Carole douglas - Cat in an Indigo Mood

She thought. She thought for a long time, maybe a minute-something, and he waited like a cigar-store Indian: wooden, relentless, wearing the weight of the wrong she'd done him like a cloak.

And she had used him precisely because she wouldn't have to explain her motivation, as she would to one of her detectives. Now, here she was, having to explain in spades, and hating every second of it. This was her own worst scenario in living color. The only person it was worse for was Cher Smith, and she was dead.

She spoke at last, trying to keep her voice flat and expressionless.

"It's simple. Read my lips. 'She left.' On my car door; beside the first body. You noticed that something had happened to my car. Murderous graffiti. The only clear-cut case of the words

'she left' being left at the scene of the crime was at the Blue Dahlia. The body, which evidence now indicates was killed elsewhere and brought to that setting, was placed near my car. I had to assume a possibility that the placement was personal. If the dead woman had 'left,' had l also

'left?' Yes, l had. The man I asked you to investigate was the man I left, years ago, in LA. That's who he is. Rafi Nadir."

His silence lasted longer than hers had. One upmanship must be his middle name, except that she now knew all of them: Aloysius Xavier and who-knows-what else.

"You and Nadir?"

"A long time ago in a place far away, he used to be a good street cop, back when he was younger and felt less challenged.

He started to change, and I left."

"I'm sorry. I just don't buy it. You and Nadir?"

She shrugged. "I evolved, he devolved. What more can I say? People do change."

"Still. Why not burn him? What can he do to you now except embarrass you?"

"Embarrass? You think this is because I don't want to admit I ever associated with such a loser? Hah! I'd testify to shacking up with jack the Ripper rather than go slip-sliding around trying to use a quasi-unreliable amateur like you! Except for the fact that this lowlife is the father of my daughter!"

"Your daughter?" he stepped back, finally giving her the space she needed. "You have a daughter?"

"Don't sound so shocked. Even the Virgin Mary had a child."

"Your daughter. I never figured that. How old is she?"

"No. My daughter is off limits. To him, and to you. And I'll thank you not to ever show up on my daughter's doorstep again."

Shock gave her the upper hand, and she used it, backing him into the house's entry area until the security lights blared on.

He lifted a forearm to his eyes. It was like having a suspect under the hot lights of The Front Page era, and she pressed, her advantage, quite literally pushing him to the wall.

"Yeah, l know you can find out what you want to find out, but you're not to show up on my daughter's doorstep ever again. I can handle you wherever or whenever you choose to materialize, but she's not fair game to you, and if you ever try to use any information about my kid, you try to blackmail me, or whatever, and you are . . . well, I'll let you imagine what you'd be. Roadkill would not be a bad guess."

Kinsella hardly heard her threats. She could watch his mental wheels turning, doing a 180-degree shift on one plane while they kept on whirling in another.

Finally, he reconfigured his suppositions. "Nadir. He never knew he had a daughter."

She was silent.

"He didn't know you were in Las Vegas, with her."

Still as the grave.

"Not until now. Maybe."

She had nothing to say.

"You were between Everest and Gibraltar, weren't you?" He pushed off her garage wall, backing her up, facing her. "Okay."

His tone was brisk, businesslike. "I want, need, deserve to know what's happening in the Smith investigation. I'll pursue it in my own fashion, which is to say, I hope you get something on Nadir, because if you don't, and you can't do anything about him, l can and I will."

"Don't bother. If he's involved, my history is public property."

"You could lose your job."

"Sometimes it's hell."

"So's mine," he said lightly. "I won't tell, unless you won't tell, and I think you need to."

"Don't hold your breath. If he does know anything, he'll come after my daughter next, and I'll do whatever is necessary then."

"No, I wouldn't want to be walking in your shoes. But then, neither would Temple." He passed her, gingerly, on the way to the driveway.

"Miss Nose E. of the Mojave Desert."

"She tries to help. Just like me."

Molina nodded wearily. Sometimes you needed a little help from your worst enemies.

"Say, Kinsella!" she called after the shadow he was becoming.

The shadow paused.

"What the hell happened to your hair?"

He was silent for a long moment.

"I had a brush with the devil and a haircut from an angel. Care to give me a polygraph on that?"

"No, I'll take your word."

"I think that's a first, Lieutenant. Better watch yourself."

She stood there for a long while, listening for a vehicle to leave that never did. He had parked out of sight and out of sound, of course. He wasn't an amateur; she had just accused him of behaving like one, because she was coming darn near herself.

If Raf Nadir had killed Cher Smith, then he had devolved into the worst kind of over-controlling misogynist, and it didn't matter if he'd had nothing at all to do with the Blue Dahlia and church parking lot slayings.

He was as dangerous as death anyway.

Chapter 55

Nosing Into Crime

Well, I am not about to desert Nose E. just when he gets to star in the solution of the crime.

So when Mr. Malt Devine picks up the little whimperer and prepares to go out, I goad Louise to join me in standing by the door, where we caterwaul like the Second Coming is imminent and Mr. Matt needs to open the door to the Heavenly Host.

"What is with you cats?" he demands, cradling Nose E. against his chest.

Perhaps we do not like to see dogs getting all the free rides.

"This is serious," he adds.

We both produce long, lugubrious faces, as if to demonstrate our essential sobriety.

"Oh, all right. If you are so attached to the little dog--"

Yeah, we are attached, by gum. By a claw!

First we are loaded into Miss Electra's pink Probe.

It seems that Mr. Matt has arranged for formal transportation now that he is toting a lap dog around. What a disgusting breed!

I refer to lap dogs, rather than Mr. Matt's species, but perhaps they are interchangeable.

We make a pit stop at the Reprise record store, where Mr. Matt endeavors to introduce himself, restore Nose E. to his proper owner, and in the same breath beseech Nose E.'s services on his next stop.

Earl E., an elderly, stooped individual with laser-sharp eyes and the instincts of a Doberman when it comes to dogs. cats, and homo sapiens, eyes Mr. Matt up and down.

Nose E. wags his bedraggled tail to show that he is game.

Louise and I, we narrow our emerald and amber beads to mere slits, and will Mr. Earl E. Byrd to do our will.

He shrugs. "I have never seen such a committee before. But I want Nose E. home before midnight. He needs a bath and a pedicure after his adventure."

"Fine." says Mr. Matt, much relieved. "Nose E. is the only one who can dismiss a suspicion that I hope is not genuine."

"Nose E. knows his business, and does it," Earl E. says. "I try not to interfere."

With that we are gone in the borrowed car, heading out of Las Vegas into the Great Black Nowhere of Night.

I love traveling through the empty desert like this! Although I enjoy the bright lights and many amenities of the Strip, there is something to be said for venturing into the Great Unknown. Even Louise, city-bred brat that she is, arches her neck and sniffs the desert air. Nose E. pants out the half-open window, his ridiculousty long ears blowing back in the wind.