Cat in an Alien X_Ray

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  “I’m released and I need a wheelchair?” Matt sat up, his legs dangling off the high hospital bed like a child’s. “How come he’s not getting out? I had the more serious wound.”

  “Hospitals kick women out a day after childbirth nowadays,” Temple said, nodding at Kinsella. “Max will be released soon too. Thanks for the quick defensive motion in my behalf, Max.” She aimed a smile Kinsella’s way before stretching up to pull Matt’s bed curtain closed.

  She turned and beamed at Matt without waiting for Kinsella’s acknowledgment. Her voice went low and intimate. “And now I get to undress you and dress you and undress you again.”

  Obviously, Matt realized with relief as she kissed him long and deep, the talk they needed to have about his devil’s deal with Kathleen O’Connor was not the first thing on Temple’s wish list.

  Chapter 54

  Cat and Mouser

  Once the happy couple had wafted away in a halo of triumph and heady scent, Max sat up in bed himself. He leaned out to yank Matt’s curtain back to its mooring and morosely eyed the empty bed and flower shelf.

  His hands worried at the gauze head wrappings until they were a pile on the sheets. Maybe he could shape the unshaved hair and bald spot into a weird punk Mohawk.

  He plucked at the dippy hospital gown and wondered where they’d hidden his clothes, although they were likely as bloody as Devine’s. He didn’t have a personal sprite to play wardrobe mistress and caretaker, so he’d probably have to wait until the release papers came.

  Max hated being hemmed in by bureaucracy.

  Measured footsteps sounded in the hall. Maybe the hand and foot of hospital authority was heading his way with his walking papers.

  Someone tall and authoritative rounded the doorjamb.

  “Lieutenant,” he greeted C. R. Molina. “Have you come to ‘undress me and dress me and undress me again’?”

  “Hell no.” She frowned at his head and face, then eyed the empty bed. “I see I’ve been spared the mawkish departing dialogue of your likely coconspirators.”

  “You’ve got that right.”

  “So,” she said, “we can have a private sickbed tête-à-tête. Don’t tear up at a possible sympathy visit. I came to find out what really happened and consult on our mutual projects.”

  “What?” Max asked. “You didn’t see the online digital news item? Gossip-a-Go-Go has the whole scoop ready to go into print.”

  “I don’t rely on Internet little nothings. I saw the police report, and my suspicions stirred instantly.”

  “What tipped you off?”

  “You and Matt Devine. Together at five in the morning? You taken by surprise and conked on the head like a bloody amateur? Matt taking a gunshot, possibly in your defense? Simply not believable.”

  “Granted that Devine and I were rushed off untimely on stretchers, but the police officers present seemed satisfied by our account of an armed robber surprising us.”

  “They don’t know the cast list like I do. Now, I can see a certain other someone on the scene. I could maybe believe the two of you mixed it up over the affections of the ubiquitous Miss Temple Barr. Yet that’s too melodramatic. Instead, I could see you both protecting our heroine. I smell the blood of a celebrated but elusive psycho on the scene.”

  By then she had paced past the foot of his bed and was at the flower shelf on Max’s side, reading the accompanying cards. “Purple and red and yellow. Rather lurid. Tony Valentine, hmm. He’s the big-time agent.”

  “You make that sound like an accusation,” Max objected. “He is an agent. Mine, in fact.”

  “And Matt Devine’s. My, my, my.” She bent to sniff the roses. “From a woman, of course. The intriguing Revienne Schneider you don’t trust? ‘Forever.’ And to think she just met you weeks ago. You certainly are the versatile Romeo.”

  Max shrugged helplessly.

  “And you succeed better with … foreign females.”

  The name of Kathleen O’Connor seemed to be on the tip of her tongue, which her speculative expression had just exposed. Max had to admit he found her interrogation techniques stimulating, especially when unconscious.

  Would she or wouldn’t she bring Kathleen openly into the matter?

  She put the “Forever” card down on the shelf and circled his bed again. “The crime scene techs reported an odd … element in your house.”

  Max raised his eyebrows.

  “A number of paw prints were found in the dust atop several tables.”

