Detective Ferraro’s basset-hound dark eyes looked up from his lined notebook pages. “Would you like to see a photograph? One should be posted at the morgue shortly. I can e-mail you the photo number.”
“No. Really. I’m pretty sure I don’t know any portly men who wear white tie and tails, nor of any Vegas act using them, although I’m not up on every last Cirque du Soleil production, particularly the sex one, Zumanity.”
“Too much information, Miss Barr.” Ferraro’s mustache quirked with distaste. “I wasn’t really asking your preferences. I was being polite. What is your e-mail address? Please examine the features of the deceased when they arrive and let me know.”
She accepted his card. Technology was getting creepy. First it had been regarding the corpse through a small window with draperies, then it was looking at a photo, then the photo was e-mailed fresh from the morgue to your queue for the final indignity of sitting cheek-by-dead-jowl with Nigerian solicitations, fake PayPal fraud warnings, and chain letters that would consign you to hell if you failed to pass on a soppy hard-luck story to ten of your closest friends. Who had time for that number of intimates these days? Temple didn’t even know a fat man in evening dress found dead in her very own stunt safe.
“You are the person primarily responsible for everyone else being there?” Ferraro asked.
“Uh . . . yes, I suppose you could say so.”
“And you’re responsible for the presence of mob and muscle.”
“Mob and muscle?”
The mustache quirked again. Maybe a sense of humor hid behind Ferraro’s clenched, refreshingly unbleached, beige front teeth. “The Fontana family and that highly photogenic drill team. You pick those particular construction crew members?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, but it was purely random.”
“The random factor being . . . ?”
“Uh, they were working on the actual project.”
“And?”
“Good tans, skimpy T-shirts, impressive, uh, tool belts.”
“Thought so. You manipulated this event and staged the scene. Why wouldn’t you have also arranged to have an overdressed corpse appear inside this empty, useless safe?”
She was speechless. She was so used to dealing with Molina and the homicide lieutenant’s favorite detective team of Su and Alch, she wasn’t accustomed to being considered a serious suspect.
“What are you implying?” she asked, wondering if she should shut up and get a lawyer.
“That you hired the corpse for this gig.”
“Hired a corpse? That’s not possible.”
“It is if he was alive and you had him slip into the safe before lights, action, and camera time.”
“But the door had to be drilled open.”
“Maybe. Maybe it was all a media setup gone wrong.”
“Not ‘maybe.’ It is! This kind of publicity is not helpful, believe me, detective. And if you don’t believe me, which I see you have no reason to, ask Dr. Bahr, the coroner, when the deceased died. The smell was ripe enough to indicate it was at least overnight. No sane patsy would sleep overnight locked in that rank, dark safe, even if there was some way to open and close it before today. Which there wasn’t.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Of course we tried to get into it before we arranged for a formal ‘opening ceremony,’ so to speak.”
“So you were willing to risk revealing whatever was in there?”
“Whatever wasn’t, detective. I knew, we all knew, it was probably just an empty safe someone had installed for who-knows-what reason. Making a big deal of it à la Al Capone’s vault was a joke. A harmless media ‘event’ in a city known for being over the top.”
“You consider murder a joke, ma’am?”
“No! A body was the last thing anybody expected to be in that safe!”
“Was there anything you thought might be in it?”
“Maybe . . . It was a long shot. Maybe some old silver dollars.”
“The Jersey Joe Jackson part of the ‘joke.’ ”
“He was real, and he did bury a lot of stolen silver dollars around town and in the desert years ago, some of which were found and turned in. That’s one Las Vegas legend that’s true.”
“It would take a lot of nerve to ask the media out for a safe opening that might or might not contain some silver dollars.”
“Yes. That’s my job.”
“To have a lot of nerve?”
Oh, how she wanted to snap back: “Yes.” That was not smart. “To ask the media out.”
Actually, they’d gotten a sensational story out of it. Temple’s stock would be high with them.
With the Las Vegas law . . . not.
