“It’ll look coincidental,” Hal argued. “All our street people will back up your act.”
“You expect me to come up with a major illusion in a day?”
“You’re the Mystifying Max,” Ramona announced. “You love a challenge.”
He did. He also was getting a very wicked idea. “From what I’ve heard since I’ve come back—”
“From Canada,” Ramona interrupted.
“From Canada,” he answered with a look as pointed as her dubious comment. “And from the Keystone Kops charade of the underground safe opening in the new Chunnel of Crime,” he told them, “poor Cosimo Sparks had already played hound dog for these buttinskis, these people who muscled in on the Synth, but the cupboard was also already bare. That may be why Sparks was killed. They thought he’d moved the loot.”
“Poor Cosimo.” Czarina sighed. “Such a major loss. He was our leader.”
Max could sympathize with their loss. Cosimo Sparks and Garry “Gandolph” Randolph shared a lot of life history. Both were traditional magicians in formal dress whose performing time had passed; both were cut down while struggling for a future goal they passionately believed in, although in vastly different areas.
“This Synth is quickly becoming a rather minor cabal, and now looking seriously unfunded,” Max noted.
“Maybe the great Max Kinsella could help us with that.” Ramona had slouched down in her cushy armchair, crossing her legs so the slit in her long gown displayed them in David Letterman girl-guest perfection.
Max mirrored her slouch, but not the bared legs. “Maybe I can.”
Chapter 39
Cold Case Contact
Call her an old fogy, but media maven Temple Barr could not give up her daily newspaper as long as there was one to be had, even though she’d worked for a time as a TV reporter.
She’d really enjoyed seeing the Chicago papers recently. How thick the Sunday editions had been, promising hours of serial perusing while lounging and eating forbidden carbs and sipping high-calorie lattes. Web cruising was efficient, but it was like Web shopping; you got a cut-and-dried list. You couldn’t meander and surprise your eyes with something, well, 3-D.
So she was returning her Chicago-stressed mind to all things Las Vegas, which was mostly show openings and bad economy news, when she ran across a familiar but obscure name in print.
WOMAN’S DEATH STILL A MYSTERY
Unfortunately, that was not a startling headline in any U.S. city, but the name in the article’s first sentence was a shock.
“Gloria Fuentes,” Temple exclaimed aloud, disturbing Midnight Louie at his tongue bath in a large square of sunlight on the parquet floor. He regarded her with the long measuring gaze of a cat minding his own business and wondering why she was not minding hers and refraining from disturbing his grooming session. Then the lazy gaze narrowed to green slits and he bounded over to sit doglike by her feet.
Surely Louie had no interest in the name, just her sudden animation.
Temple examined the below-the-fold snippet more carefully. Newspapers nowadays were like trendy tapa appetizers: a palate-teasing dozen or so small stories arranged on the front page to intrigue a range of readers … if anybody read cold type anymore besides Temple.
Her fingers were tense as she paged to the “jump” on page six. What jumped out at her first was a logo reading, CCF: VEGAS, THE COLD CASE FILES.
This was a running feature she hadn’t noticed before, and a clever play on the venerable CSI: Vegas TV series.
“Louise Deitz.” She muttered the reporter’s byline to herself, giving Louie a glance in case he was interested in more than the rattling newsprint. His ears perked up over the still-slitty eyes. Perhaps he’d been reminded of the Crystal Phoenix cat named Midnight Louise after him.
Temple hoped being married would stop her habit of talking to Midnight Louie. Folks who lived alone tended to get into monologues with their pets. It did help her cogitation system to think aloud.
She scanned the short paragraphs that ended with a request for fresh information from anyone having it.
The facts were correct. “Yes, strangled in a church parking lot. Yes, professional magician’s assistant.” Gandolph didn’t merit a mention as Gloria’s former employer. Born in Chula Vista, California. Single and never married, an “attractive” forty-eight years old, with no known relationships outside her job. No known exes.
Temple digested some new information. A head shot accompanying the article reminded Temple of performer Chita Rivera. Muy attractive. And never married? A mystery. Temple remembered an even greater one about Gloria’s death. The fact that the words “she left” had appeared on the body at the coroner’s like a nightclub’s light-sensitive tattoo.
She turned back to the front page to read the byline. “Louise Dietz. Not familiar, but she soon can be.”
Temple lowered the newspaper to the coffee table top, thinking. Then she picked up her cell phone.
It rang before she could make a call. Matt on the line.
“Matt. I may have a lead on Gandolph’s assistant.”
“That’s great. What I’ve got a lead on is that crazy situation up in Chicago. I’m going to have to fly up. So, sorry, no amateur detecting for the immediate future. I’ll fly out after tonight’s show, really early Friday morning, getting back just before Friday’s midnight show. So you’ll never miss me.”
“Not possible. I always miss you. What’s up?”
“Mom’s agreed to see Philip finally, but only if I referee.”
“Gosh, the airfare on a one-nighter will be—”
“Steep, but well worth it if I can break this impasse.”
“I hate to think of you all alone up there with that barracuda cousin, Krys.”
“I hate to leave you all alone down there with that walking sympathy-sponge, Max.”
“Then I guess we’ll just have to trust each other.”
“Exactly what I’m going to tell those crazy middle-aged kids in Chicago.”
“‘Love is all you need,’” she quoted the Beatles.
“You’ve got it, love.”
“Mine, too. Good luck.”
Temple sat for a few moments after the call ended, wondering if Matt could pull off a miracle reconciliation.
Meanwhile, she had a murder to look into.
Chapter 40
Brassy and Breezy
So you think I would get an invite to accompany my Miss Temple to the local rag offices to interview the reporter known as Miss Louise Dietz? No such courtesy. And here I had acted as obnoxiously alert about the article as, say, your average hyperactive Chihuahua.
Yes, the words “Miss Louise” do provoke a visceral reaction in me. Unfortunately, I cannot stop my insensitive human associates from thinking it is “cute” to name another black stray cat they have come across after me, in the distaff version of the moniker of “Louie” revered in song and story.
How many famous Louies are there? Let me count the cherished examples.
There is the title song in my honor, “Louie Louie.” It has 1,500 recorded versions, numero uno. Take that, Beatles. You are so “Yesterday.”
Of course, every bartender in the world is named “Louie,” only he doesn’t know it. Louie rules.
As for “Louise,” there is only that one oldie song how “every little breeze seems to whisper Louise.”
Right now I could use that breeze for a short-wave communication.
Who do you think uses my proven methods of breaking and entering through Miss Temple’s patio French door, but the previously contemplated Miss Midnight Louise.