Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

to their room.
    The cell phone didn’t produce the strongest signal in the world in the bathroom with the water running, but secret agents had to get used to adverse conditions.
    Mariah was in the outer room, reading the paper fragment through the plastic baggie and munching on a stash of julienned raw carrots she was allowed as snacks. Yum.
    The hour was late and Temple felt some unkindly satisfaction at getting Mariah’s mother up.
    “Yes.” The voice was so sudden and stem that Temple momentarily couldn’t decide how to begin. She wasn’t used to being barked at.
    While she hesitated, Molina’s voice came back on the line even more demanding. “Who is this?”
    “Ah, Xoe.”
    “Xoe?” Apparently, her alter ego hadn’t made an impression on Molina. So much for a chance with the judges.
    “Right. I’ve found some fascinating papers in the dead dietitian’s office. You should have them right away.”
    “You.” Molina actually sounded glad about that. “What
    papers?”
    “A lawsuit involving Mrs. Klein several years ago.”
    “We know about that. My detectives did a background check and it came up. So you woke me up for that?”
    “And a scrap of paper dated last February fourteenth. It sounds threatening. It apparently was tom off the contents of a folder as it was being taken out. Someone didn’t notice.”
    “Valentine’s Day hate note, eh? That sounds more promising. No nice and neat signature, like ‘Your Killer,’ I suppose?”
    Temple didn’t bother answering that bit of sarcasm. “What were you doing in the woman’s office anyway? That’s still a crime scene.”
    “I am, therefore, I snoop. I thought that’s what I was here for.”
    “You’re here to keep an eye on Mariah. Where was she while you were on this law-breaking expedition?”
    “Um, in our room, studying some papers and snacking on carrot sticks.”
    “Carrot sticks! Commendable if out of character. I suppose your prints are all over that office now.”
    “No. I used a pair of latex gloves, just like the pros.”
    “Where’d you get—”
    “They dyed my hair as part of the makeover but had their own gloves. And I never throw anything away, so...”
    “They dyed your hair? All of it?”
    “This is a makeover show.”
    “What have they done to Mariah?”
    “Nothing. Yet. Except make her work out and eat veggies.”
    “Don’t let them dye her hair.”
    “I’ll do what I can.”
    “So you wore hair-dye gloves to search the office. Unbelievable.”
    “And the paper scrap is in a plastic baggie fresh from Mrs. Klein’s office refrigerator. I had to throw out some guck to get an empty baggie.”
    “That’s all right. Our crime scene people have already taken samples of everything in there for analysis.”
    “So how do we exchange the evidence.”
    “‘We’ do not. I’ll send Alch over in the morning. You know him, Mariah knows him, and one of you two should be able to pass him a baggie without undue attention.”
    “We’ve got a window of opportunity between 8:15 and 8:30.”
    “That early? I’ll have to call Morrie tonight yet.”
    “This is beauty boot camp, you know. No laggards here.”
    “Except the dead.”
    Speaking of which, the line went dead.
    Temple was slow in folding away her cell phone. Molina had sounded really growly when she’d first answered the phone, before she even knew it was Temple. Suspicious and growly. And something else. Temple called upon her theatrical background to conjure just the right word to describe the other note in the lieutenant’s usual gruff and businesslike tone. Anxious, maybe? No. Scared.
    Temple shut off the water and pulled down the washcloths. She was hanging so many napkins and towels around suspected camera sites she felt like a laundress.
    In the bedroom, all the lights were blazing but Mariah had tunneled completely under the covers and was lost in sudden, absolute adolescent sleep, her rear end humped up to make an island in the pink silk sea of coverlet.
    Temple went over to the table to inspect the papers that had put Mariah to sleep. The only sexy one was the tom scrap of threat. And something about that bothered Temple.
    She sat down at Mariah’s abandoned chair and read the terse words. “Murderous bitch” was pretty damning. And “incompetent.” But the last words were strange... “on national TV.” Thing is, Kit hadn’t been selected for the show until a month ago. Reality TV shows moved fast. They had very little budget,