Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In An Alien X-Ray

Van nodded through Temple’s presentation, still stunned.

“And, Van, luckily I’m in place to control the Phoenix link from the other end too.”

“What other end, Temple?”

“Ah, the place on Paradise.”

“You don’t have anything to do with that UFO nuttiness?”

“Don’t I wish.”

“You do! What would make you take on such a flaky client? A supposedly invisible building with a spaceship restaurant on the top?”

“I didn’t really take it on. Officially. I had just started talks with Deja View Associates when the first corpse on the site was found.”

“What?” Van was livid with shock, almost as livid as … a corpse.

“The death didn’t happen there,” Temple assured her. “The police are pretty sure. The site was just used as a body dump.”

“‘Pretty sure’? ‘Just used as a body dump’? And now a second body has been dumped, one associated with the Phoenix. I’m not at all happy about that, Temple.”

Van was amping up her Ice Queen act. She ran a Strip hotel-casino and could take the heat … and dish it out in that icy Devil Wears Prada fashion Meryl Streep had mastered for the film.

“I understand, Van. That’s why I have Plan B.”

“What was Plan A? That whizzed past me.”

“The press release. Believe me, the Area Fifty-four concept and site are so wacky that they’ll get all the ink and pixels and mass digital recordings. What I need to know is how much background research you did on Santiago after Nicky hired him.”

“Temple, you think I’d second-guess my devoted husband and the hotel owner like that?”

“Absolutely. I would. Nicky is a doll and sharp as a nail gun, but he can get overenthusiastic about over-the-top schemes. He thinks that Fontana charm will smooth all roads to Rome.”

Van leaned forward to consult her sleek computer screen. She was Apple all the way. “What do you want to know?”

“Santiago wasn’t born an international phenom. Where’d he come from?”

“This was tough to find out. My father was a European hotel manager, so I met many hotel owners as a child. They form a network through the major cities of the world. Luckily, Santiago had consulted for the Ritz-Carlton in his home city before he became internationally known.”

“His doing Vegas projects isn’t that far-fetched,” Temple said, “though I don’t understand why he was still hanging around the Strip after being tainted by the Cosimo Sparks murder.”

“A crime uncovered on our premises,” Van reminded her. “Was that another ‘body dump’ I shouldn’t worry about?”

“We’re lucky that the Crystal Phoenix is too classy to hold public attention. Silas T. Farnum with his invisible hotel and revolving spaceship restaurant makes much better copy. Ordinarily, Santiago’s working for Farnum wouldn’t be that strange. Santiago did have a strong reputation in immersive entertainment and cutting-edge technology and special effects. It was his specialty.”

“Not in the beginning.” Van looked up from her screen. “He actually had a last, middle, and first name, although he hadn’t used it in decades. Carlos MacCarthy. M-a-c, not M-c. That last name’s unusual spelling made it easier to track.”

“His father was Irish? Maybe…”

“Maybe what? There are many mixed Latino-Irish names in South America. Ireland’s always been so poor, her citizens emigrated to survive or thrive.”

“Maybe Santiago took a ‘city’ name because he wanted to hide his origins.”

“I’m sure it was a career decision,” Van said. “Look at John Denver and Rick Springfield. They needed something more memorable.”

“And those two had real last names that were a mouthful. Although ‘MacCarthy’ would be an awkward surname, given Santiago’s strong Central and South American looks.” Particularly, Temple thought to herself, if the father had been devoted to the IRA and Irish liberty. “Thanks for the info, Van, and stay cool,” Temple told her. “I have the inside track with the police on this. In fact, I’ll probably be seeing Lieutenant Molina later.”

Van sighed and kicked off her cream patent leather Cole Hans under her glass-topped desk. “Molina? That’s impressive. Go to it, then.”

Temple left, considering what had always seemed likely: Santiago may have been one of Kathleen O’Connor’s South American sources of funds for the IRA back in the day. Maybe, though, he hadn’t been the usual rich seducee. Maybe he’d been a bankroller who knew about the hidden Las Vegas stash because he’d been a political partner.

There were still people in Ireland who deserved reparations for lives lost in the Troubles. An IRA fanatic might want that money to go to them.

So … had Kitty the Cutter been the other Darth Vader at the Neon Nightmare during Temple’s inadvertent but memorable visit?

Chapter 38

Body Double

“I’ve never thought of the coroner’s office as open twenty-four/seven, like the casinos,” Temple said when she met Lieutenant Molina at the rear entrance where the bodies came in.

“Death doesn’t take a holiday,” Molina answered, looking down disapprovingly at Temple’s Jessica Simpson high heels. “Those will echo in there.”

“As if the dead would complain. We all don’t need to sneak around on moccasins and rubber soles.”

“You manage to sneak around plenty.” Molina eyed the area. The coroner’s van was parked outside the garage area. “It’s the late afternoon shift change. Let’s get inside before some paparazzo decides our visit is worth covering.”

Molina punched in a security code at a high-enough position that her body concealed the entry number from Temple … and any lurking paparazzi bearing infrared cameras equipped with long lenses.

Once the women were inside, fluorescent lights turned both their skins slightly green. Temple assumed she had the more ghoulish pallor. Molina’s olive complexion was harder to tint.

Molina was wearing one of her summer khaki pantsuits. Temple wondered why beige colors looked so dull and institutional on Molina and so casual and dreamy on Matt. This was an odd comparison to make in a morgue. It had definitively been too long between assignations, Temple thought, if engaged people could accomplish anything that sounded so naughty.

Or maybe her mind was already trying to go anywhere else than here. It was the casual gore of the place that got to her. A white-coated worker slicing a brain into cold-cut thinness on a lab table that would have looked at home in a high school biology lab. A naked body parked on a seemingly abandoned gurney in a hall.

She was sure that the alien astronaut guy would not be in open sight.

“Here you are,” the coroner greeted them, as if they’d gotten lost already. “Lieutenant. Miss Barr. You’ll have to excuse my appearance. I’ve just returned from dinner at the Monte Carlo. What a savory rack of lamb.”

The appearance he apologized for was a navy linen sports coat and old school tie glimpsed under his wrinkled white lab coat. Dr. Graham Bahr had a curling head of whitened black hair with werewolf eyebrows to match, but it was his robust weight, imposing height, and sometimes his temperament that gave him the “Grizzly” nickname.

“I imagine you two have no time to waste in viewing our current ‘savory rack of lamb,’ eh? An unlikely pair,” he added.

Molina was gathering herself to take offense when Temple realized where his focus was: on her feet. She hurried to answer his comment.

“Thanks. Your orange and burgundy snakeskin boots really rock that navy coat and tie.”

Molina frowned. “Down is the last place I’d look in medical examiners’ facility,” she said. “How long have you worn cowboy boots?”