"Since when are the police so solicitous of petty career criminals?"
"You seem to have those guys pegged without any documentation. I don't need your time or your insight so badly that I'm about to make any deals with a disappearing act."
"That's too bad. I might have something to show and tell, but first I need to check some things out."
"Who's the cop here?"
He smiled. "You are, Lieutenant, as close-minded a hard-nosed dick as I've ever seen in a velvet glove."
"Don't let this getup fool you."
"I won't, if you won't."
She was silent as she contemplated the conversation thus far. Elusive was his middle name, as if he didn't have enough of them already. She might have to deal for her long-wanted interrogation, but he was capable of taking the info and running. He was even capable, she suspected, of breaking into headquarters to get it.
"If I decide to let you take a look at these guys, it will have to be downtown. And I'll want some answers about the Goliath."
His mobile face soured with a doubt-curdled expression. "I don't want that high a profile. Much as I enjoy chatting with you, this clandestine tete-a-tete will have to do for now. You're right, Lieutenant; I do have a thing or two to tell you. Meanwhile, just remember that it's not Temple that you're after."
He was at the door so fast the fact seemed supernatural.
She nearly knocked over the light bench as she stood.
"I'm not through with you," she warned him in the dead serious tones she would use with any suspect.
Kinsella paused, his hand on the battered doorknob, looked over his shoulder, turned.
She knew enough to approach him deliberately, her face an authoritarian mask. Still, she felt she was wading through Jell-O, aware of the long, soft skirt brushing her calves, of the lightweight holster gartering her ankle. No cop was ever off duty.
He waited, wary but curious. "Do you think you can arrest me?" he asked when she reached him.
That issue had both legal and physical implications, especially in a confrontation that had become an exercise in domination. They faced off, not moving, neither giving an inch in determination. She was not a small woman; in her vintage shoes she surpassed six feet, so he had a scant two or three inches on her. And probably only thirty pounds, she estimated expertly.
She sensed imminent movement on his part--street sense-- and her right arm lifted to stop his escape.
He caught her wrist, a weak tactic, but a canny move. That token counterforce allowed her to test his mettle. His upper body strength was surprising for one so lean, and his expression was now amused, which angered her, as he meant it to. Resistance did not dismay her. She knew some moves, but better yet, she had spent four years as a patrol officer doing take-downs in South Central L.A.
For the moment they remained paralyzed, exerting equal counter-strength, balanced like arm wrestlers before they get serious. Her will was as adamant as his. Besides, the real battle wouldn't begin until she slipped his wrist-grip to work some surprises of her own.
The balance held for frozen seconds.
Suddenly, without relaxing his grip, he leaned close and spoke in a deep whisper. "Don't." His vibrant baritone at her ear almost made the silk dahlia at her temple tremble. "Don't ruin the start of a beautiful . . . pursuit."
Irony and intimacy were concealed weapons she hadn't expected. Her wrist was now free, but so was he, eeling through the barely open door like a second-story man.
For a split second she debated pulling out her own concealed weapon and chasing him through the Blue Dahlia. No. Not yet. She wanted publicity no more than he, because she had so damn little probable cause for pursuing him, just the terminal itch of instinct.
Furious, she turned and slammed the door shut with her back. The grand gesture forced her to face herself in the tacky mirror across the room. C. R. Molina shut her eyes. Whatever her professional annoyance at anyone's--any suspect's--manipulation, she had to analyze the personal flaw that had surprised and paralyzed her for the vital instant he had used to leave without resistance. It wasn't pretty, but it was pretty obvious.
She allowed herself to replay the bolt of sheer sexual heat lightning that had riveted her from head to toe. His swift, alarming closeness, the warm, ironic voice, the physical tension of resistance, his and hers, suddenly altered into something else.
She hadn't allowed herself, hadn't had a hope in hell of experiencing anything like it in . . . years. She had felt as if an elevator she rode daily and indifferently had suddenly plunged three stories, and would the elevator operator do it again, please.
Calculated, of course, down to the second. Manipulative. Cocky. Effective. Part of her despised any woman's vulnerability for that ancient sexual domination game, always stacked against women. Part of her wanted to play it again, Sam.
Carmen leaned against the closed door, bracing her hands on the cool, smooth wood. She felt as if Bacall had just met Bogart. And he was good.
He was very, very good.
Lieutenant C. R. Molina pushed herself away from the door's support, from the past, from dispensible trivialities like libido.
So was she.
Chapter 12
Hearse and Rehearsal
"Cheyenne invited us," Temple told the man in the knit shirt who paused beside the seats she, Kit and Electra occupied in the Peacock Theater the next morning.
The man glanced at his beeper, nodded and rushed on.
"Whew." Kit slid onto her tailbone until her head was barely above the seatback. "No New York theater would let onlookers camp out like this during rehearsal."
"This is Las Vegas," Temple explained. "Everybody knows or owes somebody. People are always dropping in. As long as you have the right name to drop--and apparently we do--no problem."
Electra had not bothered to shrink into her seat; with her hair moussed and sprayed papaya pink, what was the point? She gazed mistily toward the stage.
"Kind of brings back my uncovered, undercover assignment as Moll Philanders. Golly, that Hesketh Vampire made a dynamite stage prop, though."
"Huh?" The string of confusing allusions brought Kit upright gain. "I know what a vampire is, but what's a 'Hesketh' vampire? One with a lisp?"
"A big mean, screamin' machine," Electra intoned with fond and unfaded memory. "One thousand cee-cees of silver-streak 'cycle."
"I don't even know what a 'cee-cee' is. Max's vintage British motorcycle," Temple translated for Kit's benefit. "Electra got it as a downpayment on our condo. She used it in her gig as a senior citizen stripper when I was doing PR for the stripper contest."
Kit blinked. "Senior citizen strippers? I knew Las Vegas had a loyal elderly clientele, but--"
"It's a long story," Temple said, "and rather rowdy."
Kit gave up for the moment to look around. "Pretty ordinary theater and house, without the turquoise and violet velvet curtains. So, What if you hadn't had Cheyenne's name to drop? Would we still be persona grata?"
"Sure." Temple grinned. "I work for the Crystal Phoenix now, so I could always use my position here."
"Hey!" came a deep booming shout from the back of the house.
"Yeah!" came its cousin.
"Ta-rah-rah boom-de-ay," came a lusty male chorus of at least six.
Temple turned, looked, cringed and tried to shrink in her seat.
"Temple's back, and guess who's got her?"
The bearers of this untimely news came charging down the center aisle en masse, or so it sounded. Temple couldn't bear to look, but she could smell them at fifty paces: a phalanx of English and Russian Leather intermixed with a soupcon of Brut.
Temple peered between her fanned fingers, trying for a body count. To her best estimate, she was viewing the complete Fontana, Inc. All nine brothers--except Nicky, who didn't travel in packs--
at once. Nicky, owner of the Crystal Phoenix and husband to hotel manager Van von Rhine, was the White Sheep of a large family more noted for its wool of blacker hue. The other brothers were bachelors--attractive, genially oblivious to all but the finer vices in life (like gats, gambling and gams) and prone to preen. But now their image had taken a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn.