Unknown - 16_Cat_In_An_Orange_Twist

Alch shrugged. “There’s so little left to scalp.”

Temple winked back at him. He had nothing to worry about but self-deprecation.

So she was set free.

Temple headed for the atrium and the forthcoming media ceremonials. She’d persuaded Kenny Maylord that good PR required coughing up a public donation to the local arts council, since the MADD money donated on TV had originally been earmarked for them.

S h e w o u l d h a v e Ainsworth, t o tmake o sure n eKenny dMaylord o wdid nall the ttalking h eto the

press. He always acted like he was on valium, which is what this situation needed. Getting most of the media attention focused on Amelia Wong would bring out her telegenic charmand have Maylord beaming like a winning team owner at the Superbowl. Dogs. She would mention the dogs. Maybe send for them. Media types were dog people, usually. All those hairy, bow-topped little heads would save the day. Maybe some of the Maylords staff could fetch them … no, get Amelia’s personal staff out of here on dog duty. The way they swarmed around her made her look too pampered and powerful. Yeah, that would work… .

Temple had lots to think about in a short time. And that was good.

That meant that she would not think about Beth Blanchard twisting slowly in the air conditioning. She would not think about wishing Beth Blanchard off the planet. Or about who else might have done so, including Janice Flanders, or Matt Devine on Janice Flander’s behalf. Or Jerome Johnson. Or even … Danny Dove, who must have known Blanchard had harassed his lost better half.

For once, the only suspect du jour not on the menu in this case was Max.

Or … could Molina somehow drag him into it? It wouldn’t do to underestimate the homicide lieutenant’s obsession with blaming something on Max.

Or … had he been playing Mr. No-can-see in order to keep a surreptitious eye on her at Maylords? Max had a guardian angel complex. Still, she was sure he’d been up to something she didn’t know about. That meant it was dangerous, but Maylords didn’t seem to be dangerous to anyone other than its own.

Temple was suddenly glad Max had made himself scarce lately, for whatever reason. She just hoped the reason provided

an alibi.

Chapter 41

Imagine Meeting You

H e r e I I …

A glare of TV lights surrounded the scene in the atrium half an hour later.

Temple was really sorry to see that. Normally PR people loved to attract the glare of the spotlight for their clients, but not when they had to tell everybody to fast-forward the party and go home.

She winced to see the thorough attendance her PR wizardry had mustered on darn short notice.

All of Wong’s minions were present, as well as Kenny and Barb Maylord, and staff members with stress lines drawing down their mouths: the tall, ugly, bucktoothed guy Matt had mentioned making a pass at him; toady manager Mark Ainsworth, sweating hard under the TV lights; a flock of genteel lady decorators, looking sullen.

Also prominent was the Wong cortege, Baylee Harris, Pritchard Merriweather, Tiffany Yung, and the exercise guru, Carl Osgaard, including the two nameless dudes with sunglasses implanted in their eye sockets. No dogs. Amelia had nixed the dogs.

And, rounded up fast, the MADD president and some of her staff, the sober-looking women who clustered together like a PTA group.

Temple decided she would tell the arts council people-luckily, they were a sleed and civil lot-the bad news first. Lingering check-passing ceremonials didn’t belong on a crime scene.

Especially an extraordinarily well-covered check-passing photo op. Damn, she was good! And that was bad. In this instance. The police had made no bones about it: get the public off the scene ASAP, and leave it to them.

A local radio personality, a heavyset jocular man called Nevada Jones, was oozing into a mike. Behind him lurked Crawford Buchanan, mouthing a soft-voiced play-by-play into his live radio mike as if he were the ghost of Howard Cosell.

The whole thing was terminally hokey, nothing Temple would have dreamed up in her worst nightmare. And to her, the phantoms of the recent deaths hung over the proceedings like halitosis.

Temple noted that not only were Amelia Wong’s bodyguards obviously on duty but Maylords had rousted its entire security

force to ring the entire area.

She marked Rafi Nadir among them, dark suited and as theatrically glowering as a Gangsters chauffeur.

He saw her and winked.

Man, first Alch, now Nadir. How come nobody remotely available winked at her? Max, where are you when you are sorely needed?

Amelia Wong stepped to the front of the Maylords group, bracketed by the Sunglasses. Behind her, blond Baylee was lost behind a giant cardboard check.

Before Ms. Wong could say a word, Temple dashed forward to intercept her with the most negative announcement of her generally positive PR life. The show’s oven folks. My client, Maylords, is a multiple murder site. Forget the festivities, the good deeds, and get the hell out of here before you die. And so will my career reputation.

But before Temple could do the right thing and commit ca-reer suicide in front of Crawford Buchanan and everybody, another figure pushed through the fretting circle of official police observers, right between Alch and Su.

It was tall, dark, clad in navy blue, and meant business.

Oh, my great-aunt Thumbelina, it’s Lieutenant C. R. Molina. What on earth is she doing here? Maybe a double murder and

assault-weapon attack would attract the literally lofty personal attention of a homicide lieutenant.

Temple felt the slo-mo agony of watching an inevitable accident of epic proportions. She did a double take in four-four time. From Molina to Nadir, from Nadir back to Molina.

When would one notice, and recognize, the other?

Who would be first to see, and to move? And how?

Temple only had eyes for Rafi Nadir. And Carmen Molina.

Molina had noticed Temple. She frowned suspiciously and let her slick gaze slide past the hoopla to study the crowd, looking for what had attracted Temple.

Great. Temple had gone from cooked PR whiz to human pointer and police snitch.

Janice next received Molina’s steely passing gaze and instant ID, but never even noticed.

Alch and Su watched their boss’s scrutiny with studied indifference.

Molina panned past the TV videographers. Then Amelia and company. Her laserlike vivid blue gaze moved on, taking

instant photos of everyone present. Inevitably, it found and lingered on the outer circle of hell at last.

On the Maylords private security force, each and every one. On … finally, Rafi Nadir.

Only Temple fully understood what this inevitable meeting of old allies turned intimate enemies might mean.

Nadir sensed Molina’s intense observation, and looked back. Shock. Mutual paralysis. Sparks. Fury without sound. Molina had frozen into angry ice.

Nadir looked like he would spontaneously combust.

You! The unspoken challenge jumped like heat lightning from opposite sides of the circle of onlookers.

The crowd buzzed on, unaware.

Temple held her breath. This was one scene she wanted to savor in mental rerun for years. Except it was her job to avert public scenes. Drat and darn and damn Yankees! She’d better concoct a distracting tactic fast.

Chapter 42

Good Cop, Bad Cop

Who’da cast a furniture store as the setting for a clash of titans?

Temple wasn’t the only witness flash-frozen into horror when Nadir’s eyes met Molina’s. None of the other onlookers knew the history of these two contenders, though.

“Listen, people,” Temple heard herself saying. “This check-passing ceremony would really film much better thirty feet