Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

this ugly hullabaloo and here you are, out and about like a Dead End Kid.”
    “A dead what?”
    “Guess you’re way too young to remember that old film stuff. I’d like to do an interview with you. Crawford Buchanan, media personality. I’m embedded here for KREP-AM radio.”
    “Embedded? Dude, that sounds sooo sleazy.”
    What a ferrety little weasel! Or was that piling on animal comparisons? No doubt, Temple knew she’d like ferrets and weasels a lot better than Awful Crawford. What a phony, with his cultivated basso that rumbled like gang warfare and his salon-styled hair that reflected every trendy fashion. She couldn’t believe the new gold highlights in its already dramatic black-and-silver tones, courtesy of Mother Nature.
    The highlights reminded her of Matt Devine, who was so much more worthy of bumping into than Crawford Buchanan. She wondered what he was doing in Chicago on his vacation. Would he ever believe...? No, and he’d certainly never approve of doing such a wild and crazy thing, this dangerous masquerade, all for the sake of Max Kinsella.
    Or was it?
    “So, kiddo.” Crawford was waxing oily again. “The old place is pretty spooky now that someone’s leaving funny valentines all over it.”
    He’d immediately snapped her attention back to the here and now.
    “What did you call it?” she asked, struck by his phrase. “This harassment?”
    “Funny valentines. You know, the fluffy cream on the hot pink yoga mats. The... strawberry syrup spray on the, uh, balloon lady in the workout room. It’s all a joke.”
    “And if it isn’t?”
    “Don’t worry, babe. I’ll be here to rescue you and record it all for KREP.”
    Hmmm. Another hanger-on, another motive. Maybe Crawford needed to bolster poor drive-time numbers. These flashy incidents could do it.
    “I don’t listen to those middle-of-the-road stations, man,” Xoe sneered in answer.
    “I’m not middle-of-the-road—” he replied, frowning. “No, just road kill. Scram, old geek, or I’ll run my spikes right through you.”
    Temple fanned out her claws and pushed past him into the empty den. She breathed out her relief when he didn’t follow her in. How odd to think of everyone hunkered down in their rooms for safety’s sake... when they were all being spied upon and recorded 24/7.
    This whole setup was a voyeur’s dream, she realized, jsjot the vague, general voyeuristic public instinct that supported reality TV but an honest-to-God, freaky, perverted voyeur of the old school.
    The den was eerily deserted. Three large plasma TVs were blank gray screens on the wood-paneled walls, looking like modern art frames someone had forgotten to put the pictures in.
    The many oversize white leather ottomans that the candidates had lolled upon in teen preening positions were empty now, and resembled giant poisonous mushrooms sprouting from the exotic wood-inlay floor.
    The vast room was so dim and deserted that Temple braced herself for spotting another doll-like corpse, however ersatz.
    But she was the only girl in residence.
    Though not quite the only resident.
    A figure stood, rising from one of the huge paired wing chairs near the see-through fireplace that served both the den and dining room.
    It was tall, dark, and... familiar.
    It leaned over to turn on a nearby torchère, casting light upward that defused before it reached the twenty-foot ceiling.
    Cheese it, the cops! Cop, singular. Very singular.
    And not Molina.
    In fact, the anti-Molina.
    Rafi Nadir, attired in casual black, like Max, but much less expensively than Max, came toward her.
    She stood paralyzed. He’d already seen through one half-hearted disguise of hers. Would he detect this much more thorough one just as fast?
    He looked leaner and meaner than his usual bloated, discontented self. He looked serious.
    “What are you doing roaming around this place?” he asked.
    Fight or flight? Rafi wasn’t going to go away. Might as well find out now whether she could fool him or not. If not, maybe she’d have an ally inside. But, for now, undercover was her best option.
    Temple/Xoe snapped her gum, then mumbled around it, “I’m a contestant. This is supposed to be... home.” Luckily, his eyes were scanning the overall scene, only half on her. “It’s a TV set. And somebody is altering the script. You belong in your room, little girl. Better get back there.”
    “I suppose you can make me,” Xoe challenged.
    That girl never could keep her mouth shut when it