"You have any idea of where Miss Temple Barr was at that time?"
"Eleven-thirty last night?" He cringed to remember them meeting in the Circle Ritz lobby this late morning, both of them looking like they had been for a long time somewhere they oughtn't admit to.
Molina didn't bother nodding, just looked up and regarded him like a schoolteacher waiting for the right answer.
"No. I can't say where Temple was." Why was Molina so interested in Temple's whereabouts, Matt wondered. She couldn't know about Effinger's attack, could she? How?
Lying, he was finding, made him sound as stiff as any bad actor. "I assume she was ... safe at home."
"You have witnesses for your own whereabouts?"
"Witness." Defending his own partial truths gave him second wind. "There were only two of us on last night," he answered with brisk candor.
"Despite the holiday rush?"
"New Year's is an upbeat holiday. People begin again. They usually don't end it, although I did get one despondent caller."
"I assume the calls are recorded."
He shook his head. "Privacy violation in our business. The callers' identities are sacrosanct."
"Seal of the confessional, huh? So all you have to put you in the clear is one witness?"
He nodded. He was in the clear until three a.m. and the encounter with Kitty. Apparently that was enough. Matt's relieved exhalation seared his ribs again.
He tried not to let his breath catch as he gave her Bennie's name and the name of the ConTact supervisor who would have Bennie's home phone number and address.
Molina wrote it all down with the precision of a secretarial school graduate. Then she swerved into a totally unforeseen subject like a Mack truck into a bridge abutment.
"I would suppose the only witness to Miss Barr's nighttime whereabouts ordinarily would be Midnight Louie."
Matt suffered a mental stuttering fit. Did Molina mean to imply he would know about Temple's nocturnal habits? Did she know where Temple had been coming from this morning when he and she had crossed paths in the Circle Ritz lobby? Was that knowledge incriminating?
To him? To Temple? Matt managed to shrug. Even that hurt, but he tried not to show it. "Cats can't testify."
"They can, actually. Midnight Louie was not with Miss Temple last night," Molina went on crisply, shuffling autopsy photos.
Matt guessed that she had wanted him to glimpse them, especially the sawn-off cranium.
"How do you know where he was last night?" he asked, playing straight man to her crookedly devious cop.
"Because Mr. Midnight Louie was at the crime scene."
"Temple's cat? Come on!"
"I've seen that big bozo often enough. He was accompanied by a smaller black cat. I recall being present at the Crystal Phoenix last fall when she was renamed 'Midnight Louise.' Now what would a pair of cats from two such different locations be doing at midnight, at the Oasis?"
"The Oasis?" Matt clung to the one fact she had given him, besides the falderal about the cats.
"Never mind. You up to a visit to the ME's?
"ME's? Oh. Medical Examiner's office."
"Righty-ho." Molina stood. She was wearing navy today, like a good Catholic schoolgirl, if said schoolgirl stood almost six feet tall and packed a rod. "Let's go over and eyeball the dear departed."
"Do I have to?"
She cocked a Mr. Spock eyebrow.
Matt remembered a distracting detail, that Temple always fussed about Molina needing to pluck her strong dark eyebrows. He decided that she was more effective unplucked.
"Don't you want to know for sure?" she prodded him.
"I guess I'd take your word on it. You saw him alive for yourself. But I'll. . . identify the body, if you want." He rose slowly, trying not to wince.
"Perhaps condolences are in order; he was your stepfather."
Matt smiled. "Not quite condolences. Sorry I'm a little slow in reacting. It is a shock, and ... I pulled a muscle a couple days ago working out."
"Those martial arts will tear you up every time."
"Not every time, thank God. Just now and again."
*****************
Driving to the morgue had a feeling of arrest to it that Matt suspected as being deliberate.
He rode in the back of the capacious Crown Vic, Molina in the passenger's seat with a uniformed officer driving.
