by Joanne Pence
“But they explain the implements found on the victims,” Paavo argued. “The night goggles, the integrated circuit chip, even the fiber optics.”
Faldo handed the documents back to him. “The killer—Oliver Hardy, or whatever his name is—is dead. Forget it.”
Paavo reached for his paper coffee cup and finished the last dregs. The coffee had grown cold. “The part that bothers me, Ray, is that from what little we’ve learned of John Oliver Harding’s background, he had no scientific training. His father died when he was a young boy, and he lived quietly with his mother. He enjoyed astronomy, but as an amateur. He grew up in the town of Tonopah, Nevada, and in his twenties moved to an even smaller town called Rachel. About ten years ago he moved to San Francisco and got a job at the main library. He was a clerk. It makes me wonder if we’ve got the right man.”
Faldo got up off the high stool he’d been sitting on and rubbed his back. He was perpetually round-shouldered, even when standing. Paavo guessed it was from spending too many hours hunched over a microscope in the lab. “Let me get this straight, Paavo. The defense R-and-D boys studied the materials found at Roswell and were able to determine what a few of them did. Then they funneled some of them to the private sector, where labs were conducting similar research—places like Bell, IBM, Monsanto, Dow, Hughes, and so on. The military gave those labs the materials and told them to reverse-engineer them, right?”
“Right,” Paavo said. “That’s the ufologist explanation of how so many enormous technological advances happened within a very short time. Alien technology from a crash site was seeded into U.S. companies by the military.”
“The ultimate military-industrial complex conspiracy.” Faldo clucked his tongue. “And this is what you want to use to toss out the case against Harding as the mutilation murderer? That he wasn’t scientific enough?”
Paavo didn’t know what to think. “Whoever killed those men apparently believes we are using alien technology, and the killer had pieces of that early technology to prove he knows what he’s talking about.”
“You know, the murderer brings up an issue that isn’t half bad,” Faldo said, stroking his chin. “If the technology didn’t come from some extraterrestrial source, how did we develop so much so quickly?”
After leaving Faldo’s lab, Paavo went back to his desk and called up a map of Nevada on the Internet. He looked up Tonopah, and then Rachel. “Unbelievable,” he whispered.
He got in his car and drove to Bertram Lambert’s house. In the bedroom he went through the box of photos Lambert had squirreled away in his closet. The first time he had flipped through them, he hadn’t been looking for anything in particular. He remembered one of them, though, and he wanted to check it out. It might be nothing at all.
He quickly found the one he’d been thinking of. It showed a twenty-something Lambert squatting down on a dirt road next to three signs:
WARNING
MILITARY INSTALLATION
WARNING
RESTRICTED AREA
WARNING
U.S. AIR FORCE INSTALLATION
He turned over the picture and saw a small notation: GROOM LAKE, NV, 1985. “Unbelievable,” he repeated.
Groom Lake was the location of Area 51, on the Nevada Test Site. The town of Rachel, where John Oliver Harding had lived, was the closest civilian town. The third victim, Leon Cole, had been stationed at nearby Nellis AFB. Felix Rolfe’s social worker had said that Rolfe had once been in the army and had traveled throughout the Southwest. And now he had proof that Bertram Lambert had been there as well.
Area 51—Dreamland—was where UFOs were said to have been brought and studied. That had to be the connection between the victims. It seemed farfetched, yet Derrick Holton had asked about the numbers on the victims’ chests. Seven, five, four. Those numbers must have something to do with UFOs. Now, if only he could figure out what …
Holton had clammed up when asked, but there might be a lot more talkative group at Angie’s fantasy dinner.
He’d find someone who’d say. Or, if nothing else, someone willing to speculate.
Angie and her sisters were sitting in Maria’s living room to celebrate Maria’s birthday.
“So, Angie.” Her eldest sister, Bianca, turned and solemnly faced her. Bianca was always serious. “Do you think Paavo will give you an engagement ring for Christmas?”
