Temple remembered she’d left Louie locked in her Miata ten minutes earlier. She needed to get him out before it got too hot, although he actually liked to snooze under the dashboard on the passenger side in the Circle Ritz parking lot … a spot that was warm, dark, and defended. And also kept close watch on her comings and goings.
Often she wished the shoe were on the other paw.
Molina was in the driver’s seat, one long leg jackknifed in the crowded under–steering wheel area, the other on the street through the ajar door.
The black-and-white’s interior was hot, crammed with equipment, and smelled like a spilled strawberry soda, thanks to an odor remover. Temple was thinking if she stayed here too long, she might throw up.
“Things,” Temple said, “went horribly wrong terribly fast.”
“Just your speed.” Molina was tapping the keys of the built-in computer. “I want to know why your cat was the only one to understand that building had a fully climbable, completed interior.”
“Legendary curiosity?”
Molina’s scowl deepened into furrows, and her fingertips beat the keys even faster. Temple decided to go for it. “Speaking of curiosity, why all the crowd rumors about the corpse being a Mayan or an Aztec?”
“Cruise YouTube.”
Temple did, pumping in the words “Mayan” and “Vegas.”
A bronze-skinned nude figure like a broken starfish came up in blurry focus.
“Ouch,” Temple said. “How’d anybody get crime scene photos to post on social media?”
“Not us. Paparazzi and wannabes. The pros have been stalking the morgue for years. Coroner Bahr has metal shades on his windows, and they still smuggle themselves in.”
“But these were taken here, where the man fell. Where did the ancient Aztec-Mayan rumor come from?”
“Profiling,” Molina said sardonically, leaning back as an actual color crime-scene photo popped onto the screen.
“Oh.” This photo was Kodak sharp from the days of yore when there was a Kodak camera and color Kodak film to boast of, like back in the ’90s. The body had landed in a swastika-sign position. The man’s naked skin was as deeply bronze as the male figures on ancient Egyptian tomb paintings, and his build was lean and toned, which, again, brought to mind the peoples of ancient empires.
The face was in profile, untouched on the revealed side. But his profile, with the strong frontal ridge over the prominent nose, looked a lot like those Mayan stone carvings of elaborately unclothed warriors UFO believers liked to identify as wearing astronaut gear instead of mere ceremonial headdresses and battle armament.
Temple had always found that claim far-fetched, but she mentioned that astronaut theory to Molina, who snorted.
“The Incas, Aztecs, and Mayans didn’t die out entirely under the Spaniard conquistadors,” Molina said. “You can still see contemporary people with faces from the monuments all through Mexico and Central America.”
“This guy sure wasn’t old, like the first body.”
“In vigorous health, Coroner Bahr says, after a fast look-see,” Molina agreed. “About forty-five to fifty.”
“Okay, so he’s super buff for that age. The tabloid sites are screaming about ‘scars of alien surgery.’ I can see some faint lines curling onto his front torso, but they’re about as clear as the canals on Mars. Did Grizzly have any conclusions on that?”
“Cozy with the coroner, are we?”
“I have a wide range of acquaintanceship.”
“Sadly, that’s sometimes of use to me. The amateur alien experts are texting that the marks are … ‘purposefully placed shallow track incisions, some in positions on the ribs almost like … gills.’”
Temple gasped. “That does sound alien.”
“According to Grizzly, they’re recent but healed. They do mark primarily the back, curve around the sides, and some are down the backs of the legs.”
“Gang initiation?” Temple asked.
“No tats. Besides, he’s too old and well cared for. This man’s teeth were in great condition. No fillings.”
“That’s rare.”
“But not impossible. There are geographical areas where the water naturally contains fluoride.”
“So Midnight Louie’s explorations managed to unveil an ancient Mayan or Aztec abductee, or alien, returned to Earth, lightly scarred but otherwise in superb physical shape, somehow concealed in Silas T. Farnum’s now-you-see-it/now-you-don’t building?”
