Think again. She banged around the tiny kitchen that suited her just fine and returned with two tall, festive glasses filled with something the color of watermelon juice.
“Pretty pale sangria,” Molina commented, taking a sip.
Temple sat on a chair at the end of the glass-topped coffee table, checking to see that her no-sweat, absorbent stone coasters were out. As usual, what was left of daily newspapers these days littered the coffee-table top. No PHOENIX REVIVAL ACT FOR BIZARRE BODY IN HIDDEN HOTEL VAULT was the gripping three-line head over the one-column front-page teaser story for a more-detailed inside report.
“Front page,” Molina commented. “A publicist’s dream. Unless the topic is antiproductive. What is this stuff?”
“Newsprint? How soon they forget. Oh, you mean the drink. It’s not like I keep a fully stocked bar.”
“What is it?” Like all homicide detectives, even off-duty Molina wanted answers, pronto.
“Crystal Light cherry pomegranate with vodka.”
“Not bad.” Molina nudged the paper away to uncover a coaster, as if delicately unveiling a dead body . . . or a cockroach. She put the glass down.
Temple took a big farewell gulp of hers and did likewise.
“Relax,” Molina said. “I’m not here about your current problem. I’m not even surreptitiously examining the premises for symptoms of Max Kinsella.”
“ ‘Symptoms’? Like he’s a disease?”
“Not still contagious by now, I hope. No,” Molina mused, “I’m convinced I no longer need to worry about him, and you certainly don’t, not with another man’s engagement ring on your left hand.”
No . . . not until Molina bopped over and got overly cozy with Temple’s spiked Crystal Light and seemed about ready to drop a bombshell.
“By the way . . .” Molina shifted on the sofa.
Was she going to draw a gun?
Temple’s paired bare knees pressed together until the bones ached. What was going on here? Really?
Molina thrust a hand into her khaki blazer pocket and pulled out a . . .
Plum?
No, a plastic sandwich baggie wearing a narrow white label.
Temple eyed it as if a tarantula crouched inside.
“You’ll recognize this,” Molina said, tossing the baggie onto the bed of newspapers on the coffee table.
Temple reached to take another sip of her cherry-pomegranate vodka cocktail. Did the baggie contain drugs? Was she being set up? Was she paranoid? Yes! She picked up the plastic baggie.
Something heavy sagged down in one corner.
Too heavy to be a tarantula.
But not too heavy to be a shock.
Temple heard her own voice echo as if she were speaking in the Chunnel of Crime. “It’s the ring. My ring.”
“Right. Kinsella’s ring, which the late magician Shangri-La conned you out of during her magic act way back when.”
“You . . . said it was police evidence, that you had to keep it.”
Molina shrugged. “I suppose it still might be police evidence, but you’re engaged to Matt Devine now. And Max Kinsella is . . . apparently long gone. Shangri-La’s dead. So it’s my call.”
Temple tangled her bare ankles together. Her toes barely touched the long white fur of her fake-goat-hair area rug under the coffee table. She was just too damn short.
Since her clamped knees made her skirt into a secure little hammock between her thighs, she peeled open the bag’s zip-strip and worked the ring into her palm. She remembered telling Max that opals were unlucky, but he had laughed at the idea.
Oh. Seeing it again was like viewing a full moon for the first time. This was a particularly vivid, fire-laden stone, the whole sky’s worth of aurora borealis captured in a knuckle-sized square. Wasn’t that just like Max? The diamonds framing the opal twinkled in obeisance to the central stone. This ring wasn’t as antique or expensive as the ruby-and-diamond Art Deco showpiece she now wore and adored, but it was unique and exquisite.
It brought back the magic of Max, and the knowledge that he was utterly gone, even as far as his archenemy Molina was concerned. Temple was surprised Molina hadn’t croaked, “Come . . . bite,” in a hag’s voice just now as she offered the ring to Temple.
Temple gazed up into the homicide lieutenant’s eyes. They were as vividly blue as the Morning Glory Pool in Yellowstone Park—which was brimming with poisonous sulfur.
