Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A Topaz Tango

This suit was a mossy mocha shade that made her gray eyes look almost green and her blond hair like saffron silk. It was belted, with a short, hip-hugging peplum and a neckline open to four inches above the belt. There was a large black-and-white photo of a runway model wearing it with nothing underneath, and not much of anything to show for so much exposure.

Revienne had chosen a dull violet silk T-shirt that made her glossed lips look good enough to eat.

He sighed. Enough of that nonsense. They had serious arrangements to make over lunch.

They ate at the excellent department store restaurant, their table for two well isolated. The expensive, marble-clad décor made the place a discreet echo chamber where it’d be hard to bug a conversation.

“You seem to have recovered from your scruples,” she said, tucking her box and bags against the wall. “Spending all these other people’s money, I mean, to see me off to the clinic.”

“The credit cards I filched before in Alteberg were from tourists, maybe on a once-in-a-lifetime trip. Didn’t want to mar that too much. What I’ve taken here has been from millionaires, and probably predatory ones at that.”

“Won’t it be suspicious if I come back looking like a million dollars?”

“ Au contraire. Here’s the story you tell: I’d had a bit of a paranoid episode and recovered enough of my memory to secretly call a driver. You didn’t think it a good idea to leave me in such a mental condition. So you accompanied me into Zurich, where I paid you royally for your trouble and the unexpected overnights and went off, refusing further treatment. I take it the clinic collects a portion of your fee, and it was prepaid?”

She nodded.

“There you are. If everyone is paid, no one is curious, unless they’re imposters. Stick to your story. Eccentric millionaire goes AWOL for a few days, treats you to dinner and a new ensemble, and drives off into the alpine sunset.”

“What if I spy some suspicious behavior when I’m back there?”

“I’ll get in touch with you in Paris when you’re back.”

“You still don’t have a memory, and you’re running on stolen credit cards.”

“I’ll be all right, thanks to you and mountain-training physical therapy school. Haven’t you realized I’m a survivor by now?”

“Yes. And, more important, you have as well, Mr. Randolph, which is the only reason I can leave you in somewhat good conscience.”

Their wineglasses were empty, a fresh credit card from an arrogant woman in the Hugo Boss Black for women department had paid for the lunch. They stood, and he took her hand.

“It’s best,” he said, “that you return to your normal haunts and routines.”

“‘Haunts?”

“Places you usually go, in the pursuit of your work . . . and pleasures.”

“What if my work and pleasures have come to . . . coexist?”

Was she anxious at losing a lover, a case, or a target? Damn suspicion!

“The only thing that coexists between us is danger. All mine. If I peel off, you’ll be safe.”

“You’re so sure?’

“No. So go immediately to be with colleagues. People you trust. Warn several to set up an alarm if you vanish.”

“And you? Your safety? Your whereabouts, your well-being? I do not give up easily.”

“I can contact you. And will. When it’s safe.”

“I am to wait, that’s all?”

Her fingers were curled into his suit jacket. When he left her here, at the department store, she wouldn’t know whether he was driving out of Zurich, or flying, or taking a train or another bus.

“Do I strike you as a woman who will wait?” she pressed.

“No, Revienne, that’s why I beg you to listen to me. I’m stronger for knowing you, for knowing you inside out.” That’s the closest he could come to love. He sensed he didn’t give love easily, to many. “You must keep yourself safe, give me a reason to keep myself safe. You understand?”

She looked deep into his eyes. “You feel responsibility so strongly you can block out love. That is both admirable, and a curse.”

“You don’t want to hook yourself up to a curse.”

She got the “hook up” part.

“No, but sometimes that’s not an option. Take care, whoever you really are. Live so that I can remember you, and not in vain. Come to me if you need to. And always remember what love we made. That was past the loss of your memory. You can never erase me and I will always remember.”

He didn’t let himself say anything more, but he wished he could.

“ Au revoir, Dr. Schneider.”

She smiled and leaned in to press her cheek to both of his in the French manner, and to nip one earlobe.

“ Au revoir, Mr. Randolph,” she whispered. “And if your uncle should inquire about you?”

“Tell him where you left me.”

“That’s all?”

“He’s likely as much a survivor as I am.”

He turned and strode away.

He could hear her last, agitated words, but he didn’t look back.

“Wait! You’ve left your cane.”

Yes, he had.

Both of them.

For Her Eyes Only

“I need to talk to you, privately.”

Temple stared at Molina.

“The Casablanca Bar okay with you?”

“Uh, yeah, except I’m not sure Zoe Chloe Ozone is old enough to drink.”

“Surely you’re carrying your own ID somewhere.”

Temple nodded.

“Then we’ll both have to visit the ladies’ room, but you to dig out your ID. You first.”

Right. Separate visits. The idea of sharing a rest room with Molina was oddly appalling.

Vegas hotel bars and restaurants did have nearby rest rooms but they weren’t always apparent. Temple left New Age Molina staring gloomily into the tent of exotic sheer draperies that was the bar while she went off to do her duty to her kidneys after all the excitement, and dig her driver’s license out of her Miracle bra.

She paused before the mirror to make sure Zoe Chloe’s blueberry-colored lipstick wasn’t smeared. This would be almost goodbye to ZCO. Temple sighed. What a relief not to be “on” and in frenetic character every moment.

It would also be a relief to get past this awkward semipalsy moment with Molina. Drinks at a bar? Why would the disdainful detective want that?

Molina was waiting in the same spot.

“Your turn,” Temple said.

“I’m okay. There’s another rest room that way. I suggest we snag a couple of drinks at the bar and then a table. A waiter could be a good long while.”

Temple nodded, reaching into her tote bag when they found a gap in the barstools.

“I’m buying,” Molina said.

Temple was sure glad Zoe Chloe never betrayed surprise.

Her last offstage chance to be Zoe saw her ordering a Green Appletini. Yup, she had to produce her driver’s license. Molina went the hard-boiled route and ordered scotch on the rocks.

It felt very odd to be weaving a path around tables in Molina’s wake, clutching a martini glass.

The first empty table was lit by a candle flame trembling like a caught bird in a pierced metal cage, a small draped tent of faux isolation meant to make a vast space seem intimate, or at least private.

Temple set her drink down on the glass circle that topped a swagged tablecloth.

Even sitting, Molina seemed to loom in the miniature tent.

“So what’s the occasion?” Temple asked. “You surely aren’t thanking me for going along with this masquerade as Zoe Chloe.”

“No, but I suppose I should. You’re right that this isn’t my idea. Your fiancé suggested we have this chat.”

“Matt? Why?”

“To clear his conscience.”

“What can you tell me about him that he wouldn’t?”

“Such perfect trust,” Molina said, her voice brittle. “He won’t be responsible for keeping my secrets any longer. I made the mistake of confiding something in him that he won’t keep from you, no matter how disturbing it is.”