"You did say that Colby had learned about him from an agency?"
Temple nodded her head.
"I know some agency people. I could call around this afternoon, see if they remember Colby calling."
"On Sunday?"
"The Naked City never sleeps," Kit intoned as flatly as a true-crime television-show announcer. "And inquiring New Yorkers want to know who's been killing Santa Claus."
"I can't believe I traveled three thousand miles to run into another murder. I wonder if the lady lieutenant here called the lady lieutenant in Las Vegas about me yet."
"Don't look so glum. It never hurts to have people talking about you."
"Not homicide detectives. Molina might tell Katrina who-knows-what. She's not fond of amateur anythings."
Kit leaned against the couch back, forgetting about Midnight Louie, who growled.
"Goodness! We are grouchy this morning." She sighed. "You think you saw Santa's eyes before. I'd bet you did. You've had theatrical experience. Actors never forget eyes. Did he seem uneasy to recognize you?"
"No. More surprised. You don't suppose it was suicide?"
"Now there's a notion. This is intriguing. What if this poor nameless soul wanted to cause a little stir as he left the world, perhaps more than he merited while alive? A public hanging at a Christmas party would do the trick. Sad what some people will do for attention."
"Or ..." Temple sat up. "What if the golden chain wasn't making a statement, but the dead man was? What if he blamed someone at Colby, Janos and Renaldi for something, and wanted to embarrass the firm? Bad publicity like this is poison to an advertising firm. It upsets clients."
"Corporate revenge. I like it. All we have to do is find out who he ... was . . . and what he might have against a big advertising agency like CJR."
All? Kit, he could be someone who ... lost a loved one to a faulty product for which CJR handled an advertising Campaign. He could have no overt connection whatsoever and still could have that kind of motive. What do you really think 'we' can do about it?"
"We can start with what we know, and I know those agency people who hand out most of the Santa assignments around this town. And Rudy might have some ideas." Her fading red hair trembled as her head nodded firmly. " 'Every journey to a thousand parts always starts with a single phone call.' Article One of the Actor's Creed."
Chapter 23
Moby Couch
The evening of the morning after the day before.
Matt stood in the glare of his apartment lights, sweating like a stevedore and gazing at a white elephant. At a bloody Moby Dick of the landlubbing world.
A long, sinuous S of red suede sofa snaked diagonally across the parquet floor in an otherwise almost-empty room.
"Temple--" he threatened the emptiness, or the sofa, aloud.
His wallet was lighter by another hundred and fifty dollars. Movers that could muscle an eight-foot-long sofa up three floors of a building built in the fifties with narrow- everything didn't come cheap. Getting it out would probably be best accomplished by wrestling it to the patio railing and dumping it overboard, after shouting suitable warning, like "Timmmmmm-ber!"
He walked around it, hands on hips, shaking his head. "Temmmple," he repeated softly.
He had to admit that in nighttime lighting the behemoth looked pretty good The flagrant red had a holiday dash. But his brick-and-board bookshelves looked like- escapees from a prison tor makeshift furniture now. What did he need a living room for, anyway? He had no visitors, and wasn't likely to have any, not with the transient company he kept at the hot line.
Matt decided to give himself a talking-to, since Temple wasn't here to do it for him. All right, Devine. This is a pretty cool sofa, after all. And you paid enough for it. Could have had some nondescript yuppie cotton-duck-covered love seat for the price, and a floor lamp.
He sat down smack in the sofa's middle and stared at the brandy-colored wood floor. Well, he supposed he could get one of those white, hairy goat rugs like Temple had, and stick it in the sofa's front curve. Only it wouldn't be genuine. Nothing living would die (or decorate) for his sins. Synthetic. Come to think of it, Temple had said "suede."
Matt stroked the smooth fabric. Not as soft as velvet, but not as harsh as cotton duck either. Except for one stain on the back, the sofa was in perfect condition. Someone must have taken good care of it for a long time.
Suede, though. At least the suede-bearers had probably served humankind in a dozen different ways. Matt leaned his elbows on his knees to study his empty white walls. One of Rouault's Christ-figure paintings would look nice on that wall, and crucifixion scenes always have a dash of red in them, especially Rouault's deceptively prettified stained-glass style ...
Christ! He wasn't furnishing a convent. This was a bachelor pad. Why did everything he thought of come up churchy? What other artists' work had he seen? Van Gogh. Not much red there, except in his self-portrait sans ear. Aha! Renoir. He nodded. Plump bourgeois women and children in quaint late-nineteenth-century dress. Lots of reds.
Didn't exactly go with a sofa that was just two long curves: shorter back support, and long, long seat. 0f suede. How many suedes had died so his rear could cushion itself on this soft surface?
Georgia O'Keefe, maybe. Modern. Innocuous subjects, flowers. Big like the sofa, lots of lush reds. All pretty erotic, of course. He had heard. Didn't want to send that message any more than the one behind Rouault's jewel-tone meditations on sin, suffering and death.
Oh, Jesus. He meant it as a prayer, not an epithet. Is this my forty days in the desert? My temptation? A long red suede sofa?
Matt put his face in his hands. How could he know who he could love, when he didn't even know what he could like?
So it came back to Temple. He missed her. And he was actually glad the ridiculous sofa had arrived today and distracted him from the encounter with Cliff Effinger last night.
He hadn't slept all night, but then he was used to being up, working, those hours. That wasn't it. The triumph was rolling around inside of him, bumping into all his tender spots. And he'd discovered what Molina probably already knew. He had banged himself up right royally with Effinger, and vice versa. Funny, he'd hadn't felt a thing at the time. Adrenaline?
So he was aching all over today, and of course he had to help the two beefy guys with beer guts that would choke a horse manhandle the sofa upstairs. Couldn't take the elevator. Too small. Why would such a little woman like Temple fall in love with such a big sofa? Uh-oh, Matt's inner voice warned. She fell in love with Max Kinsella, and he ain't exactly small. Opposites attract, dummy. Rule number one of the secular, coeducational world.
He'd had a headache all day too. Probably from those partially tasted cheap drinks. Impersonating a gumshoe of the old school was hazardous to clean nineties lifestyles.
He glanced around, surprised at being encompassed by a curving palette of pure red. This sofa certainly didn't let you forget about it.
The phone sat on its shaky-legged table. He should . . . call Temple. Tell her the unsinkable thrift-shop sofa had arrived safely. Tell her--
She had left the number, and he had left it right by the phone.
Matt slid about six feet down his new sofa to the end and punched numbers. About 2 P.M. in New York, his wristwatch told him. Might be home between meetings and eatings out.
The phone rang exactly twice before it was answered.
"Hello." Perky. Familiar. Like smelling fresh espresso.
"Temple?"
"No, her aunt. Kit."
"Oh. I'm calling from Las Vegas--"
She cut him off before he could give a reason. "Which one are you--the blond or the brunet?"