Pete Wayans was patting his forehead with his silk pocket handkerchief and sitting on a chair again.
Olga and Ivan were joined at the hip, although pale.
“Can we go?” Ivan asked.
“It’s pretty clear,” Alch said, “that a lot of folks were coerced here. We’ll need a statement, but you two need to rest up a bit first. We’ll call.”
Temple was nearly putting her neck out of joint to see, but no Molina seemed to be lurking in the hall.
“So the only criminal still at large,” Wayans was saying, “is the fellow who actually took the scepter. Do you think those Russky bozos will say who he was during interrogation?”
Alch smiled slightly at the paper tiger Wayans had become.
“Who’s to say, sir? This is a pretty murky case, even with Miss Barr’s masterful extraction of the facts from the victims of this scheme.”
He quirked an eyebrow at her, and left.
“Great job,” Wayans said, gathering up his automatic pencil. “The show will go on without the scepter. Too bad,” he told Templer, “I like your spin that maybe someone took it to save it from these mobsters. Randy, do me a press release on all this. All’s well that end’s well. International scheme uncovered by the staff of the New Millennium and me. The regular.”
He left briskly, except when he came up even with the remaining man at the door, and then he stalled a little.
The guy smiled like a shark. Maybe it was the sleek, gray sharkskin suit.
Wayans scooted through the door as Randy patted Temple on the shoulder.
“You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din. I would never have remained standing with the Fontana brothers and their Italian tailoring and designer Berettas the only thing between me and those Cro-Magnon mobsters.”
“You didn’t, Randy,” Temple said, laughing.
“So this tangled web of theft is pretty much untangled, except for how all the magic show rigging turned into breakaway props. You can’t tell me anyone up there was expecting that, not even Shangri-La.”
Randy was right: Temple couldn’t tell him most of what had happened up there, especially Max’s involvement, or suspicions that the Synth had been trying to kill him. She had to come up with a good reason to overlook that issue.
“It’s possible that Shangri-La rigged some of it to fail as a distraction, but was taken unawares by the extra rigging set up for the fake Cloaked Conjuror.”
“Two forces working in secret opposition?”
“Something like that. The police will be working overtime to ID the thief and find him, believe me.”
Especially Lieutenant C. R. Molina, she added mentally.
“Right. Well, I’ll tell the press the equipment failed because the thief or thieves tampered with it. And I’ll do as much for your role in resolving this situation in the press release as Wayans’ ego will let me. Semper fi.”
Still, Temple’s ankles wavered a little on her to-die-for Stuart Weitzman/Midnight Louie high-heeled pumps covered in solid Austrian crystals with a black cat image on the heel. They were way too dressy for this occasion but somehow it felt good to have Louie backing up her ankles, at least.
The only person left in the room was Mr. Stone Face in the gray flannel suit at the door. Obviously a Red State Republican. Obviously Law and Order, but whose?
Temple walked over.
“Nice shoes,” he said.
“Thanks. I think I know you but I’m a little hazy just now.”
“You should be.” He took pity on her lack of instant recall. “Does Elvis Presley ever cross your mind?”
“Right! That Elvis impersonator competition. You’re . . . Matt’s FBI friend.”
“Frank Bucek. We do want a go at those two Russian mobster guys. That’s why Molina called me in.”
“Molina?” Temple felt like cringing but didn’t.
“She’s peripheral to this. So. About you. Matt’s Las Vegas friend.”
“Right.”
“Friend kinda doesn’t cover it, does it? Not with Matt.” “Um, no.”
“You’d never pass the physical, but I’d want you in the FBI anytime. That was a nervy little act you did there.”
“Just doing my job. Public relations is a very demanding profession. If you do it right.”
“So, how’s Matt?”
“Great. He’s becoming a major media . . . icon. Gosh. Speaking all over the country. His syndicated radio show. You’re an ex-priest too, aren’t you?”
She glanced at the plain gold band on his left ring finger. “Married?”
“Yup.”
“Do you, like, ever talk to your wife?”
He cracked a smile, reluctantly. “Yup.”
“What do you say?”
“None of your business.”
“Well, it kinda is. Matt’s asked me to marry him.”
“That happens. What’s the problem?”
Temple had been through a very stressful few hours. She searched for something decently vague to say, then couldn’t help what came out: “I don’t want to have thirteen kids, like more than Mama Fontana,” she blurted, “considering how old I am now and how fertile I could be and no birth control and, oh shit.”
Frank Bucek shut his eyes, gathering himself. “Only the Pope would have thirteen kids now, and he’s exempt. I’ll talk to Matt, okay?”
“That’s just it. I think he’s afraid to have any, and I don’t know what I want. Yet.”
“I’ll talk to Matt.”
“What about me?”
He smiled. “You need talking to, but by a superior officer. Thank God it’s not me. Leave the Russian mob to the pros and go home and have a good belt.”
Mad Matt
“Ma! He’s going to go to the Father-Daughter Dance next fall with me! It’ll be so sweet to see the other girls’ faces. I mean, Mr. Midnight. In person. With me!”
Carmen came up short on her daughter’s teen exuberance.
Mariah had grabbed her in the kitchen as she entered from the attached garage and hugged her. Hugged her? Mean Bad No-no Mama?
No mother of a teenager expects anything but angst during that dreaded three-year transition period.
“Whoa! Chica! Who are we talking about?”
She’d had a big, bad day. FBI. Russian mob. Temple Barr.
That’s when Carmen looked past the kitchen into the den. Matt Devine was standing there, hands in chino pants pockets, looking slightly embarrassed. As well he should be!
And looking like . . . definite girl bait. Blond, diffident, and coolly hot: a total hottie according to teen parlance. Molina had seen the teen mags.
“I don’t know much about it,” Matt was saying.
Obviously, Matt had come to call for some reason and Mariah had seen, jumped, snagged, and overwhelmed. Girls today were so much more aggressive with boys than in her day.
So Mama was forced to give out the details. “Junior High formal dance. First one. Next fall. Mariah’s way ahead of the gun—”
“Really?” Matt eyed her chubby-turning-tall daughter. “First dance? I’m flattered. But I’m not a great dancer, Mariah.”
“You will be. We can practice ahead of time, right?”
“Ah, right.”
Carmen smiled to watch Matt watch Mariah bounce down the hall to her bedroom, her inner sanctum of clutter and boy-band posters. He hadn’t counted on rehearsals.
He eyed the mother in the case. “This meet with your approval?”
Molina sighed. “She doesn’t have a father. A presentable father,” she added at Matt’s straight-shooter look. “You’re a local celebrity. It’d make her day. Night.”
“Done deal.” He came closer.
Matt was attractive in the extreme. He was single. He was an ex-priest, which a Latina like her could certainly understand. She would trust him with her daughter, but not with his own personal instincts.