Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

Whatever his affiliation, government, crime, or out of this world, his presence radiated authority and force, and had Temple absolutely cornered.

She stood and backed up, nervously, feeling her throat tingle and her stomach tighten.

“Why do I get the impression," she asked, "that you're not hotel security?”

He pulled off the sunglasses by one ear bow. "Good instincts?" He smiled slightly, but she had already recognized him.

“You're ... Bucek. Matt's Father Frank." She didn't relax one bit. "You're FBI."

“Thanks for saving me digging out my ID. Now you can do me another favor."

“Favor?”

He nodded, pulled out the chair she had abandoned, turning it toward her.

“I' ll stand." Temple fanned her fingertips on the countertop for balance. Her knees were still knocking slightly from the adrenaline rush of finding herself alone with a strange—and strange looking—man.

Bucek shrugged and sat himself, holding his shades loosely in the hand he balanced on one knee.

“I heard you tell Buchanan that you wouldn't step in as Priscilla Presley in tomorrow's Elvis competition."

“That's right. Two men are dead, and the girl who played Priscilla has endured harassment and even personal attack. I have no business taking such risks because 'the show must go on.' I'm just an innocent bystander."

“Excellent decision. I'm sure Matt Devine would be very happy to hear that."

“How nice for him, but I came to this conclusion all by myself. So you don't have to worry about my 'meddling' in this case. I'm outa here.”

He smiled again, to himself.

“I am outa here, aren't I? You aren't going to arrest me, or anything sinister? I didn't do it, honest."

“No, I'm not going to detain you at all, but there is that favor . . ."

“I'm leaving, this very instant. I'll be out of your hair forever." Temple pushed herself away from the support of the countertop in demonstration of her imminent departure.

Bucek shook his head. "I'm afraid we're both about to disappoint Matt. I want you to stay."

“Here? Now?"

“I want you to stay for whatever time it takes to enact Priscilla Presley tomorrow."

“I'm sorry, you'll have to get yourself another bride of Elvis. I'm absolutely determined to keep out of it."

“Again, an admirable decision, and pretty atypical, from what I've heard from Lieutenant Molina, but you're here. You know the setting, the actors, the costume. We don't have enough time to prep a female agent and get her into place this fast. I don't like it, either, but you'll have the agency's full protection."

“Hah! That didn't help Lyle Purvis much.”

Bucek sat forward, alert. "You knew he was a target?" "It was pretty obvious after I found him dead." "You knew we were here?"

“The Memphis Mafia security crew make a great cover for G-men, but there were a few dozen too many of you running around.”

Bucek's smooth features suddenly roughened with a new insight. "And you had the fabulous, flying Fontana brothers to point out dramatis personae to you."

“They did mention the Mob, and the feds. And they knew that the first victim, Clint Westwood, was a minor crime figure. Where do the bozos get these names?”

Bucek chuckled. "In their own self-dramatizing imaginations. Even the bad guys want to see themselves as good guys."

“Maybe especially.”

He nodded slowly and puckered his lips. "Career criminals are just that: upwardly mobile working stiffs trying to climb the ladder. Whoever hit Lyle will expect a promotion."

“And it's the same person who harassed Quincey. Why?”

Bucek tilted back on the wooden chair's fragile legs, making Temple even more nervous. She hadn't relaxed for a second since he'd entered the room, though she was finding the information he was sharing fascinating. Why, he was almost talking to her like a colleague . . . or a patsy.

“You ever read any G. K. Chesteron?" he asked.

Temple shook her head. "Not an Elvis impersonator, I take it."

“British writer. Created the Father Brown mysteries in the nineteen-teens and -twenties. Ever read those?" "Not that I can remember."

“Guess they're considered old-fashioned these days. Chesterton was a writer with a theological bent. He used Father Brown as a vehicle for his ideas about God and good and evil. Father Brown was this utterly overlookable little man who just happened to understand the human soul in all its extremes.”

Temple nodded politely, as she did at all impromptu lectures, but she was wondering when Frank Bucek would get to the point. She could see him holding forth before a class of seminarians. No wonder so many had left the priesthood.

“Anyway," Bucek said, sensing her restlessness, "Father Brown once asked Flambeau the thief 'Where do you hide a leaf?' `In a forest,' Flambeau answered. The case involved an officer who died on a battlefield."

“And you think the killer here is hidden among the Elvis impersonators. Makes sense.”

Bucek's smile grew patronizing without his realizing it.