Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A Quicksilver Caper

“Get on with it,” she said.

Larry settled even lower on his Slinky spine in the unfriendly plastic visitors chair, blue-jeaned legs crossed over his lean thighs. Undercover narcs tended to be super-casual, but he was taking a holiday from the drug wars in the Traffic Department for a while. So he was handy for her “black projects,” like keeping her private life, such as it wasn’t, private.

“This is hit and miss, you understand,” Larry said. “When I have a moment. Gotta say this is not a shit assignment: nice neighborhoods, low crime, and the best tail I’ve tailed in my career.”

“Save the sexist chitchat for your brother apes on the force.”

“You are way too easy to rile, you know that?” He grinned again. “I just meant it was nice to do a wholesome bit of tailing for a change. Not very interesting . . . subject goes from home base to major Strip hotels; the New Millennium lately. Um, detour to a couple of real funky little joints on semi-shady blocks across from the worst section of Charleston Avenue.”

“Really.” Molina sat up to take notice.

“Yeah. By the Blue Mermaid Motel. Names of . . . Leopard Alley, the Bee’s Knees, and, uh, a real kinky one, the Indigo Albino.”

“Sounds like a list of sleazy clubs.”

Larry leaned forward, forearms braced on knees. “Vintage shops,” he whispered. “I even spotted a bong in one and an opium ring in another.”

“An opium ring? What’s that?”

He reached into his baggy jacket pocket again. Linen was like that, shapeless and prone to wrinkle. Molina hated it. For her own wardrobe. On guys it looked good: fashionable but not like they cared that much.

He pulled out a slender silver object, a tiny curved, sterling pipe, with a ring band just under the etched bowl.

“I got you it. Can’t say I never gave you a ring.”

“How exquisite.” Molina turned the lightweight object in her fingers. It might make a good pendant.

“Ladies used ’em back when a little naughty drug use was a fashion accessory, kind of like cocaine spoons today. The twenties, I’d guess.”

“I’ll actually keep this,” she told him. He raised his almost invisible flaxen eyebrows. “History of crime artifact.”

But she was . . . what? Taken aback. Pleased? Larry had not only done her off-shift tailing bidding gratis, but had thought to bring her a pretty neat souvenir.

“I’ll have to visit those vintage dives someday.” She frowned. Her supply of vintage velvet gowns wasn’t shrinking, but expanding. Maybe she had a magic closet. Yeah.

“You ever want a guide to the dark side of trendiness,” he said, “I’m your man.” His eyes glittered at the unsaid implications of his phrase.

Molina tried the ring on her right third finger. It would glitter if she wore it at the mike at the Blue Dahlia. She seldom wore jewelry, but this was exotic and just slightly sinister. She discovered she liked the exotic and just slightly sinister.

“Thanks,” she told Larry. “Anything else?”

He shuffled through the notebook. “A couple of Strip shopping expeditions with the middle-aged chick who’s staying with her.”

“Oh, really? You know who?”

Larry gave her a rebuking look. “Talked to the landlady. “Aunt from New York City. Same type, just more miles on her. This is interesting. Aldo Fontana seems to have come and go privileges at the Circle Ritz these days. That black Viper of his is a regular in the parking lot.”

“Oh, the Fontanas are fans of our subject from way back.”

“This is Aldo, solo. And he seems like a real fan of the aunt, who must be fifteen years older than him, at least. Though she hasn’t got a bad tail either.”

Molina was thinking too hard to object to his terminology.

“So, she has an aunt in town who’s hooked up with the Fontana Brothers? Odd. Where do they go, Auntie and Aldo?”

“Everywhere hot, loud, and expensive. We could do a double tail some night.”

“I don’t like heat, noise, and throwing money around.”

“Anything for a collar,” he said.

“Anything more on the real object of this investigation?”

“Temple Barr? Naw. Cruises by the Stuart Weitzman store in the Caesar’s shopping arcade at every opportunity. Um, visited one of those older gated communities not quite near Henderson. Stopped by a veterinarian’s on the way home for some suspicious-sized bags of something called Free-to-Be-Feline. Do you think it could be fertilizer?”

“If cat leavings are volatile, yes. Never mind. Just leave me the list.”

“What’re you looking for?”

“Something suspicious, but she’s obviously just been a diversion for you during your off hours.”

“Not much. Now tailing you—”

Molina felt her right hand clench under the bizarre accessory of the opium ring. She’d been some places lately she wouldn’t want anyone to know she’d gone.

“Forget it. You’re off this detail. Temple Barr is the same simple, shallow girl I always suspected her to be.”

“What did you expect to get on her?” he asked, handing the notebook over her desk.

Max Kinsella , she answered herself. She had expected to find his fingerprints all over her and her life. Why wasn’t he there anymore? Maybe he had other interests now.

Bastard! But weren’t they all, given half a chance?

Molina thought about the men in her life: past, present, and future tense. Very tense. Rafi Nadir. Haunting. Unsuspecting parent and patriarch. Failed policeman. Successful ghost and potential blackmailer. Dirty Larry. New kid on the block. Brassy, pushy, sexy, suspect. Max Kinsella. Mortal enemy. Mysterious. Taunting. Murderous?

She didn’t trust one of them. Except Morrie, who was too decent to count on for the ethical pinch she was in.

Carmen began to get an idea of what her blooming adolescent daughter was up against.

Larry left, both pleased with his report and puzzled by her behavior, her goals.

She regarded the opium ring. She really liked this little toy, and his thoughtfulness in buying it for her. Nobody had bought anything for her for a long time. Nobody had ever bought her anything interesting and beautiful. Maybe there was more depth to Larry than street smarts. Maybe this . . . bribe, was supposed to make her think so. Turn her into a silly woman believing a man, believing in a man like Max Kinsella, as Temple Barr did.

Not her. Not Carmen Molina.

Not ever.

Depend upon It

“The police?”

Temple was astounded by what Randy told her when she buzzed by the New Millennium to check on things and ran into him in the lobby. He looked frazzled.

“A body was found about five A.M. this morning. On the damn exhibition site,” he whispered, hustling her back to the area. “There’s no way we can duck the disastrous publicity consequences.”

Temple didn’t contest the word “we.”

Randy paced when they reached the entry area, then pounded his forehead with one palm. “This exhibition opening is starting to feel like a season debut of CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.”

Temple thought for a moment. “Not necessarily a bad thing. Maybe we can get a ‘curse of the Romanovs’ rumor going. Did a lot for King Tut.”

“We’re supposed to support rumors of vivified czars strutting around nights stringing people up?”

“Not as creepy as mummies, I agree. What do you think it really is? A botched robbery?”

“Why? Not one priceless artifact has been taken out of the vault and displayed yet. This is not encouraging for that ever happening. The insurance will skyrocket.”

“It does seem . . . premature. Why would anyone with designs on the artifacts tip his hand like this? Security will just get tougher.”