  “You’ve broken me, Lieutenant. I admit everything. My housekeeping skills are nil. I haven’t dusted the place since I returned from my sudden European sojourn, or even hired a service. Have mercy on me.”

  She pulled the visitor’s chair from Devine’s side, sat, and folded her arms over her chest. “Additionally…”

  This was interesting. Max assumed she’d now produce news that a third blood type had been spilled besides his and Matt’s. He had the common type O, but he had no idea what anyone else was.

  Molina continued. “Additionally, three cat claw sheaths were found near the lone pattern of blood on the floor, which indicated drops of blood falling, not spatter from a weapon. Apparently you boys were neat and only sopped up your clothing. It would take quite a deep, targeted piercing to produce those lovely little blood blossoms. And there were cat hairs all over the place. Did Garry Randolph ever own a cat?”

  “Not to my knowledge. And can anyone ever be said to ‘own’ a cat?”

  “Yes. I do. Two. Both are law-abiding indoor kitties who keep their claw sheaths to themselves.”

  “I’m happy for you all.”

  “And the cat hairs present were all black. Does that suggest anything to you?”

  “Just that a black cat was present.”

  “All from different cats.”

  “Really, Lieutenant. You seem to be pursuing a distracting side alley on this investigation. It isn’t even in your jurisdiction. Nobody died. Next you’ll be telling me that a herd of cats hauled off the gun.”

  “The bullet was embedded in a chair. A Walther PPK, by the way. Easy to hide.”

  “Excellent weapon. Too bad the intruder ran off with it.”

  “Fancy for a burglar. Any old Ruger would do.” Molina slapped her hands on her khaki-clad knees.

  She could stand a little pizzazz in her pantsuit wardrobe, Max thought, but powder blue clearly wouldn’t do. Meanwhile, she was examining his outfit du jour.

  “Green and blue tiny triangles. Are they to match your various eye colors or romantic life? Definitely not your style, though.”

  “I thought you said you wanted to consult on my assignment. Not on my wardrobe.”

  “I saw you dismissing my serviceable khaki,” she told him. “Since you won’t squeal on what happened early this morning, I have some information for you. First, did you get anywhere on finding resurfacing mob activity around town?”

  “Nothing more than an organized interest in safeguarding past crime scenes, like that of the spies in the casino ceilings or Effinger’s death.”

  “Devine outdid you there too, then.”

  Max noted that “too” and reserved payback for the future. “What’d he get?”

  “A tip from a long-retired cop I sicced him on. Seems the old guy mistook him for a host of a radio crime show called The Midnight Hour and got talkative.”

  “That’s a good ploy, but probably accidental on Devine’s part. Everybody pants to be on media these days.”

  “Tell me about it. Mariah, especially. Anyway, Woodrow Wetherly named some old-time made men who might still be around. So I tiptoed through the mug shot archives. One of them turned out to be our Paradise Road vic, and another two were captured on the exterior videocams of the Cabana Club nightspot near the Area Fifty-four lot.”

  “Enough to arrest?”

  “Yes. But the big news is the identity of the corpse.”

  “Darn! That’ll knock the forthcoming Kinsella–Devine lounge act righ
t off the chat boards.”

  “Giacchino Petrocelli.” The satisfied glint in Molina’s blue eyes made them dance like the Bellagio fountains.

  Max mulled the name, pronouncing it correctly as Jackino Petrochelli. “Is that the name of an entrée or a dude?”

  “Definitely a dude, a dangerous dude so hot, he dropped out of sight years ago. Never found. The Jimmy Hoffa of Las Vegas. He was known about town as Jack the Hammer.”

  “For his weapon of choice? Let me guess. He smashed the fingers of errant underlings or gamblers who couldn’t pay up.”

  Molina shook her head with a smile, pleased enough to let herself look pretty. “Way off. Jackhammers. Construction was big then too, and he’d jackhammer his victims to death. If you saw him coming wearing overalls and a welding mask, you knew your fate.”

  “No wonder he had to disappear. But why kill him now and dump the body on that unlikely site?”

  Molina stood up and replaced the chair. “Your job to find out. And I want you off those old casino deaths and on the Santiago situation. Why was he on that site and why was he killed?”

