Unknown - 16_Cat_In_An_Orange_Twist

On the floor a crowd of bent backs held someone down. “Simon” stood alone, upright, watching.

He turned to face the oncoming trio. The pinpoint spotlight meant to illuminate an Ert� print edged his face.

“It’s all right,” Matt told Temple the moment he picked her face out of the crowd, which was almost instantly. “He never got near me.”

A bent back straightened and turned.

“Are we not sheer lightning in Gucci loafers, Miss Temple?” Aldo asked. Or Eduardo. Or Ralph.

“Slicker than a yellow raincoat,” she said. “So who is buried under Mount Fontana?”

Danny’s hand on her elbow tensed. He’d insisted on being here for the “kill,” even if it was a metaphoric one.

The brothers stepped aside as two of their number dredged up their half-swooning “catch.”

By the wrinkled linen suit ye shall know them.

Ainsworth the manager! Temple thought in triumph. A thoroughly dislikable but likely candidate. “Where’s the weapon?”

A Fontana brother pulled a latex glove from an abnormally flat side suitcoat pocket and dove for and then flourished a decorative pewter letter opener. Temple recognized the Chinese character hilt. Maylords must have bought and laid out a dozen of the things for the Wong week of events.

“Baggie,” he ordered. Several brothers whipped out lunch-size plastic bags from which he selected with great care, depositing the weapon within.

“Operation over,” another brother pronounced. “Who gets the capture credit?”

Rafi stepped forward. “I do.”

For a mad, mad moment, Temple imagined a wedding ceremony including Molina. But she didn’t have time for surreal dreams. She found herself edging forward to peer at the captive. The height was right, the build, even the hair. But this wasn’t Ainsworth. This was his literal evil twin.

By now Janice had edged into the picture, standing next to Matt. God, he looked great!

Temple refocused on the exceedingly less great-looking Ainsworth clone.

Fifty pounds overweight, dressed and coifed to imitate, done up to pass unnoticed in Maylords, to be avoided even, like the micromanaging Ainsworth. A makeover, as Matt was for the murdered Simon, thanks to Danny’s sleight of hand. How that must have hurt.

“What’s going on?” a whiny voice queried petulantly from behind them all.

Will the real Mark Ainsworth please stand up?

The eyes that had turned to regard him were now all coming to rest on Temple.

She considered the captive, his head hung as low as possible to hide his features. But she didn’t need a road map now; she had found the destination. It was a dead end, in fact.

Two dead ends.

“This is the guy. He murdered Beth Blanchard at least, and maybe Simon. Take it away, Raf.”

The words had the effect of inviting Jackie Gleason to consort with chorus girls. Nadir stepped forward to clamp the poor man’s Ainsworth into his custody.

Temple weighed her cell phone in her hand, ready to speed dial Molina herself. She really deserved this collar. And Temple really deserved to see Rafi hand over the perp to Molina personally.

Instead, Temple thought a little longer. If the criminal events at Maylords-high-powered rifle attack, two murders, and a drug bust-were to fit together nicely in a box for the LVMPD, some fancy ribbon tying was needed to gift-wrap the package.

Temple was good at ribbon-cutting events. Maybe she had even more to offer in the ribbon-tying department.

And she knew she had to present a fully wrapped package to turn the media coverage into a positive instead of a negative. There was no getting away from the fact that Maylords had been the scene of some major-league evil deeds. But if it could be shown at the same time that Maylords itself, and its employees, i.e., her, solved their own mess … it would make the survivors heroes instead of idiots.

So far her plans had proved productive. But, she hoped, the best was yet to come, the Sting of Stings. All she needed was Redford and Newman, and, heck, Matt was a pretty good Redford substitute. Max wasn’t Newman, by any means. Newman was too medium cool for Max. But he’d done a pretty good Mel Gibson imitation with the motorcycle… .

Whatever, she wanted Simon, and Danny, to rest easy with a job well done. Her job. So much more than mere public relations. Some good people had gone down and some not-sogood people would have to answer for it.

If all went well. And why wouldn’t it. She was a primo events manager, wasn’t she? Call her Nemesis, wired.

Temple holstered her cell phone and set about doing what she did best: arranging successful public events. Even when they revealed very private motives.

So half an hour later Temple stood demurely on the sidelines while Amelia Wong stuck her Prada-suited arm into the open door of the Lucite drum and plucked forth a plain white folded sheet of paper, origami for the wagering set.

Temple, Matt, Danny, and the Fontana boys hovered hear the inner circle, watching for a winner. “And the winner of the 2004 Cadillac is . .”

Everyone waited.

Amelia Wong was oblivious to the lurking further revelations.

“The winner of the car is Jerome. Jerome Johnson. Is he here?” 4 A roar went up. TV cameras focused on Amelia Wong with Ken and Barb Maylord beaming behind her.

“He’s an employee!” a voice protested from the crowd.

“Employees were eligible for the drawing,” Barb Maylord said. Firmly. “We at Maylords,” she added, “are as delighted to see our hardworking employees do well as we are our customers.”

“Put that lie in your crack pipe and smoke it,” Rafi muttered behind Temple.

Jerome had to be pushed forward by his fellow workers into the glare of TV lights. Even then he gawked at the shining car, afraid to approach it. The scene was dying.

A dapper figure from the crowd vaulted to the driver’s side door. “Call me Vanna White,” Danny Dove said, flourishing open

the car door like a valet.

The crowd laughed and applauded in recognition of a Las Vegas superstar.

Jerome had no option but to take the offered driver’s seat, almost blushing with surprise.

Temple sensed Matt standing behind her. “That’s … such poetic justice,” she said.

“Poor Jerome. He’ll make a capitalistic materialist yet.” Temple turned slightly. “What did Danny do to you?”

“I suspect I’m the product of the Las Vegas edition of `Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.’ I never knew it would hurt to be

hip. Bleach burns, did you know that?”

“Yeah, and waxing stings. You’ve seen that show on cable?”

“No, I’ve just heard about it. Does a redo make that much of a difference?”

“Subtle but significant. Don’t you feel it?”

“Do I feel pretty? I feel foolish. But in a good cause.”

“Does Michelangelo’s David need a final polish? I guess we all can use one. This was just the right touch, though, supplying the ‘ghost’ of Simon to bring our psycho killer out of the shadows.”

“Danny’s job is to make people over, into great dancers usually. In this case, the remodeling was tragically personal. I feel most weird about impersonating someone’s dear departed, yet it gave him closure, I think. A bizarre feeling, to have a fairy godfather, you know?”

“I bet. But making Danny a part of this did him a lot of good, don’t you think?”

“Changing me to evoke Simon was touch and go. Maybe it allowed him to design a living memorial.”

Matt and Temple watched Danny work the floor to bring off the evening’s event with panache. His energy made Jerome’s modest diffidence into an asset for the cameras, not a problem.

Matt nodded, seeing the same dynamic. “Jerome badly needed to win something. I guess it was worth getting my hair streaked. You know any quick way to get that out?”