Molina’s expression remained the usual law-enforcement-personnel noncommittal blank.
Temple was equally determined not to give an inch, or even a centimeter of opal.
“If you can give this ring back to me now,” she said, “you didn’t need to keep it as ‘evidence’ all this time.”
“No. No, I didn’t.”
“Then that was mean.”
The schoolyard epithet sank deep between them like the opal ring had weighed in Temple’s lap. Impossible to ignore.
“Yes,” Molina said, her hands jamming her blazer pockets, her front teeth biting her barely lip-glossed bottom lip. “That was mean. I have been a mean girl.”
“And you’re giving it back now because . . . you think Max is dead!”
“Maybe,” said Molina. “You know Max is dead!”
“I don’t, and I’m not sure I’d believe it if I did hear it. Max Kinsella, dead or alive, has nothing to do with my bringing that here.”
“Why, then?”
“Shangri-La is dead. The case is closed, and the wench is dead.” Molina shrugged. “No reason to keep it.”
“I can’t wear it!”
“It’s a keepsake, then. I certainly don’t need it cluttering an evidence locker.”
“This little thing?”
“Any little thing,” Molina said, smiling wryly.
Temple inhaled but didn’t say anything, after all.
Molina sipped her drink. “This is pretty good, amazingly. You have a gift for the impromptu.”
“So do you!” Temple charged back, eyes flashing. “You just show up, brandishing my engagement ring?”
“Hardly an engagement ring now,” Molina said.
“Why now?” Temple demanded.
“It was an excuse to talk to you.”
“You’ve never needed an excuse before.”
“I’ve never needed your ‘expertise’ before.”
“Which is?”
“You . . . appear to be something of a better judge of men than I am. Except for Matt. He’s golden, as we both know.”
“Mostly. He’s human too.”
“Apparently, I am not.”
What a confession! Temple felt they really ought to be seated in a bare little room with a two-way mirror somewhere. Molina wanted something from her. Molina was flashing something that looked a lot like . . . humility? Vulnerability? Oh, happy day!
Temple took up the gauntlet and sipped deliberately. Damn good cherry-pomegranate-vodka cocktail. If aspartame is your aperitif of choice.
“What are you not being human about?” Temple inquired.
“Our main topic. Men.”
Did Temple ever dream she would see the day she and Molina snuggled down with booze to discuss men? No.
“Which men?” Temple asked. “If you’re going to grill me about Max again . . .”
“No. Max Kinsella is a dead issue.”
Temple cringed. “An official declaration?”
“Totally personal. Or don’t you think I have a personal view?”
“I think it’s all been personal about Max.”
Molina actually winced. “He’s such a natural-born suspect, even you have to admit that. If he was always the counterterrorist operative you claim, that would draw official suspicion, even subconsciously.”
“Maybe,” Temple admitted. “So it’s Max you want me to dissect.”
“Actually, no. I say he was a likely suspect. You say I was persecuting him. He disappeared, probably happy to not be a bone of contention any longer. No, let Max enjoy his anonymity
. I’m more interested in knowing what you think about Dirty Larry.”
“Huh?”
“Dirty Larry Podesta. You’ve seen him around crime scenes. The recovering undercover guy.”
“You mean ‘Dirty Blond’ Dirty Larry.”
“If you say so. So you think blond means ‘dumb’? You’re marrying a blond.”
“Do I have to call him Dirty Larry? It’s so seventies.”
Molina cracked a smile. Vodka will do that to even the most poker-faced person. “Yes, he does seem out of some Steve McQueen time zone, doesn’t he?”
“I thought you liked him.”
“I have associated with him. Or, rather, he has associated with me. What do you think?”
“He’s not your type.”
“Do we know what is my type?”
“I guess not,” Temple admitted. “You are an enigma wrapped in a torch singer hiding behind a madonna.”
“We ought to tip a glass more often.” Molina tipped hers, but Temple noticed her vivid blue eyes were completely focused.
That was the problem with striking eyes. Temple’s were a changeable blue-gray, which allowed her to play vague or steel-sharp.