“Oh yes!” Francesca, the next to youngest, squealed. Frannie had recently had her first child and was disgustingly bubbly. “I can’t imagine you haven’t caught him yet. Your boyfriends were always wanting to get married. I was afraid you’d marry before I did. That would have been very rude of you.”
“Maybe she’s losing her touch.” Caterina, the second oldest, sniffed.
“Don’t say that,” said Maria, the pious middle sister, who took on the role of peacemaker in the family. “You know Paavo is crazy about Angie. He’s just not crazy about marriage.”
“She might be better off if he doesn’t pick out a ring,” Bianca said. “If she goes with him, she can get exactly what she wants. It’s not like he can go out and buy her some huge rock to show off. Cops don’t make much money.”
“You couldn’t pay me to do that job.” Cat caught her reflection in the silver tea service and fluffed her hair.
“I think it’s neat that Paavo’s a cop,” Frannie said. “He’s so much more interesting than another lawyer in the family.”
“My husband’s a lawyer,” Cat said.
“See what I mean?” Frannie was smug.
“We don’t have any scientists in the family,” Maria said, “and I understand from Mamma that Derrick Holton’s back in your life, Angie.”
“Papà liked Derrick Holton,” Frannie said. “Derrick wanted to get married bad. Do you remember that, Angie?”
“Of course she remembers,” Bianca said. “Just because she’s the youngest doesn’t mean she doesn’t have brains.”
“If she had brains, she’d have married Derrick.” Cat smoothed an eyebrow.
“She told me Connie was interested in Derrick. Didn’t you say that, Angie?” Bianca asked.
“You mean she’s letting her best friend steal a rich, famous scientist out from under her nose?” Cat shook her head and sighed. “Angie, how could you allow such a thing to happen?”
“She doesn’t like Derrick anymore,” Bianca explained. “If she liked him, she would have married him a long time ago.”
“I hope Papà never hears about this.” Frannie shook her head sorrowfully. “He’ll be so disappointed.”
“So, Angie, why don’t you answer?” Bianca asked. “Is Paavo giving you a ring for Christmas?”
Angie waited a moment to be sure they’d finished dissecting her love life, then she simply said, “No.”
“We’re going to have a wonderful dinner party tomorrow night,” Angie said to Paavo as she led him into Tardis Hall. She had spent the morning, before going to Maria’s, running around making sure the food would be delivered, and taking care of details. Her plans seemed to be coming together beautifully. She wanted to make one last stop at the hall to be sure everything was right for the party before she and Paavo went out to dinner.
She led him into the auditorium. Round tables and chairs had been set up. A sound system was in one corner, and at one end of the room was a flying saucer.
A sign over the back of it read Roswell, July 5, 1947.
He glanced at the sign again. Something nagged at him about it. Roswell. What was bothering him?
“The Prometheus Group—that’s Algernon’s group—built the flying saucer. Isn’t it cute? Around it we’ll be displaying photos from Roswell, the site of the crash; the newspaper headline based on the press release the army issued after the spaceship crashed; and pictures of Jesse Marcel and Roy Danzer, who were big names at the time. I simply love it.”
“They did a good job,” he said. “Quite realistic … if such a thing can be realistic.”
“It certainly can.” A deep
voice sounded behind them.
“Algernon!” Angie cried. “I didn’t expect to see you here today. Let me introduce you to my friend, Inspector Paavo Smith. Paavo, this is Algernon, head of the Prometheus Group, and guest of honor at tomorrow’s dinner.”
The two men shook hands. Algernon turned to Angie, clasped her hand in both of his, and held it as they spoke. “I thought I’d stop by to see how it was shaping up. It looks like everything’s under control.”
“It is. I have several friends to help. Vinnie will pour drinks and handle the music—CD’s with nineteen-forties songs, big-band tunes, all that. Butch will oversee the food. Connie, Earl, and I will serve and make sure everything runs smoothly.”
“So, Angie, did you ever find out what aliens eat?” he asked with a rakish smile.
“No. But I came up with a better idea. Who would want to eat what aliens eat, anyway?”
“Good point.” Still holding Angie’s hand, he looked at Paavo. “Tell me, Inspector Smith, are you a believer?”
“I’m afraid not.” His pointed gaze rested on Algernon and Angie’s clasped hands, then lifted to Algernon. “Just an observer.”
“As long as you have an open mind, you will come to believe.”
“I don’t think it’s a matter of belief,” Paavo said, “but of science. I’ll wait for some scientific basis before I accept the existence of extraterrestrial life.”
Algernon kissed the back of Angie’s hand, then let it go, turning all his attention to Paavo. “Then you’ll never accept it,” he said dismissively. “Not because such proof doesn’t exist, but because the scientists won’t divulge it. They get their funding from the government. They’ll say only what the government allows them to say. They don’t want to lose their gravy train.”
Paavo gave Angie a cold stare.
“Excuse us,” Angie said. “We were just leaving. Oh, by the way,” she called, “Derrick Holton will be coming to your party tomorrow. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Algernon scowled fiercely.
She grabbed Paavo’s arm as they hurried away. “Sorry about that.” She didn’t want him to hear any more of this. He might change his mind about coming with her to the party.
“Wait a second.” He stopped to read the sign again. Roswell—July 5, 1947. He shook his head and followed her.
They got into his Austin Healy for the ride to the restaurant, Fior d’Italia. He pulled out his notebook. “What are you doing?” Angie asked.
“That Roswell sign. Something about it bothers me.” He took out his notepad to jot it down. He wrote, ROSWELL—7/5/47.
“That’s it!” he cried.
“What’s it? What are you talking about?”
“The men who were killed by John Oliver Harding. On their chests were those same numbers—seven, five, four. July fifth, 1947. The killer was carving the date of the Roswell crash.” His eyes narrowed. “I suspect Holton knew it all along.”
“It makes sense,” Angie said, “when you consider how fascinated with Roswell they all are. Oliver Hardy spent all his free time giving away brochures about the crash there. Maybe that’s why, when he went over the edge, he took Roswell with him.”
“All of them are interested in Roswell, and there’s also some connection with Area Fifty-one,” Paavo said.
“It’s because that’s where the Prometheus Group got its start,” Angie explained.
“That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking.”
25
The next morning, Angie realized her new business venture was just about over. That night would be Algernon’s event, and she hadn’t received a single inquiry for a fantasy dinner since. Maybe it was time to pull the plug on her Web site.
Fantasydinner.com had become fantasydinner turkey.
She read through the newspaper looking for any information about new restaurants opening up in the city. Even though she hadn’t done any restaurant reviews in some time, she had always enjoyed doing them. They might be worth pursuing again. After her successful discovery of Wings of an Angel, she hadn’t gone looking for any other new restaurants.
One particularly nice thing about San Francisco was the tremendous variety of restaurants and cuisines that could be found in the city. Ah! A new Nepalese restaurant. She wondered what the food would be like. Probably a blend of Chinese and Indian. That would be interesting. Curried chow mein?
Just then the doorbell rang. She looked through the peephole and couldn’t believe who was there.
She opened the door. “Algernon! What a surprise.”
He held out a bouquet of carnations. “For you.”
“Thank you. Won’t you come in?”
He stopped in the middle of the living room and faced her. “I’ve been thinking about our party.”
“Oh? Sit down, please. Can I offer you some coffee or anything?”
“Some white wine would be nice, if it’s convenient,” Algernon said.
“I’ll be right back.” She ran into the kitchen and put the flowers on the sink, then raked her fingers through her hair, smoothed her pullover sweater, and finally uncorked a chilled bottle of Mondavi chardonnay.
Since Algernon sat at the far end of the sofa, she sat on the opposite side and poured him a glass of wine. She had coffee. It wasn’t even lunchtime yet.
