“Yes. And, more important, you have as well, Mr. Randolph, which is the only reason I can leave you in somewhat good conscience.”
Their wineglasses were empty, a fresh credit card from an arrogant woman in the Hugo Boss Black for women department had paid for the lunch. They stood, and he took her hand.
“It’s best,” he said, “that you return to your normal haunts and routines.”
“‘Haunts?”
“Places you usually go, in the pursuit of your work . . . and pleasures.”
“What if my work and pleasures have come to . . . coexist?”
Was she anxious at losing a lover, a case, or a target? Damn suspicion!
“The only thing that coexists between us is danger. All mine. If I peel off, you’ll be safe.”
“You’re so sure?’
“No. So go immediately to be with colleagues. People you trust. Warn several to set up an alarm if you vanish.”
“And you? Your safety? Your whereabouts, your well-being? I do not give up easily.”
“I can contact you. And will. When it’s safe.”
“I am to wait, that’s all?”
Her fingers were curled into his suit jacket. When he left her here, at the department store, she wouldn’t know whether he was driving out of Zurich, or flying, or taking a train or another bus.
“Do I strike you as a woman who will wait?” she pressed.
“No, Revienne, that’s why I beg you to listen to me. I’m stronger for knowing you, for knowing you inside out.” That’s the closest he could come to love. He sensed he didn’t give love easily, to many. “You must keep yourself safe, give me a reason to keep myself safe. You understand?”
She looked deep into his eyes. “You feel responsibility so strongly you can block out love. That is both admirable, and a curse.”
“You don’t want to hook yourself up to a curse.”
She got the “hook up” part.
“No, but sometimes that’s not an option. Take care, whoever you really are. Live so that I can remember you, and not in vain. Come to me if you need to. And always remember what love we made. That was past the loss of your memory. You can never erase me and I will always remember.”
He didn’t let himself say anything more, but he wished he could.
“Au revoir, Dr. Schneider.”
She smiled and leaned in to press her cheek to both of his in the French manner, and to nip one earlobe.
“Au revoir, Mr. Randolph,” she whispered. “And if your uncle should inquire about you?”
“Tell him where you left me.”
“That’s all?”
“He’s likely as much a survivor as I am.”
He turned and strode away.
He could hear her last, agitated words, but he didn’t look back.
“Wait! You’ve left your cane.”
Yes, he had.
Both of them.
For Her Eyes Only
“I need to talk to you, privately.”
Temple stared at Molina.
“The Casablanca Bar okay with you?”
“Uh, yeah, except I’m not sure Zoe Chloe Ozone is old enough to drink.”
“Surely you’re carrying your own ID somewhere.”
Temple nodded.
“Then we’ll both have to visit the ladies’ room, but you to dig out your ID. You first.”
Right. Separate visits. The idea of sharing a rest room with Molina was oddly appalling.
Vegas hotel bars and restaurants did have nearby rest rooms but they weren’t always apparent. Temple left New Age Molina staring gloomily into the tent of exotic sheer draperies that was the bar while she went off to do her duty to her kidneys after all the excitement, and dig her driver’s license out of her Miracle bra.
She paused before the mirror to make sure Zoe Chloe’s blueberry-colored lipstick wasn’t smeared. This would be almost goodbye to ZCO. Temple sighed. What a relief not to be “on” and in frenetic character every moment.
It would also be a relief to get past this awkward semipalsy moment with Molina. Drinks at a bar? Why would the disdainful detective want that?
Molina was waiting in the same spot.
“Your turn,” Temple said.
“I’m okay. There’s another rest room that way. I suggest we snag a couple of drinks at the bar and then a table. A waiter could be a good long while.”
Temple nodded, reaching into her tote bag when they found a gap in the barstools.
“I’m buying,” Molina said.
Temple was sure glad Zoe Chloe never betrayed surprise.
Her last offstage chance to be Zoe saw her ordering a Green Appletini. Yup, she had to produce her driver’s license. Molina went the hard-boiled route and ordered scotch on the rocks.
It felt very odd to be weaving a path around tables in Molina’s wake, clutching a martini glass.
The first empty table was lit by a candle flame trembling like a caught bird in a pierced metal cage, a small draped tent of faux isolation meant to make a vast space seem intimate, or at least private.
Temple set her drink down on the glass circle that topped a swagged tablecloth.
Even sitting, Molina seemed to loom in the miniature tent.
“So what’s the occasion?” Temple asked. “You surely aren’t thanking me for going along with this masquerade as Zoe Chloe.”
“No, but I suppose I should. You’re right that this isn’t my idea. Your fiancé suggested we have this chat.”
“Matt? Why?”
“To clear his conscience.”
“What can you tell me about him that he wouldn’t?”
“Such perfect trust,” Molina said, her voice brittle. “He won’t be responsible for keeping my secrets any longer. I made the mistake of confiding something in him that he won’t keep from you, no matter how disturbing it is.”
“Disturbing?”
“Shut up and sip. I can’t say this won’t hurt me more than it will you.”
Temple felt a cold chill curl around her innards.
Molina took a good swallow of scotch, and began. This was obviously both a reluctant confession and a kind of story.
“As you can see, I’m a certifiably lousy judge of men,” she said. “First there was Rafi Nadir, now Dirty Larry. Perhaps the colorful names misled me.”
Temple’s PR genes revved up. Time to soothe the anxious client. “Rafi doesn’t seem so bad now, maybe to you too. And Dirty Larry was useful in this case.”
“Useful,” Molina repeated with odd emphasis. “Yes, I suppose he is that, among other things.” She smiled. “You’re always looking for the rainbow behind the rain, Little Miss Sunshine,” Molina mused, gazing into the distance, her eyes unfocused. “I wonder if that’s what attracts them?”
“Who?”
“Men.” Molina’s eyes met Temple’s, blue as the bottle of curaçao on the shelves behind the bar.
“Which men?”
Molina ignored her. “I suppose I shared my . . . predicament with Matt because it was something we had in common.”
“Being Catholic?”
“No. Being knifed.”
Temple felt her eyes widen in a way Zoe Chloe would never allow. “So that’s what—”
“That’s what is wrong with me. It’s been six weeks, but Matt can tell you eighty-six stitches have a way of reminding you about them for a long time.”
“Eighty-six! Who? Why?”
“A moment, kiddo,” Molina said in an almost motherly voice. “I gotta brace myself a little longer.” She swallowed again. Then sighed, and sat back in her chair. “I’m actually glad this is just us girls,” she said sardonically. “Men do require keeping one’s guard up.”
“Your men, maybe,” Temple answered almost as sardonically. “Rafi is always edgy around you and Dirty Larry is half manipulative and half scared . . . ah, spineless.”
“Is he really?” Molina asked, surprised.
“Who, what?”
“Rafi is edgy?”
“From my viewpoint, he’s been coming on like gangbusters,” Temple said.
“Maybe. But it’s for Mariah, not me.”