Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A Topaz Tango

During the ensuing silence, Mariah glanced from Rafi to her mother, sensing the unspoken tension and wondering how a security guy could call a police lieutenant by her first name that almost nobody used, even her mother. Except when she sang.

Molina’s jawline grew tighter than a drum skin in the show band. “I would think the assistant director of security at this hotel would want to avoid further disruptive . . . violence.”

She left it unclear just what kind of violence she was referring to.

Rafi remained unruffled. “These are acts of sabotage so far. You didn’t answer the question. Did the shot that hit the Cloaked Conjuror come from Motha Jonz’s gun?”

“Yes.”

Matt got it. “So . . . a prop gun was loaded, instead of just having a dummy smoke-generating shell in it. Nobody offstage was shooting.”

“And this is better, how?” Molina asked Rafi.

“It’s criminal endangerment so far. Nothing lethal. You shut down the show, we’ll never catch who’s doing this.”

“Sometimes avoiding violence is better police work than catching perps and risking lives.”

Rafi shook his head.

“It’s always better to catch a stalker than let him disappear back into the woodwork to crawl out again. I think that’s what we’re dealing with here, and what you’ve dealt with before. I wouldn’t want my teen daughter on the loose without it being settled. I’m sure if you ask the other junior moms, they’ll go along. Me and my staff will cover those girls like a blanket. I have a lot of good female staff. They’re bunking together, easy to supervise. Your people can handle the adult cast.”

Molina’s sallow cheeks flared with color at his reference to a stalker. “If anything happens to those kids, I’ll have your job and your head.”

“Nothing new, Carmen.”

Again, one of those loaded silences. Temple snuggled into Matt’s shoulder, glad it was unwounded. “I wish you didn’t have to go back and forth to the radio station nights,” she whispered.

Molina must have had ears in the back of her head.

She hiked her neck around to stare at them. “I am not in the mood for eavesdropping on Love’s Young Dream. You don’t want to follow through as Zoe Chloe, Barr, so much the better for me and my nerves.”

She snapped her head back to face Rafi. “Okay, Nadir. You’ve got the whole world in your hands. Don’t freaking drop it.” Only she didn’t say “freaking.”

Mariah’s gasp was audible, but she managed to ask, “Does that mean EK and the other guys can still finish out the show?” “Guys” stood for the teen girls and their pop star partners.

Molina nodded, once. “And then there are those Hermanos brothers to guard like British royals. Aii, carumba. ”

“Tango’s the last dance,” Matt put in.

Molina’s glare was so toxic that he rose right away. “I’d better get along to the radio station.” He eyed Rafi. “Zoe Chloe is one of the ‘juniors’ you’ve sworn to protect, right?”

Rafi rose to shake Matt’s hand before he left. “Absolutely. Although I’ll probably need to protect Crawford Buchanan from her more than her from anybody else.”

“Crawford!” Zoe spat. “I can outemcee that dude in a New York, New York hotel minute. Talk about useless. I don’t even know why he’s here.”

“That’s a very good point,” Molina said after Matt left, staring at Temple. “He has a stake in the show attracting media.” She turned to her daughter and little pal. “Okay, kidlets. Time to hit the hay. Into your trundle beds and no whispering, giggling, or eavesdropping.”

The pair, ecstatic about the reprieve, hustled away, eager to engage in all specifically forbidden activities.

Temple and Zoe Chloe were a pretty tickled pair too. The so-called “trundle beds” were a pair of imported cots, and the staff had been disdainful to the max to import such homely items to a high-roller suite.

As the door shut on the kids, sounds of two forbidden activities trickled under the door, whispering and giggling.

“Mama” Molina did sorta know how to handle tweens.

At that very moment Mama Molina sat heavily and lifted a curled hand. “Some of that fancy freebie wine,” she ordered Rafi.

Amazingly, he complied, and poured glasses for Temple and himself. He delivered Temple’s next, with a wink.

It was just the three of them again, and that felt scarily right, Temple thought.

After all, they’d been in on this almost from the beginning.

“How many have access to Ma Jonz’s prop gun?” Rafi asked.

Molina said, “Anyone backstage, and anyone who wanted to wander backstage. You’ve got to plug those holes.”

“It’s a typical showbiz operation,” Temple said. “Even at a major regional repertory theater that I PRed, like the Guthrie in Minneapolis, putting on shows is chaos.”

“I know,” Rafi agreed. “Vegas is no exception, but ‘typical showbiz’ will kill us. Or someone else.”

Temple sighed heavily. “We’ve all got someone at stake here. We better solve this thing.”

“What if it’s more than one thing?” Molina asked.

Rafi turned a desk chair around to straddle it. “What have we got for incidents so far? Motives? Suspects?”

“You always wanted to make detective,” Molina charged. Remembered. Her tone had been dangerously . . . personal.

Rafi winced. Temple read his reaction. He was so far from that lost uniformed officer position. Molina was a lieutenant of detectives. He looked at Temple to escape staring the implications in the eyes.

“You have any ideas, Ms. Ozone?”

“Ah . . . yes.”

Crime Seen

“Something about these incidents is bothering me,” Temple said.

Rafi regarded her raptly, but only because he wanted to shut Molina out at the moment. Molina was frowning at her hotel notepad, doodling.

“Matt’s getting to be the only one who hasn’t had a personal mishap,” Temple noted.

“Other than getting engaged to you,” Molina put in without even looking up.

“Yet,” Rafi said.

“He’s the only celebrity who doesn’t have a visual presence in the media,” Temple went on.

“You mean he’s the most obscure and least celebrated,” Molina suggested.

Temple went speechless. Molina was in a major down-on-men mood.

“And the best-looking,” Rafi put in, “as if you hadn’t noticed.” He turned back to Temple. “You’re right. We’ve had enough ‘incidents’ to look for similarities and differences.”

“Unfortunately,” Temple said, “the contestants were chosen for their variety. Entertainers, athletes, and quasi-glamorous careers like chef and radio show host.”

“Except they are all celebrities of one sort of another,” Rafi added. “They have fans, and fans can get obsessed.”

Molina turned in her chair to face them fully again. “That’s what I meant. You’re assuming that one mischief-maker is at the root of every troubling incident. What if more than one motive and one person were behind these ‘accidents’ that are coming too fast to be accidental?”

“It would have to be somebody involved in the show, near it every day,” Temple mused. “Or who could seem to be legitimately near it. You’re saying there are several freaked-out fans here all at once?”

Molina was unshaken. “This is a variety show as far as the competitors go. Why not a surfeit of suspects all working separately?”

“That’s an Agatha Christie novel,” Rafi said sourly. “ Murder on the Orient Express. It narrows down nothing.”

“You read Christie?” Molina pounced.

“They make movies,” he retorted. “Look. The Oasis Hotel is one huge interior metropolis of support staff and the public milling around together. Temple is right. Looking for suspects starting from the outside in is futile. We’ve got to work from the victims out. There are five of them.”