Cat In A Quicksilver Caper

The sound of them remotely being opened was enough to draw Boris and Natasha’s attention in the same split second that the blinds reflected an infinity of Fontana brothers in off-white ice cream suits with black Berettas, all in copyrighted James Bond pose, legs planted and guns aimed and braced in both hands at Boris and Natasha’s most precious bodily organs.

It was an infinitely split-screen stand-off.

Boris and Natasha lowered the firepower as the Fontana brothers to the ninth degree circled in on them like well-tailored sharks.

Dimitri sat still. “I am not a defector,” he said, “but I am requesting the protective custody of the U.S. government. These are my guards, but not my bodyguards. I have been their prisoner since arriving in this country. They are mobsters intent on robbing the exhibition and I would like them extradited to my country for . . . proper punishment.”

Temple sank onto her chair, her knees shaking, as the Fontana brothers wafted the two Russian mobsters to the doors, which opened to reveal the boys in buff (officers of the LVMPD) ready to cuff ’em, read ’em their Mirandas, and cart them away.

Pete Wayans was patting his forehead with his silk pocket handkerchief and sitting on a chair again.

Olga and Ivan were joined at the hip, although pale.

“Can we go?” Ivan asked.

“It’s pretty clear,” Alch said, “that a lot of folks were coerced here. We’ll need a statement, but you two need to rest up a bit first. We’ll call.”

Temple was nearly putting her neck out of joint to see, but no Molina seemed to be lurking in the hall.

“So the only criminal still at large,” Wayans was saying, “is the fellow who actually took the scepter. Do you think those Russky bozos will say who he was during interrogation?”

Alch smiled slightly at the paper tiger Wayans had become.

“Who’s to say, sir? This is a pretty murky case, even with Miss Barr’s masterful extraction of the facts from the victims of this scheme.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her, and left.

“Great job,” Wayans said, gathering up his automatic pencil. “The show will go on without the scepter. Too bad,” he told Templer, “I like your spin that maybe someone took it to save it from these mobsters. Randy, do me a press release on all this. All’s well that end’s well. International scheme uncovered by the staff of the New Millennium and me. The regular.”

He left briskly, except when he came up even with the remaining man at the door, and then he stalled a little.

The guy smiled like a shark. Maybe it was the sleek, gray sharkskin suit.

Wayans scooted through the door as Randy patted Temple on the shoulder.

“You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din. I would never have remained standing with the Fontana brothers and their Italian tailoring and designer Berettas the only thing between me and those Cro-Magnon mobsters.”

“You didn’t, Randy,” Temple said, laughing.

“So this tangled web of theft is pretty much untangled, except for how all the magic show rigging turned into breakaway props. You can’t tell me anyone up there was expecting that, not even Shangri-La.”

Randy was right: Temple couldn’t tell him most of what had happened up there, especially Max’s involvement, or suspicions that the Synth had been trying to kill him. She had to come up with a good reason to overlook that issue.

“It’s possible that Shangri-La rigged some of it to fail as a distraction, but was taken unawares by the extra rigging set up for the fake Cloaked Conjuror.”

“Two forces working in secret opposition?”

“Something like that. The police will be working overtime to ID the thief and find him, believe me.”

Especially Lieutenant C. R. Molina, she added mentally.

“Right. Well, I’ll tell the press the equipment failed because the thief or thieves tampered with it. And I’ll do as much for your role in resolving this situation in the press release as Wayans’ ego will let me. Semper fi.”

Still, Temple’s ankles wavered a little on her to-die-for Stuart Weitzman/Midnight Louie high-heeled pumps covered in solid Austrian crystals with a black cat image on the heel. They were way too dressy for this occasion but somehow it felt good to have Louie backing up her ankles, at least.

The only person left in the room was Mr. Stone Face in the gray flannel suit at the door. Obviously a Red State Republican. Obviously Law and Order, but whose?

Temple walked over.

“Nice shoes,” he said.

“Thanks. I think I know you but I’m a little hazy just now.”

“You should be.” He took pity on her lack of instant recall. “Does Elvis Presley ever cross your mind?”

“Right! That Elvis impersonator competition. You’re . . . Matt’s FBI friend.”

“Frank Bucek. We do want a go at those two Russian mobster guys. That’s why Molina called me in.”

“Molina?” Temple felt like cringing but didn’t.

“She’s peripheral to this. So. About you. Matt’s Las Vegas friend.”

“Right.”

“Friend kinda doesn’t cover it, does it? Not with Matt.” “Um, no.”

“You’d never pass the physical, but I’d want you in the FBI anytime. That was a nervy little act you did there.”