Cat in an Alien X-Ray: A Midnight Louie Mystery (Midnight Louie Mysteries Book 25)

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” she said.

  “Ancient astronauts.” Max shook his head. “People are so gullible, but I shouldn’t complain, given my profession. That ‘Chariots of the Gods’ stuff trades on some temple carvings looking amazingly like a space-suited astronaut. One of the most famous figures happens to be a long-lived Mayan king, Pakal, tilted forward as he died and fell into the afterworld. A happy ending and place in that mythology, by the way.”

  “You’re awfully current on lunatic fringe lore,” Matt noted.

  “Given the elevated nature of my magic act, I’m interested in the ‘falling man’ iconography.”

  “And,” Temple said, “we’ve had a lot of ‘falling’ deaths and maybe-murders and attempted murders around town. The Cloaked Conjuror’s assistant, Barry, fell, and so did Shangri-La and.…”

  Temple let the list trail off as her glance caught the tense look on Matt’s face.

  “And Vassar, the call girl at the Goliath fell to her death,” Matt told Temple. “After I visited her at the Goliath.”

  Max turned to Temple. “So what do you think? Was Santiago’s body set up to fall and cause a stir?”

  “Not sure,” she answered. “Maybe someone just got him out of his clothes to take away any trace evidence. The cause of death is the usual suspect, a blow to the back of the head by a blunt instrument.”

  Matt nodded. “A construction site would be thronging with those.”

  Temple agreed. “I am thinking someone wanted to cause a stir at the Area Fifty-four site, though. In the professional and amateur media furor over the body, the building, the UFO adherents showing up for a pretty secret convention, everyone’s forgotten that the body of an elderly man was dumped on the same site days earlier.”

  “And that man is still unidentified?” Max said.

  “Yes,” Temple said. “The body dump smacks of old mob habits. Have either of you guys come up with any contemporary links on that?”

  They eyed each other, obviously equally guilty of ignoring that line of inquiry.

  Matt jumped in. “I just got a lead on a retired cop who might have some insight on that.”

  The others stared at him.

  “Molina,” he admitted, a bit lamely.

  “Molina.” Max almost purred. “She has been very cooperative with our bunch lately.”

  “Why was Santiago killed?” Matt shook his head. “The man was rich and famous. Was it a kidnapping gone wrong?”

  “I think I know everything but why he was killed,” Temple said.

  She was about to push a pitcher of cold beer she’d set out like a good hostess toward Max, then retracted the gesture. She’d already almost forgotten he didn’t like beer or ale. Too reminiscent of an Irish pub.

  “Let’s see.” Devine put down his mostly untasted beer glass. “You’d already suspected Santiago’s motives for coming to Vegas to work on the Crystal Phoenix hotel and casino. And the next thing we know, he’s plummeting naked off the top of an invisible building.”

  She put out a hand to pat Louie’s head. “If this cat could talk, we’d know a lot more, because he was sniffing around up there and may have triggered the landslide effect that brought the concealing plastic and canvas sheets down.”

  “And survived,” Max noted. “Midnight Louie and I have more than one thing in common now.” He smiled at the cat and then noticed the silence growing awkwardly long. “We’re both acrobats with black hair,” he added, fooling no one.

  Louie yawned, and Max agreed with him. “We can discount the UFO brouhaha,” he told the others. “The gullible are always ready to gather at any hint of a paranormal or conspiratory event. But maybe we’re wrong in assuming the cat being up in the construction started anything. Sorry, Louie. Maybe Santiago was thrown off the top of the building at that time because a crowd had gathered.”

  Matt spoke suddenly. “Maybe it was suicide.”

  “Who gets naked to commit suicide?” Temple objected. “This guy ate ego for breakfast. And the coroner did find the usual suspicious blow to the back of the head.”

  “Which could have happened in the fall,” Devine said.

  “Removing his clothes removed a lot of evidence too.” Max frowned. “It does look like someone was trying to stage something for maximum publicity. Why?”

  They looked at Temple. This was her area of expertise.

