Unknown - 23_Cat_In_A_Vegas_Gold_Vendetta

Temple had been studying the guy. A boyish thirty-eight or so. Short, maybe five-six, but wiry and strong, a wind-tanned face and sun-squinting eyes. A burr of brown hair, intense blue eyes. Not overeducated, but a solid, nice guy.

“Anyway,” he told Savannah, “now that Pedro’s gone, I come over after work every day to bury the litter. It’s been neglected for a few days, and you know that pouf Jayden won’t lift an amethyst pinky-ringed hand to do what really needs to be done around the place.”

Savannah shook her head. “And you know Violet’ll never put you in the will, Rowdy. She hated you when you were Alex’s boyfriend, and she just tolerates you since you came to Vegas because you do things for her.”

“It’s not about the money, trust me,” he said. “I know how she’s always felt about me. No one was good enough for her daughter, especially me.”

Rowdy turned to Temple, pulling a worn wallet out of his pocket-tiered pants. He produced a small portrait photo of a slim, well-groomed blond with hyperthyroid eyes, popping slightly as if she were surprised. She certainly had been, by life. And early death.

He ran a thumb over the matte surface. “That’s Lexi. She and her mom didn’t get along, but no way am I going to let Lexi down and do unto her mom as she did unto me.”

“You dislodge that Jayden creep,” Savannah said, “and I’ll support you.”

“It’s Violet’s house, her stuff. Her life. And death.” He shrugged and moseyed up the walk.

“Violet has more people trying to look out for her than she’ll ever realize,” Savannah said.

“What’s Rowdy’s real first name?” Temple asked.

“Something uncool like Sylvester … no, I guess that turned out to be plenty cool for Stallone. Um, Sylvan Smith. You know how parents with last names that are a dime a dozen always stick an embarrassing, different first name on their kids?”

“That’s a very astute point, Savannah.”

“‘Astute.’ You commenting on my world-class ass? It’s my own redistributed fat.”

Temple refused to be grossed out. “I think you know what I’m commenting on. Your brain that isn’t as disengaged as you pretend.”

Chattering as if joining a Gossip Girl session, Captain Jack peeked out of his personal pocket.

“What’s he got now?” Savannah’s expression turned disgusted. “A hairball from Violet’s house!”

Temple snagged the dry brown object from the ferret’s paws.

“Euww, don’t touch that,” Savannah yelped. “Naughty, naughty Captain Jack!”

“Clever Captain Jack,” Temple said, putting the tea bag into the inside pocket of her tote bag. Come to think of it, she had room for a purse pet herself.

Captain Jack had managed to filch one of Jayden’s custom tea bags from the kitchen. Just what the doctor ordered … for the visiting PI.

“Mind if I keep this?” Temple asked Savannah.

The actress made a very slight dismissive moue, so as not to overstress her facial skin.

“Keep it. It will hardly be in the will.”

Temple had two thoughts as she left Aloe Vero Drive.

It can’t be good for Violet to be living out her last days in this giant cat box.

And: who would try to kill a woman who was already dying?

Chapter 11

Crime’s Her Cup of Tea

Once Temple got back home, she made a tall glass of double Crystal Light cherry pomegranate and loaded it with fresh lime slices.

Mike Hammer may have tossed back double rye whiskeys but she was too petite to handle the calories a hard-drinking male private eye could swallow.

Sitting at her office desk, she stared at the framed black-and-white photo of film noir actress and director Ida Lupino on the bookcase opposite, then looked up the numbers on her cell-phone list and punched one name before she could chicken out.

“Molina,” that deep, dark voice spat out, sounding as if this exact phone call would “make her day” by requiring her to shoot her own phone.

“Ah, Barr here.”

“Bar what? Is this a crank call, kid, because I can have it traced so fast—”

“It’s Temple Barr.”

“Temple Barr?” There was a sudden change of tone Temple didn’t like. She’d describe it as too civil and way too sadistic. “Calling me in the middle of a working day? Lost another ring? Fiancé?”

“This is a business call.”

“And those matters weren’t? Never mind. What do you want?”

“I … need … some information about a man found dead three days ago in the flood channel behind Aloe Vera Drive.”

“Well, that’s so simple, Miss Barr. Just phone your seriously overworked, friendly neighborhood homicide lieutenant and chew the fat—not that we women have any excess of that. Wake up and smell the caffeine! I can’t give you any police information, not even about a dead grackle found in Sunset Park.”

“Well, all the private detectives on TV know somebody on the police force who’ll fill in the technical details.”

“That’s because they only have forty minutes and three ‘acts’ to wind up a totally fictional case. Perhaps the CSI fad has totally corrupted the public mentality on just what boundaries the police really observe, but I thought you might be a tad more sensitive to the inanity of what you’re asking.”

“At least I know this probably isn’t a safe line.”

“Is this your PR person’s way, TB, of forcing me into a P.M. coffee break?”

“Do you really get one?”

“No.” Sigh. Another sigh. “There’s a Sin City Caffeine Cache franchise two blocks from me. Be there in an hour. And what’s the name?”

“Sin City Caffeine Cache.”

“Not that! The DB.”

“Oh, I thought you wanted me to confirm the, ah, assignation spot.”

“Don’t make it sound so romantic.”

“And … DB? Oh. Dead body. Oh, yes. Pedro Gomez.”

“Hmm, that name has a distinctly coffeehouse ring to it.”

“Gomez, not Juan Valdez.”

Molina sighed again. “Or an Addams Family vibe. I can always expect the unusual from you, Miss Barr. Be there.”

Temple clung to the disconnected phone. Molina always made her feel like a breathless junior-high-school newspaper reporter—nervy but eternally hopeful.

Temple supposed being female, tall, and blue-eyed with a Latino last name had been both a curse and a blessing in a high-school life and a police career. Being short and smart and redheaded carried a Little Orphan Annie “vibe” Temple was only now escaping … until she tangled with Molina.

Still … Bingo! The cop was coming across. Temple ramped up her desktop laptop—the new Gateway—to check out the coffeeshop’s address. Poor Starbucks, once king of the coffee-bean hill, now fighting new little independent chains in the Great Recession economy.

Somehow, Temple could identify more with … the SCCC. Sin City Caffeine Cache.

Maybe they served tea, too, and she could run the aroma of Violet’s special “brew” past the expert witnesses there.

*

“First,” Molina said, “tell me why you’re interested in this noncase.”

“A … friend asked me to investigate the circumstances of her rich old aunt. She was concerned that a pack of vultures were gathering around the ill old lady, Violet. Pedro had been Violet’s yardman, but far more. He kept her and the entire establishment going.”

“Driving Miss Daisy,” Molina said. “Shorthand, please. I don’t ordinarily have time to consort with amateurs.”

“You know the man was found dead in the flood channel.”

“He was seventy-eight years old, and it’s hot here. Anything could have caused him to keel over at the back of an extremely rugged property, sustain a concussion, and die.”