Her attitude was brisk, ultra-professional and bored. Routine, it implied, when he knew damn well it wasn't. But he was grateful for the Crown Vic; a big car with a marshmallow ride, it saved him a lot of pain in transit. Physical pain, anyway.
He was glad the ME's facility was familiar. By the time they ar-rived he had managed to ape Molina's attitude inside and out. Only a small twitching nerve near his left lower eyelid told him this was the real thing: he would gaze upon Cliff Effinger dead. The man would hurt no living thing again.
In the viewing room he and Molina stood side by side, like a bizarre honor guard, silent, at attention, stiff. He was quiet because he hurt; she was stiff because she was on duty.
The curtain jerked back in increments. Matt gazed down at Effinger's closed-eyed face. Pale, gray still.
"No identity doubts this time?" Molina asked.
"No doubts. And you?"
"I always knew the answer. I just wanted to watch your reaction to the actual corpse."
"And?"
"You're too guarded. You're not telling me squat, except what I know, that the dead guv is Effinger. Now I'll tell you something. He had something in his pocket. A reference to Temple Barr. Think about it. And does the word 'Hyacinth' mean anything to you?"
Matt shook his head. "Hyacinth? No. But Temple . . . what kind of reference?"
"Do you know of any reason why Temple Barr would have motive to kill Cliff Effinger, or to know it was done?"
"No!"
"Well, I know of a reason a straight-John citizen might have grabbed Effinger a week ago and turned him over to the law. It's called precedening. You could have alibied yourself by being a restrained citizen, then gone back and offed the asshole. He was an asshole, wasn't he Matt met her eyes, on a level with his own. "Maybe. Maybe not always. Lite isn't only black and white, Lieutenant. Effinger wasn't the Ogre of All Ogre-
"Really? And how long have you felt with charity toward all, malice toward none, Mr.
Lincoln?"
"Since I went to Chicago for Christmas, and found villains other than Effinger."
She read the truth in his eyes, and didn't like it. She made her living looking for lies.
"Outta here, choir boy. And do tell Miss Temple I plan on talking with her."
Chapter 22
On Hyacinth Lane
As soon as Matt got home he unearthed his map of Las Vegas. Under "H" in the street directory he found Hyacinth Lane.
A short residential street just west of downtown, Hyacinth Lane's neighborhood sheltered in the fork made by U.S. 95, the principal east-west highway in town, crossing U.S. 15, the northsouth highway that roughly paralleled the Las Vegas Strip.
Matt located the Oasis Hotel on the map, down the Strip from Hyacinth and near the Stardust. From there he pinpointed the Circle Ritz. The three locations formed a right triangle, with the Strip as its hypotenuse.
Matt sat back and gave the throb in his side free rein for a few minutes. He felt his face crease into a mask of total feeling, which was a much better fit to his inner state than the mask of total unfeeling he had been wearing.
He supposed that crooks and cops both had to adopt that deadpan survival guise, becoming more like each other and less like the citizens they preyed upon and protected.
Alone, he could wonder why his every instinct had screamed that Kitty's attack must be concealed.
Shame, he supposed. Hurt, he was a child again, struck unmercifully by a callous world. The woman was, in a way, evil incarnate, an embodiment of everything he had never stood for. She hated good, or what the church defined as good. She hate
d him for trying to live up to that ideal. Basically, she hated, and it wasn't personal, even when the hatred expressed itself in such a deeply personal way: outright attack, verbal and physical.
Temple had concealed Effinger's attack to spare Matt guilt and anger. Now Matt himself concealed his injury to . . . learn more. More about Kitty, and more about himself. Also to soothe his wounded manhood. Falling victim to a female mugger was a loss of masculine face. His Adam had been betrayed by an Eve who had also played the role of the snake. And perhaps she had also aspired to a prerogative of the Almighty, taking Matt's life and his integrity in her hands and twisting slowly. She was the Tree of All Knowledge, and he had a lot to learn. About her, for sure. Maybe especially about himself.
And maybe he had a lot to learn about Temple. Where to start?
First he called Electra.
