She had never experienced in adult life that pit-of-the-stomach carnival-ride thrill she felt now, not in martial arts class and not even in sex, not since she had grown into a tall woman and made herself strong and independent, and ultimately celibate. He only had thirty pounds on her, but he was all muscle and bone, as flexible as a rattlesnake tail.
Now he was pressing her so tightly between the van and himself that she could hardly breathe. She had never allowed herself to speculate about any man’s sexuality, not for years, not since she’d become a career woman in a man’s world. He was right about one thing: she was all business, all working mother, all bureaucrat and civic servant. And hunter.
He released her, drawing his left hand down her arm to her hand. His right hand tilted her face to the side. Then his mouth touched her neck over the carotid artery. Every move was music, slow and controlled and perfectly pitched. Not a kiss, a slow-burning brand.
She was back in a crowded high school hallway, a gangly, thick teenager watching the petite bow-head girls as they ransacked their lockers between classes. Giggling and brushing back the careful curls from their necks to show off small lurid bruises. Hickeys. The tattoos of a quarter century ago. Badges of sexual initiation. She knew now that these marks demonstrated the boys’ passion and possession more than the girls’. Good Hispanic girls were too repressed to feel passion, but they were good at pretending to it. And they welcomed visible signs of possession, of their own dangerous desirability. Hickeys were the one pimple an adolescent girl could be proud of.
She had never had one.
A departing headlight raked across their figures like a spotlight. She used the distraction to push him away. “Vampire,” she accused.
“Vlad the Impaler,” he answered.
How could he find sex so amusing, she wondered, especially this explosive kind that defied all previous behavior, all roles, all reason? Maybe he found her amusing.
“You just want to screw me.” The accusation, the situation demanded an ugly word for it.
“Right. I just want to screw you.” He said the words emphatically, separately, with an undertone of surprise.
Somehow the surprise made the vulgarism sexy, not dirty, as he looked at her mouth, then her eyes. “But I won’t. Not until you just want to screw me as much.” He had perfectly imitated her tone but his words were an invitation, and hers hadn’t been.
She caught her breath. Words were just another weapon to her, but they didn’t work for her like this, not in emotional clinches. Only on the street, where they were ugly and effective.
“Don’t try your bedroom games on me,” she said contemptuously again, softly. She meant the contempt for the games, not the bedroom, but she had to wonder if one hadn’t rubbed off on the other for her long ago.
“Bedroom games,” he agreed. “We’re well matched, Lieutenant,” he repeated. “Shall we call it a draw for now?”
The “shall” reminded her of his Continental adventures. Her law enforcement instincts had always told her he could have been, could be, involved in something serious. Something big-time. International. Now she knew it.
She scuttled away along the metal wall, more repelled by herself than by him. He would try anything; she didn’t have to.
“You’re a criminal.”
“Sometimes. To some.”
She shook her head, didn’t look at him. “Get out of here.” Said as shortly as she would dismiss a snitch.
He left, as she said, as he had always wanted to.
And in that momentary turning away, she leaped, kicked a foot out from under him, followed up with a hard knee to the small of the back as he went down, had his right thumb in a painful lock as she forced his arm into an ugly angle behind his back, used her free left hand to slam his head into the asphalt and stun him long enough to grab the handcuffs out of her Excaliber fanny pack, snap the left wrist in, jerk it hard over to…finally…meet the pinned right wrist and…presto.
One magician, hogtied on the rocks.
Molina sat back, both winded and revved. Practice makes perfect, and God knew she had done her share of takedowns in L.A., but that had been years ago.
This one felt better than all of them put together.
For a moment she gloried in being a successful street cop: quarry run down, pinned down, about to go downtown.
She caught her breath and rose, bending to grab his elbow and force him to his feet. She kept his arm in custody while she retrieved the Glock from the truck hood.
“Not leaving your license number?” he asked.
She didn’t answer, just hustled him along to her car, trying not to grin in triumph.
Moments later she realized that not once during the whole confrontation — not once — did she ever consider going for her ankle gun.
Not bedroom games, she said to herself, breathless but satisfied. Just old-fashioned, street-smart police work.
Hallelujah Chorus
As I gaze upon my Miss Temple sprawled on the asphalt, coughing and spitting like a half-drowned red tabby, I feel a strong surge of pardonable pride.
Thank Bastet that I decided to pause at Baby Doll’s en route to my rescue mission for Midnight Louise!
It looked dicey for a minute or two, when I feared Miss Temple would not heed my clarion call for some reason. Luckily, I had arranged for backup.
Although I have not worked with this gang long enough to unleash them on a perpetrator in an orderly disorderly fashion, they certainly were in fine voice and alerted Miss Temple just in time to upset her attacker.
Our continued caterwauling attracted more help of a human nature, but rather than stick around to answer for such a scruffy band of companions, I decide to press on to the next crisis.
“So that is your live-in,” a hoarse voice growls in my ear. “Not much for size or looks. And I think she’s deaf. Have you had her tested by the vet? I presume a privileged fellow like you has a vet.”
