Cat in a White Tie and Tails

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  “Man fell out of the Crystal Phoenix ceiling, dead.”

  “Another ceiling murder? Unsolved?”

  She nodded. “He looked a bit like Effinger, but had no ID.”

  “Somebody mistook him for Effinger and offed him.”

  “Or…”

  He got it. “Effinger wanted to be thought dead. He doesn’t strike me as the killer sort. He is from Chicago, though, like Devine. The mob is plenty active there.”

  “Don’t think too big,” she cautioned him. “Think personal.”

  “Devine! Matt Devine was on his trail. He wanted Matt Devine to think he was dead.” Max reconsidered. “No. Devine wasn’t that big a threat.”

  “He was if his dogged search for Effinger was drawing attention, and drawing attention to Effinger. And don’t underestimate Matt Devine. He’s with your girl now, isn’t he?”

  “I’m not possessive by nature. I think. You’re pushing the wrong buttons, Lieutenant.”

  “Maybe. Then there was that crazy incident involving your ex-girlfriend and her cat being kidnapped from a Shangri-La magic show and being spirited down the highway in a semi filled with magic-act paraphernalia and contraband drugs. I sensed your ghostly fingers at work in the scene of their escape when my people got there. Any memories of tearing the contents of that semi to pieces to find the pair before they suffocated?”

  Magical boxes, big enough to conceal an artfully arranged human body, boxes with false bottoms and sides and mirrors. They crowded his memory, begging for recognition. You used me in this illusion. No, Garry did. No, Temple Barr was your assistant and did the switch with you, and then you pulled her cat out of a hat.

  He blinked as the deceptive rummage sale images of the past faded away and smiled at Molina. “You are truly a tree of knowledge of good and evil. Or just evil.”

  She smiled. “Thanks. My job. Another little tidbit for you. About that old-time magician found dead in the underground safe that your ex-girlfriend tried to use as a promo opportunity.”

  “Cosimo Sparks,” Max said. “I heard about him.” Not only that, he’d dreamed about him, had known the man while still living, at the Neon Nightmare. He was a confirmed Synth member, but Molina would laugh that idea off.

  “He was stabbed to death, but prodded viciously first.”

  “Another reluctant information-giver. Hasn’t someone been arrested for that?”

  “We had to let him go. A South American larger-than-life personality known as Santiago, just Santiago. Blood traces too insignificant for court. One always thinks of drugs. That would tie in to the Shangri-La kidnapping.”

  “What about that lady magician as a suspect?”

  “Dead too.”

  “You have a … an outhouse-load of cold cases, Lieutenant.”

  “Why do you think I hire freelancers?”

  “From what I can see, usually it’s personal reasons.”

  “And what would those be in your case?”

  “My Irish charm.”

  “I favor Latin charm.”

  “With those blue eyes? It’s a fact that the Irish and the Spanish mix like whiskey and soda. Soledad O’Brian, the news reporter. I can’t think of others. The memory, you know.”

  “What are you and your overblown Irish charm getting at, Kinsella?”

  “Have you ever considered the … Irish mob?”

  “You talking Boston?”

  “I’m talking Northern Ireland.”

  She made a tsking sound. “I’ve heard that eternally from your ex. I don’t doubt your counterterrorism work in the past, but that conflict is ninety-eight percent over and done with. Face it. You’re not a downtrodden minority anymore. And your fixation on this topic is obsessive romanticism. The ‘Troubles’ are over. Those political crusades are over, and whatever will you do without them?”

  Max stood, and stood at mock attention. “Work for you, Lieutenant, until you can see past your personal, private ‘troubles’ and discern the vast terrorist conspiracy surrounding us all.”

  Chapter 31

  Missing Links

  Temple and Matt trudged toward the baggage claim area, thankful that Louie would have no more close encounters with airport security. These did not turn out well for the carrier-searches.

  Temple was in that automatic nirvana of ending a short trip that had been packed with stress and uncertainty, so it was Matt who spotted the fly in the ointment.

  “Unwelcome committee of one at three o’clock high,” he warned under his breath.

  Temple had seen enough WWII fighter-pilot movies to look to her right at midlevel.

  Slouching against the giant rattlesnake sculpture among the famous assembly of desert critters on the terminal floor was … Max.

