gandolph’s notes on her, and see if I can track down the Synth members who knew Cosimo Sparks. His death had to have rattled them.”

“Hasn’t that South American entrepreneur been arrested for that?” Matt asked.

“The evidence against him is circumstantial,” Temple answered. “So far. And, of course, need it be said we’ll all keep a leery eye out for any traces of Kathleen O’Connor?”

“What would be her motives,” Matt asked, “after all these years?”

“Follow the money,” Max said. “She raised money for the Cause and doesn’t want it to line any private party’s pocket now that the Irish Republican movement is dead.”