Кэрол Дуглас: Cat In A Topaz Tango

He found it fascinating that when Molina needed a foolproof disguise, she dolled herself up like an ordinary woman out on a date, but acted like she was going undercover as a hooker.

“He’s vanished again, like before.” Matt said, getting back to Topic One and Only. “Temple’s afraid he’s dead.”

“Could be.” Molina pushed her demolished plate aside and his too, hunkering down with the beer mug. “I don’t have the manpower to prove it. I’m not concerned with where Kinsella is, or if he is, but what he was.”

Matt didn’t argue. “You finally changing your opinion on that?”

“I still like him for killing that guy at the Goliath Hotel two years ago, when he first disappeared. Still, I’m willing to consider your argument that he was acting as a counterterrorist. That doesn’t carry any weight with the police. Killing is killing. It might mean shadowy Homeland Security figures would want to bail his butt out. That’s speculation, of course, now.”

“ Now? What’s happened now?”

“I found his secret Las Vegas lair. God! That sounds like a line from a hokey old movie serial. I found where he’s been living in Las Vegas while eluding me and balling your new fiancée.”

“You don’t have to be vulgar to get my attention, Carmen. Apparently, he was pretty good at it. Fine by me. Temple’s happiness is my greatest pleasure.”

He knew his security would eat like acid into her new insecurity.

Molina’s beer-pinked cheeks flushed scarlet with anger, and maybe some shame at being called on her harshness. Matt narrowed his eyes. Keeping his cool and rattling hers was working.

Of course Max and Temple had been intimate. Matt was an ex-priest, not an idiot. Yeah, it had driven him crazy when he’d been on the sidelines yearning for her. Now that Temple seemed more than happy with him, his insecurities had mostly evaporated. Clutching onto those suckers was suicide. Letting them go meant Molina couldn’t use the usual weapons against him, meant he could control this interview.

“So what’s the latest on your eternal pursuit of Max the Elusive?” he followed up.

She sighed as if releasing some very old air. “I screwed up. Blew it. When I learned where he lived I went there. The place looked deserted, so I checked it out.”

“When was that?”

“Early Sunday morning, like 1:00 am.”

After Temple had gone to the address the previous Tuesday to find Max and all his magic paraphernalia and possessions gone and some chorus girl in residence.

“Checked it out, as in broke in,” Matt prodded.

“Frigging yes,” she whispered, leaning intently over the beer mugs between them. “The place had overkill security, but it was in . . . disarray. I got in.”

“And?”

“Before I got much of a look at the layout I realized someone else was in there with me.”

“Max?”

She frowned. “Why should he be creeping around like a footpad in his own house?”

Maybe because he’d made it look like he and his things had abandoned it completely, Matt thought. He found, with irritation, that the idea of Max Kinsella still being secretly in town stirred the insecurities in his basement after all.

Molina hadn’t noticed she’d finally rattled him. “But then I wasn’t surprised that someone outside the law would want to look into him too. Maybe one of those ghostly terrorists you say he was tracking.”

“Not so far-fetched. The 9/11 terrorist crew and associates met in Vegas.”

“Yeah. Alcohol and hoochie-koochie girls for the last nights of the heaven-bound suicide set. You’d think seventy-two virgins would be enough for them. What were they supposed to do for eternity after using up that bizarre quota?”

Matt shrugged and sipped. Taking his eyes off of her did the trick. She went on.

“Whoever was sneaking around in there had a hate on for Kinsella that makes mine look like a schoolgirl crush. I heard this sound, like a cat in your utility room. Later we found all the clothes in his closet slashed to less than ribbons. Sweaters, blazers, slacks. All cotton, silk, and lightweight wool.”

Matt sat stunned. All Max’s clothes had been gone when Temple had visited the place with Aldo Fontana. She’d said so, sobbing on his shoulder.

“Anything else disturbed?’

“A knife had been taken from the kitchen block. The biggest one. I spotted that subconsciously, coming in, but never realized . . .”

Her thought drifted off into a swallow of beer.

“Nothing else was taken, his magic cabinets?”

“No. All the furnishings were fine, even that huge, kinky opium bed he had. Your fiancée tell you about that?”

Opium bed? Matt shook his head. He’d want to know about that. Even more, he’d want to know why all the furniture that had been missing when Temple came to check on Max was back in place within four days.

Molina would think mention of the opium bed had him momentarily on the ropes, when it was the clothing and other furniture. Obviously, Temple had been led to believe that Max was utterly gone. Which was a darn good sign that he wasn’t. Or wasn’t dead, at least. Or were his spy associates just cleaning up after him? Holy moley.

Matt picked up the broken conversation. “So someone else was trespassing on Max’s house. Someone who hated him.”

“Certainly the clothes slashing was highly personal.”

“It wasn’t you?” he asked in jest.

“Not a good joke.” Molina swallowed another deep draught of beer. “Whoever it was detected my presence. I decided to confront the intruder in the dark hall. I’d taken cover in a closet with those vented folding doors, so had to wrestle them coming out. I was heard. And knifed.”

“Knifed?” Matt knew the feeling well. “Bad?”

“A hell of a lot worse than you were.”

“God, Carmen. How much worse?”

“I’m not sure I want to describe my battle scars to you.”

“Did this someone mean to kill you?”

“Could have, if I hadn’t lifted my arm to block the blow I expected. The wound was shallow but long. You’ll understand that I couldn’t make it public. I’ve been off work with a ‘virus,’ ‘bird flu,’ whatever Detective Alch could think of. I’d get busted if anyone knew I’d done a B and E without a warrant.”

“Breaking and entering. And no one knows besides Alch but me? That’s okay. You have the seal of the confessional with me, even if I’m an ex-priest.”

“Unfortunately, the other guy who knows ain’t no saint.”

Matt mulled this over. He’d noticed her say “we” had found the slashed clothes. “Not Alch. He’s beatified at least for putting up with you.”

She wasn’t talking.

He drank some beer.

“I can handle this other guy,” she finally said. “He’s my problem. What I’m having trouble with is how close this incident was to the attack on you several months ago. Both cuttings. You a razor, me a butcher knife. A possible, even probable connection to Max Kinsella, alive or dead. I’m wondering if the attacker is the same party.”

“My slasher’s dead.”

“You sure?”

“Sure. It was this former IRA agent from Max’s early years. I mean his teen years.”

“He was an antiterrorist as a teenager? Antichrist, maybe, I’d believe. Come on!”

Matt nodded, several times. “True. His first cousin was blown up in a pub bombing in Londonderry. The boys had been given a high school graduation trip to their family’s native Ireland. Road trip. The damn fools drove up to northern Ireland to eyeball the Troubles.”

Molina sat silent.

He figured she was stunned.

“The cousin died?” she asked.

“Presumably, based on the pieces.”