  “It could have been someone out to get Silas T. Farnum, my semi-client, who conceived and, as far as I know, bankrolled this project. He mentioned silent partners. He mentioned that both Domingo and Santiago were working on the project design. So … he could have done it. He has a warped idea about publicity. Thinks stunts are the way to go.”

  Matt shook his head again. “And you’re still mixed up with this character?”

  “Lieutenant Molina wanted me to keep an eye on him.”

  “Junior G-girl,” Max teased, getting an I am not amused glint from Temple’s blue-gray eyes and a suspicious narrowing from Devine’s.

  He put “humor” on his list of what not to do when with Temple from now on, with or without her fiancé present.

  “Look, guys,” Temple said. “I’m the one who figured out who the UFO corpse was. By a process of deduction, I might add. When everyone is used to seeing a fairly public figure spectacularly clothed, like a Fontana brother, and he turns up naked and dead and horizontal on a dusty construction site, his features no longer animated … maybe his own brother wouldn’t recognize him.”

  “Be sure you don’t tell the Fontana brothers you used them to make this kind of point,” Max couldn’t help saying.

  Devine laughed, one short guffaw. Temple put her hand over her mouth. “The Flying Fontana Brothers. It’s not funny, but…” The more she tried to stop laughing, the less she could, until they were all caught up in helpless mirth.

  The only one not laughing was Midnight Louie.

  “Please don’t tell the Fontana brothers I envisioned them as candidates for ancient aliens,” Temple implored them when she regained her sobriety. “We’ve had a fit of the black humor that crime pros depend on to keep them sane.” She sat up straighter, like a schoolmarm.

  “Okay. Santiago’s South American features spawned the ancient-alien mania. No one could have known that. The crowd jumped to the conclusion. Was revealing his death deliberate, or just an accident? He was bound to be found soon, now that the secret of the ‘stealth’ building was out and workmen would be doing their jobs by daylight, instead of as Farnum’s night crew.”

  “You still haven’t said how you made the identification?” Matt pointed out.

  “It was the scarring left by so-called alien surgery. I was just sitting here alone at this very cocktail table—”

  Midnight Louie roused himself from his “seated sage” with forepaws tucked in posture and sat up commandingly, to match Temple.

  “I was studying the newspaper’s photo of Santiago right after his fall to earth, sent by some reader from his cell phone, and the temple carving of a Mayan ‘astronaut.’ And I not only began to see the resemblance to an upright Santiago, but for some reason I also thought about the scars and remembered the pair dressed in Darth Vader–like masks and cloaks who tried to intimidate the magicians’ cabal at Neon Nightmare … were attacked by a bunch of black cats who jumped on their backs and clawed them into submission—into dropping their firearms and running away, at least.”

  Midnight Louie had started growling softly during her recital. When she finished, he leaped onto the cocktail table, skidding across the folded newspaper section and making a sharp cut across the pages as he hightailed it out of there for the office. They all gasped.

  Max lunged to keep the beer pitcher from overturning.

  “I wanted to keep that section with the photo and sketch,” Temple wailed, leaping up.

  Devine had already gotten there to grab it and smooth the cut, not torn, section in question. “Look,” he told Temple, “the cut’s below the graphics. You still h
ave Exhibit A.”

  Max couldn’t help smiling at this tableau: Temple wanted to preserve the evidence, Devine wanted to heal the wounded and solace the lost, and he wanted to save the beer that he loathed, the tabletop, the rug … and the day.

  “It’s my fault,” Temple said, sitting back with a sigh. “Louie just reminded me. He did that paper-cutting trick the other day, which is what made me think of cat scratches at the same time I made the connection between the dead man and Santiago.”

  “Uh,” Devine said, “you’re attributing a lot of motive to a cat. Not only in the first place, but in the miffed second place.”

  “Get used to it,” Max put in.

  Temple glared at them both.

  So did Midnight Louie.

  Chapter 40

  Frank Talk

  Matt sat in his living room directly above Temple’s. He was glad she couldn’t see through ceilings, or read thoughts. His fingers were entwined, prayerfully, but the grip was white-knuckle tight and he didn’t know what to pray for.

  He ran what he knew through his troubled mind.