  “That’s a current crime. It’s risky for you to use a civilian anywhere near that investigation.”

  Max needed his persuasive Irish tongue more than ever. He did not want to get any deeper into Santiago’s death. He did not want to involve the Cloaked Conjuror until he was sure there was no other alternative.

  “Why? Your head addled from the latest shaking?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “All your memories didn’t rush back in a flood when you woke up?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Forget anything new?”

  “Not that I know of. Yet.”

  “Good.” She leaned down and lowered her voice. “I did my part. I did bring you a present. Interpol gave Revienne Schneider a glowing report. Honored in her field, associated only with impeccably first-class facilities, like a certain one in the Swiss Alps, tireless campaigner for her signature charity. Happy? My advice? Marry her.”

  Max frowned. “Too much the Girl Scout?” Suspicion was a horrible thing to waste.

  Molina’s eyebrows lifted, but before she could comment, a heavenly scent wafted into the ward along with the measured click of high heels. Revienne herself appeared as if announced, her arms cradling fragrant white freesia stalks like a bride.

  “Oh, sorry,” Revienne said, looking more startled than sorry.

  Introductions seemed in order. “Revienne,” Max said, “I’d like you to meet Carmen Molina. Carmen, Revienne Schneider.” He’d really want to say, Hot blonde, meet icy brunette. Hey, they were another Gossip-a-Go-Go “Odd Coupling.”

  “Charmed,” Molina said, not sounding it. “I was just leaving. I’ll ask an orderly to bring a vase for those gorgeous flowers.”

  “How thoughtful, yes,” Revienne said, sitting on the far edge of Max’s bed and letting the stalks fall to the blanket in a swooning wave of scent.

  Molina vanished like Giacchino Petrocelli.

  “Max!” Revienne leaned forward to touch his hair. “A head injury. I came as soon as that insane news item started being reported on the local TV news shows.”

  Max closed his eyes. More unwelcome publicity, he thought before surrendering to the moment. Freesias were one of the most sweetly scented flowers, and so European. Despite their overbearing odor, he could still smell Revienne’s signature perfume as she leaned over him with the hovering concern of an angel.

  “You’re overwhelmed,” she said. “It is the injury, or my flowers? The injury hasn’t affected your memory?”

  “It wouldn’t dare forget you,” he said with a smile. “Truthfully, I don’t know yet. And you always overwhelm me, whether you’re flower-bearing or not.”

  “Have they caught the criminal who did this? And is poor Mr. Devine all right?”

  “I’m just dented, but he was sliced. He’ll be fine but scarred.”

  “And you, your poor head.”

  “Lucky to be here to see you again.”

  A nurse with a clipboard and a sack of something appeared. “Good news, Mr. Kinsella. You’re fine and free to go. Just sign this. Your clothes are washed and dried.” She lifted an arm and eyed Revienne, reaching up for the curtain. “I’ll assist you into them, and then we’ll wheel you out.”

  Max almost expected her cheery voice to ask, Won’t that be fun?

  “Your visitor can meet you in the hall, and I’ll find some more bags for the flowers.” She stared at the two showy arrangements on the shelf. “Those will be difficult to transport, but we’ll manage.”

  Max shrugged apology and gazed up at Revienne.

  This was not the kind of reunion he’d envisioned.

  She bent down and kissed him. “I’m so glad you’ll be fine, Mr. Randolph, darling.”

  The nurse’s brow wrinkled to hear the pseudonymous surname he’d used on the run, but Revienne didn’t notice. “I’ll see you home and get you settled.” She turned to the nurse. “Please. Don’t worry about anything. I’m a doctor. He’s in good hands with me.”

  * * *

  Revienne’s car was a silver Saab. He wondered whether it was rented or borrowed.

  Thinking about such things kept his mind off the humiliation of being carted out of the hospital by two women, people staring, like a helpless papoose.

  His hair, not to mention his head, was a mess. Now he understood what women meant by that phrase. Humiliation.

  At least his legs worked well once he’d struggled out of the wheelchair. He set the passenger seat on recline and sighed, hoping no one on the streets could see him in this position.

