A glare of TV lights surrounded the scene in the atrium half an hour later.
Temple was really sorry to see that. Normally PR people loved to attract the glare of the spotlight for their clients, but not when they had to tell everybody to fast-forward the party and go home.
She winced to see the thorough attendance her PR wizardry had mustered on darn short notice.
All of Wong’s minions were present, as well as Kenny and Barb Maylord, and staff members with stress lines drawing down their mouths: the tall, ugly, bucktoothed guy Matt had mentioned making a pass at him; toady manager Mark Ainsworth, sweating hard under the TV lights; a flock of genteel lady decorators, looking sullen.
Also prominent was the Wong cortege, Baylee Harris, Pritchard Merriweather, Tiffany Yung, and the exercise guru, Carl Osgaard, including the two nameless dudes with sunglasses implanted in their eye sockets. No dogs. Amelia had nixed the dogs.
And, rounded up fast, the MADD president and some of her staff, the sober-looking women who clustered together like a PTA group.
Temple decided she would tell the arts council people—luckily, they were a sleed and civil lot—the bad news first. Lingering check-passing ceremonials didn’t belong on a crime scene.
Especially an extraordinarily well-covered check-passing photo op. Damn, she was good! And that was bad. In this instance. The police had made no bones about it: get the public off the scene ASAP, and leave it to them.
A local radio personality, a heavyset jocular man called Nevada Jones, was oozing into a mike. Behind him lurked Crawford Buchanan, mouthing a soft-voiced play-by-play into his live radio mike as if he were the ghost of Howard Cosell.
The whole thing was terminally hokey, nothing Temple would have dreamed up in her worst nightmare. And to her, the phantoms of the recent deaths hung over the proceedings like halitosis.
Temple noted that not only were Amelia Wong’s bodyguards obviously on duty but Maylords had rousted its entire security force to ring the entire area.
She marked Rafi Nadir among them, dark suited and as theatrically glowering as a Gangsters chauffeur.
He saw her and winked.
Man, first Alch, now Nadir. How come nobody remotely available winked at her? Max, where are you when you are sorely needed?
Amelia Wong stepped to the front of the Maylords group, bracketed by the Sunglasses. Behind her, blond Baylee was lost behind a giant cardboard check.
Before Ms. Wong could say a word, Temple dashed forward to intercept her with the most negative announcement of her generally positive PR life. The show’s over, folks. My client, Maylords, is a multiple murder site. Forget the festivities, the good deeds, and get the hell out of here before you die. And so will my career reputation.
But before Temple could do the right thing and commit career suicide in front of Crawford Buchanan and everybody, another figure pushed through the fretting circle of official police observers, right between Alch and Su.
It was tall, dark, clad in navy blue, and meant business.
Oh, my great-aunt Thumbelina, it’s Lieutenant C. R. Molina. What on earth is she doing here? Maybe a double murder and assault-weapon attack would attract the literally lofty personal attention of a homicide lieutenant.
Temple felt the slo-mo agony of watching an inevitable accident of epic proportions. She did a double take in four-four time. From Molina to Nadir, from Nadir back to Molina.
When would one notice, and recognize, the other?
Who would be first to see, and to move? And how?
Temple only had eyes for Rafi Nadir. And Carmen Molina.
Molina had noticed Temple. She frowned suspiciously and let her slick gaze slide past the hoopla to study the crowd, looking for what had attracted Temple.
Great. Temple had gone from cooked PR whiz to human pointer and police snitch.
Janice next received Molina’s steely passing gaze and instant ID, but never even noticed.
Alch and Su watched their boss’s scrutiny with studied indifference.
Molina panned past the TV videographers. Then Amelia and company. Her laserlike vivid blue gaze moved on, taking instant photos of everyone present. Inevitably, it found and lingered on the outer circle of hell at last.
On the Maylords private security force, each and every one.
On . . . finally, Rafi Nadir.
Only Temple fully understood what this inevitable meeting of old allies turned intimate enemies might mean.
Nadir sensed Molina’s intense observation, and looked back.
Shock. Mutual paralysis. Sparks. Fury without sound.
Molina had frozen into angry ice.
Nadir looked like he would spontaneously combust.
You! The unspoken challenge jumped like heat lightning from opposite sides of the circle of onlookers.
The crowd buzzed on, unaware.
Temple held her breath. This was one scene she wanted to savor in mental rerun for years. Except it was her job to avert public scenes. Drat and darn and damn Yankees! She’d better concoct a distracting tactic fast.