He clinked his glass against her cup. “To our fantasy party,” he said.
Angie sipped some coffee; Algernon nearly finished his wine.
“There’s nothing to worry about regarding the dinner,” she said. “It’ll be fine.”
“I know that.” He poured more wine into his glass. “Sure you won’t join me?” She shook her head. “The real reason I’m here is to see you,” he admitted.
At her surprise, he hurried on. “Ever since I saw you at the Prometheus Group, I felt we needed to get to know one another better.” He drank more wine.
“I don’t think so,” she said.
He chuckled and put down the glass. “That came out wrong, didn’t it? What I meant is, I want to know you as a friend. Perhaps interest you in our group.”
Angie took in his arrogance, the way he smugly leaned back against the sofa, drinking wine and all but propositioning her despite his denials. She knew a come-on when she saw it. But since he was there, and since the wine seemed to make him even more talkative than usual, she poured more into his glass. She had some questions she needed answered. “So tell me,” she began, smiling sweetly, “about the Prometheus Group. When did you become head of it?”
“Years ago. I was young then. Our leader, I. M. Neumann, was killed in a horrible blast at Area Fifty-one. I had traveled there to see him, but I was too late. The Prometheans, who were meeting in Phoenix at the time—Neumann would travel to them, since outsiders aren’t allowed in Area Fifty-one—were like sheep without a shepherd. I called them together and told them we would continue to meet. That we would do that in remembrance of Neumann, and I would lead them to a new world, a new order.”
“And you led them to San Francisco?”
“Phoenix was awfully hot. The Bay Area is mentally, spiritually, and physically more in tune with my message. The Prometheans have grown tenfold since we’ve been here. With my book, it will grow even larger.”
“Everything would be fine if it weren’t for NAUTS,” she suggested.
His face clouded over. “A cheap, sleazy bunch. You should have nothing to do with them. You need to ignore that horrible Derrick Holton as well. He isn’t worthy of you. The people involved with NAUTS are insane, as the one they call Oliver Hardy proved to the world. I’ve always worried for my safety around them. There have been threats. Many threats. I suspected the source; now I know it.”
Indignation on Derrick’s behalf rose in her. “You can’t blame everyone in NAUTS for Oliver’s instability.”
“They nurture it. They teach science without spirit. What do they expect when they attract people with no soul?”
“You need to meet with Derrick and discuss this. I t
hink you’ll find him changed. You both need to set aside your differences.”
Algernon rubbed his hands. “Ah! If he’s willing to talk, that means he’s hurting. NAUTS is self-destructing. I should have realized this business with Hardy was the last straw for the group. Now Holton wants to grovel.” His gaze met Angie’s. “Don’t let him use you this way. You’re too good for him.”
“He’s not using me.”
Algernon slid across the sofa to her side and took her hand in his, turning his dark eyes on her. The air seemed to shift. “At the book party, join my group. Let me announce that you’ve seen the light. That you are one of us.”
She tried to pull her hand free. “I don’t feel that way about the group. I’m sorry.”
He grabbed her other hand and pressed them both against his chest. “We are destined for each other. It’s in the stars.”
She guessed she’d overdone it with the wine. She stood up, yanking both hands free. He nearly toppled off the sofa. “The stars say you’ve had too much wine too early in the day. You need to go home and sleep it off.”
“I can sleep anywhere. Right here, in fact.” He leaned toward her. “Why don’t you join me?”
She stepped back and folded her arms. “Time to say good-bye, Algie baby.”
“Good-bye?” He sounded shocked.
“You got it.”
“But I’m Algernon. Everyone loves me. Perhaps after the party you’ll be in a better mood. I know women sometimes get in moods. The stars and the moon play havoc with your bodies. Such a body.” His gaze swept up and down her figure and he sighed deeply. “Until later.”
She held the door open. “Try the next millennium.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing.”
After he left she clicked the deadbolt in place and leaned back against the door. This was not the most propitious start to her business’s last hurrah.