“Don’t you have friends at the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department?” Van von Rhine asked, pacing her pristine office.
Nicky was still at Gangsters, waiting with his uncle and brothers during their separate interrogations by Detective Ferraro’s partner.
“Ah . . . acquaintances,” Temple told Van. “I can call . . . one . . . to check on the progress of the case. He’s a great guy, but when it comes to department policy, I can’t guarantee Detective Alch will tell me the weather.”
Van was not appeased. “I knew flaunting the family’s . . . Italian . . . connections would go terribly wrong. What was Nicky thinking?”
“How to cheaply enhance a venue during an economic meltdown by appealing to public curiosity. Gangsters eternally fascinate the public. Rap culture was built on reinventing it.”
“We don’t need our own Ocean’s Eleven through Thirteen happening right here beneath the Crystal Phoenix.”
“That is kinda cool,” Temple remarked. “It hadn’t occurred to any of us.”
“What?” Van paused. She moved like a harried executive, but her face and mind were cool and collected.
“The Ocean’s Eleven parallel. The ten brothers and their uncle. What happened to their father, by the way?”
Van’s delicately glossed lips vanished into a straight, stressed line. “Shot down when Nicky was still a preadolescent. The ‘last hit’ in Vegas. His grandmother had made a legitimate fortune on a pasta factory. She underwrote the Crystal Phoenix. Now all of it’s endangered, thanks to this angel-hair-pasta-brained publicity scheme of his.”
“Maybe not.”
“A body in a hidden vault beneath the juncture where the Crystal Phoenix and Gangsters property lines meet? An underhanded criminal alliance implied between the two hotels? A secret vault? Only a few silver dollars may have been found under the body, but they raise the shady ghost of Jersey Joe Jackson, a founding spirit of the Crystal Phoenix. We are ruined, Temple. It’s just a matter of time.”
“What if the body could be tied to another gang, something very far from gangsters?”
“What do you mean? How? You’re a wizard at manipulating events, but I don’t think a dead guy who could sing Italian opera can be wished away.”
“Something about the body, the way it was . . . arranged, rang a bell with me.”
“Publicity at any cost?”
“No, I’m thinking of a secret society.”
“Oh, great. Like the Mafia?”
“No, a mystical secret society called the Synth. I’m serious, Van. The way the body was laid out was ritualistic.”
“Well,” Van said bitterly, sitting on her immaculate white leather chair, “I guess you know more about crime and bodies than the average hotel executive does.”
Temple understood her frustration. She was worried sick about Nicky and his brothers and had no way to help them.
Temple sat and leaned forward over the glass-topped desk. “It was more the way the red lining of the cloak was arranged. You noticed that the body’s flung-out arms and legs made something of a star shape?”
“No. I wasn’t close enough to see, but now I will imagine that, which is worse.”
“The police are going to zero in on the contortions, but that wasn’t the bizarre p
art.”
“If you say so, Temple.”
“It was the cloak lining. I knew it reminded me of something, some weird shape I’d seen before. Then I realized I was remembering an outline, not a piece of flagrant cloth, and I’d seen it at the site of an unsolved murder, of a professor at the university campus.”
She quickly sketched the configuration of a forgotten constellation’s major stars on Van’s pristine notepad.
“Our dead body is part of a serial killing?” Van demanded.
“More like a sequential killing, I think. Anyway, once I get a chance to check my records, I can tell you whether the poor guy’s cloak is a dead match to Ophiuchus.”
“Off-ee-YOO-cuss? I have some background in the classics, but . . . is this name of a lost Greek play?Off-ee-YOO-cuss Rex?”
Van had wanted Temple to smile after all these grim events, so she did.
“No, Van. It’s the thirteenth sign of the zodiac.”
“I’m a little superstitious, so I know there are only twelve signs of the zodiac. I’m a Virgo.”
