She looked like she belonged in Las Vegas, as the Strawberry Lady had not.
"No writing," Molina threw to the two detectives, to the technicians tagging and bagging evidence, to the distant streetlight.
It was not a question, but it wasn't a statement either. It was a hope. Because writing would be a pattern and a pattern had a prayer of being deciphered.
"Nothing in the immediate area."
"There's no surface but the asphalt here, but the church must have a lot of wall. A Dumpster nearby?"
"The uniforms are conducting a search."
"No purse again, no ID?"
"Right." Su stopped pacing to nibble daintily on one of her dragon-lady nails. No matter the length or intensity of the nibbling, Merry Su never shortened a claw. Must have fiberglass in her nail polish.
Molina donned a pair of the latex gloves jammed in the pocket of every jacket for just such sudden occasions. She squatted beside the body, her knees cracking, and drew hack the lacquered hair so bleached you couldn't tell whether the hairdresser had been going for blond or white.
"Strangled with something knotted, but the marks are farther apart and softer than the previous victim's."
"As if the weapon had stretched since its last use," Su suggested.
"Or it could be a different ligature," said Alch.
"Different offender," Molina finished his thought. She stood, joints snap-crackle-and-popping. "We need to be sure we're not missing a message, even on the fringes. But at least this one looks like she's been around town for a while. We should have better luck identifying her.
These two deaths; they're strangely inappropriate."
"What do you mean?" Su sounded eager to jump on any supposition.
"Well, the woman at the Blue Dahlia hardly seemed the type to go there, especially alone. And this woman hardly seems the type to be visiting some dinky church at the midnight hour."
"At least we should get some labels off these clothes," Su agreed.
That's the indignity of sudden death, Molina thought; in an instant you're judged on your wearing apparel. What would someone think who found her dead in her unimaginative pantsuits, the pockets jammed with latex gloves as if they were condoms for octopuses?
"Over here!"
The uniform's voice wasn't loud, but sharp and urgent.
They swarmed to the edge of the parking lot thirty feet away, where an oleander bush spread its spiky, poisonous leaves and a flashlight pooled like saffron oil on the ground.
Molina saw something sparkling in the dry soil and squatted again without mercy for her knees.
"Jeez." The officer was impressed with his own find, but let Molina's still-gloved hand scoop it up on the barrel of her ball-point pen. "That thing's worth something."
"Indeed it is." She stared at the circle of gold and diamonds and inlaid opal.
Su was beside her like a Doberman. "Looks too small for that woman's fingers."
Molina nodded. She thought she knew just whose pinky this little piece of plunder would fit.
No need to scour the whole kingdom for a candidate; no way, Cinderella.
This ring had someone's name written all over it. Two someones.
"Was it lost here, or left here? And for how long?" Su was like a Pekingese rolling in possibilities.
"Awfully good condition," the uniform noted. "You'd think someone would spot it fairly soon."
"They don't have your keen eyes and methodical ways, Cartright," Molina said, smiling as she glanced away from his ID.
"Good hunting."
She let the ring slide into the plastic Baggie Su held out and open for it.
The last time anyone had seen this ring, it had vanished on-stage during a magic act downtown. The last person seen wearing this ring had been Temple Barr. The undeniable donor of the ring was Max Kinsella.
She caught the ring in its plastic shroud tight into the palm of her hand, until its sharp contours stamped her flesh like a cold brand.
She would not be the pawn of any man, not again. Her daughter would not be a trading card between the past and the present, not ever.
Enlisting Max Kinsella to track Raf Nadir had been a bold, unpredictable move. Like any move in the game of chess that a life or a career was, it was also dangerous, and somewhat desperate.
Molina didn't like feeling desperate, and especially detested acting on that feeling. But the two men, her two opponents, were also unpredictable, dangerous and desperate, each in his own way.
To catch a thief . . . hire a thief. To destroy an enemy, destroy another enemy, it wasn't nice, but it was . . . efficient.
No matter what Mr. Mystifying Max dug up on Raf Nadir's and her past together--and the risky position that put her in--she now had evidence of something a lot more incriminating from his own present.
To imprison a magician, capture a magic talisman.
She released the ring, eyed its exotic splendor. Thirty pieces of silver must have looked that good to Judas Iscariot once.
Chapter 25
Ring of Fire
"Guess what?" Temple's voice asked over the telephone.
"I couldn't begin to," Matt said.
"I was out on errands and stopped at a couple of resale shops and I found the neatest brown leather bomber jacket, just seamed enough to scream 'Indiana Jones.' l got it because I'm pretty sure it'd fit you."
"Why?"
"Why am I sure it would fit you?"
"No, why would l want such thing?"
"It's a perfect prop for your next promo photo; trust me. You've got to snap up these things when you run across them. Anyway, I have a ton of releases to pound out for the Crystal Phoenix, but when I'm done, I'll run up with it, if that's okay?"
"Sure it's okay."
Matt shook his head as he hung up the receiver. He couldn't decide whether Temple was a frustrated costumer or a consummate PR woman. Either way, he was looking forward to seeing her more than he was any jacket.
******************
An hour later. the doorbell rang.
"That was fast work," Matt said, swinging wide the coffered door.
Except that it was Lieutenant C. R. Molina who stood there bearing arms, instead of Temple bearing apparel suitable for shooting . . . with a camera.
And Molina's arms were concealed, although her actual arms were not.
Matt was sure now that he was Alec in Wonderland.
"Uh . . . what can I do for you?" He wasn't sure whether she was here as an official or as an acquaintance.
"Plenty, l hope. Got a few minutes? You're not due at ConTact for a couple hours."
"Guess you don't need me to answer your questions."
"Sorry." She brushed past him, pausing in the wide archway to the living room as if the Kagan sofa were a stop sign she was obligated to heed. "That is really . . . red."
She moved Farther into the room before turning on him. "What's the matter?"
"I never know how to take you. Getting a surprise visit from you is like getting one from the IRS. Is it a friendly, inquiring call, or gangbusters?"
"The IRS never makes friendly, inquiring calls." Molina grinned. "I do. And this is one of them, but I don't think you'll like the implications."
"I never like the implications. It comes of having led a cloistered life for so long."
"Oh, come on! You priests were the worldliest religious order in the church. Can l, ah, actually sit on this?"
"Sure."
Matt watched her, amused. Temple would certainly dismiss the solid-color suit and Molina's blunt Dutch-cut hair, but the effect was rigorously functional, which would serve anyone who didn't want to distract from the essentials of her job.
Molina squirmed a bit before accepting the fact that she was properly supported by the sculptural, armless sofa. Then she reached into her jacket pockets. She reminded him of Captain Kangaroo. He had never seen her carry a purse, a habit that added to her strong air of command of herself, and others.