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“That’s a very good question.”

“Then … he was here today?”

“Yup.”

“But he left.”

“Oh, yes.”

Crawford slumped into the dark lines of his Memphis Mafia suit. “Thank God.”

“Well, he left, but, like Elvis, he’s not completely gone. Something remains.”

Crawford’s expression turned sick as he glanced at the assembled officials. Talk about “ring around the collar:” a noose of Memphis Mafia suits surrounded them as thoroughly as they circled the corpse.

“Oh, God.”

Temple was actually moved to put out a hand in case Buchanan folded. “It is Lyle. Why are you so upset? I didn’t know you were friends.”

“Friends?” Crawford’s normal sneeringly sure look had melted away like a wax dummy’s expression in the face of a forest fire. “God, no. He couldn’t stand my guts.”

When she said nothing, he added, “What’s new? Who can?”

“Whew. You are in bad shape, C.B. Here. Have a chair.” She pushed down a fold-up theater seat with her foot. Crawford Buchanan, in any shape, was not someone she cared to bend over near.

He collapsed into the seat, patting the backs of his hands over his face as if wiping off invisible beads of sweat. His normal pasty face had gone as green as spinach fettuccine.

In a moment his face was in his hands, and he was rocking to and fro.

Temple looked around for witnesses. This was embarrassing.

“He’s gone,” Crawford wailed softly. “My God, my God. He’s gone.”

“He seemed like a nice man,” Temple said inadequately. What else could you say about someone you’d only met once. “And a damn good Elvis tribute performer.”

“Oh, don’t use that stupid euphemism!” the Crawf snapped. “Impersonator is an honorable word. And in his case, it wasn’t even an act. Don’t you understand?”

Tears stood in his large, cappuccino-dark eyes.

Temple sat on the seat next to him out of sheer, mute amazement. “You really cared about this guy.”

“Why shouldn’t I? I found him. I found him out! And then he exits on me.” The Crawf slapped a palm to his forehead, so hard that Temple winced.

“Crawford, you don’t—You couldn’t think … It’s crazy.”

“He. Was. The. King. I know it.”

“That’s your story that was going to shake the world?” “Was!” The word came out half a cry of rage, half a bawl. “I was so close. This would have made me.” “What about him?”

“Huh?”

“What about … Lyle. Did he want to be the means of your getting made?”

“No, but I could have talked him into it.”

“You told him your suspicions?”

“Of course. It wouldn’t work unless he cooperated and went public.”

“And he didn’t laugh you off.”

“At first, sure. Why not. He was in denial.”

“In denial.”

“Wouldn’t you be if you’d done such a good job of hiding your identity that no one would ever suspect?”

“But Elvis tribute perform—” Crawford was looking not only bereaved but homicidal, so Temple backtracked. “Impersonators are always suspected of being the real thing. It’d be the worst place to hide, because it’s the most obvious.”

“You said he was good!”

“Not that good.”

“How good does a sixty-four-yearold man who’s been out of the limelight except for the odd Elvis contest have to be?”

“What kind of evidence have you got?”

“Him! And now he’s dead.”

Temple scratched her neck. “Listen, Buchanan, you didn’t arrange for those attacks on Quincey as part of some scheme to get Lyle worried and reveal himself, did you?”

“No.” He sighed. “I thought of it after the first attack, that seeing ‘Priscilla’ in danger might shake him out of the denial of his new persona. But, face it, Elvis had gotten over her by now. And Quincey may have a punker’s heart, but she’s not a very convincing Priscilla.”

“I thought she was doing a really good job!” “What do you know about all this?”

“More than I used to know. So I’d be very hard put to buy that Lyle Purvis was Elvis Presley. Where’s your evidence?”

“You agree that he’s the best Elvis impersonator you’ve ever seen.”

“I do, but I haven’t seen very many, just the ones here. That new guy this afternoon was pretty good, but he’s way too young to be really Elvis. So stomping the stomp and shouting the shout are not evidence enough.”

“Purvis had lived in Las Vegas for several years, had enough money to afford a pretty big house with a copper roof and a six-car garage. You never saw him except at night. He didn’t smoke, or drink, or gamble.”

“There’s a pit boss at the Crystal Phoenix who doesn’t smoke, drink, or gamble, and you only see him at night. That doesn’t make him Elvis, and that isn’t as uncommon in this town as people think. Las Vegas is famous for churches as well as casinos.”

“Okay, but when I first got suspicious about who Lyle really might be, I started checking his background.” “Any good, or bad, reporter starts there. So?” “So … Lyle doesn’t, didn’t have any.”

“You just said he’d lived here for several years.”

“Right. Did Elvis gigs around the country, had an act at a small club for a while, but before that … zero. The man was fifty years old, at least. He had a driver’s license, but I couldn’t find a Social Security number on him, a credit record—he paid everything with, get this, cash.”

“Maybe he had a history of credit-card abuse.”

Crawford’s mournful dark eyes sharpened through their residual mist of emotion. “Exactly, T.B.! Once a spendthrift, always a spendthrift. There are certain habits so ingrained you can’t ditch them, even if you’re living in another place under another name.”

“Even if you’re Elvis, you say.”

“Especially if you’re Elvis.”

Chapter 50

Big Boss Man

(Elvis swung out in a 1967 Nashville session that was bedeviled by the usual personal politics among his associates)

“Mr. Midnight, I presume.”

Matt froze.

He wasn’t used to getting radio show calls at home. He wasn’t used to getting phone calls at home, period. But he wouldn’t put anything past his mysterious caller. His heart accelerated despite himself. Had “Elvis”

become a stalker?

“Don’t freak out,” the man’s voice urged, laughing. “It’s just Bucek.”

“Ah … Frank?” Matt’s mind once again had to merge the image of his long-ago spiritual director in seminary with the FBI agent he had become on leaving the priesthood. That always took a leap of the imagination, if not of faith. “I don’t get it. Why are you—”

“Calling? Combining business with personal business, I guess. Just to say I’m in town, and to ask a favor.”

“Sure.”

“I want tapes of your Elvis interviews.”

“Tapes. How did you—?”

“Hear about them? You’re famous. Or maybe I should say infamous.”

“But why do you need them?”

“Don’t know that I do, but I can’t really say.” “It’s about a case?”

“Can’t really say. Can you get me the tapes?”

“Sure. I’ll call the station right now; ask them to make a set.”

“Don’t say who for.”

“Okay.”

“I’d rather go through you. It’s more discreet. You could say they’re for your mother.”

“I will, but I don’t think I’d ever send her them. She’d think I had gone seriously weird.”

“What’s your take on this guy?”

“As a counselor?”

“Anyway you want to read it.”

“I don’t know. He could be completely immersed in the Elvis personality. He could be self-promoting in some way, not yet clear. If he comes forward and turns out to be a shill for the Kingdome, we’ll know.”