Cat In An Alien X-Ray

Temple walked the length of body, looked back up to the face with its staring dark eyes that reflected fluorescent tubes.

Can you see a face, and not recognize it again? Yes, if you have prosopagnosia. But if you have mental prosopagnosia? She eyed the hands and nails, the hair, the neck; she tilted the whole man upright and clothed him in a great suit to wear for his funeral. Wait. One borrowed from a Fontana brother.

Because that was the vibe her subconscious associated with this man, not some ancient warrior culture. Something primitive, predatory even, but clothed in complete modernity, down to his buffed fingernails and that razor-cut nape-line of his hair. Smooth, slick. Smart, glib.

“He’s from an ancient South American line, all right,” Temple told the doctor and police lieutenant. “This is the world-renowned conceptual architect who came to Las Vegas to dream up special projects around the Strip. He was even a consultant on Silas T. Farnum’s decidedly third-class construction site.”

“You’re saying he was somebody important?” Molina asked.

“He thought so. He goes by one name, like Cher or Madonna. He’s Santiago.” Temple was as stunned she was right as they were.

Chapter 39

Murder Ménage II: Naked Came the Clue

Temple called a meeting of the Murder Ménage that evening.

Max purposely arrived late for the meeting.

He wanted the lovebirds to have a chance to establish their couplehood before he intruded on it. He wanted to be clearly the “outsider.” Creative consultant, say. This was purely professional.

When Temple opened the condo door to his knock—ringing the doorbell was too akin to the unwanted solicitor—Midnight Louie uttered the first word of welcome as he weaved protectively around Temple’s calves.

Correction: The couple was already a triumvirate. He was the fourth corner of a quadrangle. Temporarily.

“This is starting to feel like a three-person poker game,” Temple said when she’d seated Max across from Matt Devine at the round dining table on one side of the main living room.

“What’s up?” Max asked as he sat. Unwanted snapshots of memory from the time he’d lived here with Temple clashed in his mind, and he could hear majestic strains of Vangelis echoing from the unique barreled ceiling.

He kept his head down and his expression blank. Only Max’s amnesia made it tolerable for them to gather in such a cozy, private way at all.

“I thought you two should know what I and Molina know,” Temple began.

The men exchanged glances, Matt looking edgy and a tad guilty, which was the way Max felt. Guilt? What was that about with Devine? Max would have to figure it out later.

“Look, guys,” Temple said, “I’ve got the most shocking information. It’s like being hit by a … death ray from Jupiter. I’ve ID’d the ‘ancient astronaut’ body from the construction site on Paradise for the police,” she announced, sitting back to receive accolades.

Matt leaned forward with a frown. “Temple, I thought you were distancing yourself from that crackpot developer guy with the invisible building.”

“So the dead guy is a crackpot developer?” Max asked.

“No,” Temple said, sighing. “That’s Silas T. Farnum, who wanted to hire me to PR the project. The ancient alien abductee who fell back to Earth in a flash of UFO fire is…”

“Don’t milk it too long,” Max warned.

“… Santiago.”

She waited for applause, but got silence.

“This is big, guys. Santiago is the South American architect-cum-showman who redid the ‘immersive’ Chunnel of Crime attraction connecting Gangsters and the Crystal Phoenix Hotels.”

“So you provided the police with the right name for the most notorious corpse in Vegas?” Max wondered. “Didn’t this Santiago have links to the bizarre murder victim in formal dress found in the underground safe?”

“Yes, and yes, that is a bizarre scenario,” Temple said. “Cosimo Sparks, that dead man in the safe, was also the head magician who was running the Synth,” she added for Matt’s benefit.

Max already knew that. She and Max had paid a midnight visit to the disbanding Synth at the Neon Nightmare only days before. And there Temple had discerned from the forlorn magicians’ conversation that several unsolved murders on her Table of Crime Elements could have been committed by the now-dead Sparks to keep their failed conspiracy secret.

Matt mustn’t know that, at least not right now, when Max’s return to Vegas made him uneasy.

“South American architect,” Max repeated to change the subject. He’d been on the run in Europe when Santiago debuted in Vegas. “That’s Kathleen O’Connor IRA-donor territory. How could this apparent technocrat be mistaken for an ‘ancient alien’?”

“Being found naked. In this case, clothes made the man,” Temple explained, “and his living look was all Fontana brothers gone Latino.”

Max nodded. “That Italian greyhound pack of ‘instant sleek’ wears the ‘cool clothes in a hot climate’ look that sells designer suits.”

“As if,” Matt said, “you didn’t ever work that look.”