  Fitting. He was long and lean and deadly when in counterterrorist mode. His black ensemble suggested that magician mode was also back and operational, and then some.

  He straightened to snag Louie’s gaudy new carrier from Temple without a by-your-leave or by-your-left-or-right and joined their pace without losing a beat. Neither did his opening patter.

  “Welcome to Las Vegas. Lieutenant C. R. Molina is my new secret boss. In the wee hours of this morning someone tried to electrocute me at the Oasis Hotel’s ‘Lusty Ladies and Laddies’ pirate adventure attraction. And Rafi Nadir could be under suspicion of murder, although any evidence would be only circumstantial. May I give you two—excuse me, three—a lift home?”

  Matt took it much better than Temple did. “Are you driving anything with trunk space for luggage these days?”

  “And a belted seat for Louie’s carrier?” Temple asked.

  “No, but I rented a minivan that fills the bill.”

  Temple couldn’t keep from hooting. “You in a minivan. That’d be worth seeing.”

  “Then walk this way,” Max said, stepping ahead and feigning an exaggerated limp, like the hunchback of Notre Dame. It was eerie how his height shrank.

  Matt sighed and conversation ceased until they got to the close-in parking lot and beside a blue, yes, minivan.

  “How did you know where and when—?” Temple asked Max, repossessing Louie’s carrier.

  “Font of all knowledge of things Circle Ritz.”

  “Electra.” Matt paused in loading their luggage. “You’re relying on gossipy senior citizens these days?”

  “Any port in a storm, as we say at the Oasis. Well, perhaps not so much today.”

  “And what about Rafi? Murder?” Temple finished arranging Louie’s carrier in the backseat although he was pummeling the canvas sides. He was keeping quiet, though. “Just a short ride home,” she assured him, “and then you’ll be free to be feline.”

  Through the black mesh portion she detected a wide, pink-mawed yawn, the cat equivalent of “yadda yadda yadda.”

  “Circumstantial evidence,” Max said as he put the Odyssey into gear. Matt rode up front with him, Temple and Louie in the middle bank of seats. Max twisted his head to regard the couple in turn. “You two are dressed mighty like city slickers.”

  Like Louie, they kept mum.

  “Oh, right. Chicago. I get forgetful.” He lifted a finger off the steering wheel to indicate Matt. “You do the Ann Landers bit on syndicated radio and also do some national TV.”

  “OOD,” Temple caroled from the backseat. “Out of date. ‘Dear Abby’ survived the advice column wars when the newspapers were sinking fast. And they were both from Chicago. Imagine, twin sisters who were newspaper column advice queens all their lives, and only one byline survives their deaths.”

  “Got it,” Max said, “but I don’t play Trivial Pursuit, so don’t need that info. Don’t think you can distract me with minor matters, Temple. I still want to know the dish on where you’re coming from. In Chicago.” His voice had grown speculative. “And why would you lug that overweight cat along?”

  “Merely,” Temple said, “to keep the great Mystifying Max guessing and his recovering memory agile.”

  Max declaime
d, “They drew a circle that shut me out. I drew a circle that took them in.”

  “‘Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout,’” Matt quoted, eyeing Max. “That’s the poem’s second line. If the description fits…”

  “Heretic, no. Rebel, yes. A thing to flout, lately that seems very appropriate.”

  Temple wasn’t getting any of this except the rival guy vibe, so she leaned forward over the seat. “Back to Rafi Nadir. What did you mean by ‘circumstantial’ evidence in a murder?”

  “The death occurred at the Oasis Hotel. That’s Rafi’s turf as assistant security chief.”

  “And you were there too?” Temple asked. “Why?”

  “Doing what you do so well. Sticking our noses into other people’s business. I should mention it was three A.M. and the attraction was shut down.”

  “So Rafi wasn’t on duty,” Temple guessed.

  “Rafi wouldn’t have been there if I hadn’t drawn him into the web of Vegas cold cases I’m investigating on a wing-nut brain and a prayer. The dead man was an anonymous thug and if fighting him off is murder, I probably did the deed and Rafi was a deer caught in the headlights, prepped to take the fall.”

  “Why would Rafi Nadir even be there?” Temple wondered.

  “He’s a good guy.”

  Matt raised his eyebrows to look over his shoulder at Temple.

