Carole douglas - Cat in an Indigo Mood

Miss Orth's cat had also died, or more likely was killed. The evidence indicates that someone dragged the cat corpse out of the house and buried it in the yard. Marks in the disturbed soil and sand show the tracks of four nails, either a human with his or her thumbs folded under into an exceedingly awkward position, or of quadrupeds definitely larger than a squirrel but smaller than a coyote. Unfortunately, whatever body was there has been removed. Maybe by coyotes.

"I have been forced, much against my better judgement, based on all the evidence, to conclude that these black cats, specifically, were in the death scene area, and that later they were possibly joined by an animal of white coat. And that a human, whose hair was also white or gray, was recently in the Vicinity.

"Therefore--" Molina pushed her hands into her jacket pockets, gazed at the magical undulating Circle Ritz arched ceiling. "I am forced to examine the animal behavior here tonight in the light of evidence. Apparently the white dog was Nose E, who is known to me both in his capacity as professional snitch and record store dog, and apparently his activities on the death scene have spurred his recent fetish for Matt Devine's pant leg. So. I have to ask you, sir; where has your pant leg been in the past few days?"

Temple sat upright, alert as an attorney working on a contingency fee. "Lieutenant, you have gone too far. A man is not responsible for where his pant leg has gone."

"When and where did I last wear these pants?" Matt looked bemused. "I don't have that many pairs." He glanced down at the damp bottom of one leg, still clutched in Nose E. 's face.

"And will have fewer soon. I don't pay any attention to what I wear when or where! I've only been here, or at ConTact briefly. Or at the radio station."

"The radio station." Molina digested that. "You come into contact with any people with white hair there?"

"Uh, no. Most of the people at a radio station are pretty hip and therefore pretty young.

Unless they bleach their hair." He glanced at Temple, the germ of an idea leaping between them like Ebola.

"Nance!" Temple said. "She was right here. And those were the pants you wore for the photo shoot, weren't they?"

"Yeah. I guess. I hadn't worn them since, come to think of it."

"Nance?" Molina inquired.

"The photographer," Matt explained. "I don't know if it was natural or not, but her hair was snow-white."

"In one of those buzz-cuts," Temple put in. "Kind of like that Aussie actor who used to sell batteries a few years ago. Jacko, or Jocko."

Molina's expression grew analytical. "Then this 'Nance' must have been a bit--"

"Butch to the bone," Temple said promptly, precluding any hemming and hawing on Matt's part. "Even had a really pumped tattoo on her left bicep. I mean, this was one barbed-wire babe.

She also seemed like a hell of a photographer."

"How old, would you say?"

"Hard to tell with that hacked-off Harlowe hair . . . pretty old. Even forties, maybe."

"Even forties. Hmm." Molina was looking intrigued. "I hadn't considered a female perp, but gay relationships can get as abusive as straight ones." She was beginning to buy into the theory.

"In fact, gay sexual violence can he particularly vicious. The knotted ligature could be some fetish object. 'She left.' It fits."

Matt was frowning. "Yeah, but . . . the victim you described, an ex-nun librarian in her fifties.

I don't see--"

"It fits," Molina interrupted. "You and I both know that there were a lot of unadmitted gays among the clergy."

"Not a lot. . . ."

"Didn't you say forty percent, once ?" Temple reminded him.

"Forty percent of new recruits to the priesthood, they think, but there wasn't anything like that number in the old days. Then, years ago, most people never guessed they might be gay, much less dreamed of leading the lifestyle. You don't know the environment: a vocation was a blessing and an honor, and the celibate life was held up as a higher form of behavior."

"Besides," Molina added, "getting married and having fourteen kids didn't look like a picnic to everyone. Girls with intellectual ambitions had no choice but to look to the convent. Those days are dead. And good riddance."

"I still can't see this woman even hanging out with someone as upfront as Nance." Matt said. "And just because Nance's looks seem to announce her sexual preference, that doesn't make her abusive, or a murderer. You're stereotyping, both of you. People with in-your-face facades are often the most insecure of all about themselves."

"Thank you. Mr. Midnight," Molina said caustically. "When I want a profiler, I'll call Quantico. How can we get in touch with this Nance?"

"Ambrosia would know. That's my broadcast partner. Her off-air name is Leticia Brown. You can teach her at W/COO."

"Oh, we will." Molina stood, gazing down on the three animals with fond wonder.

"Amateurs," she muttered.

Whether she was referring to the four-footed or the two-footed of that dreaded species was up to the hearers to decide.

"You going to take Nose E. back to Earl E.?" she asked Matt.

"Sure. I mean, he must be worried that the little fella has been in the hands of international terrorists or something."

"Good. I don't want to get dog hairs in my car. Might mess up the evidence. Thanks." She glanced at Temple, but didn't say anything, and then . . . she left.

"How weird!" Temple declared when she and Matt were finally alone, except for the three animals, who regarded them with the rapt attention of those requiring feeding shortly.

"Which part of weird are you talking about?"

"Hey, I had to be honest! You're kind of upset about that Nance angle, aren't you?"

"I hate to see the dead libeled, and the living too. We don't know that Nance is gay, and we certainly don't know that she's dangerous. Besides, none of these victims was sexually assaulted. Or Molina isn't saying so, and l don't see her holding that back with us. We know too much about the fringes of this case."

"Strippers can be lesbians too, like hookers. You know, women who've been abused by men often go the other way in their personal lives."

"I've heard that too. All this makes committing to a life of religious celibacy sound like a real sensible course, doesn't it?"

"For the first time l understand it," Temple admitted. "Maybe you had the right idea in the first place." She grinned.

"Maybe I had the right idea at the time, but now--" He shook his head.

"l hope I'm not totally disillusioning you."

"You are, but it needed to be done. In fact, I'm meeting with an ex-priests' group that has an openly gay member. It's been like the military decided up to now: don't ask; don't tell, but--

Omigod!"

"What?"

"I just realized. You want white hairs, come to my ex-priests' group."

"I don't think I'd be welcome." Temple glanced at the furred triumvirate on the floor. "But maybe this Earl E. would let you take Nose E. if we both asked him very, very nicely. And explained what we had in mind."

"It would be a scummy thing to do."

"It's what Nose E. does all the time: go undercover for the greater good."

"I'm surprised you didn't hold Max up as an example of same."

She wagged her head from side to side. "I didn't think you'd appreciate the reminder."

"I don't."

"But . . .Nose E. Who can resist that furry little two-faced face?"

"Louie won't like being aced out by a dog."

"I kinda think Louie has resigned himself to it, who do you think sprung Nose F. from downtown?"

"Lou E.?"

"Man, you are getting into the undercover lingo. Now all you have to do is get into the spirit."

Chapter 54

Mad Max

Molina pulled into her driveway at six--thirty, animal hairs turned over to Hair and Fibers, and visions of a long-delayed chorus line of pepperoni slices dancing in her head. The only fibers she wanted to see tonight were long strings of hot, melted cheese between her plate and her palate.