Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A Leopard Spot

And it included Matt Devine, ironically.

And even Kitty O’Connor was not an island. Max had other enemies from his undercover days, and had made new ones during his uncustomary long stay in Vegas. Molina, for one. She worked for the law, and she regarded him as the epitome of lawlessness. No quarter there.

And Devine was right: Max’s past had brought the danger into their own living rooms. His now, Temple’s…when?

Damn, but Devine was too good-looking for any woman’s good! Temple or Molina, maybe even. Or even Kitty O’Connor? Did she have a vulnerable spot she was hiding with her implacable persecution of Matt Devine?

Beauty. Yeats had described the truth and terrible cost of the Irish freedom movement as “a terrible beauty” being born. And beauty was born, not made. It wasn’t an option.

Maybe that was what drew Kathleen to Devine, for worse or for better, the one thing they had in common that infuriated her. And she was infuriated. She had already acted on it by her first, shockingly physical surprise attack on Devine. Where would her fury strike next? And at whom? If she couldn’t find him, and was taking it out on others, could he find her first? Take her out. One way or the other.

Meanwhile…the current show must go on.

Max pushed himself off the wall, straightened his slumping backbone into onstage steel again. Enough wallowing. Back to being the Mystifying Max Kinsella, able to defy gravity and create illusions out of insubstantial air.

He was going to have a busy night of it.

First, he called the private backstage number for the Cloaked Conjuror.

It was well before showtime, but CC would be in. Magicians always came early to triple-check the arrangements for their shows. One slip-up could cause career-terminating embarrassment.

CC sounded very glad to hear from Max, and even gladder to hear that his missing leopard had been found.

“No, you can’t have Osiris back anytime soon,” Max told him. “He’s…quarantined. No, not sick. Only…suspected.”

Max quickly laid out the murder and the leopard’s presence at the death scene. “The Animal Oasis has taken charge of Osiris. The other big cats and the herds remain in place, with their usual tenders. There’s nothing you can do except visit Osiris, which I don’t recommend. The police don’t know whose animal he was, and you don’t want to step forward, because Osiris’s owner would be a prime suspect in the murder. Who else could control the animal?”

“I never even heard of this Van Burkleo guy and his head-hunting ranch,” CC objected in an odd voice: his own, unmasked by a vocal synthesizer. Contrary to his muscular onstage image, his pleasant tenor would serve a bingo caller well.

“Say you. I do wonder why you never got any ransom demand for Osiris. Also about a couple other things involving his abduction. Stay out of it. The Animal Oasis people will take princely care of him. If you want to do something, give the AO a big donation. Having an exotic animal dumped into their facility with no notice puts a huge strain on the staff, the accommodations, and the budget. It’s a nonprofit.”

“Listen, that’s a ‘ransom’ I’m happy to pay. You’ll let me know as soon as Osiris is cleared? I mean, it’s ridiculous that a leopard would be suspected of murder.”

“I agree.” Max didn’t mention his biggest worry: not that the leopard would be charged with murder but that community outrage at any “wild” animal attacking a human might mean a hasty putting down. “All you need to worry about is staying away until the real killer is caught.”

“How can you be sure that he will be?”

“Or she . I guess I’ll just have to see to it myself.”

“My God. You don’t mess around when you set out to do something, do you?”

“Nope. And when it is safe to get Osiris back, we’ll have to abduct him. You really can’t risk claiming him publicly, ever, for a number of reasons.”

“You mean the Synth as well as the police?”

“Yes, and probably the Girl Scouts are involved too.”

“What!”

“Never mind. A bad joke. I have a lot of bases to cover tonight and I’m getting a little slap-happy. I’ll call again when you can do something for me.”

Max punched off the phone and snapped it shut.

Next he had to tackle Temple without telling her too much. That would be difficult, and against his wishes, if not his better judgment.

Maybe he could sic her onto Molina. That would clear his operating field of two complications at once.

She responded to his knock on her door with surprised but rewarding pleasure.

“Max! You’re knocking like a real boy. Your nose doesn’t even look too long from recent prevarications. In a good cause, of course. Come in. I get to be a real hostess. Sit down. Would you like a shot of scotch and a petit four?”

He laughed and let her lead him into her lair.

“I can’t stay.” Max sat gingerly on the sofa cushion edge. “Listen, Temple. Did you ever look into that strange geometric figure we found etched on the floor at the professor’s death scene?”

“Um, no. It hasn’t been a priority.”

She sat on the coffee table opposite him, a red-headed sprite in aqua leggings and matching big fuzzy sweater whom he wanted to pull onto his lap. Her bare feet were thrust into black patent-leather high-heeled mules that would go fetchingly astray if he made any sudden moves, but he had two murderers to hunt and no time for intermission.

“Maybe you can coax some information on that out of Molina.”

While her eyebrows shot up in disbelief at that revolting idea, he added, “Or your New Age acquaintances. Have you seen anything like this?” He pulled an artsy, mostly blank newspaper ad page toward him, drew his fountain pen and sketched the worm Ouroboros.

Temple got up to lean over his shoulder, smelling faintly of lavender something. Just faintly enough to be interesting. “No. Is it made of metal? Is it a bracelet?”

“Possibly. I don’t want to prejudice you. See if you can track down this symbol, however it’s used.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve been so busy at the Phoenix. I didn’t have a chance to follow up on this Synth stuff.”

“No hurry.” Max stood and then kissed her, because if he kissed her sitting down it might not end. “It’s very important. I hate to leave, but I have to.”

“All right.”

“Lock your door after I leave.”

“Always.”

In the hallway he waited for her dead bolt to snap to, while he planned his next calls.

Standing there, he realized that Devine’s apartment was directly above hers. No wonder they had become friends, or something more than.

Max grimaced. He supposed he owed Kathleen O’Connor a smidge of gratitude for occupying Devine thoroughly enough to make interaction with Temple unlikely, and even a threat to her well-being.

It wasn’t often a mortal enemy did him a favor.

Everything was acting up at once. Molina was personally investigating Cher Smith’s death. Kitty O’Connor was turning the screws on Matt Devine. Rafi Nadir was butting his nose into everybody’s business, maybe because he had something to hide, like murder one. And the Synth had possibly set up the Cloaked Conjuror’s leopard as a murder suspect.

Where next?

He checked his discreetly talented watch. It was getting late. Time to put Vince into long-term storage and to get out his long-lost soul brother. Who? Time would tell.

Baby Doll’s was three tiers down from Secrets as strip clubs go.

Max had decided on an off-the-wall approach, partly motivated by that mother of invention, necessity. He went in as an Elvis wannabe, cannibalizing bits of the Elvis impersonator outfit he had put together a few weeks earlier.