“I’m not sure if it’s a good idea to get to know each other,” Max Kinsella’s strong, familiar voice told Matt over the phone the next day, “but since I’m not sure of much of anything, including my past, I’ll have to take Temple’s word on it. And yours. You’re the professional shrink.”
“Not a shrink. A counselor, and I think it’s best we meet on neutral ground.”
“Not your place or my place, then?”
“No.” Matt couldn’t stomach seeing Max back at the Circle Ritz. And although Kinsella’s residence might reveal things the man himself wouldn’t say, Matt wasn’t curious enough, or stupid enough, to venture onto his territory.
“The Crystal Phoenix?” Max suggested.
Matt mentally rejected that idea. Too much “Temple” all over that place. He got a wicked idea, and it was out of his mouth before he could weigh it.
“How about a jazz club called the Blue Dahlia? The background music keeps conversations private without being strident.”
“What an intriguing name,” Kinsella said. “Let’s try it. Have I ever been there?”
“Not that I know of.”
“But you have?”
“A couple times. My WCOO producer took me out for a nightcap there. Actually, early this morning.”
“Male or female?”
“She also has her own syndicated show under the name Ambrosia.”
“Ah, the after-dark Siren of Sympathy and Schmaltz.”
“She helps a lot of people. You’ve heard her, so you must remember that?”
“You must remember this: I only remember trivial things from years ago and only a couple weeks in Europe from before I came back to Vegas. The house I … inherited here … is … empty.”
Matt held a pause that would be far too much “empty” airtime.
Of course, Matt thought. The man who’d owned that house and to whom Max owed so much was dead now. Kinsella must have been checking out The Midnight Hour and caught Ambrosia’s show, too.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Matt said. “And Ambrosia, she’s less siren than sister,” he added, “to everybody.”
Now Kinsella kept quiet for too long.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “It’s easy to be cynical if you haven’t suffered. I hope they serve cool drinks at the Blue Dahlia, along with the hot jazz.”
“Of course.”
“It’s six now. How about dinner at eight?”
Matt had his marching orders, as he imagined Kinsella did, so the connection was broken with mutual but gruff, “All right”s.
Except nothing was “all right,” Matt thought as he pocketed his cell phone.
And it was getting wronger by the minute. He’d checked his latest messages and recognized the several megs of a pictorial porn solicitation from RazorGrrl666@hitmail.com and deleted it. Again. He’d have to figure out how to block it. He wasn’t ready to declare that Kitty the Cutter was on his trail again, until he had better proof.
Maybe the Blue Dahlia wasn’t the best rendezvous site. Temple had mentioned that Max was drinking hard the night he came back, but he’d just run out on that homicidal mess in Belfast. He’d had his reasons.
Matt had some reasons, too.
What rotten timing that his talk-show career was going stratospheric just as Kinsella made his dramatic return. Max had pried Temple loose of Minneapolis and her family to follow him to Vegas. Did Matt have the moxie to pull Temple away from her new Vegas home to follow her man? Did he want to? He now had family “issues” in Chicago, and any new life for him and Temple—and Midnight Louie—would have to deal face-to-face with that mess.
That couldn’t be as bad as dealing face-to-face with the new Max. Tough for him, but really rough on Temple and her sympathetic soul. Matt had to forget his insecurities and do what was best for Temple.
First things first.
Matt agreed with Temple that all three needed to discuss their interlocking pasts and possible mutual enemies, and that he and Max needed to meet before she became involved.
Still, they hadn’t discussed bringing Molina into the case. Molina’d had a lot of family business on her mind and had stopped performing undercover as Carmen, the Blue Dahlia’s come-and-go torch singer.
Temple would be the first to swear that Matt didn’t have a mean bone in his body, but he felt a distinctly wicked tingle in his funny bone right now.
What if Molina showed up at the Blue Dahlia to sing for some insanely remote reason and saw her most elusive suspect sitting in the audience?
Now that would be a psychologically satisfying confrontation to mediate.
* * *
Matt pulled the Jag into the Blue Dahlia parking lot two hours later, wondering if a law-enforcement pro like Molina remembered, every time she arrived, the dead body found near her car here, many months ago. The words She left had even been painted on her Volvo. No wonder “Carmen” hadn’t been on the Blue Dahlia menu lately. Now Molina had “left.”
