Cat In A Sapphire Slipper

No one noticed them much, though, Temple saw. The barroom was jammed.

Fontana brothers were lined up on and between the barstools. Their girlfriends were scattered at the round tables. Molina had joined two serious, suited men at a table with four semiautomatic pistols on it.

“I take it,” she was saying, “that these are the firearms that shot out the tires.”

One man nodded. “You’ll want to confirm that, for the record.”

The other man looked up and Matt turned to confront him, shocked. “Frank.” He turned back to Temple. “You knew.”

She nodded as the man walked over. He was tall and lean with scissor-sharp features and a receding hairline.

“Matt. I do find you in the most interesting places these days.”

Temple smothered a smile. Frank Bucek was also an ex-priest. He’d been Matt’s teacher in the seminary, but was now an FBI agent. The other agent was getting the girlfriends’ names and addresses, so they made a confidential trio conferring on the sidelines.

“Okay,” Matt said softly, still obviously shocked. “So you were the one Temple called from my cell phone address list. How’d you get here so fast?”

“I was in L.A. And your . . . fiancée, is it, from the good lieutenant’s comments in the foyer? . . . had a bout of curiosity that set a huge fuss in motion.” Bucek grinned. “Congratulations, kids. Am I invited to the wedding?”

“When we decide on a place and a time,” Matt said. “But—”

“I’ll buy you both a celebratory drink in town later, and give you some big explanations in private. Right now, we have a last piece of the puzzle I need to pry out of these women before we leave the crime scene to the able lieutenant.”

Temple was about to scream if she heard Bucek put one more praising adjective in front of Molina’s title, but then she was a bit wrought up from seeing the limo driver’s eyes nearly scratched out by a posse of infuriated domestic cats, led on by the awesome cries and growls of her own cuddly bed partner.

“My midnight radio show—” Matt began, his brow furrowing.

Bucek leaned close. “Carmen is not in a good mood, for many reasons I can guess and some I can’t, but I did get her to promise you’d flee the mass interrogation in time to make your live radio commitment.” He glanced at Temple with some amusement. “You she has plans for. But it’s a small price to pay for Matt getting sprung from a brothel ASAP.”

Temple just shrugged. “How can I help you, Agent Bucek?”

“Tell me which one of these lovely ladies was mad enough at a Fontana boyfriend to help set up a mob hit.”

Temple caught her breath. Putting Madonnah’s murder in those terms took the whole last eighteen-hours’ chaos from the comedy of errors it felt like to the tragedy it was.

Sitting on a leather sofa with her legs up and her foot on Matt’s thigh like a shoeless Cinderella, now that he’d sat down again, made her look about as effective as a poetic Victorian invalid on a fainting couch. Elizabeth Barrett Browning, say. Temple had to twist her neck to eye the eight women she’d come to recognize and know.

She’d suspected one of them had been involved with more than engineering a surprise prank. The FBI man was relying on her crime-solving instincts to tell him who.

Wow. This was the Big Finale and she already looked like a limping fool who’d walked into a trap and become a hostage.

Actually, Louie had done the walking and she had followed, but he was being coddled by courtesans and she was merely being ankle-massaged by Matt . . . which was enough to turn her knees to hot melted butter. As well as her brain.

“Agent Bucek, I haven’t a clue to who the guy who abducted me really is, except that he was a hit man hiree who replaced the real driver, and it suited him, in turn, to be replaced by a Fontana girlfriend. He probably rode out here concealed in the Rolls’s trunk never expecting to be found out in a million years.”

“That’s okay. We know him. We just don’t know which girl aided and abetted, and whether she really knew what she was doing. Whether she was a victim, or a villain. Can you help us?”

Lord, she wanted to! Every Fontana except Macho Mario had believed in her smarts. She eyed the old guy, having a big cigar lit by Miss Kitty while the other agent gave him the sixth degree, at least.

But if she wrongly dissed a loyal Fontana girlfriend, sold her out to the Feds. If she was wrong, and got an innocent woman in trouble. . . .

“If the girl won’t confess, we’ll never get this right,” Bucek said.

Temple eyed them all. Neurotic Jill, so insecure. Buoyant Meredith, the life counselor who might have failed in her own choices. Headstrong Alexia had been mentioned as possibly bolting the fold.

But only one was a likely suspect.

Temple beckoned Bucek to bend down to her.

She whispered, “It’s kinda obvious. Asiah, the substitute driver. She wore fishnet hose with just high heels and a skimpy blazer.”

Bucek glanced at Matt. “You do travel in style these days.”