  Two armed and masked people in Darth Vader–like garb had confronted members of a secret cabal of magicians calling themselves the Synth. They’d invaded the group’s hidden clubrooms at the now-defunct Neon Nightmare club. Temple had just found and entered the scene, undetected. So apparently had Midnight Louie and his alley cat cohorts.

  Matt had seen the cat act as Temple’s guard dog and realized Louie shared a remarkable bond with his onetime rescuer. So Matt wasn’t surprised that a gang of cats had gone feral-wild and attacked the invaders from behind, climbing their robes and clinging to their masks and inflicting multiple claw trails on their bodies.

  Matt supposed it was like having Freddy Krueger’s razor-tipped gloves slicing you on Elm Street. He’d never liked horror movies, but he’d had one razor wound from Kathleen O’Connor that earned her the Cutter nickname. He remembered the painless puzzlement of the strike and then the shock and burning sensation. That was just from one cut. Having your body used as a scratching post for a pack of fifteen-pound cats clawing and hanging from your skin would be like medieval torture.

  No wonder the corny but scary shrouded figures had dropped their weapons and escaped the way they’d come.

  Now a prominent international artsy architect had been found stripped and striped with vertical healed wound tracks on his rear torso and legs. One Darth Vader down. One to go.

  Neither Temple nor Max knew—and could not know—that Matt had been blackmailed into consorting with the number one suspect for the role of Darth Vader Number Two. Kathleen “the Cutter” O’Connor.

  He looked at the expensive watch the TV producers had given him as part of the courting procedure for his own TV talk show. It was only 5 P.M. His Midnight Hour advice radio show ran from midnight to 2 A.M. By two thirty he’d be at the Goliath locked into another battle of wills with Kathleen O’Connor.

  She needed to prove any priest, even an ex-priest like him, was corrupt and seducible. He needed to keep her busy so Temple was safe. He could tell no one.

  Now, he needed to see the bare back of her torso and legs to discover whether or not she’d been with Santiago that Neon Nightmare night.

  Dear God, how was he going to do that without confirming her contention that all men were corrupt? Without losing all chance of keeping her hooked on an interaction that was more about finding and growing some tiny remnant of trust in the heart and soul of a psychopath than playing cat and mouse with a career seducer.

  Drugs? Was there something mild but effective he could dose her with? Kinsella might know, but Matt couldn’t do anything that might make Kathleen’s other targets aware of Matt’s desperate game. Kinsella would be sure to interfere and defeat the whole point.

  His cell phone rang. He jumped as if guilty of something, then dragged it out of his pocket. He hesitated to check the caller ID, hoping it wasn’t Temple, because he’d have to lie to her again.

  But the caller wasn’t Temple.

  “Frank,” Matt said, hearing the unconcealed relief in his voice.

  His spiritual director from seminary heard it loud and clear. “Matt. Anything wrong?”

  “Uh, no. Just a lot of stress at work.”

  “You’re the one who made yourself a nightly sitting duck for every crazy out there in Radioland.”

  “Only five nights a week, and most of them are just uncertain and lonely, not crazy.”

  “Listen to you.” Bucek chuckled. “Made to minister.”

  “Everybody’s gotta have a vocation,” Matt said, a bit offended by the glib line.

  “Listen, I’m in Vegas. This is sudden, but are you available for dinner?”

  “Yes.” Matt jumped at an unexpected lifeline. Maybe he could get some inspiration from a veteran ex-priest now in law enforcement. “This another quick visit?”

  Bucek’s vigorous baritone didn’t boom right back. “Uh, no. I’m staying for a while this time.”

  His tone and the vagueness told Matt his former mentor was not going to reveal more. Handling anonymous calls in the night had sensitized Matt to vocal nuances.

  “Great, Frank. Where do you want to meet and eat?”

  “What else? A steakhouse. How about Planet Hollywood at seven?”

  “Done.”

  “I’ll make reservations. It’ll be good to see you again, Matt.”

  Matt echoed his sentiments and put the phone on a sleek gray cube table fronting the long red vintage couch. Temple had found the ’50s sofa for him when he’d been new to Vegas and didn’t have a stick or stitch of furniture.

