Cat In An Alien X-Ray

She grabbed the wide-brimmed hat with the built-in scarf she kept in the car. The unshaded lot was as dangerous for her redhead’s sensitive skin as driving a convertible with the top down. She put up the top to protect the car’s leather seats and steering wheel from frying in the sunlight.

As for Mr. Midnight Louie, missing “purrson,” she figured she’d find him, or vice versa, in the crowd. He’d just become another lead to follow.

While talking to Molina, Temple’s PR genes had stayed active and entered Eavesdrop Mode.

An ace public relations person could nod attentively and talk to one person, even an authority figure like a cop, while locating the presence and identity of at least half a dozen people around her at the same time.

Given the extreme appearances of the pro and con UFO crowds gathered, that was much harder right now. Basically, the crowd was fifty shades of weird. Being a PR person, Temple enjoyed every shade of weird. It made for easy publicity. That was surely true now, with vans from local TV stations jumping on footage of this event before L.A. could even hope to get a unit here.

During her almost subconscious pans of the crowd, Temple thought she’d spied a local personality who might at least know Midnight Louie if he saw him and help her corral her cat before Louie unearthed another body.

Looking for Crawford Buchanan’s head in a crowd was as bad as someone looking for hers, given his short stature. Having to want to find the sleazy cad-about-town was even worse.

She needn’t have worried. Buchanan had some PR vibes himself, because she heard a baritone voice from the mob intone, “And here’s a local light on the Strip PR scene,” just as someone grabbed her arm.

Temple turned into the bright light of a shouldered camera and smiled at least half as brightly.

Buchanan had switched to wearing a local cable TV gold sports coat with the station call letters on the breast pocket and ditched the crass diamond ear stud.

Luckily, the glare kept Buchanan’s regular but smug features in temporary darkness. “Miss Temple Barr,” he announced to whatever audience he represented at the moment, “feminine flack extraordinaire.”

She winced inside at his hokey and demeaning introduction, but maintained her broad smile. Flunk electronic media exposure these days, and it would be all over the world instantly.

“You are,” Crawford went on, “the presumptive PR rep for the shadowy individuals who own the murder site. I believe.”

“Goodness. You make me sound like I’m running for president with a PAC behind me. Yes, I’ve been in talks to represent one of the individuals who back this construction, but there was no desire on anyone’s part to own a ‘murder site.’ Besides, the coroner has not ruled on the cause of death, so any suggestion of ‘murder’ at this point is utterly irresponsible.”

Temple smiled demurely into the camera while Buchanan sputtered to think up a new question.

“So, Miss Barr, are you saying you don’t believe in UFOs?”

“Certainly many people do, and it’s not for me to say they’re wrong.”

“Rumor is the dead body was a plant.”

“Oh, no. I’m very certain he was some sort of Homo sapiens.”

“And naked as a jaybird.”

“I don’t think he was a bird, either. Or Superman sans costume. We just don’t know enough about him. This is not The Day of the Triffids, Mr. Buchanan. And I doubt ‘space spores’ have escaped a Star Trek set to invade a desert climate.”

The surrounding believers were muttering and pressing closer. “However,” Temple said, “his presence and death certainly give one reason to wonder. ‘The truth is out there,’ and I do believe that ‘We are not alone.’”

Scattered applause.

The videographer turned to pan on the crowd. Temple grabbed Awful Crawford’s mic and fisted her hand over it. “You’ve got your interview,” she told him vehemently. “Now you’ll answer some of my questions.”

“Absolutely, TB. I’m at your disposal.”

“I couldn’t put it better myself. Listen. You know my cat, Midnight Louie?”

“That black back-alley escapee. I’d expect a cute chick like you to own something more upscale, like one of those fluffy white numbers on the TV commercials.”

“Louie was on some TV commercials.”

Buchanan smirked at having irked her to the point of defending her cat.

“Anyway,” Temple said, back on point. “I need to round him up. Have you seen him in this mess?”

He gave her a reproachful look. “Don’t I have my finger on the pulse of everything that goes on around Vegas? Sure, I saw your alley cat, and I would have interviewed him if I could have. He did tumble into the scene of the body dump—”

The crowds muttered again.

“—or landing,” Crawford said quickly.

Temple dragged him away from the current eavesdroppers by pulling the mic with her. He was as attached to his on-camera persona as a dog to its leash.

Surrounded by a fresh crowd of imaginatively attired folks with rainbow skin and artificially altered noses and ears, Temple resumed her interrogation. “Louie? Where? When?”