“And I’m a Gemini. Traditionally. Yet, in December, the sun passes through the constellation of a man twined by a serpent. But this interesting pairing doesn’t name a sun sign like the constellations of Libra and Virgo and Gemini do. As far as I and some interested parties were able to determine concerning the death of the professor, the star positions of Ophiuchus resemble a distorted pentagram and are a mystical symbol of the mysterious Synth.”
“That sounds . . . truly ominous, Temple.”
“Actually, it gives me a good angle on current events and a possibility of diverting police and media interest to individuals and enterprises far removed from Fontana family affairs.”
“That,” said Van, “would encourage me to regard this Ophiuchus entity as a friend of the family and make sure Nicky gives you a raise.”
When a Body Meets a Body
I have not had occasion to explore the bowels of the Crystal Phoenix since the Jersey Joe Jackson Action Attraction ceased to be attractive. My solo return to the scene of the crime puts me in a reminiscing mood.
It seems like only yesterday that the “new” Vegas promoting “family values and entertainment” fizzled like a glass of lukewarm iced tea at a stripper joint. Vegas hastily returned to soap-opera status: The Luxe and the Lustful.
I found it rather poignant when the underground mine-ride cars vanished, leaving only unused tracks in their wake. This area was now a dead-end destination, no longer a rowdy, raucous place a guy would expect to encounter fun and profit.
This subterranean sweatbox had a lot of history before it was resold as an entertainment venue. A gang of would-be heisters had used the tunnel for a robbery scheme but was undone by my able sleuthing work, thanks to aid from the world of Elvisimitators, now called “Elvis tribute performers.”
The actual King and I crossed paths here a few times, his path and presence being totally ectoplasmic. I find it interesting that the only individual in my circle of acquaintances, human and otherwise, who has also apparently had an encounter with the ghost of Elvis is Mr. Matt Devine, the former priest.
I believe my species has a special connection to the spiritual, hence our gift of nine lives. Or so. I am now working on the “or so” portion, which is why I sincerely hope my assumptions are true.
Mr. Matt never claimed to see Elvis’s ghost. There was merely an anonymous caller to his radio advice program who seemed to sound exactly like Elvis. This fact was vetted by Mr. Matt’s ex–seminary mentor now in the FBI, namely Mr. Frank Bucek. These “mentors” are apparently important folk in younger lives. (I would not know, given my mama was forced to train all of us kits on the street and move us on ASAP.)
Anyway, the world is full of would-be Elvii. Las Vegas particularly attracts the breed, and tourists have been married by “Elvis” almost since the King’s death more than thirty years ago.
Maybe that is what Elvis and Mr. Matt have common. They both performed marriage ceremonies, one more religiously than the other. Now Mr. Matt is eager to move on to taking vows instead of administering them. I must admit he and my Miss Temple make a photogenic couple, but I and my Miss Temple also look good in pictures, together or apart.
I have no intention of letting my significant other of the human sort leap into matrimony without me as a codicil.
As I understand it, a codicil is not anything fishy, but an add-on to legal matters, marriage being one of them. I plan to be the codicil on bedroom protocol. That is, I will retain my bed-snoozing rights so long as I can stand what else may go on there. I was not born yesterday or even a couple leap years ago.
I have a lot to muse on these days, what with the wholesale way my Miss Temple has swapped suitors without even consulting me. That has made me reconsider our relationship. I am thinking that I need a pre-nup for myself, and fast.
While I am so doing, ambling along the abandoned mine-ride tracks by the dim illumination of work lights, I run into an immovable object.
A moment later I am whisker-dancing in the dark with a stranger.
This is nothing new for a dude about major resort destination, even in these depressingly financially flat days.
Visions of Satin from the Sapphire Slipper chicken ranch in the next county, or Topaz from the Oasis Hotel setup down the Strip, dance a heady tango in my noggin.
Alas, my impediment, like the sleek Topaz, is black-furred and female, yet, by the twitching of my nostrils, I can tell it is only my partner in crime solving, Miss Midnight Louise.
“What are you doing down here again?” we croon in simultaneous challenge.
“The Crystal Phoenix is my turf now,” Miss Louise growls.
