"Ah, but did you approve of them?"
"Approval was not a requirement of my job."
Temple was far enough into the office to study it. Pretty mundane. A wood grain-topped desk awash with files. A swordfish on the wall that looked like molded plastic, that looked a lot like a lawn-ornament plastic flamingo. Temple knew it was partially the real fish skin preserved to resemble painted fiberglass.
A silk ficus tree anchored a corner between two cheap upholstered chairs. Semi-Swedish modern best described the furnishings. Altogether a depressingly tawdry place.
Miss Darby thought so too, from her disclaimer. "This was a . . . branch office. With Mr.
Cooke's frequent performances in Las Vegas, he needed a base." Alison Darby was a pologizing, a weak position, which was just where Temple wanted her to be.
"You must be exhausted!" Temple guided her onto a chair. "Let me get you some water."
She filled a tiny paper cup at the bottled-water dispenser. "You must have been working on all this nonstop since Mr. Cooke's death was discovered last Monday."
"Well, yes." Her face lost some of its taut strain.
Temple examined her features for some trace of Darren Cooke. It wouldn't be too farfetched for the vengeful daughter to have insinuated herself into his entourage. Though her attire was often theatrically over the top, Alison had cultivated a forbidding, all-business air unusual in a young woman, one which made her an exception to the rule: Darren Cooke left her alone. That was something his daughter would want to ensure if she joined his inner circle.
Temple sat on the adjoining chair, peering around an inconvenient branch of silk-leaved ficus. Her continuing silence stimulated the other woman.
"There were engagements to cancel, accounts to get in order for the lawyers, for the estate, you know. Someone must do it. Someone must attend to practical matters. His wife--she's a foreigner and knows hardly anything about his affairs ... his business. I've got to go."
"Miss Darby." Temple sat back in her uncomfortable chair, possessed of an insight. "Are you closing down his personal life before the lawyers and his wife have a chance to see any traces?"
"I... covering up?" Her laugh rode the razor's edge of amusement and distaste. "I hardly approved of his lifestyle, but he was my boss."
"And you hardly approve of what you're doing now, but you're doing it. He was your boss. Is it a little black book on computer you're erasing? Records of flowers and hotel rooms? What?"
Her breathing accelerated until the bodice of her conservative beige linen dress heaved like a trapped rabbit's body. Temple had caught her at something. Whether she told the truth about her purpose or not, it was at least clandestine.
"You have no right! I'm only doing my . . . job."
"I'm warning you. Cooke's death is a police matter, whether it's the suicide it appears to be, or something else."
"Something else?" She jumped up. "No. You saw more of him on Sunday than I did.
Everyone left after the brunch. He was alone. He must have become despondent for some reason. Maybe he drank. He could drink a lot, you know. Then ... it happened."
"Did he always keep a revolver in his hotel room?"
"Absolutely. This is Las Vegas; there's a criminal element that preys on tourists. In the dark they might mistake Mr. Cooke for just anybody, for a complete nobody. He took care of himself."
"Yes, I think he did. That's why suicide seems so unlikely."
"Don't say that! The police are perfectly content with their diagnosis. Their conclusions! No one has bothered us, until you."
"Us?"
"I mean, those of us associated with Darren. His wife, his friends, his staff. Why don't you just leave us alone!"
Temple glanced at the desktop computer, its screen filled with a complicated spreadsheet that looked like Sanskrit.
"Maybe I will. And maybe you should leave his office alone until the police are satisfied.
They're never perfectly content, you know, even if they let it appear that way."
" Who are you?"
Temple knew a great exit line when she heard it. "Someone who's well acquainted with the sins of the father."
Alison Darby blanched. She went as white as a sheet of Neenah bond paper. Her fingers clenched her beige linen skirt until the cords on her hands stood out in bas-relief and the skirt was irreparably wrinkled. Temple left.
*****************
She didn't think about that very odd interview until she was at home again. She pictured that unguarded computer, with the police too disinterested to investigate, and God-knows-what melting from its hard disks under the trembling fingertips of Alison Darby.
Then she eyed the open phone books covering her desk and decided to let her rock-steady fingers do the walking.
She needed to call a number so new to her computerized address list that she had to look it up. That's when she noticed that her own fingers had caught a bit of the Darby tremor.
Temple shut her eyes. This was business. She knew no one else who combined the necessary computer skills with the necessary nefarious-ness.
Still, calling this number felt clandestine. Even criminal.
All she wanted was some petty breaking and entering, both into a building and a machine. A magician was just the man to do it. Max Kinsella was the man to do it.
She knew why she hesitated. Asking Max for something, especially something slightly illegal, was handing him an edge in the tightrope act of their sundered relationship, and he never failed to use an edge. Turning to him meant she was turning away from Matt Devine, and perhaps the law-abiding side of society.
Come on, she told herself. Don't make a federal case out of petty snoopery. You re not committing yourself to a life of co- conspiracy. Max owes you, and he knows it.
Still, she held her breath as the phone rang.
It was answered with an uncompromising "Yes." No hint of question in the word. Just "Yes."
"Max," she said. He'd recognize the voice, just as he'd recognize the opportunity. "I've got a sick computer that needs a magic touch."
"Your place or mine?"
"Neither." Sternly. Flirting was more dangerous than felony for her right now. "And it'll take a magic touch just to get into it."
"You make about as much sense as ever."
"Thank you."
"Temple, is this worth the risk?"
"I don't know. I hope so."
"What are you looking for?"
"Something suspicious."
"Temple, Temple . . . when and where?"
She told him.
He told her that she should stay out of it.
She said she couldn't; only she would recognize what was wrong, if it were wrong.
He again complimented her incisive logic.
She again thanked him.
He told her to wear black.
She hung up, hyperventilating more than an apprentice cat burglar should.
It certainly had been a Gangster's kind of week, and it was promising to be a Gangster's kind of night.
Chapter 30
Could Louie Die for Love?
The life of a TV star is not to be envied.
Here I sit, still a bit wet behind the ears and between the toes after having given my coat a thorough tongue-lashing from stem to stern and from tip to tail. I do not believe that I have even been so wet in my entire vagabond life as I was when Yvette and I were dragged dripping from the Mirage lagoon.
Not that I have not been showered--(oops, wrong word)--provided with all the creature comforts.
Miss Temple Barr has ensconced me in the bed, heaping the covers around my recumbent form, and has moved my food from the kitchen and my litter box from the spare bathroom to the bed's foot. (As if I would set paw in makeshift indoor facilities, or sink a fang into a pile of unadorned Free-to-be-Feline if I did not have to.)