"It's not that. Clothes are so much more personal than photographs."
"Skip it, then."
"No! Those throat marks are bothering me. It's like I can almost visualize something that would fit them."
"Don't tell me! You're discovering psychic depths you never knew you had."
"No. Not that, it's a memory problem. Maybe something they wore--"
Matt gingerly removed the contents of the first bag. When he was done he had a motley pile: snakeskin-print gray leggings, a purple knit tunic, a yellow jog bra, something lacy and shiny he let remain in a crumpled pile, a hair clip with a purple chiffon bow attached.
"Not exactly church wear." Molina commented.
"These days, who knows? This woman would have worn jewelry."
"And lots of it. You're right. inexpensive stuff, for the most part. So who would have taken it, and why?"
"And why leave a really fine ring behind in its place?"
"The good ring could have been dropped accidentally. It's clear in both of these cases that the killer or killers went to some lengths to make sure the victims weren't identified, at least not too quickly, if at all."
"So then who they are is a clue to why they were killed."
"Maybe. Only the Strawberry Lady's bag left."
Matt tackled the second paper bag while Molina shoveled clothes back into the first one.
"Why do you call her the Strawberry Lady?" he asked, unsealing the bag. The odor drove his face back a foot. "Never mind.
I recognize that stuff."
"So do we all. Rest room. car and inadvertent sinus freshener.
And I used to like the scent of strawberries."
"It's really overwhelming coming out of this bag." Matt pulled out more folded clothes: skirt, jacket, blouse, all man-made fabrics like the other woman's. These felt of better quality, though, and the design was more conventional.
Matt pushed the clothes back before he was forced to confront more dead women's underwear. "I'm no expert on women's clothes. Temple would know about that." He paused in pushing the bag back over to Molina's side of the desk. "Except--"
"Yes?"
"That deodorizer odor. I've smelled it in less concentrated form somewhere else than in a car or a rest room."
"where?"
"I don't know. But wherever it was, I was there with Temple. I remember afterwards, after getting away from that awful strawberry scent, wherever it was, that her hair smelled of green apple, which was much better."
"Green apple, huh? Did you know that they're using green apple, scent as a diet aid? Take a sniff to get over what you crave. That work for you?"
"I don't need to lose weight," Matt said, ignoring her jibe.
"And l think you'd better brace yourself. You can't go around Temple on this one. You'll just have to ask for her help."
Chapter 27
Sinking Fast on Sunset Strip
The Las Vegas Strip glowed like the Emerald City of Oz in the laser-light of the setting sun.
Max had the Firebird's top down, fifty-degree weather or not.
He had made the three hundred miles from LA. in four hours, despite having to drive decorously enough to avoid attracting a highway patrolman.
Getting away from his seclusion in the city, getting on the road and out into the streets of LA. for some honest-to-goodness, in-person detective work had been like a vacation. The beat blaring off the CD made him want to stop at the Hard Rock Cafe for more racket, for tourist-tacky rock memorabilia and elbow-to elbow eating, though a giant cheeseburger there probably wouldn't he quite as good as Charley's old-fashion burgers.
He wished Temple could have ridden along, for the drive at least. Of course, she would have wanted to drive the Trans-Am, and then a motorcycle cop would have gotten them for sure.
As he merged with the ever-more-impossible traffic clogging the highway as it morphed into the famed Strip, Max felt the desert Wind settle down to a mild breeze like a hunting falcon roosting on a shoulder, hooded and tamed.
Having contacts all over the world had cut the time it had taken to half. In a way it felt unfair, like the easy way out, but he was jubilant with what he had discovered. Not that Molina would be.
Still, it confirmed her edgy suspicions. It validated her turning to him for assistance. It gave him a gilt-edged invitation to ask for favors in return. Many happy returns.
So she should be happy. He certainly was.
For Raf Nadir had proved to be pretty much what Molina had said he was: a high-performing charmer who under the best circumstances would have been an exemplary cop and citizen, but who under pressure would go rogue.
And he had, over something small and stupid, but then guys like that usually did go ballistic over the pettiest problems--the smaller, the more at stake. Five years earlier he had blown his sergeant's rank with a couple of excessive-force suits. Two years ago he had pulled over a Son of Somebody on a DWI.
Max could see the scene now.
The SRK, LA. model. Spoiled Rich Kid. The car had been a Lamborghini, red, and the kid's high speed was probably internal as well as external, not to mention fueled by a few too many umbrella drinks at too many fern bars.
But a DWI wasn't enough for Officer Nadir. Maybe the kid had been mouthy. Whatever the circumstances, drugs were found in the car.
A lot of LA. lawyers got together to make a pretty good case that the drugs had been planted.
Maybe they had been, maybe not. The result was the same either way. Nadir was off the force, and what had once been a promising career was now tawdry history.
He moved down with his income. He became a skip tracer, tracking people who were only a little bit more down-and-out than he was. Finally, he skipped town himself. Skipped right from L.A . . . to L.V.
Max smiled as he reined the Trans Am to a stop for an endless red light in bumper-to-bumper traffic.
Molina would like it, and she wouldn't like it. Either way, he was in like Flynn, whether she knew it or not.
It was a good thing that the new car had the instant pickup of three-hundred-twenty-five over muscled horses. The bullet that grazed the back of his head as he accelerated from the stoplight would have driven through his temple had he been an instant slower off the starting gate.
**************
Naked was the best disguise, Max had always said, and that was true. Unless your cover was blown.
His cover was definitely blown, which is when naked becomes something to die for.
Now was a great time to find out; he was pinned in by tons of throbbing, idling metal vehicles in an open-topped car.
The shot could only have come from two types of weapon: a high-powered rifle fired from one of the massive Strip hotels, or a handgun in a nearby vehicle.
Max tried to maneuver the Trans Am into another lane, but rush-hour traffic was Sardine City. He couldn't put up the top until he hit a red light and could shut off the motor. Meanwhile the back of his scalp stung with the fury of fire ants. A welt of sticky wetness clung to his exploring fingertips like lip gloss.
He checked out the passing hotels, mostly ruling out a sniper. Too far from the street, too likely to be spotted by a gawking tourist. Unless the sniper was dressed to be part of the show.
The people in the cars and trucks around him sensibly had their windows rolled up. Night was coming and it would be cold to those used to a long broiling summer season.
Drive-alongside hits worked best on deserted roads, where the shooter could zoom off at will. Here, everyone was in the same boat, or car, trapped in packs that kept fairly parallel.
Unless . . .
Max tried to ignore the short, impatient honks providing an erratic background accompaniment to the traffic jam. He listened for the drone of an engine that marched to a different drummer than stop-and-go traffic.
There! To the right. A hornet's buzz. Only one vehicle was mobile enough to snail-dart through this rush-hour feeding frenzy. A motorcycle.