Max spotted Temple flying out the side door of the Circle Ritz, short skirt swirling, low-heeled mules practically skidding off her feet as she headed for the Miata wisely parked near one of the lot’s three security light poles.
Her headlong commitment and those lithe bare legs made him smile.
Miss Mini-Tornado.
He was driving his previously owned black Volkswagen Beetle, now that Garry’s laptop computer had coughed up the names of his banks and numbers of his accounts. The humble Beetle offered surprising legroom for a tall guy. Max had read on an airline magazine that Tommy Tune, the six-foot-six (and a half, supposedly, sans cowboy boots) Texas tap dancer and Broadway star, drove one.
That had given him the idea, now that legroom was an issue. Also, the Beetle provided a literal low profile for tailing work. Max figured he’d be spending a lot of time getting up to date on his history in Sin City. But he wasn’t here for testing the Beetle’s legroom. Or legs.
Idling throatily along the side street was a much more serious car than either he or Miss Whirling Dervish Barr drove. A deep-bronze vintage Impala.
Max had always figured Dirty Larry Podesta for a man with an agenda that went far beyond police work. He’d followed the guy here on his own instincts, not Molina’s instructions. And he found this destination as sinister as that possible personal link through Podesta’s stepsister to the Barbie Doll Killer.
He especially didn’t like that Impala waiting in the dark to pounce on the Miata. He might not remember his ex, but, by God, nobody was going to mess with her. Including him.
And, he was thinking, she hardly fit the profile for the Barbie Doll Killer victims. She’d left him a message saying that she’d seen Larry, not vice versa, at the nursing home. Still, he couldn’t help worrying now that sending Temple to the nursing home Dirty Larry had visited had somehow drawn the undercover narc’s attention to her.
Maybe something the receptionist had said on Larry’s next visit had tipped him off to who the “visiting reporter” might have been. Had he “made” Temple as a likely possibility for uncovering his real aims? Or as a likely victim? Was Larry an avenger or a serial killer? His job description well suited him for both roles.
No more deaths on Max’s conscience, that was his obsession now, besides finding Kathleen O’Connor.
The Beetle swooped out of the lot after the Impala got into line behind the Miata. Max loved being invisible and underestimated, not doing the magician act out front, but pulling the strings from behind the curtain.
He hoped the sainted Gandolph had been right, as usual. Miss Temple Barr was too easy to underestimate. He hoped so with all his heart and soul, if he had any left, because his instincts told him this unintentional auto convoy was headed on a straight line to Showdown City.
He’d observed, at least, that Temple had her seat belt on. Good girl! It was going to be a bumpy ride. He had his on, too. You couldn’t save someone else if you didn’t care enough to save yourself.
Bitter lesson learned.