Cat in a Leopard Spot

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  And, then, to spend time touring the premises of the next most likely candidate…and to end up feeling a pang of sympathy at the impermanent, solitary, on-the-run lifestyle Max himself knew far too well, half postadolescent rootlessness, half monkish withdrawal.

  And those sudden, obviously new acquisitions blooming like high-tech bouquets amid the arid landscape: gadgets in the kitchen, the video and audio equipment in the living room, the answering machine in the second and even emptier bedroom, all of them with curled-cover instruction booklets sitting next to them…it was laughable, poignant.

  For Matt Devine, Max wondered, was Temple a mysterious new gadget in his brave new world, and did he wish that she came with an instruction booklet?

  Max laughed quietly to himself, then sobered as he considered the reason he had been called in as a debugging expert. He supposed Devine had hated his intrusion as much as Max had. Max remembered the man’s startled expression on seeing him outside the door, even though Devine was expecting him.

  The feeling was mutual, bub.

  Most men were too homophobic to much notice the looks of other men, but every time Max saw Devine he was stunned by the matinee-idol handsomeness. It wasn’t just a photogenic face. Real matinee idols knocked other people out: gender or age had nothing to do with it, just some genetic combination of features that stunned everyone.

  Max suspected this unasked-for gift was more a barrier than anything. In Devine it was combined with an unconsciousness—no, a disregard—that made the good looks all the more compelling.

  Max had met only one other person in his life with that kind of visual impact: Kathleen O’Connor. He laughed again, seeing Sean and himself acting like clumsy clowns, tangling their tongues, their overgrown feet, trying to compete for a colleen like Kathleen.

  She was as dewy as the fabled island that spawned her, moist and fecund and lush and intriguingly cloudy, elusive. She made even boys understand why the Cavalier poets had written reams to their mistresses’ ivory white skin, rose-petal lips, and “brunette beauty.”

  Max had long since learned to get past beauty, but he wondered what would happen to that if he saw Kathleen, or Kitty as she called herself to Devine, again after all these years. From the sketch Devine had commissioned of her, age had not withered a scintilla of it.

  And, yes, he took the threat she posed seriously, though he hadn’t let on to Devine. Max was used to keeping his own counsel, to directing the show of his life and his life’s work. Only part of it, the least important, had been onstage.

  So. He leaned against the wall, partly indulging his ego with a paranoid sense of personal competition, partly putting off confronting the ugly certainty that lives he cared about were in danger, and only he could do something to stop it.

  In the years between Sean’s death in Northern Ireland, he had atoned for surviving the IRA bombing, for the sin of not being there, by saving strangers’ lives. Now it had come full circle. The lives he needed to save were those as close to him as he allowed these days, Temple principally, of course, but he had to save Temple the loss of those she cared for to save her completely, and that was a wider circle.

  And it included Matt Devine, ironically.

  And even Kitty O’Connor was not an island. Max had other enemies from his undercover days, and had made new ones during his uncustomary long stay in Vegas. Molina, for one. She worked for the law, and she regarded him as the epitome of lawlessness. No quarter there.

  And Devine was right: Max’s past had brought the danger into their own living rooms. His now, Temple’s…when?

  Damn, but Devine was too good-looking for any woman’s good! Temple or Molina, maybe even. Or even Kitty O’Connor? Did she have a vulnerable spot she was hiding with her implacable persecution of Matt Devine?

  Beauty. Yeats had described the truth and terrible cost of the Irish freedom movement as “a terrible beauty” being born. And beauty was born, not made. It wasn’t an option.

  Maybe that was what drew Kathleen to Devine, for worse or for better, the one thing they had in common that infuriated her. And she was infuriated. She had already acted on it by her first, shockingly physical surprise attack on Devine. Where would her fury strike next? And at whom? If she couldn’t find him, and was taking it out on others, could he find her first? Take her out. One way or the other.

  Meanwhile…the current show must go on.

