Unknown - Cat_In_A_Hot_Pink_Pursuit

“Funny valentines. You know, the fluffy cream on the hot pink yoga mats. The … strawberry syrup spray on the, uh, balloon lady in the workout room. It’s all a joke.”

“And if it isn’t?”

“Don’t worry, babe. I’ll be here to rescue you and record it all for KREP.”

Hmmm. Another hanger-on, another motive. Maybe Crawford needed to bolster poor drive-time numbers. These flashy incidents could do it.

“I don’t listen to those middle-of-the-road stations, man,” Xoe sneered in answer.

“I’m not middle-of-the-road—” he replied, frowning. “No, just road kill. Scram, old geek, or I’ll run my spikes right through you.”

Temple fanned out her claws and pushed past him into the empty den. She breathed out her relief when he didn’t follow her in. How odd to think of everyone hunkered down in their rooms for safety’s sake … when they were all being spied upon and recorded 24/7.

This whole setup was a voyeur’s dream, she realized. Not the vague, general voyeuristic public instinct that supported reality TV but an honest-to-God, freaky, perverted voyeur of the old school.

The den was eerily deserted. Three large plasma TVs were blank gray screens on the wood-paneled walls, looking like modern art frames someone had forgotten to put the pictures in.

The many oversize white leather ottomans that the candidates had lolled upon in teen preening positions were empty now, and resembled giant poisonous mushrooms sprouting from the exotic wood-inlay floor.

The vast room was so dim and deserted that Temple braced herself for spotting another doll-like corpse, however ersatz.

But she was the only girl in residence.

Though not quite the only resident.

A figure stood, rising from one of the huge paired wing chairs near the see-through fireplace that served both the den and dining room.

It was tall, dark, and … familiar.

It leaned over to turn on a nearby torchère, casting light upward that defused before it reached the twenty-foot ceiling.

Cheese it, the cops! Cop, singular. Very singular. And not Molina.

In fact, the anti-Molina.

Rafi Nadir, attired in casual black, like Max, but much less expensively than Max, came toward her.

She stood paralyzed. He’d already seen through one half-hearted disguise of hers. Would he detect this much more thorough one just as fast?

He looked leaner and meaner than his usual bloated, discontented self. He looked serious.

“What are you doing roaming around this place?” he asked.

Fight or flight? Rafi wasn’t going to go away. Might as well find out now whether she could fool him or not. If not, maybe she’d have an ally inside. But, for now, undercover was her best option.

Temple/Xoe snapped her gum, then mumbled around it, “I’m a contestant. This is supposed to be … home.”

Luckily, his eyes were scanning the overall scene, only half on her. “It’s a TV set. And somebody is altering the script. You belong in your room, little girl. Better get back there.”

“I suppose you can make me,” Xoe challenged.

That girl never could keep her mouth shut when it mattered.

“Yes.” He was two feet away now. He looked away again. “But that’s not my job. That’s just some advice from someone who knows when a situation is escalating into the weird and dangerous.”

“I like the weird and dangerous.”

He looked her up and down. “You think you do. I’m private security. I can’t tell you what to do. I just say you oughta get back to your room. Lock the door. Do your nails. Wait for the producers to say the show must go on.”

“Private? Like a PI?”

“God, no.”

She knew that’d get his goat. Like all ex-cops, even disgraced ex-cops, Rafi hated private detectives. “I was thinking of hiring you, is all.”

“Yeah, right.” He actually chuckled. “You Teen Queens think you’re Britney Spears when you’re really Nancy Drew. I’m already spoken for.”

“Oh?” Temple tried to sound indifferent but Xoe sounded interested. “By whom?”

“By Savannah Ashleigh, the judge, is whom.”

“She’s no judge. She’s just an actress, and a bad one.”

“I don’t judge clients. But I think she’s right in being worried. So why a punk little chick like you is boogying around Hell House after all these unsettling incidents beats me. Given all the black you’re wearing, must be a death wish.”

“I don’t like being penned up.”

“You might consider that’s exactly what might happen if there’s another nasty prank and you’re wandering around unaccounted for. I’d skedaddle back to my safe little room if I were you.”

“It’s not little.”

He suddenly lunged forward, his booted foot smacking the floor.

She jerked back, retreating. It had worked. Xoe Chloe had made him too mad to see past her cheesy, mouthy exterior.

“Listen, little lady.” He caught her arms and pulled her close and spoke low. “My job is to guard the Ashleigh broad but I’ll give you some free expert advice. Somebody around here is this close to the edge. You don’t want to end up spattered on the exercise machines, stay in your room. Don’t wander around alone; do as you’re told.”

“And you’re protecting Savannah Ashleigh by lounging around in the den?”

His grip tightened. A fist came up.

Temple dodged but she couldn’t break free. Her “pal” Rafi wouldn’t do this to her, but it was instructive to see what he’d do to some unknown young girl. How had she ever thought he might be a midge better than the sleazeball Molina had made him out to be?

She winced, expecting a blow.

Instead he waved a cat-whisker-thin black wire at her.

“This place is bugged. Surveilled. All for the camera crews. But someone, maybe anyone, must be using this setup to watch and hear whatever he wants to, anytime. I’m going to track his ass through the same wires he uses to terrorize you people. Get it? Now shut up, get back to your room, and save your own pierced little skin.”

When he let her go, she almost lost her balance. “Surveilled” was not a word but Temple decided this was not the time to mention that. He stalked off without waiting to see if she was taking his advice.

He was right, though. They were all experimental rats in a maze. Technology was their reason for being here, and their Achilles’ heel.

Could Rafi himself be the creep who was stalking the show, relishing being called in to track himself?

What a mess. The cast and crew were too large, the pool of victims too numerous, and the potential evil-doer too easily hidden.

It was just a matter of time, she knew—and Rafi had indicated that he knew too before someone really got hurt.

And not even Lieutenant Molina could do a thing about it.

Rafi was right about one thing: she belonged upstairs keeping an eye on Mariah, 24/7.

Chapter 26

Midnight Attack

“So what’d you find out?”

Mariah was sitting cross-legged on one side of the giant bed, painting her toenails atop the pink silk bedspread.

“Whoops!” Temple grabbed her notebook, opened it flat, and poised Mariah’s chubby little toes on top of it. “You might drip.”

“I won’t drip,” she said, looking up.

Temple looked down just in time to watch a red glob of nail enamel hit the notebook and pool there like a gobbet of designer-shade blood.

“So spake Dracula,” Temple said. “Everybody drips painting their toenails. It’s a girly rule since the Garden of Eden. Eve did it. Evita did it. Even the Dixie Chicks do it. We don’t want to trash the room. That’ll give us black marks in the competition.”

Mariah said nothing but bit her lower lip in concentration as she painted her last big toenail.