“This monster was in my house? How do you know all this with a flawed memory?”
“My mentor, my foster father really, was the one who spirited me away from the Neon Nightmare. He filled in my history from the age of seventeen. And I have … flashes of recovering memory.”
“This woman, you think she has something against Catholic nuns?”
“And priests.”
“Hence Devine.” Molina nodded. “So it’s a vast anti-Catholic, anti-Max conspiracy?”
“Anti-me mostly.”
“Why?”
“I saw through her early. That made me the enemy. I’ve only just learned, in Northern Ireland, what a hellish history she had. People have died because of that.” Max bestirred himself to leave his recent, all-too-vivid memories. “I’ll tell you a story, all I was told and remember, about a girl named Kathleen O’Connor, who became a murderous, mad, vengeful force aptly renamed ‘Kitty the Cutter.’
“I think she’s safely out of your private life, Molina, but not your professional one. I once loved her, then hated her, and now I hunt her. As she hunts me and mine … and even my ‘frenemies’ … is that the word for us now?”
Molina nodded solemnly.
“I need your help, Carmen Regina, Lieutenant, sir.” He mustered a crooked smile. “And we none of us will sleep well until she’s cornered and confined.”
Chapter 25
Romance on the Rocks
“I need drinks and a dinner,” Temple briskly instructed the person on the other end of her home phone at 11 A.M. the next day.
“Ah, isn’t it usually dinner and drinks?” Matt sounded a bit fuzzy. “And are we still talking, much less dining and drinking?”
Temple knew he was just waking up after a long work night, poor guy, but she couldn’t wait a moment longer. “The message you left was suitably desperate. I am mollified. Matt, I know the insane pressure you’ve been under with your mother being threatened and then getting married and the job thing and us having to work with Max and knowing that Kitty the Cutter is out there somewhere. It’s completely normal you might feel a little jealous. You’ve never been in this position before.”
“You’re way more generous than I deserve.”
“Just keep that in mind.” Temple couldn’t contain something else a moment longer. Her indignation. “Just remember, this outing is drinks first, food later. A special occasion. I just fired a would-be client.”
“I thought the firee was the one who went out and solaced herself with good liquor and bad food.”
Temple sighed loud enough to be heard in the back row of a community theater building. “I’ve never had to give up on a project before, but this was the last indignity. Silas T. Farnum is a deceptive, screwy, irresponsible nutcase, even if he has the most mind-blowing venue in Las Vegas, and I have flacked my last flack on his behalf. Details at six o’clock.”
“Okay, okay. I see this calls for an emergency evening out. What would soothe the savaged soul? The Four Seasons, Palazzo? Or something down-home like the Bellagio?”
“Maybe,” Temple conceded.
“Maybe … which one?”
“Surprise me.”
“What? So it’s not the right one and you can fire me?”
“No such luck. I’m done firing people. I don’t want to talk about this until we’re sitting someplace wonderful and I’ve had at least three sips of something very high proof. I’ll see you at my door at seven thirty.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
She was smiling as she hung up. She’d seen the strain on Matt’s face lately and should have held back and given him some space. Now she was getting the romantic time out they both deserved, and needed.
It was high time to cut Silas T. afloat and concentrate on her chaotic personal life. Temple was not liking the fact that no further word had been heard from the Chicago network execs. They’d been so interested in Matt’s talk show future during the recent trip to the Windy City. She knew media plans could fall flatter than a French crepe, faster than a three-minute egg, but … Gee, listen to her think. Crepes and eggs. She must really be hungry.
Tonight while Matt was properly attentive and consoling her on public relations bloopers, she could pump him on major career matters.
* * *
The Bellagio it was. The Circo restaurant was surrounded by gleaming vaulted traditional woodwork with sophisticated big top touches and offered Tuscan delights from octopus appetizers to gourmet pizza.
Temple let herself soak in the setting as if she were sinking into a buoyant, bubbling hot spa. Matt was watching her relax with eyes as warming as brandy. Temple sighed.
“Matt, this is exactly what I needed after spending days, it seems, on an unshaded dusty, grimy construction site. And this restaurant overlooks the Bellagio’s Lago di Como. Lake Como, where Kit and Aldo went on their honeymoon. Did you know—?”
He just grinned, an expression Temple was surprised to realize she’d not seen for a while. “And did you buy that dress during your lightning shopping session with my mother?” Matt asked. He’d already learned to ask, not assume.
“No, that was totally for the bride-to-be. I saw something during that raid on the Venice shops and realized I had an ’80s lookalike version among the vintage stuff in my closet.”
“Lavender is definitely your color,” he said as the waiter brought them something wickedly scarlet in martini glasses. “Your high-powered drink, madam,” Matt said. “The Web site says the Bellagio pours twenty-five thousand cocktails every twenty-four hours, but the hotel pioneered upping the quality on mixed drinks in Las Vegas in recent years.”
“You researched my druthers! That is so sweet, Matt.”
“I hope this candy apple red drink isn’t.” He sipped and offered a considering expression.
Temple said, “You realize I can’t be a ‘madam’ until I’m married.”
“Not a problem.” He watched her sample the cocktail.
“Wow. Like a Cosmopolitan made from White Lightning. I like.” She sighed. “I need. My shoulder muscles have been in lockdown since I first heard the name Silas T. Farnum.”
“So what did Silas T. Farnum do to earn your wrath and swift execution?”
“Farnum,” she snarled. “The surname alone should have alerted me. He’s the P. T. Barnum of modern hucksterism.” She lifted her glass. “A toast to toasted hucksters.” She sipped again before reluctantly lowering her glass. “Although his building concept was pretty awesome.”
“We’re not talking about his personal presence here, I hope. A Web site maybe—”
“No. He’s invested in the unlovely area on the Paradise Road bend, the beastly backside of the Strip’s beauty parade. His project is so high-tech, it takes futuristic to the moon and back. But how do you sell a building people can’t see?”
“Ran out of construction money, huh?” Matt shook his head. “A lot of people with big dreams and even bigger bankrolls did when the Great Recession hit them.”
“Don’t cry for Silas T. Farnum. He’s got the site lot, he’s got the dough. He’s got a sure-thing prize for the ‘Most Unusual Vegas Design.’ If people could only see it.”
“Maybe he’ll attract more customers than you think.”
“Don’t keep looking on the bright side! How do you sell … nothing?”
Matt was looking lost. And that made him look weary, with new fine lines around his eyes.
“Forget about my troubles,” Temple said. “What’s up with you? Or, rather, what’s keeping you up past your two A.M. quitting time? I don’t understand why you need to work up new show ideas with Ambrosia when you’re on the brink of leaving The Midnight Hour.”
“I’m not.” He took another slug of Red Ruin.
“Not working up new ideas? I can understand how you hate to leave her and WCOO in the lurch—”
“I’m not leaving The Midnight Hour.”