“Dirty Larry.” Temple savored the theatricality of the nickname. “Did he decide to leave the undercover detail, or was he shuffled out?”
“The records on that are vague.”
“Suspicious in itself. Your impression?”
“He showed up suddenly. I could have been flattered. Or I could have decided I got a rash of unknown origin.”
“So you never trusted him.”
“I never trust anyone.”
“That is sad, Carmen.”
“Did I say we were on first-name basis, Temple?”
“You gave me a ring, Carmen.”
The lieutenant burst out laughing. “I would hate to play poker with you, I’ll give you that. Look. My personal and professional life is a mess at the moment, admitted. I bet you’d be busy loving that, except you can’t admit how worried you are about your missing ex, even with the upscale brass ring from another man on your third finger, left hand. I can’t admit how wrong I probably was about your ex, which makes him the elephant in the room. But we aren’t the type to go around blindfolded discussing elephants when we can be doing something productive, are we? Is Dirty Larry dirty or not?”
“He could be. You don’t invite hangers-on, and he’s sure stubborn about that.”
“Exactly,” Molina said. “I’ve watched him as much as I can with a mystery stalker intruding now and then into my house, and my teenage daughter acting out, and me trying to push an invisible man into a corner, where I’ll probably end up getting myself trapped.”
“I’d lose him,” Temple said. “Personally. Watch your back, but lose him.”
Molina nodded and lifted her glass. “Any more where this came from?”
“If you want Crystal Light and no-name vodka, you have hit the mother lode.”
Temple bustled off to refill their glasses. She made Molina’s heavy on the vodka, hers on the Crystal Light. Did she think she could outdrink the Iron Maiden of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department, or Carmen the bar singer, or whatever role Molina was going to whip out of her blazer today? Not without playing a bit dirty. Dirty. The word of the hour. Maybe.
“So,” said Molina, when Temple had returned with the drinks reloaded. “You’ve disposed of Dirty Larry as a bad idea whose time has not come. What about . . . Detective Alch?”
“Really? We’re supposed to discuss him, as what? A detective? Or a favorite uncle?”
“Your opinion, your choice.”
“He’s kind of like me,” Temple said thoughtfully.
Molina almost spit out her drink in surprise. “How in the world?”
“Fiercer than you’d think.”
Molina thought about it for a long while, then nodded grudgingly. “My best man.”
“Are we still speaking professionally?”
“Your choice.”
“Solid-gold veteran,” Temple declared. “And . . . a bonus: he gets girls.”
“How do you mean ‘girls’?”
“All ages, all stages.”
“He has an only daughter, grown,” Molina confirmed. “Ah! And a wife?”
“Ex-wife.”
“Somehow I don’t get someone leaving him.”
“It was the other way around, but it wasn’t his fault.”
“No. It wouldn’t be,” Temple said.
“Does Alch know you’re such a fan?”
“Probably, but he wouldn’t think much about it. Does he know you’re such a fan?”
“Did I say that?”
“He’s your right-hand man. I say that.”
Molina nodded and sipped. “And Rafi Nadir.”
She didn’t phrase it as a question, but Temple realized it was the one “burning” question Molina actually wanted someone else’s opinion on.
Wow. Had Rafi supplanted Max as the object of Molina’s obsession? Was this progress or regression or just plain human?
Temple went for shock value. “Max didn’t think much of him.”
“Kinsella knew him?”
As if there were another Max in this town for either of them. Temple noticed Molina was back to last names, a way of dehumanizing people.
“Max ran into Rafi when your ex first came to Vegas,” she explained, “and was working temporary security jobs around town.”
Molina raised her eyebrows expectantly, but no way was Temple going to turn this into a discussion of Max’s various efforts to protect Temple and investigate traces of the bizarre cabal of magicians known as the Synth.
“He found Rafi bitter and biased and just plain bad news.” Temple spotted the slightest hint of a wince in Molina’s features, which she hid behind another sip of sweet-and-sour vodka pop.
