Temple. Wait until she heard--!
The knock at the door was so discreet that Matt feared one of Effinger's friends, or at least an associate, had arrived.
Effinger grasped at that wild hope too, sitting up and tearing his eyes from the dubious on-screen action.
"Huh-huh-huh," someone grunted in muzzy living sound.
Matt went to the door. No peephole, like in respectable motels, and little light outside to see anyone by in any case. At the Blue Mermaid, you took your chances.
He took his for the last time that night and cracked the door.
"Police," came Molina's jaded contralto.
He opened the door wide, noticing her hand came away from beneath her open jacket. At the Blue Mermaid, Lieutenant C. R. Molina took no chances.
Effinger tensed on the bed, then sagged again as he took in Molina. He looked back at the TV.
Molina approached him. She looked to Matt like she always did, a blank slate in a tailored pantsuit. A competent career woman who carried no briefcase, and no purse. Who wore no shoes worth noticing. And a gun even more low-profile. She stood between Effinger and the TV screen and looked him over.
"Yup, this is the guy. I guess congratulations are in order. You'll have to tell me how you did it sometime." Not tonight. "You check his ID?"
"Uh, no. I mean, I knew who he was."
"But who does he say he is now?" Molina pulled Effinger upright. She was a physically impressive woman, almost six feet tall in low heels, but Effinger didn't look that small in contrast. Matt frowned. Was the smallness he sensed in the man purely spiritual? He had felt like Goliath hauling around an unworthy David all night. But Effinger was his size really. Why had Matt felt so confident? Why had Effinger caved so easily, besides the fact that all bullies are cowards?
Molina glanced at the liquor glass. "Better put that on the bedside table, if you can call it that. Don't want our John Citizen to look like a lush."
He obeyed as Molina went to the ajar door and called someone outside. "This is the right guy. Come on in and play patty-cake. I don't want to get lice under my manicure."
Matt glanced at her fingertips, startled. The same short, unpolished blunt fingernails as always.
"Professional joke," Molina said, quick to catch his glance. "Lieutenants don't have to don latex except at crime scenes."
The plainclothes detective came in, hands ghostly in surgical gloves.
Matt still wasn't used to masked and gloved dentists. He'd never thought about the police having to dress more formally for the job in this age of AIDS.
The detective had Effinger lean his hands against the wall, and soon was tossing a few belongings on the bedspread.
Molina picked through them with a ballpoint pen from her coat pocket. "Look at this AARP card. Harvey Kittelman. Poor old Harvey's probably missing a lot more too. Las Vegas is a candy store to you guys, isn't it, Effinger?"
"I'm not answering to that name. I'm not answering anything."
"Why not? Didn't I hear him volunteering to come in for a polite police interrogation?" Molina asked her partner.
"Absolutely."
Matt watched, a fascinated observer of a television cop-show scene. Effinger performed like a trained seal who knew the routine by heart.
"Mind if we cut off your reception?" Molina asked ironically.
Matt didn't realize she was talking to him until the silence grew awkward.
"Huh?" He glanced at the television set, which had responded to fresh body heat in the room by resolving into perfect focus. He saw . . . knees, elbows, buttocks, breasts in impossible juxtaposition, threes and sixes of everything ... no wonder-- "No. I mean, yes. Please."
Molina's tall form already blocked the screen. The sound died abruptly.
"It wasn't tuned in and I wasn't watching," Matt added lamely in the sudden silence.
"This motel is mainly a passion pit these days," she said with academic dispassion. "Perfect hideout for Mr. Effinger."
"You have nothing on me." The guy was still truculent.
"Probable cause for a lot of things," she answered, taking a slow turn through the room. "Starting with a citizen's arrest."
For a confusing moment, Carmen Molina reminded Matt of Kitty O'Connor. Or maybe the actress on the TV had, the brunette on the bottom with--
"You can go now." Molina was peering into the bathroom. "Kinda messy in here." She stopped by Matt as her partner hustled Effinger outside. "Looks like he'll have a bruise or contusion or two. Nothing serious, or actionable. How are you doing?"
"Fine." Matt started for the door. His joints resisted movement. Maybe his struggle with Effinger had been more strenuous than he felt at the time.
"I'll call later with any news," Molina added, "but don't cancel Christmas on my account. By the way, where's your cohort?"
Matt turned, a question on his face.
"Las Vegas's Nancy Drew. I was sure she'd be in on this."
"Temple's out of town for the holidays, until New Year's."
Molina nodded. "Out-of-state relatives. I'm surprised she'd leave you languishing over the holidays. And look what you got yourself as a present!"
"She's visiting a relative," Matt corrected. He resented Molina's put-downs of Temple. "I think you met her aunt, Kit Carlson, during the romance-convention fracas."
"New York? She's visiting her aunt in New York? Just for fun?"
"Some people do have that, Lieutenant."
Her cobalt eyes, definitely too dark for Virgin Mary Blue, glimmered with unsaid response to his gentle gibe.
"And," Matt added, rubbing salt into the wound for the absent Temple, "it isn't just a family visit. Temple is meeting with a Madison Avenue advertising agency. She and Midnight Louie are under consideration for an assignment as spokes...people, I guess, for a major pet products company.
"You mean I might be able to turn on my TV and get the dynamic duo live and in color in my off hours too? I'd rather watch bowling."
"If this came through, I imagine Temple--and Louie, of course-- would be doing a lot more traveling."
"Thank God for small favors." Molina came abreast of Matt at the door. "Speaking of which, thanks for the collar. You did a good job finding Effinger. Did you enjoy it?"
"Not as much as I thought I would."
Molina nodded. "That's good. Because you don't ever want to try a vigilante act like that in this town again."
"Unless I happen to run into Max Kinsella."
"That would be worth seeing; you making a citizen's arrest on Kinsella. Better keep your hands off him; I want that collar. As for Effinger's arrest, remember: just one to a customer, and only because you're such good friends with Miss Temple Barr."
Molina grinned and left, leaving Matt to close down the motel room. He did it slowly, methodically, searching the tiny square closet with a few crinkled garments slumping on wire hangers, checking under the bed and finding only dust, food stamps and parking chits, and a business card for a private-dancer service.
Matt dusted off his hands when he was done, and killed the buzzing light in the bathroom. He shut off the table lamp just before pulling the door closed.
Sighing, he pushed his hands into his pockets again. So long to get here, so little to show for it, not even the indulgence of a fit of anger. He couldn't believe he hadn't made mincemeat out of Effinger.
He had a long walk back to the Showboat parking lot for the Hesketh Vampire. Like reputedly real vampires, revenge was turning out to be mostly a pain in the neck.