Cat In An Alien X-Ray

“Prepare to give me a list of who bankrolled what, or I’ll get a court order to view all the permits,” Molina told Farnum. “Even invisible buildings can’t go up these days without plenty of paperwork.”

Farnum backed away, bowing like a spurned suitor, his straw hat clutched to his heart.

Molina turned to Temple. “I see you’ve been chatting up the gathering UFO Looney Tunes division. You’re coming to headquarters with me to give a full oral report.”

Yo, ho, ho and little green gray men on a dead man’s chest.

Chapter 29

Fringe Benefit

Only in Las Vegas.

In only an hour or two, my spectacular Olympic-level performance in Downhill Racing is forgotten in the resulting chaos, although I am sure it will soon go viral and reality TV will be calling … and calling my name.

Police DO NOT CROSS tape has expanded to encompass most of the lot and now includes the nakedly exposed building. Crawford Buchanan is in all-too-prominent evidence, chatting up the crowd for a slot on the ten o’clock news. Onlookers and schlock-sellers form a thick lunatic fringe between the tape and the curb, creating a street circus atmosphere to mirror the Strip, although in small scale.

Still, it is hard for a dude of my stature to make an evidence-gathering stroll of the grounds. My Miss Temple captured me while I was still a bit disoriented from my ten-story slide. She hugged me and petted me and called me her very own, in full public view, which was terribly humiliating, then admonished me and locked me “safely” in the Miata convertible and flounced off to do spin control and snoop, as she is wont.

Foolish girl. She ordered the Mazda model with the push-button top. The day, or night, Midnight Louie cannot paw-punch a button with enough force to operate it is the day I hang up my crime-busting credentials. She should know that by now. I have pussyfooted over enough of her landline and fax buttons in the past.

Granted, Miss Temple is somewhat dizzy from being the PR person in charge of this big-time would-be alien sideshow despite herself. I had heard her muttering about being stuck as “Molina’s Junior G-string Girl” or some such as she left me in temporary custody in the Miata.

I do enjoy the sweet smell and cushiness of leather seats, but I like a crime scene—no matter how grimy and bizarre—better.

So now I am footloose and fancy free, and following in Crawford Buchanan’s nosy newscaster footsteps, which smell of rose-scented athlete’s foot powder—oof! Above me, his oily baritone is drawing sensational comments from the gathered loonies—er, legions of UFO believers—and the usual Vegas suspects: onlooker tourists and local gawkers.