Douglas, Nelson - Midnight Louie 05-Cat in a Diamond Dazzle

Besides, I felt obligated to help find out why the first pageant competitor was killed."

"So that's what Molina meant." Matt's incredulity echoed in the small, stainless steel-lined elevator as they soundlessly headed for the third floor.

She nodded. "A guy from that striptease contest I did PR for a few months ago. He wanted to talk to me the night before he was killed. Kit and Electra were teasing me about being asked out by a hunk, and I felt so stupid that I said no. Now I think he wanted to talk to me about whatever led to his death."

"Temple!" Matt's tan face had darkened as they walked to her Storm, eight cars down the shadowy row. "What about what you owe to your friends? You leave the Circle Ritz without any word, then turn up at the Crystal Phoenix, taking insane risks. Think about your friends, if not yourself."

"Electra's here. And my aunt," she added. "And I'm not a bad detective. Fabrizio only tried to kill me because I knew too much."

"Great. We can put that on your tombstone: SHE KNEW TOO MUCH."

"Most cemeteries don't allow tombstones anymore. Takes all the fun out of graveyards."

Temple rummaged in her duffel bag, then handed Matt the key ring. He took it, but wouldn't look up at her.

"How can I make you see what it was like," he said slowly, "watching security people storm through the casino? Then a Fontana brother races by in some ... ridiculous Halloween costume telling Nicky and Van about a 'new murder' and mentioning your name over and over. I thought--"

Temple put her hands on his wrists. "Thanks."

Matt looked up and the moment teetered on the brink of something more that neither was ready for.

"Maybe--" Temple gazed up at the uninspiring ramp ceiling, a coffered pattern of gray concrete beams. "It was supposed to be a murder-suicide! If Fabrizio killed Cheyenne and knew that I suspected him, he may have stabbed himself and then come out to kill the only witness who suspected he had committed the first murder!"

Matt's eyes narrowed with disbelief. Temple had meant to reassure him; in a way, she had succeeded beyond her expectations. He finally laughed and unlocked the Storm passenger door.

"You do have a uniquely creative mind for crime," he said, letting himself into the driver's seat.

"Lieutenant Molina should be examining your brain, not your fingertips."

"I'd have to be dead first, and, fortunately, I'm not."

She pulled down the lozenge wrapper and offered Matt one. He shook his head, so she took another, letting it click against her teeth as the honey-herbal flavor coated her throat.

After the dark of the ramp, the shock of daylight had her clawing for the prescription sunglasses in her duffel bag.

Matt donned the drugstore pair in his shirt pocket. "You'll have to tell me where the police station is."

"Simple. Down the Strip, right on East Stewart for a few blocks. Big pale building with a soaring, curved section in front that's accessorized with an ersatz neon pattern, along with a colorful array of lounging transients."

"You sound like a veteran visitor, all right."

She shrugged and leaned her head against the seat. She felt as if she'd wrestled alligators, and perhaps she had. But now that she'd apologized for leaving home and having not-too-excellent adventures, Temple was inclined to resume her favorite role: offhand inquisitor.

"By the way." Her head turned toward Matt without lifting from the headrest. "Why were you in the Crystal Phoenix casino?"

"Ah ..." He pretended to occupy himself with driving, ostentatiously peering in the rearview mirror, looking over his shoulder, frowning at the instrument panel.

Before he could lie, Temple decided to let him off the hook by throwing out another, deeper one.

"And why were you and Max there together the other evening?"

Fingerprinting was not the kiddie-direct process Temple had imagined: stick your fingers in some wet gunk like fingerpaints, then slap them down on a sheet of paper.

Like all rituals, this had its protocol. The most distasteful part, besides the ink's chemical reek, was that the technician took control of each of her fingers, rolling the tip from side to side on the card. The process felt like automatic writing, as if she were a ghost of herself. It also pinched, and made her feel like a puppet.

Molina had sent a message ahead of her: wait.

So Temple did. Kit and Electra had taken a cab downtown to join them, despite protests, so Matt took himself off. He had never quite answered Temple's question about his association with Max.

"That policewoman can't think you did it," Kit said as they huddled over lukewarm coffee in paper cups in the small waiting area, which was furnished with a visibly used leather sofa and chairs.

"No, but she would love an excuse to," Temple said, glad that Molina's assumption that Fabrizio had killed Cheyenne freed Kit from any suspicion.

"Why?" Kit demanded.

"We don't get along."

"Temple, you're my niece. My relatives don't have feuds with homicide detectives."

"It's not a feud, just... a personality conflict. And I happen to have suspicious associates."

"Us?" Kit asked in horror.

Temple shook her head and glanced at Electra, who looked as troubled as Temple had ever seen her.

"Electra, why don't you go back to the Phoenix? Who knows how long the inquisition will take, and you've got your contest submission to finish."

"Not now." Electra smiled for the first time that day. "It's done."

"You finished it? That's great."

"I suppose so, kiddo, but it would be better if you weren't in Dutch with that lieutenant."

"Oh, she just does these things to scare me into 'fessing up about Max."

"What's to 'fess up?" Kit asked.

"Nothing. That's the problem."

"More coffee?" Electra had risen and was looking toward the machine down the hall.

"Why not?" Temple said.

Molina came within the hour, a brown paper bag in each hand; her partner held two more.

"Maybe they brought us a snack," Temple whispered to her coconspirators.

Moments later Molina materialized behind the counter and nodded Temple in.

Her office was long and narrow, just wide enough for a desk and a path to edge by it. Molina sat behind the desk, her partner on a battered office chair near the wall.

Temple took one of the two chairs placed to face the desk.

"You think of anything more?" Molina asked.

Temple shook her head.

"No prints on the knife hilt."

"Then you didn't need mine--"

"No glove," Molina added sternly, as if that were Temple's fault.

"You didn't find a glove?"

Molina shook her head.

"What about the bird?"

"The hawk was backstage, on its perch, hooded. A woman named Cindy Blyer confirmed that Fabrizio had planned to use the bird in his act."

"But he didn't."

"Blyer claims that he decided at the last minute that it would be too awkward."

"The last minute?"

"About fifteen minutes before he was to go on for the dress rehearsal. She hadn't seen the glove, ever, but she had to be there to tend the bird. Nice job, personal PR specialist."

Molina suddenly leaned forward to regard Temple through eyes narrowed gunfighter-tight. "You're getting some beauties?"

"What?"

"Neck bruises," she explained, sitting back. "We'll want photos when they're fully developed.

Tomorrow."

"I have to come downtown again? At least I can go now--?"

"Go!" Molina ordered, as if dismissing an evil spirit.

Temple stood up. "And there was no glove in his dressing room?"

"Nothing but pretty-boy paraphernalia." Molina gestured at the paper bags. "Makeup and mousse; leather britches and shirts with sleeves the size of sails; big, trashy biker belts and boots."

Temple turned, then spun back. "Boots?"