Unknown - 23_Cat_In_A_Vegas_Gold_Vendetta

Alch sneezed. “Not really. Tell me about the showdown at the shrine.”

So she did, and had them all on the edges of their seats, even Lieutenant C. R. Molina.

Who, of course, had more questions.

“Why did Rowdy go off on Jayden? He followed the man and stabbed him with a”—Molina paused—“a kitchen knife.”

“With the will signed, Jayden probably ordered Rowdy out of the house, and he snapped. Rowdy probably went for Jayden with a kitchen knife, and he fled. Then they both became mesmerized when they discovered Alexandra’s bedroom door was finally open and glimpsed the Barbie doll–box walls.

“Jayden considered himself Violet’s guru. But if he was a witness to the will, he couldn’t be the executor-heir. I suppose he’ll tell us who was when he can talk.”

“It’s bizarre,” Matt said, “that Rowdy’s homicidal pursuit of you after he’d knifed Jayden made Alexandra’s candle tip over and catch his clothes on fire. Almost like … her revenge.”

Molina snorted. “Don’t go ghost-y on me. Many extremely rational people run when they discover their clothes are burning, even though they know they should drop and roll. It’s not surprising that a delusional, vendetta-fueled killer would run from the flames climbing his body, and, of course, everything in that room but the walls and ceiling was highly flammable, and those Barbie tinderboxes surrounded the doorway.… The fire investigators will lay out the exact trail of the flames.”

She bent to bat fruitlessly at the horizontal band of cat hairs on her pants legs, reminding Temple of how Rowdy had caught fire, and then stood.

“That’s all for now, folks. I’ll have more specific questions for Miss Barr when she comes in for her official statement. Larry had done some sharp figuring out about his stepsister’s attack being connected to the Barbie doll killings later. He wanted to stir up a Vegas detective to pursue the case, and indeed he did when he planted that Barbie doll in Mariah’s bedroom, but I doubt he’s behind any other incidents on my home front.”

Molina exchanged a long, simmering look with Temple.

“Resignation and relocation are in his immediate future. Also retraining for another line of work. He’s burned out, anyway.”

Molina absorbed her last sentence a second after it was delivered and firmly folded her lips. “I don’t want to hear another word right now from anyone. Adios. Alch.”

She started out of the room then paused. “The place is crawling with cats. Who’s going to deal with this? I can call Animal Control.”

Alch was staring at Violet’s empty bed. “There’s a black one. It isn’t—?”

“No,” Temple said as fast as she could. “Too small, longhaired, and delicate to be Louie. We’ll get Violet’s friend Freddie to deal with the cats.”

Molina and Alch were moving on and out of the house as Temple and Matt looked at each other.

“But it could be Midnight Louise from the Crystal Phoenix,” Temple told the vacant air.

Molina could never accuse her of less than full disclosure.

Chapter 48

A Black Mood

Max ambled over elaborate inlaid marble floors in Renaissance patterns, under a lofty blue sky edged at the horizon with a lace of pinkish-gold clouds, either sunrise or sunset and perpetual.

It happened to be late morning after the night the serial killer had been revealed and struck by the lightning of justice. Max had played a minor role in that, but that act of that play was over. He was here because he had nowhere else to be.

The Forum Shops at Caesars Palace was among the most venerable of Las Vegas Strip high-end shopping arcades, lavished with marble statuary and fountains to echo the ancient Roman theme. Grandiose suited his mood, poised to see past and present but not future.

What was he to do here? Or anywhere?

He could count his blessings. He was alive to wander these commercial palace gardens. At this leisurely pace, his gait was steady. No limp. He was far from becoming a trotter, though, or a racehorse. He could also count his recent sins. Using Temple to investigate Teresa’s situation had been irresponsible, even though it had led to a resolution. Everyone who had known him in Vegas before his memory went AWOL was safe and satisfied, even the vengeful Dirty Larry, who hadn’t known him.

Max listened to the many shoes echoing on the vast, marble-lined concourse. None paced him. If his mortal enemy was tracing him, she wasn’t here now. He had no doubt she would reveal herself soon in her own sinister and psycho way. And he’d be ready.

Meanwhile, he supposed he would finish what Garry and he had begun: untangle the years-old schemes and crimes that created the magicians’ club known as the Synth and left a stockpile of guns and money undiscovered and unclaimed by the authorities.

He paused to eye his reflection in a store window. Tall guy slouching in midnight-moss-colored European clothing. He eyed the faceless male mannequins behind the invisible shop-front window glass imprinted with the ghosts of the architectural glory that was Rome, whose gods now lodged in Las Vegas.

Without even looking up to the name above the display windows, he walked in. He didn’t care if it was Burberry or Dior, or Fendi or Versace or Gucci.

He was intercepted in the suddenly quiet, carpeted store by a tall, slender charmer of maybe twenty-six wearing impossibly high platform heels and a magenta metallic short pencil skirt and strategically lacy top.

“Welcome,” she said. “Before I ask about your needs, may I get you a Sock-It-to-Me-tini?”

“It isn’t noon yet.”

“Like the man sang, it’s five o’clock somewhere. Bombay Sapphire and pomegranate? Quite healthful.”

Max checked the Patek Philippe watch she had eyed on his wrist the moment he’d walked in. “You’re correct. I must have been reading the second hand. Of course, you may get me anything you wish.”

She smiled and vanished to the rear of the store, which was divided into women-and menswear. His old clothes, the shreds of which now inhabited trash bags in the house on Mojave Way, had been tailored to fit his lean six-four frame. This may be a fool’s errand, but it was nice to talk to someone.

She was back almost instantly, offering a martini glass with a Picassoesque wavy stem.

“Pardon me, but you look like you could use this,” she said.

“I was up all night.”

“Big winnings?” she asked.

“You could say so. It was certainly … exciting.”

“And what can I help you with?’

“If you can fit me, I need a lightweight silk T. I wear the sleeves pushed up, so their length would be no problem.”

“No, our fitting problem would be the shoulders. Luckily, the few things we have in your size range are slow to sell. What else, sir?” She led him among the sparsely populated built-in racks.

He really had to focus on how she balanced on those stilettos on the deeply cushy carpeting. That meant noticing her Gold’s Gym–shaped rear. He was back in Vegas, no doubt.

Max sipped the drink. “I wear silk or silk blends.”

“We also do some featherweight clothing in microfiber, and naturally any trousers will be fitted and hemmed to your length.”

“A blazer?”

“More than an old Burberry blazer. Cutting-edge sharkskin fabric and cut,” she promised. “Think subtle motorcycle jacket. You, of course, wear the sleeves pushed up. Retro–Miami Vice is so in now.”

“That’s so necessary for me with store-bought clothing.”

“New in town, then.”

“You could say so.”

“There’s only one hitch,” she said.

“Which is?”

“Anything I’ve got in your size is only in … black. It does coordinate with your hair.”