“You are not seeing my Miss Temple at her best angle, Ma. Upright. And she has heard me perfectly well on previous occasions. Must be that awful howling music pouring out of Baby Doll’s. We better split before someone mistakes us for street musicians and starts hurling projectiles at us.”
At that I jump down from the fence and back into the mean streets, all in the hopes of ending the discussion. My dear mama, I discover, has enough wind to trot alongside me and still belabor my plans, my significant other, and sundry other details about my person and life.
I begin to wonder if this raid on Los Muertos will be worth it.
I Once Was Deaf but Now I See
Temple pushed down on the heels of her hands.
She couldn’t see, but at least she didn’t hear that horrible shrieking anymore. She had a queasy suspicion that she had contributed to it at the end there.
No one was touching her either.
She pulled herself up against the van and tried to open her eyes.
Blinking, burning. She forced her eyes ajar an eyelash-width again, catching her breath.
Then two hands grabbed her arms above the elbows.
She inhaled to screech, solo, when someone shook her slightly.
“Hey. Tess. It’s okay.”
The voice sounded familiar.
She forced her eyes wider despite the searing saltwater they drowned in.
Rafi Nadir. She was wrong! He was here and he had always been the one.
She pulled away, screamed, kicked, punched, spun her ring, grasping for the pepper spray canister again.
“Hey! Simmer down, Tess. It’s okay! I decked him pretty good. He’s out until someone wants him talkative.”
Him?
Temple gasped, stopped flapping like a fish out of water. (She would never eat fish again.)
She tried to focus on the dark asphalt at her feet, between the two vans.
A long figure lay stretched out facedown.
While she stared, Rafi Nadir whipped out a cell phone and dialed 911. “Mugging susp
ect down at Baby Doll’s strip club parking lot, Paradise and Flamingo. We need a squad car fast.”
He kept the phone to his ear and frowned at Temple’s gaping expression. “If it hadn’t of been for those nutsy alley cats serenading the strip club from the fence, I never would have noticed you fighting this creep in the shadows here. Don’t you know better than to park your car between two behemoths like this? Put yourself in the dark, a perfect target for a mugger, or worse.”
“I — I think it’s ‘worse’. I think that’s the stripper killer.”
Temple did not explain that she’d parked in the dark on purpose to hide her car. An undercover operative does not give away trade stupidities…er, secrets. Especially not at Secrets. Was she still a little punchy?
“Good thing you had that pepper spray.” Nadir paused to answer a question on the open line. “North side of the lot. Yeah.” He shook his head at Temple. “I don’t know what to do with you, Tess. If this guy is the stripper killer, and I kinda think it might not be that bad, you just walked right into his hands. Haven’t you got anybody to look out for you?”
“Alley cats?” Temple suggested, shrugging. The tears were stopping and so were the shakes. “Who is it?”
“We’ll let the police handle that, little lady.”
“No. I really, really want to know. Now.”
Rafi Nadir stared at her. She knew she looked worse than a drowned, red-eyed rat. She knew he thought she was stupid and reckless, which she had been, but only because she was smart and tough, in secret. And she knew he thought women needed to be bossed around for their own good. But. She really needed to see who this guy was.
And he saw that she had earned that right.
So he bent down to roll the guy over. Tall, lanky, all in black. Not as tall as Max, but close enough to stop a heart, hers, for a minute. Black Levis, black work shirt. Not Max. Not the photographer.
“Oh, my God!” She pointed as if Nadir couldn’t see for himself. “It’s that sound machine kid. The club DJ. He gets around from place to place too, like a stripper, doesn’t he? Don’t the DJs do that?”
“Yeah —” Nadir was looking down at his victim with more respect. “But he’s just a kid.”
“A kid in a candy store. I bet these guys get the idea they own these women they work around.”
Nadir started to say something, looked at Temple, then shut his mouth.
“Listen,” he said. “I’d better not hang around.” Sirens were wailing like alley cats in the distance. He looked over his shoulder. People who had been peering out the club’s open door now were starting to trickle onto the asphalt. “They’ll help you keep him down if he gets antsy. Just use your spray. And try not to let it blow back in your face.”
Temple regarded the shadowy figure on the ground. Her fingers found the spray can among the spandex.
“Smart idea.” Nadir’s hand rested on her shoulder for a sexless, bracing second. “You take full credit for this one, kid. You didn’t see me.”
And then he left.
Temple slumped against the van.
Wow.
She aimed her pepper spray at the ground near the young man’s head.
She was wrong. Her hand still shook.
She was thinking about what would happen to Max if she had been left dead like Cher Smith in a strip club parking lot.
Siren Song
“You’re wrong,” he said.
“You’ll have all the time in the world to prove it.”
Her voice was level, strong, intense. But Molina was worried.
He had been the hardest takedown in her career, and she was half-afraid that he had let her win in the end, not because he was a gentleman but because it suited him.
So now she had Max Kinsella, handcuffed, to put in her personal car, which was equipped with nothing but a police radio.
She sure didn’t want him behind her, so the passenger seat was the only option and it wasn’t a good one.
“Get in,” she said, as if she just loved the idea of putting him there.
