Unknown - 15_Cat_In_A_Neon_Nightmare

“Or a child,” Alfonso said. “Sometimes a kid gets threatened and the mother gets drawn into something uglier than she’s ready for.”

Amen, Molina thought.

“Her ‘kids’ would have been out on their own, older than me,” Su said.

“Doesn’t matter,” Alch returned. “Kids are always kids to their parents. But I checked Fuentes out. She was single, had no known boyfriends, no known kids. Once she left the stage, she did a little magic act for civic groups around town, kids’ birthday stuff. She didn’t even have anyone to leave anything to in her will. It all went, what there was of it, to some magician’s retirement home.”

“Funny. She’d been a looker. Somehow she ended up alone,” Alfonso meditated, chewing his high-fat cud.

“And dead,” Barrett said. “If this is a cold case, I say we look deeper. Fuentes may not have been a lady of the night, but you point out yourselves that the woman at the Blue Dahlia led a respectable life, she was just murdered like a stripper or a call girl. Maybe we got a killer who’s not too good at telling the difference.”

“Gloria Fuentes,” Molina said meditatively, as if caressing the idea. Her troops would jump on that train of thought, she knew. “Alch is right. We haven’t dug deep enough into her lifestyle, present and past. The words ‘She left’ showing up on her body smacks of magic tricks.”

Su jumped in with both size-four feet. “And Vassar could have ‘left’ too. We don’t know that she wasn’t dumping Rothenberg and all her principles.”

Molina nodded, though she didn’t believe it. Rothenberg’s girls didn’t leave; they retired.

She quashed a surge of triumph. Nasty as the neon ceiling death was, it was redirecting her detective’s attention to the one definitely magic-related death that had hit the town since Max Kinsella had left a year ago and come back last fall.

If she had to hang out on a limb, that son of a … psychopath should too. And she might finally find a case that tied him to all the mayhem and murder in this town that was still floating loose.

That would be worth her own personal and professional jeopardy, all due to the misguided impulse to help Matt Devine escape from between a rock and a hard place.

Molina frowned, thinking of his particular problem. Kathleen O’Connor. She’d have to pursue that lead herself. None of them would be in this mess without that femme fatale operating just out of sight, sound, and reach of the law’s long arm.

Maybe not even the Mystifying Max Kinsella.

Chapter 26

… Sudden Death Overtime

“You may have wondered,” Temple said, “why I’ve called you all together.”

“Two is ‘all’?” Max asked dubiously.

Matt was too polite to question the obvious, but his expression of stubborn silence agreed with Max’s for once. “Well, Louie is here also,” Temple said.

Everyone glanced at the large black cat that formed the only barrier between Max and Matt as they shared the small living room sofa. Given Louie’s size, it was a considerable separation.

Louie, knowing he was being discussed as all cats do, did a tarantella move and extended his long black furry legs. Then he showed his claws, curved them artistically into the open-weave upholstery, and yawned, as if to say: I could rip this fabric to shreds, but 1 am being the little gentleman and am restraining myself for my Miss Temple’s sake. So you two guys better follow my example and keep away from each other’s throats, tempting as they may be.

Temple eyed her gentlemen callers. She perched on the edge of the chair facing the sofa, her feet not quite touching the floor, as usual. She hadn’t seen these two men juxtaposed often, and here and now it was obvious that they were Night and Day.

Max was Night, long and lean, attired in magician’s black from the hair on his head to raven-glossy black Armani loafers on his feet. Matt was Day, not as tall but more solid, blond from the hair on his head to the suede loafers on his feet. In a fashion parallel of the Civil War ballad of the brothers on opposite sides, one wore black and one wore blond, instead of blue and gray.

Matt was more classicly handsome than Max, but Max had more presence.

Neither one was in the least shabby. Okay, girl. Down. Speak, Lassie, speak! What are you trying to tell us?

“I am not Nancy Drew, Miss Marple, or Jessica Fletcher,” Temple said. She was red, from her hair to her lucite-heeled Stuart Weitzman Dorothy-in-Oz scarlet pumps.

“Great,” Max noted, glancing at Matt. “One’s underage and the other two are definitely overage, if not for you, then for me.”

Temple and Matt blushed in concert.

“Go on,” Matt encouraged her. He was a great facilitator.

“But I am a mean hand with a ruler and a pencil, so I’ve resurrected my table of the unsolved murders I made before the Stripper Killer was caught, and I added Vassar.”

Temple slapped the template in question down on the coffee table.

“And I made copies.” She handed them, after a second’s hesitation, first to Max, then to Matt.

Midnight Louie glared at her.

“Sorry, boy. I do have an extra.”

This she placed on the sofa by Louie’s large black paws. Her human companions shook their heads.

“Hey!” Matt spoke first. “You not only added Vassar to the list of dead people, you put me in the suspect column.”

“Along with Kathleen O’Connor. And Max is first in the list with the death that started it all at the Goliath, so it’s only fitting that you should finish up the list to date with Vassar’s death at … the Goliath. Anybody see a pattern here?”

“Temple,” Max explained, “the karma of heading and finishing up the suspect list is lost on the suspects in question.”

“This suspect list reflects both who we might think is responsible and who the police might, or do.”

“Don’t use a euphemism,” Max growled. “You mean Molina. Say it.”

“I’m also saying that I’m no expert, but given what’s happened, I think we better get our acts together and figure out the who, what, where, when, and why of these deaths and what Kathleen O’Connor is up to before we’re all finessed onto Death Row.”

“She’s my problem,” Max said, glowering. “I knew her first.”

“You mean in the Biblical sense, I assume,” Matt added. Temple chalked up one point for the mild-mannered ex-altar boy.

“In every sense,” Max said, not sparing Temple the truth.

His glower did not diminish. His arms remained crossed on his chest, a classic posture of self-containment. Max hated being here with her and Matt, Temple knew, and with Midnight Louie. He hated group anything, which at least made him a very unlikely candidate for an orgy. He was the original lone wolf and had gotten too used to it, certainly for their communal needs now, and maybe for his own good.

“You’re not the issue here,” Temple said, catching Max’s eye. “Matt is.”

“Only because Kathleen can’t find me.”

“Is that ego, or analysis?”

“Analysis.” Max glanced at Matt, not unsympathetically. “Look. She’s following a classic pattern. It’s older than Devine here, and it’s older than me.” He uncrossed his arms to prop them on his knees and lean forward, speaking only to Temple, as if he had to justify himself and the past only to her.

“Here’s how it goes down with the likes of Kathleen O’Connor, even when you’re both seventeen. You meet her. You think it’s chance, and later you see that she put herself in your path. With you,” he added as an aside to Matt, “the introduction was shocking, but she’s older now, and hasn’t time to waste. So you got the razor to the gut, a flesh wound, so you’d know she could inflict any kind of wound she wants, when she wants, on whom she wants.”