So she probably remembered, but with less of the sudden sadness that Matt felt. That killer had been caught. Her job was done on that case. Or maybe not.
He checked the parking lot for a car Kinsella might have driven, but spotted nothing in the Mystifying Max’s trademark black. Matt turned to punch the lock button and jumped, less at the sharp bleep the device made than at the voice so close behind him.
“Look who won the lottery.”
He turned to find Max looming, looking gaunter and therefore even taller than his six-four.
“How’d you recognize me if you don’t remember me?” Matt asked.
“WCOO Web site. You’re all over it. Ambrosia, on the other hand, is just an exotic set of dark eyes, close-up.”
“Radio personalities are usually camera-shy.”
“That’s usually because they’ve had a lifetime of designing their personalities to be heard, not seen. You’re not that type.”
“You can tell?”
“I’m not that good. I was told you were an ex-priest.”
“By Temple?”
“By Garry Randolph.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t know him,” Matt said, walking toward the club entrance. “Temple said he was a great guy, and your mentor.”
“Yes, and yes.”
They were inside, where Max was sizing up the place like a gunfighter picking the best back-to-the-wall seat. The Blue Dahlia wasn’t a family draw. Its small tables held mostly couples, or foursomes of friends, all fairly mature.
The hostess in Max-black from her flats to her leggings to her short dress and the matching menu cover eyed the room.
“The corner table all right, gentlemen? You look more like talkers than listeners.”
The spot she led them to was perfect, isolated on the side wall, with a 180-degree view of the musicians’ small riser and the tiny dance floor in front of it.
“We are here to discuss business?” Matt commented as they followed the hostess to the setup.
“You’ve been here before, haven’t you, sir?” she asked Matt as both men took room-facing chairs, putting each other at right angles.
Matt was surprised. The hostess had already gone home by the time he and Ambrosia had hit the joint in the wee hours of today.
“It’s been a while,” Matt said, referring to an earlier prime-time visit. “You have a remarkable memory,” he added with a smile. She was old enough, in her fifties despite the youthful dress, to appreciate that compliment. And she reminded him of his mother.
A brooding silence at his right made Matt realize he’d just uttered a dirty word—memory.
The hostess smiled wide enough to be on a tooth-bleaching commercial. “Oh, there’s a reason I remember you. I also saw you recently on Dancing with the Celebs and recognized you, Mister Devine. Well, I almost didn’t. Those were some wild costumes the celebrities got to wear.”
“Had to wear,” Matt said, sitting and opening the menu to end the conversation.
Too late.
“Dancing with the Celebs?” Max repeated, on the verge of disbelief.
“For charity.” Matt kept his eyes on the menu, forcing the hostess to be on her way. “Complete disaster. It attracted a homicidal loony, but he’s awaiting trial.” Matt had worn his long T sleeves pushed up, so he flashed the inside of his left wrist.
Max stared at the thin, vertical, shiny pink line of the scar alongside his veins. “A suicide slash, not self-inflicted. Someone meant business. That must have bled like crazy.”
“Yup. Almost as bad as the razor slash Kathleen O’Connor carved into my side a year ago.”
“So you’re a two-time knifee. I guess radio-show hosts attract a lot of hostility these days.”
“Not usually. The dance-show stalker bore a grudge because I’d talked his abused wife into leaving him. He’d killed her just days before I was announced as a contestant.”
“Sorry,” Max said.
“And I owe the cat slash from Kitty the Cutter to her fixation on your hide, not mine.”
“Sorry again. Maybe we’d better order some food and drink for a mellow rerun before this exchange gets too dark to deal with.”
Matt kept his eyes on the menu, not really seeing it. “I guess you’ve had a lot of grief lately.”
“At least I can’t remember most of it,” Max said, lightly. “What goes with jazz?”
Matt found himself focusing. “The, uh, the sirloin tips are good. That’s what I had here. Grilled Chicken Picata.”
“Sounds like a Temple Barr preference,” Max said, of the chicken entrée.
“Actually, I was here with Lieutenant Molina. I’ll have the Salmon Fettuccini.”