She shoved him into the seat, pushing down on his head to force him inside.
His height was still too much for the Toyota’s roof line, and he banged his skull.
Good, maybe it’d daze him a little. It was a twenty-minute ride to headquarters and she didn’t want to distract herself calling in or doing anything but keeping him in custody until he was safely locked up somewhere even an magician couldn’t abracadabra his sleazy way out of.
Kinsella sat hunched forward in the seat, partly because of his height, partly because with his hands manacled behind his back he couldn’t lean back. Tough.
“Temple’s life could be on your head,” he said. Sounded strangled, like he really cared. And getting…cozy with her if it would help get him free. What a creep!
“Can it.”
She snapped on her seatbelt, started the car, put it into gear, checked that he was still bound and pulled out of the Secrets parking lot.
“You don’t know that Temple isn’t in danger,” he said, “and you really don’t have anything solid on me.”
“I’m sure I can work up a probable cause that would curl a judge’s hair. You have been caught on too many dirty scenes too many times.”
“Not caught. Not until now.”
“Why do I think that you think you’re not really caught?”
He shrugged, stared ahead, intently watching the street as if he were behind the wheel, not she.
Just fifteen more minutes and she’d be rid of him.
The radio squawked. She wanted to turn up the squelch dial, but couldn’t risk leaning down into the well of the car. Perfect opportunity to sandbag her.
After a buzz of competing calls, she heard the words, “Baby Doll’s.”
Kinsella thrashed a little against his bonds. Solid-steel suspicion, that’s what she had on him. It would have to be enough.
She had to lean forward to pick up the mike. Had to. Kept her eyes on him as if she was a staple gun and he was wallpaper.
More voices chimed in, sputtering through the static. Action.
She waited for a break and got on. “Molina. What’s going on at Baby Doll’s?”
“Perp down. Victim’s okay. She’s saying it’s the stripper killer.”
Molina hit the brakes so hard her passenger’s forehead tapped the windshield.
She made sure he wasn’t using the distraction to attack her, but he was listening as hard as she was.
“Victim is okay?”
“Yeah. She pepper-sprayed the guy” — Kinsella jerked, and she glared him to stillness — “to kingdom come. He’s out cold yet.”
“Who’s the guy?”
“Some DJ kid for the clubs. Tyler something.”
Molina gave up and pulled the car over to the curb, putting on the emergency blinkers. Tyler. Who’da thunk it? She had a horrifying suspicion who might have.
“And the intended victim? You got a name yet?”
“Tess, from what some people around here said.”
Tess?
“But it turns out it’s really Temple.”
Of course. The awful inevitability of it was almost blinding.
“Yeah,” the radio squawked. “That’s a first name. Temple Barr. Tiny little thing, but she put this guy down flat.”
The radio went silent.
“I think I’ll be going now,” Kinsella said quietly.
She looked over. The handcuffs dangled from one wrist, then the empty one was snapped on her right wrist, the left one jumped from his wrist to snap shut on the steering wheel.
It all happened faster than the blink of an eye, especially an eye controlled by a mind that was busy absorbing vast new vistas on a series of old problems.
“You bastard.” Her tonelessness made the word even uglier. “I ultimately would have had to let you go anyway. This time.”
He opened the door, jumped out, leaned his head back in a sliver of open door.
“I know you would have had to.” Kinsella rubbed his forehead, grinned. “But ultimately it’s more fun this way. You do still have the key somewhere on you, don’t you, Lieutenant?”
He slammed the door shut and vanished…only because she couldn’t move much to see where he had gone.
While she struggled to dig the key one-handed out of her rear paddle holster, fighting the damned seatbelt all the way, the radio buzzed with the happy crosstalk of high adventure and the taunting muted shriek of sirens speeding to the crime scene.
Kinsella had been honest about one thing: a woman in danger.
At least Temple Barr was just dandy, and neither she nor Kinsella would have her damage or death on their conscience.
That would be something in common with Max Kinsella that Carmen Molina absolutely could not bear.
Serial Chills
“I did not raise you,” my mother says, “to leave a lady lying in the street, even if she is human.”
“Look, Ma, you did not raise me, period. It was six weeks and ‘You are on your own, kit.’ Besides, I know my Miss Temple and she is fine, especially after we sang to high heaven to attract attention to her plight. I do not know that Miss Midnight Louise is fine.”
“Usually something ‘stinks’ to high heaven,” Ma says.
“Well, we were not the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, but it got the job done.”
We are trotting along at the head of a feline brigade, if a brigade can be as motley a crew as this is.
Only my mother’s stern matriarchal influence on the cat colony has permitted this rare outing en masse, so I am best off if I do not irritate the old dear too much.
“So this Midnight Louise is your kit, Grasshopper,” she says.
“We have not had a DNA test,” I grumble, “so I am not about to claim relationship. She was known as Caviar until some humans got the funny idea she looked like me and renamed her Midnight Louise. You know how it is, humans think all us black cats look alike.”
“Hmph. Caviar is a pretty fancy name for a nobody. I do not have any grandkits, that I know of.”
Midnight Louie 14 - Cat in a Midnight Choir Page 31