"Yvette," Temple diagnosed as they walked through the casino to the parking garage exit. "Not a person," she said quickly. "A cat. Female. Persian. Savannah Ashleigh's pampered purebred darling.
Louie crashed a cat-food commercial shooting to pay court, and Ms. Ashleigh, a one-time film star by her own lights, stopped me in the hall this morning to rake me over the Kitty Litter for not controlling my beast."
"She sounds like the uncontrolled beast." Matt handed her something. "I got you some throat lozenges."
"Thanks." Temple picked a roll open and took one. "I'm not good at keeping my mouth shut."
When he opened a glass exit door (the Crystal Phoenix had rising phoenix-shaped Plexiglas handles), the outside warmth and daylight struck her like molten honey.
"Aaah." She stopped to soak it up.
"Are you sure you're all right? Lieutenant Molina has no right to order you downtown for fingerprinting right after such an awful attack."
"She has the right. And I don't mind. I don't remember touching a knife-hilt, so I'm sure my prints aren't on it. I doubt anybody's will be, except maybe Fabrizio's."
As they walked to the parking ramp, Temple dutifully sucked the lozenge.
"What kind of convention is this, anyway?" Matt asked.
"Too complicated to explain and still save my voice. Romance novels and everybody who's involved in reading, writing and producing them."
"And your aunt is one of them?"
"An author. We hadn't seen each other since I was a kid."
Matt nodded, opening the door to the ramp. While they waited before the elevator for the doors to open, Temple husbanded her saliva so she could talk without rasping.
"You probably don't understand why I was wearing that lurid dress, letting strange men make pretend-love to me onstage."
"Well--"
"I was undercover. Yes, I know it's ridiculous; normally one doesn't have to undress to go undercover, except maybe female cops on the vice squad. But Molina encouraged me to snoop, believe it or not.
Besides, I felt obligated to help find out why the first pageant competitor was killed."
"So that's what Molina meant." Matt's incredulity echoed in the small, stainless steel-lined elevator as they soundlessly headed for the third floor.
She nodded. "A guy from that striptease contest I did PR for a few months ago. He wanted to talk to me the night before he was killed. Kit and Electra were teasing me about being asked out by a hunk, and I felt so stupid that I said no. Now I think he wanted to talk to me about whatever led to his death."
"Temple!" Matt's tan face had darkened as they walked to her Storm, eight cars down the shadowy row. "What about what you owe to your friends? You leave the Circle Ritz without any word, then turn up at the Crystal Phoenix, taking insane risks. Think about your friends, if not yourself."
"Electra's here. And my aunt," she added. "And I'm not a bad detective. Fabrizio only tried to kill me because I knew too much."
"Great. We can put that on your tombstone: SHE KNEW TOO MUCH."
"Most cemeteries don't allow tombstones anymore. Takes all the fun out of graveyards."
Temple rummaged in her duffel bag, then handed Matt the key ring. He took it, but wouldn't look up at her.
"How can I make you see what it was like," he said slowly, "watching security people storm through the casino? Then a Fontana brother races by in some ... ridiculous Halloween costume telling Nicky and Van about a 'new murder' and mentioning your name over and over. I thought--"
Temple put her hands on his wrists. "Thanks."
Matt looked up and the moment teetered on the brink of something more that neither was ready for.
"Maybe--" Temple gazed up at the uninspiring ramp ceiling, a coffered pattern of gray concrete beams. "It was supposed to be a murder-suicide! If Fabrizio killed Cheyenne and knew that I suspected him, he may have stabbed himself and then come out to kill the only witness who suspected he had committed the first murder!"
Matt's eyes narrowed with disbelief. Temple had meant to reassure him; in a way, she had succeeded beyond her expectations. He finally laughed and unlocked the Storm passenger door.
"You do have a uniquely creative mind for crime," he said, letting himself into the driver's seat.
"Lieutenant Molina should be examining your brain, not your fingertips."
"I'd have to be dead first, and, fortunately, I'm not."
She pulled down the lozenge wrapper and offered Matt one. He shook his head, so she took another, letting it click against her teeth as the honey-herbal flavor coated her throat.
After the dark of the ramp, the shock of daylight had her clawing for the prescription sunglasses in her duffel bag.
Matt donned the drugstore pair in his shirt pocket. "You'll have to tell me where the police station is."
"Simple. Down the Strip, right on East Stewart for a few blocks. Big pale building with a soaring, curved section in front that's accessorized with an ersatz neon pattern, along with a colorful array of lounging transients."
"You sound like a veteran visitor, all right."
She shrugged and leaned her head against the seat. She felt as if she'd wrestled alligators, and perhaps she had. But now that she'd apologized for leaving home and having not-too-excellent adventures, Temple was inclined to resume her favorite role: offhand inquisitor.
"By the way." Her head turned toward Matt without lifting from the headrest. "Why were you in the Crystal Phoenix casino?"
"Ah ..." He pretended to occupy himself with driving, ostentatiously peering in the rearview mirror, looking over his shoulder, frowning at the instrument panel.
Before he could lie, Temple decided to let him off the hook by throwing out another, deeper one.
"And why were you and Max there together the other evening?"
Fingerprinting was not the kiddie-direct process Temple had imagined: stick your fingers in some wet gunk like fingerpaints, then slap them down on a sheet of paper.
Like all rituals, this had its protocol. The most distasteful part, besides the ink's chemical reek, was that the technician took control of each of her fingers, rolling the tip from side to side on the card. The process felt like automatic writing, as if she were a ghost of herself. It also pinched, and made her feel like a puppet.
Molina had sent a message ahead of her: wait.
So Temple did. Kit and Electra had taken a cab downtown to join them, despite protests, so Matt took himself off. He had never quite answered Temple's question about his association with Max.
"That policewoman can't think you did it," Kit said as they huddled over lukewarm coffee in paper cups in the small waiting area, which was furnished with a visibly used leather sofa and chairs.
"No, but she would love an excuse to," Temple said, glad that Molina's assumption that Fabrizio had killed Cheyenne freed Kit from any suspicion.
"Why?" Kit demanded.
"We don't get along."
"Temple, you're my niece. My relatives don't have feuds with homicide detectives."
"It's not a feud, just... a personality conflict. And I happen to have suspicious associates."
"Us?" Kit asked in horror.
Temple shook her head and glanced at Electra, who looked as troubled as Temple had ever seen her.
"Electra, why don't you go back to the Phoenix? Who knows how long the inquisition will take, and you've got your contest submission to finish."
"Not now." Electra smiled for the first time that day. "It's done."
"You finished it? That's great."
"I suppose so, kiddo, but it would be better if you weren't in Dutch with that lieutenant."
"Oh, she just does these things to scare me into 'fessing up about Max."
"What's to 'fess up?" Kit asked.
"Nothing. That's the problem."
"More coffee?" Electra had risen and was looking toward the machine down the hall.
"Why not?" Temple said.
Molina came within the hour, a brown paper bag in each hand; her partner held two more.