Molina was forced to interrogate further. “Later you, as Zoe Chloe Ozone, were so warned off the guy that when you teamed up with my daughter at the Teen Idol reality-TV house, you both got crazy cozy with Rafi Nadir, of all security personnel to turn to with a murderer on the premises.”
“Sounds nuts, doesn’t it?” Temple said with a sober sip and a smile. “Zoe and Mariah were just crazy mixed-up teen kids, right? Actually, Rafi proved pretty perceptive in that house of pop-culture horror and murder. He looked out for us both.”
“And got close to my daughter under false pretenses.”
“Did he even know he had a daughter then? I don’t think so. They just naturally clicked.”
“Oh, my God! You’ve been encouraging their unlikely relationship just to bug me.”
“It’s never been about you, Carmen Molina. That’s like saying you were chasing Max’s shadow all over Vegas for a murder rap just to annoy me. Other people are living their lives naturally, without it being a conspiracy you need to bust.”
Temple sat back. “Yes, I’ve decided that Rafi isn’t so bad. You’re just mad because you’ve come to the same conclusion after Mariah and I did. And ditto for Max. You’re fresh out of personal villains, unless Dirty Larry cooperates and turns out to be a pimp or something.”
Temple wasn’t sure whether Molina was going to explode, stomp out of there, arrest her, or . . . laugh.
“You are fiercer than you look,” Molina said, shaking her head. “Good thing you plied me with vodka doubles so I’m in a good mood. No. I don’t need any personal villains. Or heroes. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t getting back at me for pursuing your apparently heroic ex-boyfriend by foisting the villainous Rafi on me.”
“It does seem you underestimated each other back when you were young and foolish. Rafi does seem to have reformed enough to earn a shot at fatherhood, and Mariah deserves to know who he is. She likes him, you know.”
“Yes, I know.” Molina put down her glass. “There are right psychological moments, though, and legalities to consider.”
“If you managed to work those out by the junior-high fa
ther-daughter dance this fall, that would be nice. Matt is dying not to have anyone depend on him to be an official ‘father’ anymore.”
“He’s not around right now?” Molina looked up at the ceiling that was the floor to Matt’s upstairs unit.
“In Chicago on a working vacation, actually. He has family there.”
“Really? Oh. Of course. That pond-slime stepfather he tracked here had to have left other disenchanted souls behind in Chi-Town. Now that Matt’s past family issues are resolved, I’m sure he’d make a great real father. Mariah likes him too.”
“Not that way, mama. And you’re prying. . . . We haven’t even set a date and place for the wedding.”
Molina stood. “So it’s anti–Dirty Larry and pro–Rafi Nadir. Pro–Max Kinsella, as always, and pro–Morrie Alch. Interesting. I wonder which of us has been taken in the most? By whom?”
“Ourselves?” Temple offered, standing too. She was determined to reduce the tall police lieutenant’s degree of “loom.”
Molina didn’t answer but pulled a cell phone from her blazer side pocket.
“You’re calling in reinforcements?”
“I’m calling a squad car to drop off a driver for my vehicle. I’m not getting behind the wheel after drinking those ‘Vodka Surprises’ of yours. Nice try. We’ll have to do this again some time. Enjoy the old bling. I’ll see myself out,” Molina said. “Thanks for the drinks.”
Temple blinked and took a deep breath after her front door closed on Molina. She had a valuable Tiffany ring to return to a plastic baggie.
She would not try on Max’s ring to see if it still fit. It would. She would not try the ring on to see if it threw bolts of reflection around the room like it used to. It would. She would not play with the ring, admire the ring, or touch the ring to see if she still felt regrets for Max Kinsella.
Ringing Issues
So my Miss Temple just sits there on our living-room sofa, as if lost in a dream, turning the plastic baggie and Mr. Max’s opal ring around and around in her hand.
She does not even move when we hear her front door open and close.
Ooooh, that Miss Lieutenant C. R. Molina has been a mean girl. Humans! They claim not to use tooth and claw as we four-feet do, but even a so-called “nice” gesture can come with a fierce bite, a “kick” like the firing of a gun.
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