Carole Douglas - Cat in a Red Hot Rage

Inside the room, Alch sat on the table end while Templetook one of the chairs and twirled around in it just because she could. The diamonds and rubies sparkled like state fair glitz while she did it.

Alch chuckled again. "I hate to rain on your parade, but the police have a problem here.”

Temple stilled herself and listened.

“Elmore Lark is a tin-plated asshole, but he has an iron-clad alibi for the late morning, the time Oleta was killed. Was meeting some buddies who all swear to it. Background checks don't find anyone else with a motive, except your landlady. The only thing keeping Electra Lark from being taken into custody is Molina."

“Molina?"

“She's with you. Thinks the setup is too pat. My hands are tied. I no more think Electra killed Oleta than she ran the half mile in sixty seconds flat. Su is eager to wrap this up. Over- eager. She doesn't want to give you an inch."

“Because she thinks she should have gone undercover for Molina last time out."

“Maybe. She's a sharp young lady, but she gets all that im- pressive forward motion from wearing blinders. No side vision. In my experience, crime, and particularly murder, is an oblique sort of thing. It slips in at an angle, does its damage, and slith- ers away at an angle. Like a sidewinder snake.”

Temple thought about it. Alch was right. Murder was not a straightforward act. It probably sneaked up on the murderer too. A bit of natural fury mixed with what seemed a reasonable sense of loss or betrayal. Human nature operating as usual. And then the same old ingredients that had resulted in a little flurry of aggravation suddenly escalated to an unthinkable act.

“What are you saying?" she asked Alch, right out.

He told her, right out.

“I'm saying our real Las Vegas CSIs didn't find any DNA evidence on the body but Electra's."

“She found Oleta. She tried to undo the scarf."

“Perfectly natural. Perfectly suitable for framing. No one needs to look further. They had the same husband, for God's sake. No one else remotely comes to mind for the crime, much less has any evidential link to it."

“You're saying that's all that Las Vegas's finest can come up with."

“Yeah. Unless you can provide some evidence that changes our minds."

“Me? That's your job."

“Our job is done, says procedure and history and everything we go by, which is hard evidence."

“Electra would never—"

“You believe that. I believe that. You prove it.”

Temple took a deep breath. "I've just . . . gotten lucky around some previous crime scenes. I'm not a professional."

“That's what Electra Lark needs now. A professional. It ain't the police." He took her left hand in his. "Sorry to rain on your parade, Princess."

“No. Thanks for telling me. Su sure wouldn't.”

Alch narrowed his eyes. "I like Su and I respect her, but she's still young and needs a lesson. You give it to her, Red.”

“I'm a blonde nowadays, haven't you noticed?”

Alch shook his head. "A woman can change her hair color like she can her nail polish these days. But not her heart. You've always had that redhead rage for truth, justice, and the American way. My money's on you, kid. Don't let me down.”

His words made her smile long after he walked away.

Not much was expected of her in her family except staying way too safe.

Maybe that's why she stuck her nose into crimes on her turf: she had something to prove. Just because her frame was slight, she wasn't short-sheeted in the brain or heart department.

Even Molina had tacitly admitted she had a gift for detection. That's why Su was annoyed with her. And why Alch was rooting for her to clear Electra for good and all by finding a better candidate.

And that's why her parents and older brothers had been a teensy bit right to worry about her.

You want to look for the truth in a case of murder, you're bound to annoy somebody much more threatening than Detective Su.

Chapter 24

Bad Boy, Bad Boy, Whatcha Gonna Do?

Temple returned to the field of battle, i.e., her most stable job assignment, to find TV vans and crews crowding the Crystal Phoenix Hotel's porte cochere, filming away like paparazzi at a Paris Hilton or a Tom "Crazy" Cruise sighting.

Neither of those publicity-worthy figures honored Las Ve- gas at the moment. Temple guessed with a sinking feeling in her gut that the Red Hat Sisterhood was somehow in the news again. Another murder? If so, the death of someone unrelated to Electra would be nice. . . .

Then she saw something poking above the lofted mikes and cameras. A cluster of black hats, not red or purple ones. Hmmm. Natalie Newman! Miss Snaky Shoes was cruising among the local media in the general film-at-six and -ten feeding frenzy.

Sometimes even three-inch-high heels could not make a five-foot-zero woman tall enough to see what she desperately needed to view in the performance of her job.

“Here," a baritone voice said behind her. Waist-encompassing hands lofted Temple two feet off the ground for the bird's-eye view available from a ballerina lift.

For a moment, to Temple's gut and heart it felt like Max was back, taking charge.

Then she glanced over her shoulder and down on a dark-haired male head, and it was all too plain to her.

She patted her dancing partner's shoulder—nice padding!

Was it muscle or tailoring? Only her auntie knew for sure. Aldo Fontana lowered her back to ground zero again. But she'd seen enough.

The hats that had become the center of attention in a sea of Red Hat Sisterhood ladies were black, masculine, and surmounted by protest signs.

WHAT FILM STARRED PRINCE? PURPLE HAGS! read one. RHS: RAGING HORMONE SISSYHOOD read another. MEN JUST WANTA HAVE FUN. GET THE GUN!

That one was outright threatening.

Temple had been thinking that her pert pink hat was giving her a headache. Her forehead wasn't used to being bounded by a hatband. Now she knew that those black hats would give her an even bigger headache. As would the lunkheads under them.

“Everything okay?" Aldo asked.

“Nothing's okay. Can you plow a path through that mob?”

“My dear lady, I am the mob.”

He put his hand into his left front suit coat, like a squat little-Caesar type Corsican named Napoleon, only Aldo was a tall Las Vegan. He then shouldered forward, earning a lot of turned heads, nasty looks, and suddenly pale faces as they spotted his hand on heart (or holster) posture.

Temple trotted in his wake, ducking all the mikes and cameras, until she and Aldo had a front row seat.

If there was an opposite number to a Red Hat Sisterhood woman, several of them were picketing the Crystal Phoenix. The men all wore black and blue: blue jeans and blue work shirts and black cowboy hats, belts, and boots. And huge tin belt buckles bearing the initials BHB.

Their signs announced them as the Black Hat Brotherhood and said they were for men's rights. Temple the PR maven didn't think that a black-and-blue color scheme was a really wise choice for men asserting rights over women.

No matter. They were all middle-aged and mostly shy on hair, except the facial sort, and big on beer guts. Or beer-nut guts.

They didn't offer the glamour of the Red Hat Sisterhood. No dye jobs, tummy tucks, or false eyelashes here. But their cowboy boots had high heels and they broadcast a certain down-to-earth malcontent swagger as they marched back and forth. And they made dynamite copy and great sound bites. Those black cowboy hats made for instant visuals.

Natalie Newman had cornered their apparent leader and was eagerly asking questions. Several TV station videographers were capturing his answers over her shoulder.

From the quality of her questions, she was clearly way more tuned into the Black Hat Brotherhood than the average local reporter.