  Max pushed himself off the wall, straightened his slumping backbone into onstage steel again. Enough wallowing. Back to being the Mystifying Max Kinsella, able to defy gravity and create illusions out of insubstantial air.

  He was going to have a busy night of it.

  First, he called the private backstage number for the Cloaked Conjuror.

  It was well before showtime, but CC would be in. Magicians always came early to triple-check the arrangements for their shows. One slip-up could cause career-terminating embarrassment.

  CC sounded very glad to hear from Max, and even gladder to hear that his missing leopard had been found.

  “No, you can’t have Osiris back anytime soon,” Max told him. “He’s…quarantined. No, not sick. Only…suspected.”

  Max quickly laid out the murder and the leopard’s presence at the death scene. “The Animal Oasis has taken charge of Osiris. The other big cats and the herds remain in place, with their usual tenders. There’s nothing you can do except visit Osiris, which I don’t recommend. The police don’t know whose animal he was, and you don’t want to step forward, because Osiris’s owner would be a prime suspect in the murder. Who else could control the animal?”

  “I never even heard of this Van Burkleo guy and his head-hunting ranch,” CC objected in an odd voice: his own, unmasked by a vocal synthesizer. Contrary to his muscular onstage image, his pleasant tenor would serve a bingo caller well.

  “Say you. I do wonder why you never got any ransom demand for Osiris. Also about a couple other things involving his abduction. Stay out of it. The Animal Oasis people will take princely care of him. If you want to do something, give the AO a big donation. Having an exotic animal dumped into their facility with no notice puts a huge strain on the staff, the accommodations, and the budget. It’s a nonprofit.”

  “Listen, that’s a ‘ransom’ I’m happy to pay. You’ll let me know as soon as Osiris is cleared? I mean, it’s ridiculous that a leopard would be suspected of murder.”

  “I agree.” Max didn’t mention his biggest worry: not that the leopard would be charged with murder but that community outrage at any “wild” animal attacking a human might mean a hasty putting down. “All you need to worry about is staying away until the real killer is caught.”

  “How can you be sure that he will be?”

  “Or she. I guess I’ll just have to see to it myself.”

  “My God. You don’t mess around when you set out to do something, do you?”

  “Nope. And when it is safe to get Osiris back, we’ll have to abduct him. You really can’t risk claiming him publicly, ever, for a number of reasons.”

  “You mean the Synth as well as the police?”

  “Yes, and probably the Girl Scouts are involved too.”

  “What!”

  “Never mind. A bad joke. I have a lot of bases to cover tonight and I’m getting a little slap-happy. I’ll call again when you can do something for me.”

  Max punched off the phone and snapped it shut.

  Next he had to tackle Temple without telling her too much. That would be difficult, and against his wishes, if not his better judgment.

  Maybe he could sic her onto Molina. That would clear his operating field of two complications at once.

  She responded to his knock on her door with surprised but rewarding pleasure.

  “Max! You’re knocking like a real boy. Your nose doesn’t even look too long from recent prevarications. In a good cause, of course. Come in. I get to be a real hostess. Sit down. Would you like a shot of scotch and a petit four?”

  He laughe
d and let her lead him into her lair.

  “I can’t stay.” Max sat gingerly on the sofa cushion edge. “Listen, Temple. Did you ever look into that strange geometric figure we found etched on the floor at the professor’s death scene?”

  “Um, no. It hasn’t been a priority.”

  She sat on the coffee table opposite him, a red-headed sprite in aqua leggings and matching big fuzzy sweater whom he wanted to pull onto his lap. Her bare feet were thrust into black patent-leather high-heeled mules that would go fetchingly astray if he made any sudden moves, but he had two murderers to hunt and no time for intermission.

  “Maybe you can coax some information on that out of Molina.”

  While her eyebrows shot up in disbelief at that revolting idea, he added, “Or your New Age acquaintances. Have you seen anything like this?” He pulled an artsy, mostly blank newspaper ad page toward him, drew his fountain pen and sketched the worm Ouroboros.

