Cat In An Alien X-Ray

“I understand, Van. That’s why I have Plan B.”

“What was Plan A? That whizzed past me.”

“The press release. Believe me, the Area Fifty-four concept and site are so wacky that they’ll get all the ink and pixels and mass digital recordings. What I need to know is how much background research you did on Santiago after Nicky hired him.”

“Temple, you think I’d second-guess my devoted husband and the hotel owner like that?”

“Absolutely. I would. Nicky is a doll and sharp as a nail gun, but he can get overenthusiastic about over-the-top schemes. He thinks that Fontana charm will smooth all roads to Rome.”

Van leaned forward to consult her sleek computer screen. She was Apple all the way. “What do you want to know?”

“Santiago wasn’t born an international phenom. Where’d he come from?”

“This was tough to find out. My father was a European hotel manager, so I met many hotel owners as a child. They form a network through the major cities of the world. Luckily, Santiago had consulted for the Ritz-Carlton in his home city before he became internationally known.”

“His doing Vegas projects isn’t that far-fetched,” Temple said, “though I don’t understand why he was still hanging around the Strip after being tainted by the Cosimo Sparks murder.”

“A crime uncovered on our premises,” Van reminded her. “Was that another ‘body dump’ I shouldn’t worry about?”

“We’re lucky that the Crystal Phoenix is too classy to hold public attention. Silas T. Farnum with his invisible hotel and revolving spaceship restaurant makes much better copy. Ordinarily, Santiago’s working for Farnum wouldn’t be that strange. Santiago did have a strong reputation in immersive entertainment and cutting-edge technology and special effects. It was his specialty.”

“Not in the beginning.” Van looked up from her screen. “He actually had a last, middle, and first name, although he hadn’t used it in decades. Carlos MacCarthy. M-a-c, not M-c. That last name’s unusual spelling made it easier to track.”

“His father was Irish? Maybe…”

“Maybe what? There are many mixed Latino-Irish names in South America. Ireland’s always been so poor, her citizens emigrated to survive or thrive.”

“Maybe Santiago took a ‘city’ name because he wanted to hide his origins.”

“I’m sure it was a career decision,” Van said. “Look at John Denver and Rick Springfield. They needed something more memorable.”

“And those two had real last names that were a mouthful. Although ‘MacCarthy’ would be an awkward surname, given Santiago’s strong Central and South American looks.” Particularly, Temple thought to herself, if the father had been devoted to the IRA and Irish liberty. “Thanks for the info, Van, and stay cool,” Temple told her. “I have the inside track with the police on this. In fact, I’ll probably be seeing Lieutenant Molina later.”

Van sighed and kicked off her cream patent leather Cole Hans under her glass-topped desk. “Molina? That’s impressive. Go to it, then.”

Temple left, considering what had always seemed likely: Santiago may have been one of Kathleen O’Connor’s South American sources of funds for the IRA back in the day. Maybe, though, he hadn’t been the usual rich seducee. Maybe he’d been a bankroller who knew about the hidden Las Vegas stash because he’d been a political partner.

There were still people in Ireland who deserved reparations for lives lost in the Troubles. An IRA fanatic might want that money to go to them.

So … had Kitty the Cutter been the other Darth Vader at the Neon Nightmare during Temple’s inadvertent but memorable visit?

Chapter 38

Body Double

“I’ve never thought of the coroner’s office as open twenty-four/seven, like the casinos,” Temple said when she met Lieutenant Molina at the rear entrance where the bodies came in.

“Death doesn’t take a holiday,” Molina answered, looking down disapprovingly at Temple’s Jessica Simpson high heels. “Those will echo in there.”

“As if the dead would complain. We all don’t need to sneak around on moccasins and rubber soles.”

“You manage to sneak around plenty.” Molina eyed the area. The coroner’s van was parked outside the garage area. “It’s the late afternoon shift change. Let’s get inside before some paparazzo decides our visit is worth covering.”

Molina punched in a security code at a high-enough position that her body concealed the entry number from Temple … and any lurking paparazzi bearing infrared cameras equipped with long lenses.

Once the women were inside, fluorescent lights turned both their skins slightly green. Temple assumed she had the more ghoulish pallor. Molina’s olive complexion was harder to tint.

Molina was wearing one of her summer khaki pantsuits. Temple wondered why beige colors looked so dull and institutional on Molina and so casual and dreamy on Matt. This was an odd comparison to make in a morgue. It had definitively been too long between assignations, Temple thought, if engaged people could accomplish anything that sounded so naughty.