Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

mattered.
    “Yes.” He was two feet away now. He looked away again. “But that’s not my job. That’s just some advice from someone who knows when a situation is escalating into the weird and dangerous.”
    “I like the weird and dangerous.”
    He looked her up and down. “You think you do. I’m private security. I can’t tell you what to do. I just say you oughta get back to your room. Lock the door. Do your nails. Wait for the producers to say the show must go on.”
    “Private? Like a PI?”
    “God, no.”
    She knew that’d get his goat. Like all ex-cops, even disgraced ex-cops, Rafi hated private detectives.
    “I was thinking of hiring you, is all.”
    “Yeah, right.” He actually chuckled. “You Teen Queens think you’re Britney Spears when you’re really Nancy Drew. I’m already spoken for.”
    “Oh?” Temple tried to sound indifferent but Xoe sounded interested. “By whom?”
    “By Savannah Ashleigh, the judge, is whom.”
    “She’s no judge. She’s just an actress, and a bad one.”
    “I don’t judge clients. But I think she’s right in being worried. So why a punk little chick like you is boogying around Hell House after all these unsettling incidents beats me. Given all the black you’re wearing, must be a death wish.”
    “I don’t like being penned up.”
    “You might consider that’s exactly what might happen if there’s another nasty prank and you’re wandering around unaccounted for. I’d skedaddle back to my safe little room if I were you.”
    “It’s not little.”
    He suddenly lunged forward, his booted foot smacking the floor.
    She jerked back, retreating. It had worked. Xoe Chloe had made him too mad to see past her cheesy, mouthy exterior.
    “Listen, little lady.” He caught her arms and pulled her close and spoke low. “My job is to guard the Ashleigh broad but I’ll give you some free expert advice. Somebody around here is this close to the edge. You don’t want to end up spattered on the exercise machines, stay in your room. Don’t wander around alone; do as you’re told.”
    “And you’re protecting Savannah Ashleigh by lounging around in the den?”
    His grip tightened. A fist came up.
    Temple dodged but she couldn’t break free. Her “pal” Rafi wouldn’t do this to her, but it was instructive to see what he’d do to some unknown young girl. How had she ever thought he might be a smidge better than the sleaze-ball Molina had made him out to be?
    She winced, expecting a blow.
    Instead he waved a cat-whisker-thin black wire at her. “This place is bugged. Surveilled. All for the camera crews. But someone, maybe anyone, must be using this setup to watch and hear whatever he wants to, anytime. I’m going to track his ass through the same wires he uses to terrorize you people. Get it? Now shut up, get back to your room, and save your own pierced little skin.”
    When he let her go, she almost lost her balance. “Surveilled” was not a word but Temple decided this was not the time to mention that. He stalked off without waiting to see if she was taking his advice.
    He was right, though. They were all experimental rats in a maze. Technology was their reason for being here, and their Achilles’ heel.
    Could Rafi himself be the creep who was stalking the show, relishing being called in to track himself?
    What a mess. The cast and crew were too large, the pool of victims too numerous, and the potential evil-doer too easily hidden.
    It was just a matter of time, she knew—and Rafi had indicated that he knew too—before someone really got hurt.
    And not even Lieutenant Molina could do a thing about it.
    Rafi was right about one thing: she belonged upstairs keeping an eye on Mariah, 24/7.



Midnight Attack

    “So what’d you find out?”
    Mariah was sitting cross-legged on one side of the giant bed, painting her toenails atop the pink silk bedspread.
    “Whoops!” Temple grabbed her notebook, opened it flat, and poised Mariah’s chubby little toes on top of it. “You might drip.”
    “I won’t drip,” she said, looking up.
    Temple looked down just in time to watch a red glob of nail enamel hit the notebook and pool there like a gobbet of designer-shade blood.
    “So spake Dracula,” Temple said. “Everybody drips painting their toenails. It’s a girly rule since the Garden of Eden. Eve did it. Evita did it. Even the Dixie Chicks do it. We don’t want to trash the room. That’ll give us black marks in the competition.”
    Mariah