"In the seminary, didn't you ever suspect? I mean, with your looks--"
"I got a lot of curiosity, and more crushes." Matt found himself recalling those days almost with nostalgia for his fiercely ingenuous self, who had so readily dismissed the easy admiration of others. "I noticed the crushes from women and girls, of course. I was scrupulous not to encourage them. If another seminarian had tendencies ... I was too naive to notice. We hardly knew what we were and we were there to control biological urges. No, it didn't crop out much in seminary. Once out in the real world, I had developed an invincible shield against
'temptation.' It wasn't hard; I wasn't really tempted, so it was no credit to me."
"You'd be surprised, but I know what you mean. As a woman working in a man's field, I have to create this invisible shield around me. My actions, my clothes are neutral. I don't send any signals, and I rarely receive any. It works."
"Too well, maybe. Your stage persona releases all that subdued femininity, but you're safe up there in the spotlight, still distant, tempting but still untempted"
"As the priesthood was safe for you?"
"I was safe in the priesthood. The world out here ... I don't know."
Matt was amused to see Molina's expression grow gruffly maternal.
"If you're the innocent I think you are, you're not free at all. Just like me. I'm divorced. That means I can't marry again, not in the church. And that means I have to answer to Mariah, whom I've sent to Catholic schools because I want her to have a good, safe education. I would have to justify myself to my family, to the whole damn neighborhood, "if I would want to marry, as you put it so well. Again. As for an affair--" She laughed bitterly. "There goes the neighborhood, and here comes the Bad Mother."
''There are annulments."
''Not everybody qualifies, as you said, or has the patience for the endless paperwork and waiting."
"Do you want to marry?"
Molina laughed again. "Hell, no. With this all-hours job and a child to rear? Not to mention the kind of men I come in contact with. The quandary is theoretical, Mr. Devine."
"Call me Matt. This conversation is too personal for honorifics. Lieutenant."
She blew out a frustrated breath. "I usually know where I'm going and how I got there, but not at the moment. Don't expect me to reciprocate by telling you to call me 'Carmen.' I hate the name."'
"Because of the associations?"
"Because I was a fat little kid in a Hispanic neighborhood who sang a lot and you should hear what other kids can do with a name like Carmen. I tried to go by my middle name in high school, but that was a disaster too."
"I hate my first name too."
"What's wrong with Matt? It's simple and the only mass association is the marshal on
'Gunsmoke,' not some slut or a fruitcake-head with an atrocious accent."
''My name's 'Matt' now. It was Matthias all through school."
"Oh, an old-fashioned saint's name. Still, that fits a priest and isn't so bad for a layman."
Molina smiled encouragingly, as she would with a child, maybe her child.
Matt didn't want to further explain why he had come to loath his given name. That was another room he wanted to keep private. It was bad enough that Temple knew.
"What's your middle name?" he asked.
She shrugged. "Regina."
"Latin for 'queen.' Not bad either."
"Regina Molina? You see. Nothing goes well with Molina. I hated to hang Mariah on the poor kid, but it's pretty--"
"And it isn't a saint's name, but it's close to Mary as in 'Ave Maria'; you were walking the line between Catholic and not' Catholic even then, when your daughter was born. So Molina was your family name. Why aren't you using your married name?"
"What are you, a detective? Or a frustrated shrink? Role reversal stinks."
"Knowing about people used to be my job, too."
"Why'd you leave it?"
"Because I needed to know about myself,"
"Why'd you call me?"
"Because I have a confession to make."
"Funny."
"Not to me. Listen, Carmen." He used the name firmly, as he would have with a rebellious grade-schooler. She made a face but said nothing. "There is something you need to know about me, because it has to do with your job." Matt gathered himself. "I heard about that man who died at the Crystal Phoenix, or who was found dead there. I think that I . . . knew him."
"Temple told you," she noted sourly, but she sat up to take literal notice of his revelation.
"So you knew Cliff Effinger?"
"You could say that. He was my stepfather."
Carmen Molina's blue eyes scintillated with shock, pleased speculation and curiosity as deep as the navy-dark waters of Lake Mead.
''Gee whiz, Matt, I'm so glad we had this little talk. I desperately need someone reliable to identify the body."
*****************
Temple backed away from her bed.
It didn't look much like a bed at the moment, being draped with every cocktail dress in her possession and bordered by endless pairs of glitzy high heels.
Why couldn't she ever decide what to wear to a special event until it was time to get ready?
Maybe her theatrical background was the cause. Even in civilian life she always felt like an actress who had to make her grand entrance without any idea of what part she was playing or how to dress for it.
Then again, maybe she was just nervous because this was her first official special event with Matt Devine for her escort.
Whatever the reason, she felt flustered and dithering and hot under whatever collar--if any--she decided to wear.
In exasperation she had turned to the window for a calming view of the pool--so still, so placid, so well dressed in its eternal costume of chlorine-treated azure. ...
This afternoon the view was not calming at all.
Not with Matt Devine sitting in the shade of the lone palm tree. Not with one Lieutenant C.R. Molina sitting right there beside him.
They looked like a bloody ice-tea ad! Prim, proper and on, oh, such jolly, pleasant terms!
Temple pushed as close to the glass as she dared without being seen, wardrobe dilemmas forgotten.
What was this tete-a-tete about? Devine and Molina? Matt and, and . . . Carmen?
Acquaintances? Friends? Buddies? Or worse;
Now don't get paranoid, Temple warned herself, to no avail.
Perhaps Molina was just interrogating Matt, using him to dig into Temple's background to get to Max. Temple nodded soberly, glad she had kept pretty much mum on Max when she was with Mr. Devine.
Matt might not mean to give away anything about her that Molina could use--and abuse.
Still, he was pretty naive about women, even when they were cops, relationships and life in general. He might blurt out something that she would regret. A good thing that she knew how to keep the past in an airtight compartment if she had to.
Temple watched Molina rise, smooth her stupid, bland skirt and walk to the gate. Matt accompanied her, hands in pants pockets, the afternoon sun glinting off his hair-gilded forearms.
Obviously, nothing momentous had happened during the conversation. Yet the scene had reminded Temple never to underestimate Molina's bulldog nature, or the possibility that she might use Matt, and Temple's interest in him, to pursue her obsession with Max.
No way. Lieutenant, Temple swore as she watched the woman vanish behind the closing wooden gate. Matt checked his watch, glanced up at the Circle Ritz--Temple flattened herself against the wall for a few seconds before she peeked again--and hurried into the building.
Temple released an anxious breath. Really time to get ready now! Eyeing the bed again, with its crazy-quilt of choices, the decision seemed simple. Temple swooped up one perfect dress and one perfect pair of shoes. Humming happily, she installed both by the closet door where the poster of Max Kinsella had once hung.