Cat In An Alien X-Ray

Temple pictured the corpse on Molina’s cell phone. One hesitated to stare at naked dead men, or women. Well, one would if one was not a person professionally charged with dealing with such bare facts of life and death.

But those faint pale lines, the so-called alien scars could have been made by wire. She was sure Grizzly Bahr, no relation, had considered that possibility. Bundled in a sheet and wire for transport and then left naked at the top of the building. Why not? Great place to stash a body, in a hidden edifice.

Yet, had it been so precariously placed that a misstep by a house cat had given the game away, not any nearby perpetrator?

Somebody had “dropped” bodies there for some reason, which would mean somebody wanted Farnum’s project to be the hot public potato it now was.

So was Farnum the instigator or the victim, the perp or the target, of the dead men?

Temple turned to the sensational front page. You’d think the Review-Journal had morphed into the Crackpot Gazette.

She studied the stone figure. Then looked at the sketch. She attired Las Vegas Man in Maya Man’s headdress and gear. A definite resemblance, but in the features and the profile, not the context.

Omigod! Penny and Rens. Facial features not registering, blurring out, needing … context. Clues. She sent newspaper sections flying as she frantically patted down her cocktail table top for the slim outline of a smartphone.

Search and … seized!

She ignored contact groups labeled “Friends” and “Family” and went to one named “Iffy.” She checked her faithful wristwatch with the second hand. Please, please, please be in.

“Molina,” came the familiar bark.

Yes! Good doggie, reliable doggie.

“I need to see the body.”

“Which body of the two in question are you hankering to view?”

“The ancient alien.”

“Of course. He’s off-limits to the public, the press, even the President of the United States.”

“They wouldn’t be able to help ID him.”

“And you are?”

“I think I know him from somewhere.”

“Won’t happen, even if you met him on Mars during your lunch break.”

“I’m dead serious. I need to look at him out of context, not in it. I have temporary prosopagnosia.”

“I don’t care if you have terminal halitosis. That body is on lockdown.”

“Grizzly Bahr would let me in. I know he would.”

“Am I to infer that he has performed some highly unprofessional courtesies for you before?”

“Uh … no. I just suspect he would, like I suspect I know the body. I mean the dead man. I wouldn’t know his body, since I hardly looked at it on your cell phone, and of course I haven’t seen any naked strange men. Or strange naked men. Recently. Ever. But I didn’t really see his face. That’s what I think I subconsciously recognized. The face. But the context temporarily blinded me.”

Molina suddenly snapped at someone nearby. “Just leave the reports.

“I’ll call the coroner,” she told Temple. “If Bahr okays it, you’re in. I’ll let you know later. Much later. Some of us work on actual cases as a career, not a hobby.”

Temple hung up with a smile.

Molina was going to find out that Temple and crusty ole Grizzly Bahr had an affinity that went a lot farther than a last name that sounded the same.

Chapter 37

Bad News Bearer

“Van von Rhine.”

The voice on the phone was as smooth and controlled as its owner’s platinum-blond French twist. Temple knew she was also going to have to get Van von Rhine’s fancy French panties into a double-pretzel twist pretty soon.

“Hi, Van. It’s your PR consultant en route to the Phoenix. I’ve got to talk to you immediately about a nasty public relations turn of events that so far is known only to me, the Metro Police, and the coroner.”

“It involves our hotel-casino?”

“Peripherally.”

“What on earth—?”

“It’s not on Earth anymore. It’s very alien territory.”

“Tell me this has nothing to do with that UFO fiasco on Paradise. Talk about bad publicity for the entire Strip.”

“I’ll tell you that I’m not willing to commit any more info to the cell phone towers. Don’t talk to strangers with media credentials until I get there.”

“Now I’m really alarmed. I’ll call Nicky.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. We need to be forewarned and forearmed before anybody else hears this, and everybody else will, all too soon.”

“Drive fast,” Van said before signing off, sounding terse.

Temple buzzed the Miata around any lagging traffic, although the Strip was typically a slow-flowing river of hot metal. Temple always felt like Nancy Drew in her roadster in the small convertible. Now she raced like Nancy on a hot crime trail.

“Where’s the fire?” the Phoenix’s parking valet asked as her little red car sped up to the dazzling glass-and-mirror entry canopy.

“Hi, Wayne. Emergency meet inside. Put her someplace in the shade to cool down.”

“Sure thing, Miss Barr.”

Crystal Phoenix parking valets were attired like bellboys from a Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers ’30s movie and had the same pep.

Temple dashed inside.