After exchanging the usual pleasantries, Matt explained that he'd had a martial arts injury and couldn't ride the Vampire for a while.
"It's safe, Electra, locked on the ConTact lot. But that's not the best neighborhood in Vegas.
Could we drive over in your car and you could ride it back? I really have to avoid . . . vibrations."
Electra laughed that earthy laugh of hers and agreed to everything. "Just let me collect my
'Speed Queen' helmet, honey, and we'll glide off into the sunset together. Yeah, fivish would be fine. See you in the parking lot in two revs of a Vampire's wail."
Matt hung up, pleased. That abandoned motorcycle had been weighing on his conscience.
Couldn't lose anything that had belonged to Max Kinsella. That would tip the balance between them, which was too unbalanced to begin with. Max and his carnal knowledge of Temple.
The phrase was as lurid as his thoughts sometimes became lately.
******************
Temple sounded both relieved and worried when he called.
"Matt. Are you all right?"
In view of what had happened the night after their date, Temple's question was ultra-appropriate.
"That's debatable," he answered. "Could you stop by my place in a couple minutes? I have some news you'll want to hear in person. Besides, you can see the Big Red Sofa in position."
"It's all right, isn't it?"
"Better than I am."
He knew that sign-off would set her internal rescue sirens keening. That's how Temple got involved in everyone else's business, she was a one woman cleanup detail. "Murder scenes and emotional wrecks tidied up while I agonize and you watch," could be her motto.
She was ringing his doorbell before he could get the instant coffee made.
Her face fell when she saw him. "What's the matter?"
Matt was glad he had news shocking enough to explain his pained look.
"Sit down."
"Hey! Who could resist this free-form settee." Temple put her fists on her hips and stared at the sofa, or rather the sofa's current user. "And what's Midnight Louie doing up here, sprawled on your Vladimir Kagan like he owned it?"
"He's been showing up at my door, rubbing back and forth on the frame and my legs. I finally decided to let him in this afternoon. He headed for the Kagan as one to the biomorphic born."
"He'll get black cat hair all over it, though he does look like cover boy material posed there."
"I'm not sure this sofa is very practical, Temple. Louie can mold his feline form to the thing, but a person would have to have scoliosis to sleep against that ess-curved back support, such as it is."
Temple perched on the sofa like a pixie, oblivious to a serious clash between her sunset-orange-red hair and the sofa's deep lipstick-red color. She was as determined to stake her claim as Midnight Louie.
"On the other hand, it's sure cheerful," she decided. "Like those red-painted free-form steel sculptures they put up in every downtown in the seventies. Where'd you get the cool little tables?"
"Goodwill." He returned from the kitchen, setting their coffee mugs on the silver-gray melamine-covered ovals. "And just in time. I don't want you holding that coffee cup over the suede sofa seat when I tell you what Molina told me this afternoon."
"You've seen Molina? Matt, you didn't report Effinger's--?"
"No. I'm no tattletale. She reported on Effinger."
"And?"
Matt watched her. "He's dead."
"Dead?" Temple held her coffee mug over the laminated table with both hands, then lowered it very slowly. "But . . . that was fast. How?"
"Molina wasn't saying. She did drag me over to the ME's office to identify the body. Wanted to make sure this time."
"That was all she wanted with you? Identification?"
He shook his head. "She wanted to know where I was before and after midnight on New Year's Day."
"Last night? Before midnight?"
"And after midnight. I was at work, of course. She asked if I thought you had an alibi for that time."
"Me? Why me? I can see why you might be suspect if Effinger's death was suspicious, although why collar the guy and turn him in to the police, then knock him off a few days later?"
"Illusion. Misdirection. Turning in Effinger might make me a less likely suspect when something happened to him later."
"Why would she suspect me, though?"
"I don't know. She sure wants to know where you were last night."
"Safe in bed."
Matt cleared his throat. "Not exactly an alibi, for a single person. Louie was on the crime scene. She may think you were roaming around too." His eyes refused to ask where she had been coming from that awkward morning after.