“I’ll believe that when he shows up as Hillary’s running mate in 2016.”
Temple had to give that joke a quick smile. “How can people swoon over this poor dead guy?” she wondered. “What an awful way to die.”
“Social media swooning is unstoppable.” Molina tapped the screen with one of her seriously short fingernails. “Part of the ‘rich Corinthian leather’ skin color is self-tanning lotion. Interesting, isn’t it?”
Temple recognized the “Corinthian” phrase from an old TV car ad featuring the rich Spanish-accented voice of pioneering Latino actor Ricardo Montalbán, dead a lot longer than this guy.
“I doubt the ancients went in for tanning preparations. Hey, maybe this guy was an actor?” Temple said. “Maybe Silas T. had hired him to add some alien color to his big revelation.”
“He ever mention an ancient Mayan theme to you?”
“No, but I’ve been visiting all the UFO and alien Web sites lately to figure out what Farnum was up to, and the ancient-alien theme is a whole industry.”
Molina shook her head. “Talk about alien visitors, you are one on those Web sites.”
“True. I don’t believe any of it. You can take any image or custom or artifact from history and theorize that ‘ancient alien visitors’ left signs of giving the culture a sudden technological boost. I’m quite satisfied with the way public TV says the pyramids were built. Slave labor is a lot more likely than alien tourists who lent an ancient hand and then left us to stew in our own slow mambo to modern times over centuries of ignorance and war.”
“Mercy. You’re pretty indignant about these fringe theories.”
“I’ve been pretty mercilessly misled by Mr. Farnum and his undercover enterprise,” Temple answered. “And the sad part about all this is that his magical disappearing act is the real deal. That’s on the Web too. Scientists are learning to bend light, and time, to make our eyes fool themselves.”
Molina’s mouth went thin-lipped and grim. “That just makes my job harder. It’s bad enough Vegas is a 24-hour cabaret of crime, my friend. What I don’t need are alien interlopers. Your cat is about all I can handle, just barely, in that department.”
Chapter 31
Short Stuff
Much as I loathe treading in Crawford Buchanan’s footsteps, he makes a good cover.
He has now buttonholed a lady wearing an outfit my vintage clothing–loving Miss Temple would give the Revival Stamp of Approval: plaid Bermuda shorts and crisp light blue shirt with rolled-up buttoned sleeves. Then again, this lady may have just bought from Lands’ End classic mail-order catalog.
Her sensible navy canvas boating flats are refreshingly odor-free, but I can’t say the same for her boon companion, whom she has released from a canvas doggie tote to the arid ground and swift perusal from my world-class sniffer.
This critter is so small, the dogdom bit is questionable. However, it has the intelligent and sturdy look of the noble and industrious sled dogs known as huskies.
I confess myself confused.
“Hey, shorty,” I greet this ambiguous animal.
I am answered by a round of yapping, which settles the species question.
“No offense,” I say after another long inhalation of its essence. Hmm. Attar of taco sauce. “I gather that you are familiar with the ruins called ‘Calix-tla-hua-ca.’ Pardon my accent, but my breed is not geographically centered, as yours is.”
“Whowho Whoareyou? Whadayoudoinghere? Iguardmyhuman. Iwillchewoffyoureartips.”
Manx
, that is one territorial Chi-hua-hua! Fierce little fellow. I sense a story here, and they are a talkative breed.
Meanwhile, above me, the Bermuda shorts lady is enlightening Crawford Buchanan far more than he wishes to be.
“Why are you and your TV station making a mockery of this event?” she demands. “Alien visitation is no joke.”
“Ah, no, madam.” Buchanan’s feet do a little jiggle as his mind seeks to catch up with her challenge. “But … people saw this thing land. Including you? Miss—?”
“My name is Penny, and this is my dog, Rens.”
I hear echoes of Sergeant Preston of the Yukon and his dog, King. I am most fond of vintage TV.
