Unknown - 23_Cat_In_A_Vegas_Gold_Vendetta

Temple grabbed her car keys from the coffee table and headed to the parking lot and the Miata. She had to get the “treasure box” back and check on the situation.

Whatever evil under the sun and the moon was going on, it was happening now in the house on Aloe Vera Drive.

Chapter 41

Convoy: Beware of Bears

Max spotted Temple flying out the side door of the Circle Ritz, short skirt swirling, low-heeled mules practically skidding off her feet as she headed for the Miata wisely parked near one of the lot’s three security light poles.

Her headlong commitment and those lithe bare legs made him smile.

Miss Mini-Tornado.

He was driving his previously owned black Volkswagen Beetle, now that Garry’s laptop computer had coughed up the names of his banks and numbers of his accounts. The humble Beetle offered surprising legroom for a tall guy. Max had read on an airline magazine that Tommy Tune, the six-foot-six (and a half, supposedly, sans cowboy boots) Texas tap dancer and Broadway star, drove one.

That had given him the idea, now that legroom was an issue. Also, the Beetle provided a literal low profile for tailing work. Max figured he’d be spending a lot of time getting up to date on his history in Sin City. But he wasn’t here for testing the Beetle’s legroom. Or legs.

Idling throatily along the side street was a much more serious car than either he or Miss Whirling Dervish Barr drove. A deep-bronze vintage Impala.

Max had always figured Dirty Larry Podesta for a man with an agenda that went far beyond police work. He’d followed the guy here on his own instincts, not Molina’s instructions. And he found this destination as sinister as that possible personal link through Podesta’s stepsister to the Barbie Doll Killer.

He especially didn’t like that Impala waiting in the dark to pounce on the Miata. He might not remember his ex, but, by God, nobody was going to mess with her. Including him.

And, he was thinking, she hardly fit the profile for the Barbie Doll Killer victims. She’d left him a message saying that she’d seen Larry, not vice versa, at the nursing home. Still, he couldn’t help worrying now that sending Temple to the nursing home Dirty Larry had visited had somehow drawn the undercover narc’s attention to her.

Maybe something the receptionist had said on Larry’s next visit had tipped him off to who the “visiting reporter” might have been. Had he “made” Temple as a likely possibility for uncovering his real aims? Or as a likely victim? Was Larry an avenger or a serial killer? His job description well suited him for both roles.

No more deaths on Max’s conscience, that was his obsession now, besides finding Kathleen O’Connor.

The Beetle swooped out of the lot after the Impala got into line behind the Miata. Max loved being invisible and underestimated, not doing the magician act out front, but pulling the strings from behind the curtain.

He hoped the sainted Gandolph had been right, as usual. Miss Temple Barr was too easy to underestimate. He hoped so with all his heart and soul, if he had any left, because his instincts told him this unintentional auto convoy was headed on a straight line to Showdown City.

He’d observed, at least, that Temple had her seat belt on. Good girl! It was going to be a bumpy ride. He had his on, too. You couldn’t save someone else if you didn’t care enough to save yourself.

Bitter lesson learned.

Chapter 42

Little Girl Lost

“Do you know where your girlfriend is?”

Matt blinked at the cell phone. He was already getting into that Zen place for the Mr. Midnight Hour tonight and didn’t recognize the incoming number—or believe the voice he recognized.

“Carmen?”

“Molina. ‘Where is your favorite fiancée?’ I should have said. I’m in a squad car on my cell phone. Well?”

“Temple? Where is she? Uh. We’re not a Siamese-twin act.”

“Yet. Are you at the Circle Ritz?”

“Copy that, lieutenant.”

“Don’t bother trying to be cop show–ish. I need you to check her condo and then her parking space. Don’t hang up.”

By then he was shouldering through his door and racing down the exit stairs one floor and along the curved hall to Temple’s door, which was locked. And then clawing out his key and using it, and shouting as he raced straight through to the balcony with its view of the pool and parking lot.

“She’s not here. Nor the Miata either. What’s wrong?”

“It’s what might be wrong. I’ll be swinging by in two minutes. Be down in the lot, and meanwhile be thinking of where she might have gone.”

By the time he got to the street exit from the Circle Ritz parking lot, a black-and-white had pulled up parallel, blocking it.

“Hop in back,” Molina ordered through the slightly opened passenger-door window.

Matt did, disconcerted by the hard plastic bench seat and the thick aluminum and Plexiglas barrier separating him from the front seats. He was starting to feel like he’d put on a mobile RoboCop suit.

Molina’s face came close as she opened a small sliding glass window in the barrier. Now Matt was feeling like he was in a high-tech confessional.

“Two damn CIs I’ve got on shadow detail,” she told him, “and they both go off the grid. Not answering contact. Kinsella at least left me a cryptic message to check with you on Temple’s whereabouts. Tell the officer at the wheel where to go.”

Matt took in the back view of a uniformed cop with white-knuckled hands on the steering wheel. Kinsella was acting as a confidential informant for Molina? Who was the other one?

Molina prodded him. “Where did she go? I’ll bet Temple’s little lambs will be right behind. And one could be a big bad wolf, not to mention what’s likely waiting dead ahead.”

“She’s been visiting a sick old lady lately.”

“Specifics, please. Where?”

“It’s 1405 Aloe Vera Drive,” he yelled out, glad Temple had taken him there once. The driver wheeled away, punching buttons on her computer for the best route. Matt could see the computer better than the cop, but Temple’s advertised “bumpy ride” had finally materialized.

Molina’s fingers curled around the side of the open Plexiglas window between them. “Sorry for the lousy accommodations. A yardman was found dead a week ago at that address. Which precious ‘friend’ asked PR woman Temple Barr to get involved in a murder case?”

“Savannah Ashleigh.”

“Get serious.”

“I am. Savannah Ashleigh hired Temple to find out why her dying aunt’s yardman ended up dead.”

“Pedro Gomez.”

“I don’t know his name. He was found dead at the bottom of a concrete flood channel backing onto Savannah’s Aunt Violet’s property.”

“Coroner says that could have been accidental,” Molina said. “Or maybe murder. And you let your future bride run off and get herself involved in such things?”

“She’s her own woman. And … I was out of town.”

“At least you will stay out of this when we get there.”

“No. I’ve a right—” Matt pushed against the back car door. It was locked, from the front seat.

“You have a right to remain silent, after I’m through with you,” Molina told him. “So. What did Miss Barr think she was investigating? She surely didn’t think she could solve a man’s death?”

“Weird things were going on at Savannah’s aunt’s house besides the old guy’s death. Violet is terminally ill and she rescued a lot of stray cats. She hates her relatives and plans to leave her house, her assets, all her worldly belongings, to whoever will swear to keep the house and its animal residents going after her death.”