  “And,” Max added, “I’m trying to shut down any lingering poisons from my British Isles adventures way back when and recently. Namely Kathleen O’Connor and anyone responsible for the dead man in the Goliath Hotel surveillance system and a certain unwanted … relative of yours by marriage.” He nodded to Matt. “The late Cliff Effinger.”

  In the silence, Max added a chilling coda. “Not what I wanted, to get snarled up in your tragic family history, but Kitty the Cutter certainly involved you in mine.”

  A silence inside the idling vehicle reflected everyone’s mutual shock, Temple refected. Max couldn’t know that the Chicago trip had stripped bare a link right back to Las Vegas and possible Synth activity. And Matt had to realize that Max couldn’t resolve his long forced involvement with Irish terrorism and a true femme fatale stalker without treading on part of Matt’s family history Matt wanted no one but Temple to know.

  Holy Kowabunga. Temple had a vintage surfer T-shirt to wear around home that paid tribute to that catchword from Chief Thunderthud on the Howdy Doody kiddie TV show in the ’50s. Like slang that kept on reinventing itself for future generations, Kathleen O’Connor and Cliff Effinger were old nightmares that kept recycling again and again, both supposedly dead and both surprisingly potent up to this very minute.

  “Call me an obsessive compulsive amnesiac,” said Max, “but I think this all adds up. Somehow.”

  “Who’s called you an obsessive compulsive amnesiac?” Matt asked. “That sure sounds like a gripe.”

  “Nobody important. Just an amateur psychoanalyzer like you.”

  “If you mean I can analyze psychos—”

  “You know,” Temple said, “I don’t think I’m comfortable riding here in the backseat like the distant top of a pyramid with you two guys in the front driver’s seat.”

  Sometimes Temple didn’t realize the full meaning of things she said until her own voice stopped. Not often. It was not a good habit for a successful PR woman and in the personal arena it was a sound example of clunky, size 5 wedgies firmly inserted in mouth.

  Describing a functional triangle at this point was not productive. Something jammed her in the hip. Louie was rocking his carrier over onto its side and into her space.

  Oh. Right. They were a dysfunctional quadrangle, not a triangle.

  How comforting.

  Chapter 32

  Bad Mews

  Naturally, I have used my incisive incisors to spring the zipper on my new low-end carrier. The less time spent in Miss Krys’s truly ucky idea of a cat carrier from hell, the better.

  By the time Mr. Max drives his exceedingly boring rented minivan into the Circle Ritz parking lot, I am free, black, and pushing twenty-one pounds of muscular male physique out of the first opening vehicle door. (My layabout lifestyle in the Windy City has added a tad of avoirdupois around my middle, but that is a French condition and cannot help but be an attractive addition.)

  I make a four-point landing on the still-warm asphalt of my native soil: the mean streets of the country’s loudest and liveliest entertainment jungle, and inhale the hot, heavy air.

  Aaah. Tar so melt-in-your-mouth sizzling, it could trap a brontosaurus; pad-searing sand; and egg-frying-hot concrete. I am back in civilization! Not for me dank, deserted warehouses down mean streets so dark, not a ray of ultraviolet neon can penetrate those Bastless byways.

  Not for me petty thugs who cannot even make an effective and grammatical threatening phone call.

  Here in Vegas, style rules. And I am just strutting my stuff toward the parking lot fringes when I come up nose to nose with one of the city’s least famous fixtures.

  “Huh,” I say. I do not want to admit that I have hit a wall of pretty impenetrable fur and chutzpah. I am the expert at that. “Louise!” I cry.

  I was about to make a pilgrimage to the Crystal Phoenix, but she pops out of the large oleander bushes ringing the Circle Ritz parking lot as though to pounce upon me.

  “Where have you been?” I inquire.

  “If you wish to sit your unprotected rear down on the sizzling hot asphalt, I can remain in the shade and regale you with a long and winding journey through Vegas hot spots more noted for sin than fever.”

  Aaah. I have bounded onto the cooling dirt and sand surrounding the oleanders.

  “How was Chicago?” she asks.

  “All right. There is a lot less street-level action and entertainment value there. I could get all my exercise jumping up to hit elevator buttons in the high-twenties and up.”