  Soon they’d all three be moving in together, he and Temple and Louie, one small happy family.

  If he could excise Kitty the Cutter from their lives. He hoped that wouldn’t come down to razors.

  * * *

  The Strip House steak house at Planet Hollywood reminded Matt of a Chicago or Manhattan venue, very red with black-and-white photos on the wall, like Sardi’s famous theatrical district restaurant in Manhattan. Sardi’s featured Broadway stars on the wall. This was Vegas. Vintage black-and-white semidraped pinup girls ruled here.

  As Matt glanced at, comprehended, then studied the “art” work, he realized it was highly appropriate to his current problem: how to undress a woman without any sexual element in the act whatsoever.

  “You’re looking a bit glum,” Frank said as Matt joined him at the table.

  “Just thinking about logistics.” That was true.

  “The wall art is a bit racy,” Frank said after they’d ordered drinks, “but the steaks are prime. So what logistics are you wrestling with?”

  “Temple and I are getting married.”

  “Finally! When, where?”

  Matt laughed. “You’re reading my mind. Those are the big questions. My family wants a big Polish Catholic wedding in Chicago. Temple’s parents are Unitarians in Minneapolis.”

  “That makes ‘ecumenical’ as complex as a corporate merger.”

  “Yeah. Makes you want to run away to Vegas for a civil ceremony.”

  “You live with an adjoining wedding chapel for the job.”

  “You know about the landlady’s side business?”

  “The Lovers’ Knot Wedding Chapel, sure.”

  “I’m shocked.”

  “That I suggested it or knew about it. I’m FBI now. I know everything.” Frank smiled as he sipped the scotch on the rocks drink in front of him.

  “I find that declaration somewhat sinister, Frank.”

  Bucek shrugged. “Business has brought me to Vegas now and again. This time I’m staying for a while.”

  “Are Sharon and the kids coming to stay too?”

  “No. I’m solo for now.” Frank glanced at Matt. “Now, wait a minute. Don’t worry. Nothing personal is going on. I’m just needed here for a while.”

  “Terrorism?” Matt wondered.

  Frank tilted his head from side to side in that maybe way. />
  Matt sighed. “My logistics problems shrink to atom size when that word comes into play.”

  “Nothing that serious, Matt. I just can’t talk about it. Let’s get back to the wedding. We married guys always like more fellow sufferers.”

  * * *

  The steak had been great, and Frank’s humor made discussing the intricacies of marrying a non-Catholic more amusing than discouraging.

  “You’ve got to think like an American nun,” Frank had said during dessert. “You’re not going to let a bunch of old guys in dresses in Rome affect what is good and true to do here in the USA. You know that, Matt. There’s been a big disconnect between many of the American faithful and the overseas hierarchy for a long time.”

  Matt had agreed, but he couldn’t tell that to Father Frankenfurter from seminary, even though almost everyone from those days had moved on to secular jobs. He couldn’t say his real problem was how not to be seduced by a psychopath.

  During a conversational lull, Matt considered he might be making a mistake in labeling Kathleen the way she wanted to be categorized. Maybe he should forget her horrible sins against everyone he knew, including him and herself, really. Maybe he should regard her as just another troubled person calling in because she needed attention.

  He leaned away from the tiny after-dinner liqueur glass. “All the abuse issues aren’t likely to endear the Catholic church to Temple’s parents, Frank.”

  “Child abuse crosses all faiths. And professions, for that matter. Anyone who wants to work with youth these days has to tread carefully.” Frank shook his head.

  “So what is the worse sin? The violation of children or that our culture covered up that issue for so long? Even the social workers went hush-hush on it.”

  “That the caretakers failed the children all the way up the line.”

  Matt nodded. “How do you heal the survivors?”

  “You know. Counseling.”

  “Words won’t erase their total distrust of anyone.”

  Frank eyed him suspiciously. “You don’t get that deep into this topic on your radio show.”

  “No. But … I’m dealing with a person who’s actually turned to striking out against others. It’s hard to blame her. She’s a second-generation victim. And they are victims, legally and in every other way. We can have them rethink themselves as survivors, but that doesn’t do it for anyone who’s been so…”