Cat In An Alphabet Soup (Catnap)

“Rawson,” Molina instructed the uniformed officer with weary resignation. “We’ll use the siren.”

22

Temple on Ice

Temple satalone in a tiny room equipped only with table and chairs. The sole door had a window in the upper half, smudged as if a lot of noses had been pressed against it. Chicken wire reinforced the glass on a diagonal pattern, looking like fishnet hose.

The dreariness of her surroundings matched her mood. A noisy and speedy arrival at the city pound had found the cupboard bare of Midnight Louie. The surly attendant swore a big black cat had been there, but the indicated cage was empty. Temple believed in her heart of hearts that Louie had been prematurely put to sleep, even though the attendant swore no “terminations” had occurred that night. Whatever the reason, Louie wasn’t there.

Temple and Molina had both looked like prize fools, something Temple felt far too depressed to worry about. Surely Molina wasn’t.

As the detective entered the room, her impressive brows collided in a frown, reminding Temple that publicly embarrassing a police lieutenant was not a good way to preface an interrogation.

Molina had vanished without a word after their arrival at the police station. Now she again wore her khaki poplin slacks and blazer. The warm interrogation room quickly encouraged her to doff the jacket, revealing a short-sleeved red polyester blouse with a V-neck, in the style called a camp shirt.

“Do I need a lawyer or something?” Temple asked nervously.

“You’re not being charged with anything,” Molina said. “There’s no statute against stupidity.”

“Are public servants supposed to resort to name-calling?”

“So sue me.”

Molina sat across the scar-topped Formica table from Temple, who felt reduced to an unhappy twelve-year-old called in for a lecture by the big-girl camp counselor. She swung a nervous foot.

She’d been allowed to dump off Lorna’s book bag and grab a pair of shoes at the Circle Ritz on the way back to the station. At least this was just an interrogation and she hadn’t been fingerprinted and put into jailhouse baggies.

“Why were you coming in so late at the convention center?” Molina asked first.

“I had lots of messages to catch up on.”

“Like this one?” Molina produced the catnapper’s second note, mounted on a larger piece of paper so no one had to touch it.

“How—?”

“The officers went over your desk while we were busy visiting the local pound. When a citizen is stalked through a public building after hours and apparently attacked, we investigate—seriously.”

“What do you mean by ‘apparently’ attacked?”

“Nothing more than careful police phrasing. The guard saw someone running away, although our officers found no one. I presume your story will corroborate this fact. So will an analysis of the human tissue samples on the heel of your shoe.”

“Do you suppose—?”

“What?”

“Did I actually... hurt someone?”

“Not fatally,” Molina said with little amusement. “Why would someone attack you?”

“Like Everest—I was there?” Temple tried.

“You were there because of this note. Mind explaining it?”

“Yes, I do. It’s a sensitive matter.”

“Cats are sensitive?”

“These two are not just cats. They’re corporate mascots.”

“Right now they’re in the middle of a murder investigation, as are you. Tell me about it.”

There was nothing even faintly cajoling about Molina’s tone, just pure unleavened command. So Temple did.

Molina was not a particularly encouraging listener, but seen across the table and judged as a person rather than an official, and in view of her startling off-duty transformation, C. R. Molina struck Temple as human for the first time.

Her heavy almost blue-black hair, worn in an ear-covering blunt cut more serviceable than stylish, grew wispily around her hairline, an effect that might have been softening had Molina not brushed it brutally back from her face.

Her strong brows were unplucked, but after all that was the current practice among fashion models; and yet Temple doubted Molina had noticed. She wore no detectable makeup, except for a wine-colored lipstick that added color yet didn’t even flirt with being seductive.

She wore little jewelry, only a class ring on her right second finger, which indicated she had lost weight since getting it. Even seated, Molina was rangy and competent-looking; not awkward, but without fillips of expression or gesture to distract from her grim business. Until tonight, Temple would have bet that C. R. Molina had neither steady boyfriend nor cat. Her bare left hand said she wasn’t presently married even though she must be pushing forty.

“What?” Temple suddenly realized she’d been inventing a life for a person whose job was to probe her own situation.

“I said,” Molina repeated evenly, “what made you and this Adcock woman think you could possibly handle this cat kidnapping by yourselves?”