Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A Quicksilver Caper

The only person left in the room was Mr. Stone Face in the gray flannel suit at the door. Obviously a Red State Republican. Obviously Law and Order, but whose?

Temple walked over.

“Nice shoes,” he said.

“Thanks. I think I know you but I’m a little hazy just now.”

“You should be.” He took pity on her lack of instant recall. “Does Elvis Presley ever cross your mind?”

“Right! That Elvis impersonator competition. You’re . . . Matt’s FBI friend.”

“Frank Bucek. We do want a go at those two Russian mobster guys. That’s why Molina called me in.”

“Molina?” Temple felt like cringing but didn’t.

“She’s peripheral to this. So. About you. Matt’s Las Vegas friend.”

“Right.”

“Friend kinda doesn’t cover it, does it? Not with Matt.” “Um, no.”

“You’d never pass the physical, but I’d want you in the FBI anytime. That was a nervy little act you did there.”

“Just doing my job. Public relations is a very demanding profession. If you do it right.”

“So, how’s Matt?”

“Great. He’s becoming a major media . . . icon. Gosh. Speaking all over the country. His syndicated radio show. You’re an ex-priest too, aren’t you?”

She glanced at the plain gold band on his left ring finger. “Married?”

“Yup.”

“Do you, like, ever talk to your wife?”

He cracked a smile, reluctantly. “Yup.”

“What do you say?”

“None of your business.”

“Well, it kinda is. Matt’s asked me to marry him.”

“That happens. What’s the problem?”

Temple had been through a very stressful few hours. She searched for something decently vague to say, then couldn’t help what came out: “I don’t want to have thirteen kids, like more than Mama Fontana,” she blurted, “considering how old I am now and how fertile I could be and no birth control and, oh shit.”

Frank Bucek shut his eyes, gathering himself. “Only the Pope would have thirteen kids now, and he’s exempt. I’ll talk to Matt, okay?”

“That’s just it. I think he’s afraid to have any, and I don’t know what I want. Yet.”

“I’ll talk to Matt.”

“What about me?”

He smiled. “You need talking to, but by a superior officer. Thank God it’s not me. Leave the Russian mob to the pros and go home and have a good belt.”

Mad Matt

“Ma! He’s going to go to the Father-Daughter Dance next fall with me! It’ll be so sweet to see the other girls’ faces. I mean, Mr. Midnight. In person. With me!”

Carmen came up short on her daughter’s teen exuberance.

Mariah had grabbed her in the kitchen as she entered from the attached garage and hugged her. Hugged her? Mean Bad No-no Mama?

No mother of a teenager expects anything but angst during that dreaded three-year transition period.

“Whoa! Chica! Who are we talking about?”

She’d had a big, bad day. FBI. Russian mob. Temple Barr.

That’s when Carmen looked past the kitchen into the den. Matt Devine was standing there, hands in chino pants pockets, looking slightly embarrassed. As well he should be!

And looking like . . . definite girl bait. Blond, diffident, and coolly hot: a total hottie according to teen parlance. Molina had seen the teen mags.

“I don’t know much about it,” Matt was saying.

Obviously, Matt had come to call for some reason and Mariah had seen, jumped, snagged, and overwhelmed. Girls today were so much more aggressive with boys than in her day.

So Mama was forced to give out the details. “Junior High formal dance. First one. Next fall. Mariah’s way ahead of the gun—”

“Really?” Matt eyed her chubby-turning-tall daughter. “First dance? I’m flattered. But I’m not a great dancer, Mariah.”

“You will be. We can practice ahead of time, right?”

“Ah, right.”

Carmen smiled to watch Matt watch Mariah bounce down the hall to her bedroom, her inner sanctum of clutter and boy-band posters. He hadn’t counted on rehearsals.

He eyed the mother in the case. “This meet with your approval?”

Molina sighed. “She doesn’t have a father. A presentable father,” she added at Matt’s straight-shooter look. “You’re a local celebrity. It’d make her day. Night.”

“Done deal.” He came closer.

Matt was attractive in the extreme. He was single. He was an ex-priest, which a Latina like her could certainly understand. She would trust him with her daughter, but not with his own personal instincts.

“Why are you here? I know Mariah snagged you for escort duty when you showed up, but that’s just you being nice. Why are you really here?”

“Because I don’t feel like being nice.”

“Ah. Dos Equis?”

“Yeah. With lime.”

“You feeling south of the border tonight?”

He watched her dive into the fridge. She knew the interior light uplit her face like a lineup photo. Not flattering.

He took the amber beer bottle she offered. “I’m feeling disappointed tonight,” he said. It was a Catholic school line.

“With me? Sorry, Father. I don’t go to confession anymore.”

“You should. What you did to Temple was inexcusable.”

“What? I did my job. I interrogated her. Finish.”

“You bullied her.”

“You can bully a redhead?”

“She’s a blonde for the moment, and you could bully a shark. Listen, Carmen. I understand the limits and frustration of your job. I hear some of those same sad, self-hating voices over the radio waves five nights a week. That’s who we deal with day after day, night after night. People who are losing, or have lost, hope. We’re alike. The court of last resort for the self-esteem deprived. Excuses. Lies. And so human. So weak. That’s not Temple. Why’d you have to treat her like that?”

“Because she knows what I need to know to close a case.”

“A case? Or your own pre-conception of a case?”

“Kinsella is your rival. He’s screwed the woman you love. Why defend him?”

Matt froze for a moment at the ugly truth coming from her mouth. She felt a little guilty. He remained a relative innocent in the world of he-she relationships. Love was still sacred to him. Screwing was still a word that twisted both ways: street vulgarity or mystical spiral of DNA, life, and love.

She felt way guilty. Damn priests! Guilt. That was their Job One, even when they’d left it far behind.

“He loved her,” Matt said. “Still does. He’s not my enemy but he is yours. Why?”

“He cuts corners, he hides out. He manipulates this town and this police force for his own reasons. He’s gotta fall. He’s gotta go down.”

“For his sins? Or yours?”

“You’re defending him?”

Matt nodded. Smiled. “Yeah. If he’s innocent. What are you after him for now? Temple said you two had declared a truce.”

“She’s told you about the dangling dead at the New Millennium?”

“She’s mentioned it in passing.” He smiled privately as he sipped the beer.

Molina’s nerves twanged. Something had changed there. What?

“Let’s sit,” she said, setting an example. It forced him into the role of a guest in her house, on her sofa.

“I admit,” she said, “that dead bodies raining from the ceiling look like Kinsella’s MO.”

“Come on. Just one, isn’t it? There was one at the Goliath the night his performance run ended more than two years ago. The only thing to tie him to that was that he vanished for a year. Why’d he come back if he was a murderer?”

“Sheer gall. That man stops at nothing.”

“Probably true, but that’s not a jailable offense. Neither does Lance Armstrong.”