  “Rest easy,” Revienne said, amusement in her voice as she drove the car down the driveway. “Less than twenty-four hours ago, you were facing an armed robber. Will you be safe at home alone now?”

  “Yes, I’ll be safe at home alone,” he heard himself growl. “Damn it.”

  “Max. Don’t pout. You’re in far better condition than when we fled the Swiss clinic. I detect no greater memory deficit.”

  “Swell.”

  “Swell? The wound on your head is swelling?”

  “An American expression, like ‘peachy keen.’”

  “Max. Go slow.” A fingertip reached out to press his lips. I don’t know all this American patois.”

  He refrained doing anything untoward with the finger. “It’s called slang.”

  “What a crude word.”

  “You’re right.”

  “I’ll get you settled at your home when my GPS gets us to Mojave Way. I love GPS! One can be at home anywhere. If only we’d had it in the Alps.”

  She’d pronounced Mojave as it was spelled, not with an h for the j. The Spanish way.

  It reminded Max she was a stranger in a strange land, as he had been on her turf recently, and he should give her the benefit of the doubt. Why did he have to be so continually on guard?

  “Mo-hah-vee.” He corrected her anyway. “The desert extends into Mexico, so it’s a Spanish word.”

  She repeated the pronunciation. “The desert is like me, half one thing and another.”

  He smiled at her. “French and German.”

  “It gets dark so fast here in Las Vegas,” she commented, hunching to stare through the windshield.

  “That’s because we’re in a valley. The sky above is bright, but the shadows are creeping inexorably in from the mountains.”

  “We will have a desert sunset for your homecoming.” She flashed him a glance. “I can stay, if you like.”

  “Can you do something with this industrial haircut?”

  “No. Likely no.” There was a lovely foreign lilt to her English, but it wasn’t as hypnotic as Kathleen O’Connor’s Irish mist of an intonation.

  Was Molina right? Did he like foreign women, or only possibly treacherous ones? No, Max thought. There was Temple. And there was no one like Temple.

  He hadn’t answered Revienne, he realized. He’d always be gr
ateful for her aid and comfort in the darkest moments of his life, and his ego could use some coddling, but it felt dishonest.

  “I’ll be all right,” he told her.

  The car pulled up in front of his house in twilight.

  Revienne made a happy sound at landing on target and got out to circle the car and extract him.

  Max squinted at his front door, now shut and not even bearing crime scene tape, so minor the incident inside had been to the authorities.

  A cat was sitting there. No, two. Did he have double vision? He squinted hard. It wasn’t a black cat. Its form was pale, and it seemed to be haloed by a … sunset glow. He stared until his eyes watered and he blinked.

  “Max,” Revienne asked, “are you all right?”

  “No,” he answered, “but I might be getting a long-overdue headache.”

  The cat was gone.

  First you see it. Then you don’t. The essence of magic. Like Kathleen O’Connor.

  Max didn’t view this as a reassuring omen for any of them.

  Tailpiece

  Midnight Louie Discusses Alien Species

  At last! At last I get to speak of alien species in general and specifically in a literary work with which I am associated. Before I begin to strut my stuff, I must take huge exception to one of the canine breed being pictured here in my Tailpiece.

  Even if he is unusual and cute.

  Nothing personal, Rens. It is just the usual territorial dispute.

  Now, I am sure all are wondering if I believe in aliens, ancient or otherwise.

  I must admit all the whoop-de-do about the subject during my most recent adventure pretty much deflates the hope of anything of a genuinely alien nature showing up unannounced in Las Vegas, other than the usual cast of tourists blowing off some crazy steam and their out-of-this-world array of eye-blinding Hawaiian shirts.

  I do wonder why no one besides the eccentric Silas T. Farnum ever saw that Vegas was made for an all-out alien-themed attraction. That “invisible” stunt fell as flat as Santiago on its unseen nose, though. That was a one-trick pony, and that horse has definitely come in last.

  However, I do believe that Earth has been, is now, and will be visited by aliens.

  After studying the piles of book covers, posters, and other alien propaganda that popped up around the Area 54 site, I admit my opinion on the subject has undergone a radical turnaround. I am no longer an unbeliever. They are out there and, even more obvious, they are us!