  Temple got up to lean over his shoulder, smelling faintly of lavender something. Just faintly enough to be interesting. “No. Is it made of metal? Is it a bracelet?”

  “Possibly. I don’t want to prejudice you. See if you can track down this symbol, however it’s used.”

  “I’m sorry, I’ve been so busy at the Phoenix. I didn’t have a chance to follow up on this Synth stuff.”

  “No hurry.” Max stood and then kissed her, because if he kissed her sitting down it might not end. “It’s very important. I hate to leave, but I have to.”

  “All right.”

  “Lock your door after I leave.”

  “Always.”

  In the hallway he waited for her dead bolt to snap to, while he planned his next calls.

  Standing there, he realized that Devine’s apartment was directly above hers. No wonder they had become friends, or something more than.

  Max grimaced. He supposed he owed Kathleen O’Connor a smidge of gratitude for occupying Devine thoroughly enough to make interaction with Temple unlikely, and even a threat to her well-being.

  It wasn’t often a mortal enemy did him a favor.

  Everything was acting up at once. Molina was personally investigating Cher Smith’s death. Kitty O’Connor was turning the screws on Matt Devine. Rafi Nadir was butting his nose into everybody’s business, maybe because he had something to hide, like murder one. And the Synth had possibly set up the Cloaked Conjuror’s leopard as a murder suspect.

  Where next?

  He checked his discreetly talented watch. It was getting late. Time to put Vince into long-term storage and to get out his long-lost soul brother. Who? Time would tell.

  Baby Doll’s was three tiers down from Secrets as strip clubs go.

  Max had decided on an off-the-wall approach, partly motivated by that mother of invention, necessity. He went in as an Elvis wannabe, cannibalizing bits of the Elvis impersonator outfit he had put together a few weeks earlier.

  Shades, sideburns, poufed and sprayed black hair. Who could see beyond the cartoon to the face beneath the icon’s mask?

  He would get a lot of attention, yes, but it wouldn’t be hard to talk to people.

  He slouched into the joint as if he were used to going everywhere in this weird getup. Bell bottoms, boots, and mod-pattern shirt.

  “Got a gig down the Strip yet tonight, Elvis?” the bartender asked.

  “Naw, I did a couple of the fringe casinos. That’s it. Tourist stuff mostly.” He grabbed a fistful of peanuts and stuffed his craw. “Came here to meet a girl.”

  “We got ’em.”

  “Not that way. Friend of mine. Good little peeler. Sometimes goes by Delilah.”

  “Had ’em, seen ’em, not any here now.”

  “Or…Mandy.”

  The bartender stiffened, then shook his shaggy head. He looked about two weeks off of Wine Bottle Row himself, and now he looked scared. “I only been working here a couple of weeks.”

  Max laughed at his own accuracy. “Anybody here who might have seen her a couple weeks ago?”

  “You’re not the only one who’s asking. Maybe you two should get together.”

  Max turned in the direction the guy’s single eye that focused was looking.

  Maybe…not.

  If he had gone for the over-obvious, Molina had settled for same old, same old. Worn jeans, weathered jean jacket, black turtleneck sweater, suede red, white, and blue shoulder bag big enough to tote a revolver. He spotted, and admired, the chipped polish on her fingernails. A nice touch. More makeup than the usual nil, but applied slap-dash.

  She looked like a weary, low-rent PI who was used to trailing unfaithful husbands to motels roaches wouldn’t rent.

  Right now she was talking to a blowsy stripper who should have retired two decades ago, making notes with a stubby pencil on a cocktail napkin while nursing a Bloody Mary.

  Max wished he had a camera.

  “You ever take on freelance muscle?” he asked Wino Willie over his shoulder while he watched Molina shout her questions over the noise of the taped music. He could just about read her lips.

  “Yeah. The bouncers come and go as much as the girls do. Guess they’re all bouncers.” He cackled.

  “Guy named Raf.”

  “Yeah. I seen him.”

  Max spun around, engaged at once. “Yeah? Big guy. Well, thick guy anyway.”

