Rafi shook his hand. “Tricks. You women are full of ‘em.”
It wasn’t what Temple would have said to diffuse the situation, but Su just grinned, complimented. Then she turned on her own low-heeled Mary Janes and exited, quiet as a crouching tiger.
That left … Detective Alch. And Temple.
He caught Temple’s eyes as she met his. They had seen each other on the fringes of several investigations under Molina’s supervision. Temple knew Alch was one of Molina’s top detectives. Alch knew Temple for a gifted amateur sleuth who was a perennial thorn in his boss’s hide. They both shrugged. An unspoken understanding had been reached.
Alch ambled off after the macho women on his team. Temple ankled over to macho man Rafi Nadir. “What did she do to your thumb? Is it okay?”
“Yeah. After the numbness wears off. Some tricky Chink stuff. They’re little people and they make up for it with all that marital arts hooey. Makes sense for them. I wasn’t ready for that, from her. Jesus. Carmen.”
Temple wasn’t ready to hear those last two words in tandem.
“What?” Nadir looked around, saw they were alone. At last. He figured out the source of Temple’s surprise, at least. “I’m Christian, for Christ’s sake. Lebanese-American, like Ralph Nader. I get to swear.” - Temple put up her hands, realizing too late she was mimicking Su’s hand’s-off stance. But from her it was a peace sign.
Nadir’s hand checked the back of his neck for tension. “What the hell was she doing here?” He eyed Temple. “You know her?”
“Urn, she knows me, and not in a necessarily friendly way. I imagine she wanted to view the Wong juggernaut in action. It must be tough investigating murder among the media icons.”
“A lieutenant. Sure, why not? Women and blacks and Latinos are the gender and color scheme of the decade in public service jobs. What do you know about her?”
“A little,” Temple said. “I bet you know a lot more. Maybe we should talk about it”
“I don’t get off for an hour.” He looked around. The fountain area was still ablaze with TV lights.
“I can wait,” Temple said. She had a little exercise in crowd control to finish first.
The check passing was over and recorded for six seconds on the nightly news. Videographers were on the floor in obeisance, packing their equipment in oblong black boxes that struck Temple as coffins for cameras.
“How did it go?” Temple asked Kenny and Amelia Wong after she’d thanked the MADD representatives and sent them on their way with the media.
“We did as you said:’ Kenny reported like a dutiful fourth-grader. “Anytime they asked about the death on site, I said I hadn’t been briefed by the police yet and to check with their spokesperson.”
“We kept some of the focus on MADD,” Amelia added, “as you suggested. It made them look crass to badger us about the death here with grieving mothers who had lost children looking on. Media are sheep.”
“Not always,” Temple cautioned. “They can bite like packs of wolves sometimes. But they do have hearts and if you can
find a way to stir their collective conscience, you are much better off than being the target of their relentless curiosity. If either of you are contacted for statements again, express your sincere sorrow at the death. That’s all. Over and over again, in different words if you have to. Let the police make the official statements.”
Having settled down her power players, Temple headed back to Rafi Nadir. He was staring out the front windows at the parking lot, and was startled when she came up to him.
“I thought you were hobnobbing with the big cheeses.”
This was it: her chance to pump Rafi for every shred of insight into Early Molina. He was obviously shocked out of his shoes. Max would love this.
Holding Rafi Nadir’s hand on the occasion of his unexpected meeting with Carmen Molina, Temple discovered, involved (sigh) a rendezvous at a strip club, the only place he would agree to go.
At least she had talked him into patronizing Les Girls after his shift was over. Les Girls was the only strip club in Vegas owned and operated by (gasp) women. Women strippers, retired … or not.
Temple was known there from a previous PR job, and, on the pretext of visiting the Maylords ladies’ room, an oddly inapt expression, called ahead on her cell phone. She reached the manager, Lindy Boggs. That assured a reserved table where Temple could hear what Nadir was saying over the cranked-up music.
Did she have pull in this town or what?
They went in separate cars. Nadir would never consent to playing passenger in her Miata. Ride shotgun in a pussy car? Hell, no: unshakable evidence of a wuss. And Temple wasn’t keen on sharing the shabby charms of the ‘89 Grand Prix that turned out to be his.
So out of the lot and over to Les Girls they drove in single file, Temple bringing up the rear and wondering how she could
dig up all the dirt she was dying to know about Molina’s lurid past. Hey, if it involved Rafi Nadir, it had to be lurid!
Chapter 43
Ottoman Empire
Since everyone is leaving Maylords as if fleeing the Titanic, I find it expedient to trail the human footwear leaving my cushy gilded cage, a.k.a. the scene of my recent retail triumphs.
Despite having been hailed as the most chichi household accessory since the Teddy bear, my ears are twitching as if fleabitten. I have heard more than I wanted to during my day undercover atop the upholstery, and do not yet know what to make of it.
And then there is the bloody murder I have witnessed. No, I did not see the abrasive Beth Blanchard done in and hung as decoratively as a string of dried red peppers. But I did witness the epic reunion of Miss Lt. C. R. Molina with her long-absent former squeeze, Rafi Nadir. Was that an emotion-wringing spectacle! I love to watch humans spat.
Meanwhile, I slip out with the Wong party and the media mob. The videographers carry long black boxes full of lighting equipment that I can trot under like a shadow. Anyone of my acquaintance might spot my tricks.
Luckily, my Miss Temple is so fascinated by the Molina-Nadir scene that she would not notice a giant cockroach
hitchhiking on her instep.
I split off from the crew outdoors and scurry for the store’s foundation plantings. I have not reckoned on a surprise reunion of my own, however.
Miss Midnight Louise leaps out of an oleander clump and claws me on the shoulder.
“Not so fast, partner. When can I expect to see the holiday line? A skeletal you for Halloween would be truly chic.”
“I imagine you noticed that I was quite a hit among the home furnishings set.”
“I noticed that you were about as `undercover’ as an orange on St. Paddy’s Day. So. What did you learn? Who killed the latest corpse? What is going on? What does the lady lieutenant have against the Maylords security guy?”
I burrow out of sight, not wanting to be seen being harangued by my own associate. “Let me catch my breath, Louise.”
“Like you were not catching your breath, and about forty thousand winks, on the Maylords cushions all day?” “A lot has gone on.”
“So I observed through the windows. But what does it mean?”
“Unfortunately, I was not near the murder scene before my poor Miss Temple happened upon the dead woman.”
“That was no doubt the time you played dead when the woman moved you to the other sofa to see how you would look against gray suede.”
“How did I look against gray suede?”
“Puffed up, lazy, and unobservant.”
“Louise! I had to act like I did not have a bone in my torso. It was bad enough that she would have detected my body heat in a few seconds, had she not set me down.”
“I am surprised that you did not go into the usual comatose state that you adopt on furniture. That reduces your metabolism to dust-bunny level. So you have nothing to report that I could not have seen from my outside watching posts?”