Unknown - 22_Cat_In_An_Ultramarine_Scheme

“Crystal Light cherry pomegranate with vodka.”

“Not bad.” Molina nudged the paper away to uncover a coaster, as if delicately unveiling a dead body … or a cockroach. She put the glass down.

Temple took a big farewell gulp of hers and did likewise.

“Relax,” Molina said. “I’m not here about your current problem. I’m not even surreptitiously examining the premises for symptoms of Max Kinsella.”

“ ‘Symptoms’? Like he’s a disease?”

“Not still contagious by now, I hope. No,” Molina mused, “I’m convinced I no longer need to worry about him, and you certainly don’t, not with another man’s engagement ring on your left hand.”

No … not until Molina bopped over and got overly cozy with Temple’s spiked Crystal Light and seemed about ready to drop a bombshell.

“By the way …” Molina shifted on the sofa.

Was she going to draw a gun?

Temple’s paired bare knees pressed together until the bones ached. What was going on here? Really?

Molina thrust a hand into her khaki blazer pocket and pulled out a …

Plum?

No, a plastic sandwich baggie wearing a narrow white label.

Temple eyed it as if a tarantula crouched inside.

“You’ll recognize this,” Molina said, tossing the baggie onto the bed of newspapers on the coffee table.

Temple reached to take another sip of her cherry-pomegranate vodka cocktail. Did the baggie contain drugs? Was she being set up? Was she paranoid? Yes! She picked up the plastic baggie.

Something heavy sagged down in one corner.

Too heavy to be a tarantula.

But not too heavy to be a shock.

Temple heard her own voice echo as if she were speaking in the Chunnel of Crime. “It’s the ring. My ring.”

“Right. Kinsella’s ring, which the late magician Shangri-La conned you out of during her magic act way back when.”

“You … said it was police evidence, that you had to keep it.”

Molina shrugged. “I suppose it still might be police evidence, but you’re engaged to Matt Devine now. And Max Kinsella is … apparently long gone. Shangri-La’s dead. So it’s my call.”

Temple tangled her bare ankles together. Her toes barely touched the long white fur of her fake-goat-hair area rug under the coffee table. She was just too damn short.

Since her clamped knees made her skirt into a secure little hammock between her thighs, she peeled open the bag’s zip-strip and worked the ring into her palm. She remembered telling Max that opals were unlucky, but he had laughed at the idea.

Oh. Seeing it again was like viewing a full moon for the first time. This was a particularly vivid, fire-laden stone, the whole sky’s worth of aurora borealis captured in a knuckle-sized square. Wasn’t that just like Max? The diamonds framing the opal twinkled in obeisance to the central stone. This ring wasn’t as antique or expensive as the ruby-and-diamond Art Deco showpiece she now wore and adored, but it was unique and exquisite.

It brought back the magic of Max, and the knowledge that he was utterly gone, even as far as his archenemy Molina was concerned. Temple was surprised Molina hadn’t croaked, “Come … bite,” in a hag’s voice just now as she offered the ring to Temple.

Temple gazed up into the homicide lieutenant’s eyes. They were as vividly blue as the Morning Glory Pool in Yellowstone Park—which was brimming with poisonous sulfur.

Molina’s expression remained the usual law-enforcement-personnel noncommittal blank.

Temple was equally determined not to give an inch, or even a centimeter of opal.

“If you can give this ring back to me now,” she said, “you didn’t need to keep it as ‘evidence’ all this time.”

“No. No, I didn’t.”

“Then that was mean.”

The schoolyard epithet sank deep between them like the opal ring had weighed in Temple’s lap. Impossible to ignore.

“Yes,” Molina said, her hands jamming her blazer pockets, her front teeth biting her barely lip-glossed bottom lip. “That was mean. I have been a mean girl.”

“And you’re giving it back now because … you think Max is dead!”

“Maybe,” said Molina. “You know Max is dead!”

“I don’t, and I’m not sure I’d believe it if I did hear it. Max Kinsella, dead or alive, has nothing to do with my bringing that here.”

“Why, then?”

“Shangri-La is dead. The case is closed, and the wench is dead.” Molina shrugged. “No reason to keep it.”

“I can’t wear it!”

“It’s a keepsake, then. I certainly don’t need it cluttering an evidence locker.”

“This little thing?”

“Any little thing,” Molina said, smiling wryly.

Temple inhaled but didn’t say anything, after all.

Molina sipped her drink. “This is pretty good, amazingly. You have a gift for the impromptu.”

“So do you!” Temple charged back, eyes flashing. “You just show up, brandishing my engagement ring?”

“Hardly an engagement ring now,” Molina said.

“Why now?” Temple demanded.

“It was an excuse to talk to you.”

“You’ve never needed an excuse before.”

“I’ve never needed your ‘expertise’ before.”

“Which is?”

“You … appear to be something of a better judge of men than I am. Except for Matt. He’s golden, as we both know.”

“Mostly. He’s human too.”

“Apparently, I am not.”

What a confession! Temple felt they really ought to be seated in a bare little room with a two-way mirror somewhere. Molina wanted something from her. Molina was flashing something that looked a lot like … humility? Vulnerability? Oh, happy day!

Temple took up the gauntlet and sipped deliberately. Damn good cherry-pomegranate-vodka cocktail. If aspartame is your aperitif of choice.

“What are you not being human about?” Temple inquired.

“Our main topic. Men.”

Did Temple ever dream she would see the day she and Molina snuggled down with booze to discuss men? No.

“Which men?” Temple asked. “If you’re going to grill me about Max again …”

“No. Max Kinsella is a dead issue.”

Temple cringed. “An official declaration?”

“Totally personal. Or don’t you think I have a personal view?”

“I think it’s all been personal about Max.”

Molina actually winced. “He’s such a natural-born suspect, even you have to admit that. If he was always the counterterrorist operative you claim, that would draw official suspicion, even subconsciously.”

“Maybe,” Temple admitted. “So it’s Max you want me to dissect.”

“Actually, no. I say he was a likely suspect. You say I was persecuting him. He disappeared, probably happy to not be a bone of contention any longer. No, let Max enjoy his anonymity. I’m more interested in knowing what you think about Dirty Larry.”

“Huh?”

“Dirty Larry Podesta. You’ve seen him around crime scenes. The recovering undercover guy.”

“You mean ‘Dirty Blond’ Dirty Larry.”

“If you say so. So you think blond means ‘dumb’? You’re marrying a blond.”

“Do I have to call him Dirty Larry? It’s so seventies.”

Molina cracked a smile. Vodka will do that to even the most poker-faced person. “Yes, he does seem out of some Steve McQueen time zone, doesn’t he?”

“I thought you liked him.”

“I have associated with him. Or, rather, he has associated with me. What do you think?”

“He’s not your type.”

“Do we know what is my type?”

“I guess not,” Temple admitted. “You are an enigma wrapped in a torch singer hiding behind a madonna.”

“We ought to tip a glass more often.” Molina tipped hers, but Temple noticed her vivid blue eyes were completely focused.