“I do not know,” she goes on as if she is sure that he does not know, “if you realize that our age’s greatest scientific mind has warned that our incessant search for life beyond our planet may have unanticipated results. If they are smart enough to be ‘out there’ and find us, we may not want to be found by the likes of them.”
“Aw, yeah? ‘Our greatest mind’?”
“Surely, even you have heard of Stephen Hawking.”
“Aw … sure. The guy who wrote The Stand.”
“Not Stephen King. Stephen Hawking. And I’d bet you haven’t a clue about string theory.”
“String theory? Ah … yo-yos?”
I hear a huge sigh above me. “Yo-yos, yes. Like you.”
“What did this Hawking guy warn against?”
She leans close to the mic and articulates every syllable. “Watch out what you wish for. The aliens we are searching for may be out there, all right, looking to take us over. The human rider from that spaceship is dead, isn’t he?”
I comment off-camera to my new compadre. “She may have a point. What do you think?”
“I think there are a lot of food stands around here where the pickings are dropping to the ground and free for you and me.”
I always bow to the superior sniffer. With one chomp, I pull the tongue of leather on his collar through the metal buckle and Rens and I are off on a culinary scouting mission of our own.
We know our moments of freedom are few. Our respective associates will soon be tracking us down. Miss Penny will not remain deeply engaged with the shallow Crawford Buchanan for long, and my Miss Temple will not appreciate my cavalier ways with her convertible top control.
Meanwhile … free food!
Our loving ladies mean well, poor souls.
Chapter 32
Identity Crisis
Temple didn’t know whether she was relieved or worried to find the Miata’s top down and Louie gone. Given Louie’s record of going rogue whenever he pleased, she was very, very afraid. For everyone else.
She grabbed the wide-brimmed hat with the built-in scarf she kept in the car. The unshaded lot was as dangerous for her redhead’s sensitive skin as driving a convertible with the top down. She put up the top to protect the car’s leather seats and steering wheel from frying in the sunlight.
As for Mr. Midnight Louie, missing “purrson,” she figured she’d find him, or vice versa, in the crowd. He’d just become another lead to follow.
While talking to Molina, Temple’s PR genes had stayed active and entered Eavesdrop Mode.
An ace public relations person could nod attentively and talk to one person, even an authority figure like a cop, while locating the presence and identity of at least half a dozen people around her at the same time.
Given the extreme appearances of the pro and con UFO crowds gathered, that was much harder right now. Basically, the crowd was fifty shades of weird. Being a PR person, Temple enjoyed every shade of weird. It made for easy publicity. That was surely true now, with vans from local TV stations jumping on footage of this event before L.A. could even hope to get a unit here.
During her almost subconscious pans of the crowd, Temple thought she’d spied a local personality who might at least know Midnight Louie if he saw him and help her corral her cat before Louie unearthed another body.
Looking for Crawford Buchanan’s head in a crowd was as bad as someone looking for hers, given his short stature. Having to want to find the sleazy cad-about-town was even worse.
She needn’t have worried. Buchanan had some PR vibes himself, because she heard a baritone voice from the mob intone, “And here’s a local light on the Strip PR scene,” just as someone grabbed her arm.
Temple turned into the bright light of a shouldered camera and smiled at least half as brightly.
Buchanan had switched to wearing a local cable TV gold sports coat with the station call letters on the breast pocket and ditched the crass diamond ear stud.
Luckily, the glare kept Buchanan’s regular but smug features in temporary darkness. “Miss Temple Barr,” he announced to whatever audience he represented at the moment, “feminine flack extraordinaire.”
She winced inside at his hokey and demeaning introduction, but maintained her broad smile. Flunk electronic media exposure these days, and it would be all over the world instantly.
“You are,” Crawford went on, “the presumptive PR rep for the shadowy individuals who own the murder site. I believe.”
“Goodness. You make me sound like I’m running for president with a PAC behind me. Yes, I’ve been in talks to represent one of the individuals who back this construction, but there was no desire on anyone’s part to own a ‘murder site.’ Besides, the coroner has not ruled on the cause of death, so any suggestion of ‘murder’ at this point is utterly irresponsible.”
