Unknown - 15_Cat_In_A_Neon_Nightmare

“Two? What’s wrong? Is persecuting Max not enough for you now? That’s why I went to Baby Doll’s, you know, because you were so bound and determined to nail him as the Stripper Killer. Were you off base!”

“In this case. That doesn’t change the fact that he was all over the scenes of the crimes in various guises.”

“As were you!”

“Me? What gives you that idea?”

“Max. Max saw you more than you saw him. He is a magician, after all. You want to talk about me taking risks! What about a homicide lieutenant who’s secretly undercover investigating her own ex … whatever as a murder suspect and trying to pin the rap on my current … whatever.”

Molina’s nostrils flared. Temple shut up. She’d been goaded into committing truth, but realized that the truth always came with a sting in the tail: the other person’s particular truth. Molina would lash back.

“This is not about Michael Aloysius Xavier Kinsella,” Molina said shortly.

Sails collapsed, Temple could only wait for Molina to paddle on. Meanwhile, she bailed brains to figure out what Molina’s point really was.

“This is about Matthias Anthony Devine.”

“So you’ve looked up everybody’s birth certificates. What’s my middle name?”

Temple had asked for it, and she got it.

“Ursula,” Molina intoned promptly with a smirk. “I believe that’s a saint who founded an order of nuns.”

“I’m not Catholic. I’m Unitarian. Ursula is a nonsectarian name in my case. I don’t know why it’s in the family. An aunt got saddled with it too. So, what about Matt? You’re going to accuse an ex-priest of murder?”

“It’s not that unthinkable. Non-ex-priests have been accused of a lot of felonies lately.”

“Right. Matt. You have really flipped.”

Even as Molina sat back on the sofa, a black cat jumped up on either arm, as if to say: I’m all ears.

Feline muscle, or eavesdropping, did not dissuade her.

“All I can say,” Molina went on with a relish Temple would have to describe as personal, “is that you sure know how to pick ‘em. So I can’t prove Kinsella was involved in the matter of the dead man in the Goliath Hotel ceiling over a year ago, so I couldn’t prove he was the Stripper Killer, but he’s guilty of something, and proving it is only a matter of time.

“Then there’s nice Matt Devine. I must admit that I was rooting for you to ditch Kinsella for Matt. What’s not to like? Sincere, ethical, untouched, good looking, apparently honest—”

“What do you mean, apparently?”

Molina shrugged, shifting the polyester-blend navy-blue jacket on her shoulders.

Polyester-blend, navy-blue. Ick, Temple thought, trying to distract herself from the ugly news that was coming. Who could believe anything that came from the lips of a P-B, N-B-wearing person? The unlipsticked lips of such a person? Whose eyebrows needed a serious shrubbery trimming.

But no matter how much she denigrated Molina’s persona, Temple couldn’t banish the chill, sick feeling in her stomach. Molina wouldn’t be here unless she had some serious stuff on Matt. Molina wouldn’t be here unless she thought she could use Temple to turn Max—or now even Matt—against his own best interests. Temple curled her toes in the bunny slippers until they dug into the walnut parquet floor and braced herself. With a cat it would be called digging in; with a short woman, it would be called maximum resistance.

“Who, where, when, or why could Matt ever be a suspect of murder?” Temple asked. Give me your best shot.

“A call girl, at the Goliath Hotel—your favorite and Kinsella’s too for mayhem—last night, because he freaked at the idea of sexual intercourse, or he had sexual intercourse and freaked afterward. Take your pick.”

Whew. Temple’s toes did not uncurl, nor did her hidden fists unfurl, nor did her breath stop being held.

“That’s your idea,” she finally said, “of who, where, when, why. I still don’t get the why. Why on earth would Matt be there with that kind of woman to do that? Never in a million years. I don’t believe it.”

“One answer, three little words, your own, and quite brilliant in their way. I can see why you’re a public relations ace: Kitty the Cutter.”

“Kitty O’Connor? The poison ivy of Ireland? Oh. She assaulted Matt once, but that was a long time ago.”

“It didn’t end there. She’s been stalking him.”

Temple said nothing. She couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe that Kitty’s attacks had continued, and especially couldn’t believe that Matt hadn’t told her.

“My own daughter was involved.”

“Mariah? That’s crazy. What would she have to do with Kathleen O’Connor?”

“TitaniCon?” Molina asked, invoking the recent science fiction convention at the New Millennium hotel. “The car that chased you from the parking ramp over the pedestrian bridge and crashed into the hotel’s glass doors while your party escaped down the escalator? You, Matt Divine, and my own daughter. Oh, yes, I heard about it. Matt said that every female in his company was in danger at that event, including Mariah. Kitty had claimed him for her own; either he’d cooperate, or she’d take heads.”

“He didn’t say anything to me.”

“Amazing. Can it be that anyone in Las Vegas fails to confide in Temple Barr, amateur sleuth?”

“Sarcasm does not become you, Lieutenant. I like it better when you’re just plain mean.”

“I am not mean,” Molina answered rather astoundingly. “I am trying to save lives, including my own daughter’s. The fact is that Kathleen O’Connor elected Matt the most dangerous man in Las Vegas to know. Her price was his virtue, and he’s probably the only man in Las Vegas who still has … had … any.”

Temple was on a dizzying mental merry-go-round fixated on tense: has … had. She had no idea she cared that much. Or did she?

“So … to save all the women he knew, he had to find a woman he didn’t know and … render himself undesirable to Kitty the Cutter?”

Molina nodded.

“Hence the call girl. Last night? But—?”

“But what?”

“I mean, we were all so busy last night, you and Max and I, chasing each other and trying to catch the Stripper Killer all at the same time, Matt was … oh, poor Matt. How’d he ever find a call girl?”

She looked to Molina for an answer, admitting her superiority in this one, sleazy instance, and met an evasive gaze, a slightly flushing face, a guilty expression.

“You? You turned him on to a call girl? And you’re really Catholic!”

“This not about religion. This is about abusive stalking.”

“Which is not the stalkee’s fault.”

“It is if he snaps under the pressure and kills the very woman who is the source of his salvation. You probably know Matt better than anyone. Could he snap? Get violent?”

“No!” Temple spoke from gut defense, before she remembered how Matt had torn his own apartment apart once, almost a year ago, when she’d first met him, when he’d been hunting his abusive stepfather. “No,” she repeated more softly, more sanely. Matt had acknowledged the rage within himself. Didn’t that banish it? Unless he had been forced into a corner so against his every instinct. “No.” This last one sounded pretty unconvincing.

“You defended Kinsella, and look where he stands. Are you simply a sucker for flawed men? There are plenty of women like that. I see them every day.”

“You work on the dark side,” Temple answered. “The rest of us live in the light. Mostly. Or maybe we just like to think so. But thinking so can make it so. I will never believe the worst of my friends. I won’t. You’ll have to prove it to me.”