“This is my crime scene. I was here first, and my resident human has a big new project going here for the owners. That trumps your paltry claim of possession of the premises. Millions are at stake.”
“Millions of fleas, if your unsanitary hide is involved,” she sniffs. “You have been hanging out more with the feral gang than I have.”
I did say she sniffed, and you can take that literally.
“I receive an herbal repellent from my mistress in my daily food to handle that sort of infestation,” I say.
“But you rarely eat the Free-to-Be-Feline she uses as a staple because you are politically incorrect in your most primitive appetites. Thus, you are unprotected.”
“Not true! I am the most protected tomcat in town! Unlike most cowardly human males, I have chosen to have ‘the surgery.’ ”
“While knocked unconscious,” she jeers. “You were kidnapped by that airhead actress Savannah Ashleigh and returned to your mistress in a satin pillowcase bearing her initials. I am amazed her plastic surgeon only did a vasectomy and a tummy tuck. He could have done a sex-change operation.”
I had never considered that possibility and feel slightly faint from the thin air in this deserted section beneath the hotel grounds.
“At least I am not an ‘it,’ ” I lob back. My powerful serve of sarcasm silences my mouthy self-described “daughter.” Youngsters. No respect for their elders, even when they are trying to label them as delinquent dads.
Now that the formalities of our unexpected encounter have been observed, we sit and get down to business.
“I agree that you must solve this case to protect your mistress’s financial interests,” she concedes. “Just get straight that your land is now my land and I have the Fontanas to protect, so I will be a participating party in any investigative shenanigans you and/or she might get up to, high or low, at the Crystal Phoenix and its environs to the property lines, above- and belowground.”
“Jeez, Louise. Have you been consulting a lawyer?”
“I thought you tacked an ‘Esquire’ onto your name on occasion.”
“My degree is in street smarts.”
“Mine as well, and far more recently than yours. What do you think of this scheme to link the Crystal Phoenix with Gangsters?”
“Not much. The CP has a solid-silver rep as classy. This mob stuff could tarnish what Miss Van von Rhine and Mr. Nicky Fontana have so carefully built.”
Louise is not buying my dire scenario.
“The Fontana brothers, sans Nicky, have built the exotic Gangsters Limo Service into a popular Vegas brand, though,” she ripostes. Ow! Her ripostes end with pretty sharp punctuation marks. “Even the mayor wants to loosen up the Code of Silence on the city’s mob roots. I thought you would approve of your human associates getting the jump on the city-hall bunch.”
“When those guys are nervous, there might be reason. First they called it a mob museum. Then they called it a law-enforcement museum. They are fudging the facts so much they would look good accessorized with nuts and marshmallows.”
“Are you always thinking of your next meal, Daddy-o? You could stand to lose a few fat rolls.”
“Bulging muscles, my girl. Now that your ‘furomones’ have been ‘fixed’ you simply cannot tell the difference between a male at the peak of his powers and some fuddy-duddy fixee.”
She shakes her head. “I am done trying to urge you to a healthier lifestyle. I do have news that tops your latest Elvis sighting.”
“That was some time ago. The Memphis Cat has not deigned to show himself this trip through the belly of the beast, so I am most interested in what your insights are.”
“I paid a recent visit to the Crystal Phoenix’s so-called Ghost Suite.”
“Ah, old seven-thirteen. A most provocative number for a hotel room. And who did you find there? Or should I say, what?”
“Miss Temple Barr, for one.”
“Really? I thought she was on the scoffer side of matters paranormal.”
“She was using the peace and quiet to muse.”
I nod sagely. The presence of Miss Midnight Louise, my possible number-one daughter, brings out the Charlie Chan in me.
“She also was using it to mourn, I believe,” Miss Midnight Louise adds. “I do not think that is healthy.”
“Hmm. You mean she was contemplating the absence and likely death of Mr. Max Kinsella. You were there when he hit the Neon Nightmare wall on that sabotaged bungee cord. A savage end to a most civilized magician.”
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