Cat In An Alien X-Ray

Matt took a few seconds to react. Then he went with incredulous. “You’re nearly killed in a murderous bungee cord malfunction at the Neon Nightmare club, end up in a coma at a Swiss clinic for more than a month, go on the run across Europe, survive a pursuit by both the old IRA and the new IRA, and slink back to Vegas with an AWOL memory. You’ve been back less than two weeks, yet have a new girlfriend?”

“‘Love interest,’ they say in the movie summaries.” Max grinned. “She’s followed me to Vegas; what can I do? I’ll be happy to introduce you, should the occasion arise. Meanwhile, what are you doing here?”

“I don’t have a lot of time to interview any of the night shift, do I, getting off the air on WCOO at two A.M.”

“You might be getting off the air and night shift permanently if that daytime talk show gig in Chicago comes through.”

“Maybe.” Devine moved to brush past Max.

“Not the done deal Temple makes it out to be?” Max used the challenge in his voice as a rein to stop the guy’s forward motion.

“Nothing in media’s a done deal,” Devine said over his shoulder.

“Nothing in life, either.” Now Max had really jerked the cord.

Devine wheeled to face him. “Look, Kinsella. I get that you have to hang around Vegas until we settle who killed whom and might still do it to one of us, but who loves whom is a ‘done deal,’ and I’m not happy about you showing up again all needy and lame. You mess with Temple, and I’ll kick you to the curb all the way down the Las Vegas Strip.”

Max normally would mock and bow out of a scene like this. He measured the dark, repressed fury in Matt Devine’s eyes, the bottom-line corrugated steel in his voice.… He was poised like a guard dog ready to rend. Someone far more formidable than Max had jerked his chain.

Max held up open palms and stepped back. “Better get on with it. The night shift clocks out even in Las Vegas.”

Well. He watched Matt Devine’s golden-boy head vanish into the ceaselessly milling crowd, reminding him of an angel fallen among the habitués of Hell in a Renaissance painting, all those faces around them masks of lust and greed and terror.

He’d been ready to consign Temple Barr to the necessary gal pal category, but Devine’s bad boy behavior had him worried about her. He was hair-trigger touchy about something.

Max needed to get Revienne in the picture, if only to put paid to this broken romantic triangle so they could forget all that “who loves who” stuff tough guy Sam Spade pooh-poohed in The Maltese Falcon and defend themselves from common enemies.

Meeting Revienne. Why did he think that Temple Barr would not take that well?

Chapter 12

Open Arms

Matt Devine leaned against the lapis lazuli lining the Goliath elevator car behind the jam-packed crowd of passengers. He spread his palms and fingers on the icy stone, and willed himself to let the unaccustomed rage drain out.

Of all the people to witness him coming here. Damn Max Kinsella! It was his darn fault Matt was stuck in this impasse now. They were all being toyed with by a wildcat who’d cornered a mouse, all their lives at stake. Everything depended on Matt’s ability to break into and mind-meld with a twisted psyche, a serial killer’s sensibility probably.

He pushed forward as happy drunks made way for him. This was the twentieth floor, from which the tormented call girl who used the name of Vassar had plunged to her death only months before.

Plunged or was pushed? If her death had been murder, he could be here to see her killer.

He remembered the route to this room as well as the balcony view down into the dramatic Hyatt-style atrium sparkling like endless levels of heaven, and hell, to the marble lobby floor below.

The door plaque bore the numbers 2032. He knocked.

A woman answered.

She was brunette, beautiful, wearing very little, and she held a foldable straight-edge razor open in her naked palm.

Chapter 13

Graveyard Shift

Why do I always have to find the body? Especially if it is already dead.

It is not that I have any deep distaste for dead things. I mean, we all have to eat.

But I do shudder at the human race’s ability to kill purely for pleasure or profit or sometimes just having a bad hair-trigger day.

Yes, I know my kind are considered cruel and prone to play with their food, but “play” is merely a class in survival of the species, Ma Nature being the imperative sort. In the wild, it is always about mere survival.