Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In An Alien X-Ray

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 right 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. Jack hammers. 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.”