“What do you mean by ‘apparently’ attacked?”
“Nothing more than careful police phrasing. The guard saw someone running away, although our officers found no one. I presume your story will corroborate this fact. So will an analysis of the human tissue samples on the heel of your shoe.”
“Do you suppose—?”
“What?”
“Did I actually... hurt someone?”
“Not fatally,” Molina said with little amusement. “Why would someone attack you?”
“Like Everest—I was there?” Temple tried.
“You were there because of this note. Mind explaining it?”
“Yes, I do. It’s a sensitive matter.”
“Cats are sensitive?”
“These two are not just cats. They’re corporate mascots.”
“Right now they’re in the middle of a murder investigation, as are you. Tell me about it.”
There was nothing even faintly cajoling about Molina’s tone, just pure unleavened command. So Temple did.
Molina was not a particularly encouraging listener, but seen across the table and judged as a person rather than an official, and in view of her startling off-duty transformation, C. R. Molina struck Temple as human for the first time.
Her heavy almost blue-black hair, worn in an ear-covering blunt cut more serviceable than stylish, grew wispily around her hairline, an effect that might have been softening had Molina not brushed it brutally back from her face.
Her strong brows were unplucked, but after all that was the current practice among fashion models; and yet Temple doubted Molina had noticed. She wore no detectable makeup, except for a wine-colored lipstick that added color yet didn’t even flirt with being seductive.
She wore little jewelry, only a class ring on her right second finger, which indicated she had lost weight since getting it. Even seated, Molina was rangy and competent-looking; not awkward, but without fillips of expression or gesture to distract from her grim business. Until tonight, Temple would have bet that C. R. Molina had neither steady boyfriend nor cat. Her bare left hand said she wasn’t presently married even though she must be pushing forty.
“What?” Temple suddenly realized she’d been inventing a life for a person whose job was to probe her own situation.
“I said,” Molina repeated evenly, “what made you and this Adcock woman think you could possibly handle this cat kidnapping by yourselves?”
“The Baker & Taylor people weren’t sure at first that it was a kidnapping. They hoped that the cats had escaped during the hubbub of setting-up and—scared by all the noise—were hiding out somewhere. There’s a lot of building to hide out in.”
“I know,” Molina said, “and so should you after tonight. So you got the first note—and I want that one, too—then hired this O’Rourke to see who picked up the money. How’d he do?”
Temple thought it was mean of Molina to harp on what she’d been through as an interrogation tactic. “You know Eightball?”
Molina nodded and shrugged simultaneously and slightly. “Harmless.”
Not exactly what Temple wanted to hear about her chosen private operative. “Eightball called me earlier tonight. Said he’d trailed the pickup person to the Las Vegas Hilton, then lost her.”
“Her?”
“I was surprised, too. Maybe she was a shill?”
“She was an aiding and abetting shill, if so. You gave up the money with no guarantee of the cats’ return?”
“The nappers didn’t leave a calling card. When I got the second note, I figured they were playing fair, so I went down to the exhibit to wait for the return of Baker and Taylor.”
“Instead the murderer came back for a second engagement. Is that what you figure?”
“If you say so, Lieutenant. And he did jab at me with a knitting needle.”
Molina’s luxurious eyebrows rose a millimeter. “Explain ‘he’ and ‘knitting needle.’ How could you know in the dark?”
Temple sipped the diet cola she’d been given. Her throat felt bruised. Maybe she’d been wrong to refuse medical attention.
“That’s a good question. I thought it was a ‘he’ on instinct—pure, blind instinct. The person was bigger than I am, but most women are, too. I just had a sense of being up against muscle mass.”
Molina actually cracked a smile. “Men move differently, even in the dark.”
“And the needle—well, when my bag got skewered, that was the first thing I thought of.”
“Bag? Show me.”
Temple dragged the tote bag up from the floor. “What else could have caused that hole?”
In the light, the puncture’s ragged edge defined a perfect circle the size of a number five knitting needle. Temple shivered.
“I’ll need the bag for evidence, too.”
“Oh, no! I can’t live without this bag. I’ve practically got my next of kin in here.”
Molina shook her head. “Empty it. We’ll get you some manila envelopes to take your things home in.”
Much as Temple loathed exposing the contents of her tote—her life, virtually—to the lieutenant, the word “home” had a nice, hopeful ring to it.
She dredged out her makeup bag and schedule organizer, both the size of bantam chickens; some crumpled Dairy Queen napkins, her car keys and wallet; three breath mints, about fifteen outdated dry cleaning coupons, a small screwdriver, a wad of tissues; three packets of diet salad dressing, a sewing kit shaped like a strawberry, and assorted miscellanea.
“You planning a trip to the bush?” Molina wondered.
“Listen, this stuff saved my life when the killer took a stab at me.”
“Okay. You said it. The killer. What does the killing of Chester Royal have to do with the kidnapping of two cats?”
“Maybe the killer lurks around the convention center every night getting whoever shows up—like the Phantom of the Opera—and I happened to have a rendezvous with the kidnapper and the cats.”
“The convention center will love that publicity angle, Miss Barr. The cats never showed. You realize what this means?”
“They’ve been gotten by the killer?”
“There never was any intention of returning the cats. It was a ruse to get you onto the convention floor, alone, in the dark.”
“That’s silly, who would...” Temple tried again. “That means the killer... Me? Why?”
Molina sighed. “I hate to contradict my own instincts, but it’s likely that the killer thinks you know too much.”
“Me? Just because I stumbled over the body?”
“I think your size fives have been stumbling over a lot more than that these last few days. Bud Dubbs tells me you’ve been running around on errands of an unusually vague nature, even for you.”
“It’s my job to keep informed.”
“It’s the killer’s job to see that no one gets too well informed about the murder. After hearing that the murderer used the cats to lure you onto the convention floor tonight, I think that’s why the cats were taken in the first place.”
“By the murderer? As a... diversion?”
“Yes.”
“That’s dumb. No one knew about them being missing except the B & T people and me. What kind of a diversion is a state secret?”
“No one knew only because you and Emily Adcock were so darn good at covering it up. That’s why the ransom was small; nobody wanted the money. What was wanted was a distraction, which you prevented, meanwhile running around and buttonholing everybody and his first cousin about the murder.”
“You think I know something?”
“I hate to admit it, but yes. And you probably don’t know what yourself, which would be truer to form. You really have a knack for screwing up an investigation.”
“Why blame me? It was my job to talk to the people involved and I’m in a better position to learn the inside story than any police representative.”
“It’s your funeral,” Molina said.