“What are you and your overblown Irish charm getting at, Kinsella?”
“Have you ever considered the … Irish mob?”
“You talking Boston?”
“I’m talking Northern Ireland.”
She made a tsking sound. “I’ve heard that eternally from your ex. I don’t doubt your counterterrorism work in the past, but that conflict is ninety-eight percent over and done with. Face it. You’re not a downtrodden minority anymore. And your fixation on this topic is obsessive romanticism. The ‘Troubles’ are over. Those political crusades are over, and whatever will you do without them?”
Max stood, and stood at mock attention. “Work for you, Lieutenant, until you can see past your personal, private ‘troubles’ and discern the vast terrorist conspiracy surrounding us all.”
Chapter 31
Missing Links
Temple and Matt trudged toward the baggage claim area, thankful that Louie would have no more close encounters with airport security. These did not turn out well for the carrier-searches.
Temple was in that automatic nirvana of ending a short trip that had been packed with stress and uncertainty, so it was Matt who spotted the fly in the ointment.
“Unwelcome committee of one at three o’clock high,” he warned under his breath.
Temple had seen enough WWII fighter-pilot movies to look to her right at midlevel.
Slouching against the giant rattlesnake sculpture among the famous assembly of desert critters on the terminal floor was … Max.
Fitting. He was long and lean and deadly when in counterterrorist mode. His black ensemble suggested that magician mode was also back and operational, and then some.
He straightened to snag Louie’s gaudy new carrier from Temple without a by-your-leave or by-your-left-or-right and joined their pace without losing a beat. Neither did his opening patter.
“Welcome to Las Vegas. Lieutenant C. R. Molina is my new secret boss. In the wee hours of this morning someone tried to electrocute me at the Oasis Hotel’s ‘Lusty Ladies and Laddies’ pirate adventure attraction. And Rafi Nadir could be under suspicion of murder, although any evidence would be only circumstantial. May I give you two—excuse me, three—a lift home?”
Matt took it much better than Temple did. “Are you driving anything with trunk space for luggage these days?”
“And a belted seat for Louie’s carrier?” Temple asked.
“No, but I rented a minivan that fills the bill.”
Temple couldn’t keep from hooting. “You in a minivan. That’d be worth seeing.”
“Then walk this way,” Max said, stepping ahead and feigning an exaggerated limp, like the hunchback of Notre Dame. It was eerie how his height shrank.
Matt sighed and conversation ceased until they got to the close-in parking lot and beside a blue, yes, minivan.
“How did you know where and when—?” Temple asked Max, repossessing Louie’s carrier.
“Font of all knowledge of things Circle Ritz.”
“Electra.” Matt paused in loading their luggage. “You’re relying on gossipy senior citizens these days?”
“Any port in a storm, as we say at the Oasis. Well, perhaps not so much today.”
“And what about Rafi? Murder?” Temple finished arranging Louie’s carrier in the backseat although he was pummeling the canvas sides. He was keeping quiet, though. “Just a short ride home,” she assured him, “and then you’ll be free to be feline.”
Through the black mesh portion she detected a wide, pink-mawed yawn, the cat equivalent of “yadda yadda yadda.”
“Circumstantial evidence,” Max said as he put the Odyssey into gear. Matt rode up front with him, Temple and Louie in the middle bank of seats. Max twisted his head to regard the couple in turn. “You two are dressed mighty like city slickers.”
Like Louie, they kept mum.
“Oh, right. Chicago. I get forgetful.” He lifted a finger off the steering wheel to indicate Matt. “You do the Ann Landers bit on syndicated radio and also do some national TV.”
“OOD,” Temple caroled from the backseat. “Out of date. ‘Dear Abby’ survived the advice column wars when the newspapers were sinking fast. And they were both from Chicago. Imagine, twin sisters who were newspaper column advice queens all their lives, and only one byline survives their deaths.”
“Got it,” Max said, “but I don’t play Trivial Pursuit, so don’t need that info. Don’t think you can distract me with minor matters, Temple. I still want to know the dish on where you’re coming from. In Chicago.” His voice had grown speculative. “And why would you lug that overweight cat along?”
“Merely,” Temple said, “to keep the great Mystifying Max guessing and his recovering memory agile.”
Max declaimed, “They drew a circle that shut me out. I drew a circle that took them in.”
“‘Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout,’” Matt quoted, eyeing Max. “That’s the poem’s second line. If the description fits…”
“Heretic, no. Rebel, yes. A thing to flout, lately that seems very appropriate.”
Temple wasn’t getting any of this except the rival guy vibe, so she leaned forward over the seat. “Back to Rafi Nadir. What did you mean by ‘circumstantial’ evidence in a murder?”
“The death occurred at the Oasis Hotel. That’s Rafi’s turf as assistant security chief.”
“And you were there too?” Temple asked. “Why?”
“Doing what you do so well. Sticking our noses into other people’s business. I should mention it was three A.M. and the attraction was shut down.”
“So Rafi wasn’t on duty,” Temple guessed.
“Rafi wouldn’t have been there if I hadn’t drawn him into the web of Vegas cold cases I’m investigating on a wing-nut brain and a prayer. The dead man was an anonymous thug and if fighting him off is murder, I probably did the deed and Rafi was a deer caught in the headlights, prepped to take the fall.”
“Why would Rafi Nadir even be there?” Temple wondered.
“He’s a good guy.”
Matt raised his eyebrows to look over his shoulder at Temple.
“And,” Max added, “I’m trying to shut down any lingering poisons from my British Isles adventures way back when and recently. Namely Kathleen O’Connor and anyone responsible for the dead man in the Goliath Hotel surveillance system and a certain unwanted … relative of yours by marriage.” He nodded to Matt. “The late Cliff Effinger.”
In the silence, Max added a chilling coda. “Not what I wanted, to get snarled up in your tragic family history, but Kitty the Cutter certainly involved you in mine.”
A silence inside the idling vehicle reflected everyone’s mutual shock, Temple refected. Max couldn’t know that the Chicago trip had stripped bare a link right back to Las Vegas and possible Synth activity. And Matt had to realize that Max couldn’t resolve his long forced involvement with Irish terrorism and a true femme fatale stalker without treading on part of Matt’s family history Matt wanted no one but Temple to know.
Holy Kowabunga. Temple had a vintage surfer T-shirt to wear around home that paid tribute to that catchword from Chief Thunderthud on the Howdy Doody kiddie TV show in the ’50s. Like slang that kept on reinventing itself for future generations, Kathleen O’Connor and Cliff Effinger were old nightmares that kept recycling again and again, both supposedly dead and both surprisingly potent up to this very minute.
“Call me an obsessive compulsive amnesiac,” said Max, “but I think this all adds up. Somehow.”
“Who’s called you an obsessive compulsive amnesiac?” Matt asked. “That sure sounds like a gripe.”
“Nobody important. Just an amateur psychoanalyzer like you.”
“If you mean I can analyze psychos—”
“You know,” Temple said, “I don’t think I’m comfortable riding here in the backseat like the distant top of a pyramid with you two guys in the front driver’s seat.”