Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

her mind or anything else) stopped dead in the middle of one line. “And how do you spell Zoe with an X ?“
    “Easy. X-o-e. Zoe-ee."
    “And ‘Ozone’ is your last name? Do you spell it with an X ?”
    “No. And I actually go by Xoe Chloe Ozone.”
    “Where do you go by this?”
    “Performance art. In the clubs. You know. And at the Rollerblade havens.”
    “You’re a Rollerblading performance artist?”
    “That’s it. Body and soul. Synthesis. That’s my thing.”
    “So, what did you find when you entered the crime scene?”
    “Uh, you mean, the room?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, um, the scale.”
    “The scale?”
    “Yeah, the weigh thing. I do not like scales. I don’t suppose you much avoid them, being one skimpy girl, but we’re all on television here and every ounce looks like a pound.”
    “That’s why the dietitian was part of the package. You were all supposed to lose weight?”
    “Yeah. Pretty much all of us. You can never be too rich or too thin.”
    “What does money have to do with it?”
    Xoe Chloe (she was baaaaack!) shrugged. “Hey, we get named Teen or ‘Tween Queen, we get money, fame, and a new car, not to mention a date with a sex symbol.”
    “What passes for a sex symbol on a reality TV show these days?”
    “Nobody you’d recognize. Frankly, nobody I’d care to share a straw with. Much less... well, you know.”
    “No, I don’t know, Miss Ozone. That’s why I’m asking you questions.”
    “Here’s the deal. I hear the scream, like everyone else I come running, except they’re all going in the opposite direction. I find poor little Mariah shrieking her head off in the middle of the room, and poor Marjorie looking all laid back in her desk chair. How on earth did she die? Heart attack? Her face was all dark. As a card-carrying Goth girl, that doesn’t frighten me, unless it’s done without makeup.”
    “Speaking of cards, let’s see yours.”
    “My what?”
    “Your driver’s license.”
    “Uh, I don’t have one.” Actually, Temple had a fake one from Molina she could flash later but figured Z. C. would only produce a plain-Jane name under intense pressure.
    “You don’t? Why not?”
    “I Rollerblade, silly. Don’t need a license for that.”
    “What about when you go into bars?”
    “Hey, I may be Goth but I’m not a lush. I don’t go that much into bars.”
    “But when you do.”
    “Simple. I don’t drink. Would you believe I’m a born-again Christian?”
    “No.”
    “You’d be right but I still don’t drink. I just rock and roll along and nobody bothers me.”
    “Well, they will now. We’ll want your fingerprints and some legitimate ID.”
    “I was born illegitimate,” Xoe Chloe said, “but you can have my fingerprints. Like everyone else’s, they’ll be in the room. We all had appointments with Marjory.”
    “And what did she recommend for you?”
    Temple let her nose squinch up. “More fruits and legumes. Heck, there are enough fruits around here to form a conga line of Carmen Mirandas.”
    “Not funny. You are no longer on Candid Camera, Ms. Ozone. You are in the sights of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department Crimes-Against-Persons Unit. You know what that means?”
    “Of course. CAPers! I love it. Such a merry word for the murder unit. Bring ‘em on.”
    “Oh, we will, Ms. Ozone.” Su stood, all wiry four-feet-eleven of wily Asian-American brains and martial-arts-buff body.
    Su glanced over to where Alch was bidding Mariah adieu with a friendly pat on the shoulder.
    “Mariah’s thirteen, you know,” Temple said.
    Su must already be aware of Mariah’s age and maternal unit but didn’t bat a black eyelash.
    “Most of the suspects on this scene are under twenty,” she noted. “That doesn’t mean we won’t investigate all you ‘tween-teen types, from date of birth to date of last period. Get it?”
    Temple did.

    * * *

    Temple “showered” solo that evening.
    Mariah, pale and tired, slept the sort of long drugged sleep teenagers major in. No wonder Sleeping Beauty remained such a popular fairy tale.
    Meanwhile, Temple sat on the commode, the shower pelting into the tub and steaming up the mirrors. She speed-dialed Mama Molina’s private home-phone number. “Hello?” came the usual brusque opening.
    “Agent Ninety-nine reporting.”
    “Cut the quips. This has gotten serious. How the hell did you allow my daughter to blunder onto a crime scene?”
    “She didn’t blunder. She had an appointment.