"Louie?" Temple excelled at misdirection herself, her newly naked eyes avoiding his. "Matt!
You didn't tell Molina about Effinger's attack, that would explain her thinking I had a motive."
"Of course not! But Effinger had something on him that pointed to you. Something about the word 'Hyacinth.' She asked me if that meant anything."
"It's a flower."
"And a street name." Matt lifted the map tented over the sofa back. Its loud crackle made Louie, nose and tail in the air, leap to the floor. Matt found it odd to see Temple examining tiny type without glasses. "That highlighted area there, just west of downtown."
" 'Hyacinth Lane.' Sounds like part of an old Nancy Drew title: The House on Hyacinth Lane.
You ever been near there?"
Matt shook his head as he reclaimed the map. Wrestling with an unfurled map stretched his muscles a little too far. "Mmmfh," he muttered before he could catch himself.
Temple eyed him anxiously. "You look awful, Matt. Pale and wan. Learning of Effinger's death so soon after learning about his last dance with me must be a one-two punch."
"One-two punch is right." He tried to sound rueful rather than pained.
"You were so angry with me on New Year's Eve. I thought. . . I've been trying to tell me why I took it upon myself to keep you in the dark for your own good. That is awfully condescending."
"Never mind. Forget it. I mean that, Temple. I overreacted that night. Pride had to go for a roundabout ride. I was so pleased with myself for digging up Effinger and not tearing him apart that I never considered I might unearth some nasty consequences. I hate that you had to pay for my hubris, but at least Effinger will never do that to anybody again. And ... I see things differently since New Year's Eve. I do understand why you tried to soldier through. I guess that's what people do; try to protect each other."
"Well, that's a turnaround. I was prepared to writhe and crawl on my belly like a snake for at least twenty minutes."
"No time for self-obeisance. Sorry. Can you drive me past Hyacinth Lane and get me to work on time?"
"Sure. But... we could take the motorcycle."
"No, it's in the shop."
"Oh. Okay. I'll get my car keys and meet you in the lot."
"In the lobby."
"All right, the lobby. But with Effinger gone, safety might not be as much of a concern."
"Or more of one. If Molina's involve
d, someone killed him, if not me or thee."
She paused at his door before she left, tilting her head to eye him curiously. He could tell that she sensed something more than Effinger's death bothering him.
But she decided not to press it. Now.
"Nice couch!" Temple exited on a wink.
He was getting used to her without eyeglasses. He was even beginning to like the contacts.
Her eyes were a subtle blue-gray that reflected every shade of clear and stormy weather in her emotions. He had a feeling the outlook for the next few days was definitely stormy, and not just because of the name of Temple's car.
Chapter 23
Unholy Trinity
After cruising by the disappointingly nondescript Hyacinth Lane, Temple dropped Matt off at ConTact and headed for an opposite side of town: the upscale housing development where Max was hiding out, maybe from more than she knew.
On the way there, Molina's question, delivered through the fiendish medium of Matt Devine, repeated in her mind like a TV advertising slogan: Where were you at midnight on New Year's Day?
Not curled up in solo sleep in her Circle Ritz trundle, but sharing an exotic opium bed in Orson Welles's former house with her former--make that previously former--
boyfriend/lover/fiance. Who of course was in deep cover, and possibly even denial.
Great. Her alibi, should she need one, was the Invisible Man.
Temple knew that Max would probably disapprove of her impulsive drive -by consultation, but should she trust her phone lines now? Besides, she had masqueraded as a real estate lady in this neighborhood before, and could do it again.
Temple did balk at leaving her aqua Storm parked in Max's always-empty driveway. She parked on the lot line three houses down and went in on foot.
After ringing the doorbell in the shadowed outer courtyard, Temple assumed some sort of surveillance system recorded her approach. That hummingbird feeder could be a camera. Then again, a recording device could have been built into the soffit under the eaves.
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