  “Home is the hunter, home from the five-star hotels and the lure of hot studio lights,” Miss Midnight Louise observes. “At least you managed to keep your two fragile human charges in one piece.”

  “Them? Fragile? Yeah, they were facing family matters more incestuous than Ma Barker’s clan, aka clowder, but, Louise, you have no idea how imperiled I was in life and limb and carrier in Chicago.”

  “Where is that leopard-spot carrier fit for a reality TV Chihuahua, by the way?”

  “I left it as a headstone for a couple of Chicago gangsters.”

  Miss Midnight Louise’s airy whiskers lift above her censorious features. (This censorious features stuff means she has a scowl on her puss that would sour a Green Appletini. Not to mention a decent dude who has only been doing his guard duty out of town.)

  “Were they dead or just happy to get you out of their nightmares?”

  “Let us simply say that, thanks to me, they knocked themselves out to commit mayhem and got snagged by the cops.”

  “Meanwhile,” she notes, “Mr. Max has been out on the town performing acts of derring-do that threaten to undo his precarious healing process. Can you say the same?”

  “My acts of derring-do have threatened to undo other entities’ healing processes. It is the Chicago Outfit, zero; and Midnight Louie, two.”

  I push closer, not to get cozy, mind you, but to exchange privileged information.

  “I am happy to hear you have been sticking closer to Mr. Max than a coat of black graffiti spray paint while I have been transported across state lines to eavesdrop on some amateur episodes of The Old and the Restless. My Miss Temple and Mr. Matt are a done deal, whether you or I like it or not. What would occasion Mr. Max to greet the network-approved lovebirds on their return to the nest? He does not live here anymore.”

  “He is lucky to be alive and not-living somewhere six feet under after last night.”

  “Last night? There was some more hot homicidal action in town while I was gone? No!”

  Miss Louise takes this moment to admonish a possibly verminous intruder on her back forty. Or she could be allergic to
something, like me.

  “Well?” I demand, gently tapping her shoulder.

  She responds to my friendly overture by swatting my mitt to the pavement. “First tell me what went down in Chicago.”

  “The usual. We prepare to fly. I am the VIP of airport security in Miss Temple’s admittedly sissy poodle portage bag.”

  “‘Portahge’?”

  “That is French for ‘transportation,’” I respond airily, waving my posterior plume de ma tante for emphasis. It always distracts Miss Midnight Louise when I talk à la the Divine Yvette, my Persian petite.

  “I am the object of a kidnapping attempt at the moment of our arrival in O’Hare,” I say vehemently, nipping at the vermin that left her for higher-end pastures.

  At this she hoots. Well, she rolls over on the ground exposing her soft underbelly with no fear, as if I were a bunny rabbit instead of Chicago muscle.

  “They were obviously after your carrier,” she manages to mew between rude snorts.

  “Actually, that is too true,” I admit. “Airport security suspected I was acting as a mule for smuggled celebrity fine jewelry. Unfortunately, the only fine jewelry my Miss Temple owns is the engagement ring on her finger and an MIA opal ring in her notorious scarf drawer. No, Louise,” I add. “They were after me as a means to information hidden by Mr. Matt’s louse of a late stepfather, Mr. Cliff Effinger, in goods held by his widow, Miss Matt Mama in Chicago.”

  By now she is again upright and skeptical. “So these Chicago hoods believed someone would give up valuable info to save your hide?”

  “Not ‘someone.’ My Miss Temple.”

  “That I can believe. You have become a kept cat on her account, so I do not doubt some schmaltzy unnatural link holds you two together.”

  I am not about to defend my personal life to one who scorns the human–feline bond while maintaining quite a crush, if you ask me, on Mr. Max Kinsella.

  Meanwhile, Miss Midnight Louise is chewing on my revelations, suiting word to act by gnawing on a loose nail sheath, reminding me of my brilliant ruse with the rusted carpenter nails and the crooks.

  “I am afraid,” she finally admits, lifting her head to spit out the sheath, “that Mr. Max has seen plain evidence this very weekend that Mr. Cliff Effinger’s bizarre death by drowning on the old Oasis Hotel pirate ship attraction is not a closed case, but one of interest to various sinister elements around town. I followed him on two expeditions to the Oasis to check on the Effinger drowning site and the last one was nearly fatal to him, if not Mr. Rafi and me.”