Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A Crimson Haze

"Call me Matt. This conversation is too personal for honorifics. Lieutenant."

She blew out a frustrated breath. "I usually know where I'm going and how I got there, but not at the moment. Don't expect me to reciprocate by telling you to call me 'Carmen.' I hate the name."'

"Because of the associations?"

"Because I was a fat little kid in a Hispanic neighborhood who sang a lot and you should hear what other kids can do with a name like Carmen. I tried to go by my middle name in high school, but that was a disaster too."

"I hate my first name too."

"What's wrong with Matt? It's simple and the only mass association is the marshal on

'Gunsmoke,' not some slut or a fruitcake-head with an atrocious accent."

''My name's 'Matt' now. It was Matthias all through school."

"Oh, an old-fashioned saint's name. Still, that fits a priest and isn't so bad for a layman."

Molina smiled encouragingly, as she would with a child, maybe her child.

Matt didn't want to further explain why he had come to loath his given name. That was another room he wanted to keep private. It was bad enough that Temple knew.

"What's your middle name?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Regina."

"Latin for 'queen.' Not bad either."

"Regina Molina? You see. Nothing goes well with Molina. I hated to hang Mariah on the poor kid, but it's pretty--"

"And it isn't a saint's name, but it's close to Mary as in 'Ave Maria'; you were walking the line between Catholic and not' Catholic even then, when your daughter was born. So Molina was your family name. Why aren't you using your married name?"

"What are you, a detective? Or a frustrated shrink? Role reversal stinks."

"Knowing about people used to be my job, too."

"Why'd you leave it?"

"Because I needed to know about myself,"

"Why'd you call me?"

"Because I have a confession to make."

"Funny."

"Not to me. Listen, Carmen." He used the name firmly, as he would have with a rebellious grade-schooler. She made a face but said nothing. "There is something you need to know about me, because it has to do with your job." Matt gathered himself. "I heard about that man who died at the Crystal Phoenix, or who was found dead there. I think that I . . . knew him."

"Temple told you," she noted sourly, but she sat up to take literal notice of his revelation.

"So you knew Cliff Effinger?"

"You could say that. He was my stepfather."

Carmen Molina's blue eyes scintillated with shock, pleased speculation and curiosity as deep as the navy-dark waters of Lake Mead.

''Gee whiz, Matt, I'm so glad we had this little talk. I desperately need someone reliable to identify the body."

*****************

Temple backed away from her bed.

It didn't look much like a bed at the moment, being draped with every cocktail dress in her possession and bordered by endless pairs of glitzy high heels.

Why couldn't she ever decide what to wear to a special event until it was time to get ready?

Maybe her theatrical background was the cause. Even in civilian life she always felt like an actress who had to make her grand entrance without any idea of what part she was playing or how to dress for it.

Then again, maybe she was just nervous because this was her first official special event with Matt Devine for her escort.

Whatever the reason, she felt flustered and dithering and hot under whatever collar--if any--she decided to wear.

In exasperation she had turned to the window for a calming view of the pool--so still, so placid, so well dressed in its eternal costume of chlorine-treated azure. ...

This afternoon the view was not calming at all.

Not with Matt Devine sitting in the shade of the lone palm tree. Not with one Lieutenant C.R. Molina sitting right there beside him.

They looked like a bloody ice-tea ad! Prim, proper and on, oh, such jolly, pleasant terms!

Temple pushed as close to the glass as she dared without being seen, wardrobe dilemmas forgotten.

What was this tete-a-tete about? Devine and Molina? Matt and, and . . . Carmen?

Acquaintances? Friends? Buddies? Or worse;

Now don't get paranoid, Temple warned herself, to no avail.

Perhaps Molina was just interrogating Matt, using him to dig into Temple's background to get to Max. Temple nodded soberly, glad she had kept pretty much mum on Max when she was with Mr. Devine.

Matt might not mean to give away anything about her that Molina could use--and abuse.

Still, he was pretty naive about women, even when they were cops, relationships and life in general. He might blurt out something that she would regret. A good thing that she knew how to keep the past in an airtight compartment if she had to.

Temple watched Molina rise, smooth her stupid, bland skirt and walk to the gate. Matt accompanied her, hands in pants pockets, the afternoon sun glinting off his hair-gilded forearms.

Obviously, nothing momentous had happened during the conversation. Yet the scene had reminded Temple never to underestimate Molina's bulldog nature, or the possibility that she might use Matt, and Temple's interest in him, to pursue her obsession with Max.

No way. Lieutenant, Temple swore as she watched the woman vanish behind the closing wooden gate. Matt checked his watch, glanced up at the Circle Ritz--Temple flattened herself against the wall for a few seconds before she peeked again--and hurried into the building.

Temple released an anxious breath. Really time to get ready now! Eyeing the bed again, with its crazy-quilt of choices, the decision seemed simple. Temple swooped up one perfect dress and one perfect pair of shoes. Humming happily, she installed both by the closet door where the poster of Max Kinsella had once hung.

Chapter 33

Three O'Clock Rock

I wish I could say that this unexpected family reunion resulted in a good deal of mutual grooming and purring, but the fact of the matter is that we each face a formidable generation gap, not to mention the gender stretch.

Still, discovering unsuspected blood ties does force a truce of sorts. We withdraw under the deck surrounding Three O'Clock Louie's to hash out our various grievances. If, from time to time, the occasional tidbit from the diners above slips through a gap In the boards, none of us can object as long as each gets a lick at the booty.

The old man regales us with tales of his life at sea. Even the hostile Caviar finds herself hypnotized by the details of life on the Bounding Maine. (Personally, I remember the Maine being lost at Pearl Harbor, but apparently this vessel is a namesake.)

"Does not all that heaving and sinking make you seasick?" Caviar asks Three O'Clock.

"No, Ma'am. Not In the slightest." The old fellow tidies his whiskers as his eyes soften with a nostalgic sea-green glow. "Has a soothing effect, as when we were rocked in the cradles of our mother's bellies. They do not call it Mother Ocean for nothing. And I soon got my sea legs--

especially when I saw all that North Pacific silver tumbling to deck. Ah, that is a sight. . .

mountains of piscine delight, fresh and gleaming with saltwater. The captain would often offer me a nip of his best brandy after the catch was in and we were relaxing from our labors in the cabin."

"What labors?" I ask. "You did not even have to snap a whisker in the pursuit of this prey.

Their heads were handed to you on a platter, so to speak.

"True, my lad, but the thrill of the chase is overrated, to my mind. At a certain age one grows wise enough to find a situation where one's meals are home-delivered. Did I not understand you to say that you had found a domestic situation at a place called the Circle Ritz?"

I do not miss the slight sneer at the notion of "domestic."