  Willie was nodding his head on his stringy neck. “Now that you mention it, this Raf first showed up the night of the Incident.”

  “Incident?”

  Willie shrugged as he swabbed a filthy wet rag over the cigarette-blistered Formica bar top. “I guess you’re askin’ made me remember. Mandy. Second night I was on. Girl got herself killed in the parking lot.”

  “They don’t ‘get’ themselves killed. Someone does it for them.”

  “You know what I mean. Didn’t catch her name, but this Raf guy ducked out before the police came. Forgot about him. Round this place you remember the girls and forget the guys.”

  “I guess.” Max/Elvis leered toward the stage where the black overhead spotlight was painting somebody fluorescent purple-white in all the right places.

  Molina had moved on and was talking to a burly young bouncer with a pool-cue scar on his upper lip.

  The music was as loud and even fuzzier than the sound system at Secrets. The strippers here all moved in a dream, matching the sparse clientele.

  A bit of energy burst through the door, and several sets of eyes flicked its way, Max’s among them.

  He almost dropped the prop cigarette he had been twirling through his fingers like a baton.

  Rafi Nadir.

  Max panned to Molina. She wasn’t wearing sunglasses after dark, naturally.

  Elvis was.

  He swiveled off the barstool and ambled in her direction. This would be the greatest magic trick of his career. Nothing to do but head her off, get rid of her, and keep Nadir to himself.

  “Hi, uh, ma’am?” Sound like a rube.

  She turned to find him slouched behind her, sticking a fresh cigarette behind his ear like a ’50s hood.

  “Yeah?”

  “Guy at the bar says you was askin’ ’bout Mandy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I had some words with her. Guess she was the girl who got killed. Guess you’re one of these PIs?”

  “Yeah.”

  Max looked around, shifted his engineer-booted feet. “Don’t wanna talk here, you know? You got a car?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We kin go there?”

  “Why should I? I don’t know you know anything.”

  “I knew Mandy. Sort of. That’s more’n most here. She was new, like me. Guess I lasted and she didn’t.”

  Molina looked impatiently around the place. She had a plan that didn’t include a hick Elvis who wanted to croon in a car.

  Nadir was leaning over the bar, cadging a genuine drink from Willie.

  “I sing real purty,” Elvis promised, with a wink.

  “Get real. Or is that
against your religion?”

  “Hey, the King was real. He was jest misunderstood.”

  “Aren’t we all.”

  She was turning away, toward Rafi Nadir.

  Nadir was turning away from the bar, smudged glass in fist, ready to survey the scene.

  Elvis caught her arm, spun her back to face him, feeling an instant tightening of bicep under the denim jacket. Not big, but hard. She worked out.

  “No, listen,” he said. “I feel real bad about Mandy. Dyin’ and all that.” Max had never sounded more sincere, maybe because it was easier to say the truth in another guise. “Mandy…she loved Elvis. Like a kid, you know. That’s why she talked to me, told me what she was afraid of.”

  “Afraid of?”

  Molina jumped on the bone he threw her like a cop on a clue.

  Rafi had his drink in hand was swaggering toward mid-room. Toward them.

  “Can’t we talk here?” she wanted to know.

  “No!” Elvis’s edge of hysteria overlaid an air of Kingly command. “It’s gotta be outside. Mandy was afraid of something inside.”

  “All right.” Frowning, Molina started for the door, her trademark laser blue eyes refracting the reflected rays from the lurid black light.

  Nadir was looking their way, attracted by the motion.

  Elvis swooped his extradark aviator shades from his face. Max braced for Molina to recognize him in the second before he pushed the glasses onto her nose. But she was distracted by the unwanted shades.

  “What are you doing?” Her arm went up out of reflex, hard.

  He blocked it with his forearm, a careless bump. “It’s bright out there, ma’am. Those big parking-lot lights. You wear Elvis’s shades. They’re a protection. He had bad eyes, you know. Too many bright lights. You don’t wanta let ’em bright lights get you. I’m a performer, I know. You ever see me do the King over at the Alhambra Inn?”