“You’re a brave man.” Kinsella let his comment confuse Matt for a long moment then continued: “artichoke, purple onion, and garlic all in one go.”
“I apparently like to eat dangerously. They have a great pale ale here, even Guinness stout.”
“No beer, ale, or stout for me,” Max said. “I’m allergic now.”
“Oh. Well, you don’t look like a wine guy.”
“Not like you were.”
It took Matt a second to realize Max Kinsella had been reared Catholic and understood ex-priest almost as well as he did.
“No,” Matt said, “sacramental wine hasn’t been on my menu lately, either. Why not just skip the well-aged angst and order the hard spirits of our choice?”
Max laughed with genuine appreciation. “Gandolph didn’t tell me you were easy to underestimate, too. Scotch whisky it is for me, a double. A doughty drink. Neat,” he added, to the now-hovering waiter, whose brow furrowed. “No ice,” Max added in explanation.
“I’ll have…” Matt observed that Max had ordered the most manly drink first. “… A vodka gimlet. Ice, no sugar, and a lime wedge.”
“So she’s sweet and you’re sour,” Max commented.
“Are we talking about Kathleen O’Connor or Temple?”
Max chuckled softly again. “You’re not what I expected.”
“And you expected—?”
“Mister Nice Guy.”
“I am.”
“You won that.” He glanced at Matt’s wrist.
“Not by much.”
“Doesn’t matter by how much, trust me.”
“I can’t.”
“On that you can. Listen. I don’t like this any more than you do.”
“What’s not to like?” Matt asked. “Guys’ night out. I can … help you with a lot of those blank areas in your memory. It’s my business. Trust me.”
“I can’t.”
“You should.”
The waiter brought their drinks and waited like an expectant chipmunk for their food orders. Even food-service jobs in Vegas were hard to come by nowadays. Matt ordered his salmon and Kinsella his Caribbean Spiced Prime Rib of Pork, just to be left alone for a while.
“Talk about eating dangerously,” Matt said. “Pork with habanero-banana salsa and Diablo Sauce?
“Have to keep up with the competition.”
“Look,” Matt said. “I’m glad you’re alive, but I’m not happy about you coming back to Vegas from the dead. Temple is a true-blue soul. She’d never leave you out there, twisting in the wind with serious losses to deal with and no memory.”
“And you?”
“Me neither,” Matt heard himself almost snarl. “So you’re our pet project. I want to help you on your merry way to mental health and new places and faces, okay?”
Max took a long slug of Scotch, nodding. “Self-interest I can buy. Meanwhile, chew on this: I don’t remember much, Devine. Frankly, I don’t know much, but I do know that Temple is not my type.”
“How do you know?”
“I encountered it … her … on my escape route.”
“You’re with another woman?”
“I was.”
Matt let a lot of vodka and lime fill his throat before he answered. “That’s … crummy.”
“What? You’d want me back, whole, picking up where I’d left off?”
“No.” Matt sipped some more of his mixed vodka-sour feelings. “Temple shouldn’t be that easy to get over.”
Max lifted his amber glass. “I’ve made my point. I’m a cad without a memory. You have nothing to fear … but Kathleen O’Connor. I’m here not because of Temple or any memory or feelings I have of or for her. I’m here because we all three have a mutual enemy. And Kathleen’s like that vengeful wife abuser from your once-innocent airtime advice show. She won’t go away and stop hurting people, mainly us, until we catch her and stop her and put her away. Sláinte.”
Max held out his glass. The word predestination crossed Matt’s mind before he chimed rims with his second-worst nightmare. Kinsella was right. Handicapped but right.
It would have to be a battle to the death with the banshee from Max’s past and Matt and Temple’s future. Matt had been uneasily relieved to hear his attacker had at one time been declared dead, by Max, at the end of an attempt to hound the object of her twenty-year vendetta into a deadly auto accident. The deadly auto accident had just happened months later and five thousand miles away … to another man.
None of this was what it appeared to be, and not so simple. They needed to collaborate, again, Matt and Temple and Max, to find out what had really happened, what hadn’t, and what was in store for them.
Matt had evidently ID’d the wrong body with a very wrong feeling of relief. Old sins come back to haunt you. And, for him, hard.
Kathleen O’Connor rides again.