Temple smiled demurely into the camera while Buchanan sputtered to think up a new question.
“So, Miss Barr, are you saying you don’t believe in UFOs?”
“Certainly many people do, and it’s not for me to say they’re wrong.”
“Rumor is the dead body was a plant.”
“Oh, no. I’m very certain he was some sort of Homo sapiens.”
“And naked as a jaybird.”
“I don’t think he was a bird, either. Or Superman sans costume. We just don’t know enough about him. This is not The Day of the Triffids, Mr. Buchanan. And I doubt ‘space spores’ have escaped a Star Trek set to invade a desert climate.”
The surrounding believers were muttering and pressing closer. “However,” Temple said, “his presence and death certainly give one reason to wonder. ‘The truth is out there,’ and I do believe that ‘We are not alone.’”
Scattered applause.
The videographer turned to pan on the crowd. Temple grabbed Awful Crawford’s mic and fisted her hand over it. “You’ve got your interview,” she told him vehemently. “Now you’ll answer some of my questions.”
“Absolutely, TB. I’m at your disposal.”
“I couldn’t put it better myself. Listen. You know my cat, Midnight Louie?”
“That black back-alley escapee. I’d expect a cute chick like you to own something more upscale, like one of those fluffy white numbers on the TV commercials.”
“Louie was on some TV commercials.”
Buchanan smirked at having irked her to the point of defending her cat.
“Anyway,” Temple said, back on point. “I need to round him up. Have you seen him in this mess?”
He gave her a reproachful look. “Don’t I have my finger on the pulse of everything that goes on around Vegas? Sure, I saw your alley cat, and I would have interviewed him if I could have. He did tumble into the scene of the body dump—”
The crowds muttered again.
“—or landing,” Crawford said quickly.
Temple dragged him away from the current eavesdroppers by pulling the mic with her. He was as attached to his on-camera persona as a dog to its leash.
Surrounded by a fresh crowd of imaginatively attired folks with rainbow skin and artificially altered noses and ears, Temple resumed her interrogation. “Louie? Where? When?”
Buchanan looked around. “Well, he was making eyes at the strangest little critter I ever saw.”
“Female?”
Temple released the mic from her now sweaty hot little hand and started edging past ridged spinal frills and fairy wings (fairy wings?) to the relatively normal-looking woman twenty feet away.
A sound of labored breathing behind her revealed she had not quite shed the intrepid dork called Crawford Buchanan.
Temple immediately began scanning the ground, but the woman wore deck shoes unaccompanied by any miniature Siberian huskies or a particularly large black cat.
“Excuse me,” Temple said, by now a trifle breathless herself. “This gentleman”—that hurt—“says when he interviewed you earlier, you were accompanied by a small … dog? And a black cat was in the neighborhood.”
The woman gazed at her with shock. “I’ve never seen this man before in my life. And, frankly, if I had, I’d make sure I didn’t see him again. He looks like a really self-satisfied aggravating twit.”
Buchanan was sputtering again. “I must disagree, ma’am. I did a brief stand-up with you not fifteen minutes ago.”
“‘A brief stand-up’! What a phony accusation. I am not that sort of woman at all, and even if I was, I would not be that sort of woman with you.”
“You don’t understand, that’s a technical term,” he said hastily. “And I don’t understand. You were perfectly cordial when I talked to you earlier. Surely you remember me.”
“Surely I would do my best to forget your manners.”
“I have it on film. Where’s that cameraman?” Buchanan gazed around wildly.
A crowd was gathering again.
“You would actually film yourself making such offensive overtures? I saw some police people here just a moment ago.” She gazed wildly around this time.
By now, even Temple was gazing wildly around at both foot and head level.
“This is a misunderstanding,” Buchanan was saying. “I interviewed you. You must remember me.”
Cat in an Alien X-Ray: A Midnight Louie Mystery (Midnight Louie Mysteries Book 25) Page 18
