So there I am left alone in the wink of an eyeball, with the newspaper to myself, not to mention three mugs with congealing coffee rings in their bottoms, and not a drop of cream, or even skim milk, in sight.
I do not even have to stretch too far to pull the disheveled pages toward me. I do so hate to be the last to get to the morning paper and find it shopworn.
I use my built-in clippers to scratch out the desired article, the column in which the fateful mention of death threats was made.
Are any of my erstwhile companions aware that I have been drugged, caged, and transported against my will time and again? That I have so many death threats hanging over my head they would weigh as much as a showgirl’s headdress at the Rio?
No, no one worries about Midnight Louie except Midnight Louie.
So. The Cloaked Conjuror is working with a new cat. That is the part of the article that perked my ear, naturally, since it had to do with matters closer to home. Could the sinister Hyacinth be moving her act to another magician? That Siamese siren has a habit of showing up on the scene of the crime, including the murder at TitaniCon only a few days ago.
Time for me to find out. And this time I am not going to beard this lioness in her den alone. This time I am going to bring some muscle. To catch a thief, use a thief. To trap a tricky dame, use a tricky dame.
Now, let me see…where would a wise-guy PI like me find one of those?
Chapter 4
A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing
Molina felt like the wolf at the three little pigs’s door.
She was still huffing and puffing, at least, from hoofing it up three flights of stairs. Needed more time at the gym than behind a desk.
The faded stucco apartment building had no elevator, and the cheapest units were at the top. A scuffed plastic trike sat abandoned by the door. Who would let a three-year-old ride a trike on this narrow concrete balcony that ended in a corkscrew of stairs downward?
The dusty windows along the wall of the unit were covered with miniblinds, the thin metal slats crushed askew, as if the inhabitants were always peeking out.
Her outfit was more a costume than clothes, so she took quick inventory before she knocked: scuffed moccasins missing beadwork, worn jeans, a cotton-polyester shirt, and a fringed suede jacket the color of diarrhea, all courtesy of the Goodwill.
The cheap watch she had found there too read 10:00 A.M., a bit early to be rousting ladies of the night, but she wanted to find them home. Finding them sleepy and hungover as well would be a bonus.
Her fist hesitated above the door’s scratched surface. She hadn’t gone undercover in years; she felt like an ingenue about to make her first entrance on stage.
And she wasn’t undercover at all, officially.
She ran a hand through her hair, mussing it. This wasn’t a situation where pounding and badge flashing was going to get her anything.
She knocked.
Waited. Waited some more.
Knocked again.
No shouts of “Police! Open up!”
Just knock and wait, like the pizza delivery guy.
And hope you don’t get mugged while doing it.
No one was stirring yet in the complex, though. And vehicles born to be towed away littered the parking lot three stories below like a kid’s battered and scattered toys.
Through the door, she heard a child fussing, the whining, accelerating cry that sounds eerily like a siren.
The door shook and opened the length of a scratched safety chain.
“Yeah?” The face could have sold cold cream, so bleary, morning-after it looked.
Molina tried for a tone as jaded, and fell short. “Name’s Gina Diaz. I’m looking into what happened to Mandy.”
She had been summed up while she spoke. “Why?”
“I’ve been hired to do it.” True, in a way.
“You some female PI?”
“You could say that. Look. I just want to know some personal details, so I have a prayer of helping these folks out.”
“Her parents?”
Molina shrugged. “Sometimes they like to know what happened to dead daughters.”
A crinkle of curiosity crossed the swollen features. Behind her, the kid’s whine rose to a screech.
“Oh, God. Okay, come on in, lady. We don’t know anything, though.”
Once in, the door was locked behind her. “Good idea,” Molina noted. Cripes, had to forget being Cop Lady for a day.
“Sometimes good ideas aren’t enough, though. Sit down. Name’s Reno.”
Sure, Molina thought. Name was anything but Reno. As for sitting down…well, on what junk pile?
She chose a sofa end that was stacked with washed department-store-quality kiddie clothes, clean but wrinkled.
A moment later a sprite of two with tear-slicked cheeks was lifted atop the kitchen counter. Molina heard a toaster thump and soon the child was gnawing on a Pop-Tart.
Mom was a spare, attractive brunette somewhere in her late twenties, wearing lime green capri pants and a white-lint-strewn black sports bra.
Molina guessed they were the easiest clothes to grab when she had come knocking.
“You live alone here with the little girl?”
“No, but Ginger slept right through your pounding on the door. God, Trifari, don’t gobble! You’re getting raspberry on your new Gap top.”
Reno swiped the kid’s chin and set her on the carpet cluttered with plastic toys and dolls.
She noticed Molina folding the clean clothes and suddenly grinned. “Thanks. Just stack ’em on the end table. On top of the magazines. So you’re really a detective?”
“Really.”
“Say, do you want some coffee?”
“Why not? You look like you could use some anyway.”
Reno returned to the kitchen to fuss with a coffeemaker. “You probably figured out I work the clubs too, like Mandy did. Her real name was Cher.” She poked her face through the pass-through over the snack counter. “How long you been a detective?”
“About twelve years. How long have you been a stripper?”
“Forever.” Reno came back into the living room and plopped down on the floor beside the little girl. “I bet they don’t mess with you much, not at your size.”
“It helps. But they mess with me if they think they can get away with it. And they always do. You?”
“Let’s just say I hope Trifari grows up a little bigger than her mother. But I manage.” She smoothed the blond hair off the child’s brow. Raspberry jam smeared her lips like gloss, for a painful instant reminding Molina of photos she’d seen of Jon-Benet Ramsey. “She will, too,” Reno said softly, more to the kid than to Molina. “I’m gonna see she gets a much better deal than I did.”
“What kind of deal did Mandy/Cher get?” Molina had pulled out a stenographer’s notebook from which she’d torn half the pages before coming.
“You’ve seen the parents?”
“Well, the mother.”
Reno’s mouth soured. “Yeah. It’s interesting she’s coming around now. I mean, that stepfather…the usual scum.”
Molina nodded. “Maybe she learned too late that the kids have to come first. It’s a long shot, finding someone who killed a stripper.”
“Don’t we know that. Just paint a target on us. The cops could care less.”
“Not care less.”
“Huh?”
“Sorry. My, ah, aunt was a grammarian. It’s ‘could not’ care less.”
“What-ev-er. You make much money at this?”