I latched Quick into his safety harness in the front passenger seat. We both knew that it would break away in a second if he wanted it to, but it was easier to look like I was following responsible pet ownership rules than to explain to traffic cops that he was more like a hyper-bright twelve-year-old than a dog. After he'd broken major automotive glass to roar to my rescue in the pet store parking lot I wasn’t keen to tie him up.

"I'm going to be hitting the research trail," I told him as we pulled out of the park's lot.

"This town boasts two daily newspapers and a major university library. Somewhere in their records our dead folks must have left a trail."

Quick regarded me with such intelligent eyes that I wanted to put a pair of sunglasses over them so as not to give away his awesome IQ. While he was looking so Rhodes Scholarish, I added, "Ric is a great guy and I really, really like him, so you will not treat him like an appetizer tray, got it?"

Quicksilver growled softly and stared out the open side window, letting his tongue flap through his fangs so he looked like the usual idiot canine easy rider.

When your dog is better at undercover work than you are, you have a problem.

With Ric gone, I decided to devote myself to chaste, boring research.

Before I tried to dig up any news stories from the forties, I used the laptop (high/low tech again, my quaint cottage had a flawless and fast wireless connection) for online searches to background the Inferno Hotel and Casino. It was the hellcat's pajamas, all right.

After a brief flirtation with becoming a family entertainment destination in the early nineteen-nineties, Las Vegas embraced its old reputation as the Millennium arrived and did an about-face back to being the best that it could be, or in its case, the worst: Sin City.

The Inferno, only three years old but born to be a wild child, was the latest in knock-down, drag-out adult entertainment, cultivating a wicked reputation in an already wicked town. The Hades theme was wrapped around the house rock attraction, a group called the Seven Deadly Sins. I'd never heard of them, but we don't hear about a lot of things in Kansas, and feel the better for it.

I decided to check with Nightwine. He'd been digging up Las Vegas murders a lot longer than Ric and I had.

"You're looking delightful," Godfrey observed as he greeted me at the mansion's back door.

"How do you manage to cover every entrance to this maze of a place?"

"We CinSims are light on our feet," he said with a wink.

"Sin-sims?

"Ah. You're new in town. That's what I am. ‘CinSim’ is short for Cinema Simulacrum."

"Godfrey, that's makes about as much sense as Pig Latin. Cinema I know. What's a simulacrum!"

"A delightful concept both medieval and modern. I'll let Mr. Nightwine explain this to you. It's a rather delicate topic for me to address."

I watched his gray ears (he was a walking symphony in tones of black, white, and all the shades in-between) tinge faintly darker. Red reads as black in black-and-white formats.

"Are we talking about something like the birds and the bees, Godfrey?"

"As it relates to my kind, yes, Miss. Now, let us repair to the master's quarters. I believe there has been sufficient time for him to have detected your arrival."

Nightwine and his spy cameras! I was sure we were bugged too, which may be why Godfrey had shut up about his exact, er, composition. He seemed totally physically present, just a bit monochromatic around the gills.

The double doors leading to Nightwine's office opened at our approach. The man seemed to have a remote control for everything, including his CinSims.

Godfrey paused at the threshold to announce me. " Miss Street, sir."

"Come in. Well, that is a fetching ensemble, despite being in the rough-and-ready mode favored by today's youth. Denim. Ugh. It should have stayed at Nimes in France, but at least it seems to be shrinking nicely this century."

I'd forgotten that Nightwine was even more eager to ogle me than Ric, and wished I'd changed out of the low-rise jeans back into denim coveralls.

"I will reluctantly invite you to sit down."

I happily complied, since that put my bare midsection out of view behind the massive desktop.

"You noticed the gambling chip the police took from the grave across the street?" I asked.

"Of course. Most provocative. From the Inferno. My cameras also recorded the mass of old silver dollars. Thirty, I presume?"

I nodded.

"Something old, something new. Do tell me there was something blue, for then we would have a wedded couple."

In fact my vision had revealed that the dead woman had worn a blue dress when she was killed, although time and decomposition had destroyed any but a psychic shred of it.

Odd how fast I was accepting that I must be psychic. But then I'd accepted a mutual attraction with Ric lickety-split too. More had happened to me in Las Vegas in a few days than in a quarter century in Kansas. Call it the Dorothy Syndrome, only Las Vegas was my Oz, Quicksilver my Toto. So who was my wizard, or my wicked witch? Maybe Nightwine won the first part. He always looked like he had something worth hiding behind a curtain.

"I hear the Inferno has an evil reputation," I went on.

"You've been talking to government men again." Nightwine lifted his bushy eyebrows.

"Ex-government man, singular, like I'm an ex-reporter."

"The Cadaver Kid is almost as interesting to me as you. Together, you're irresistible. He's going away, to judge by that parting peck in the park. Tsk. So soon infatuation over inconvenient corpses turns into…old hat."

When I didn't answer he lifted one eyebrow even higher. "Or are you two cheating my cameras?"

"You and your voyeuristic toys are pathetic, Nightwine."

"Hector, please. So few know me well enough to insult me. It's a good idea to follow the Inferno connection, though. The operation is owned by a muy misterioso fellow named Christophe."

Hector's lapse into Spanish made me think he was still eavesdropping on Ric and me, but that name he mentioned rang a whole carillon of bells in my head. "Christophe is a French name."

"Christopher in French, in fact. It can serve either as a given name or a surname. This particular Christophe doesn’t indicate which it is in his case. He's just 'Christophe' and quite the enigma. He appeared out of the blue, with money enough to erect a multi-billion-dollar mega-bed hotel and casino that is rumored to have even more spacious private club levels underground. The place is crawling with CinSims, and you know how I feel about their commercial use. He has been ruthless in their acquisition, and in offering the best odds in Vegas, which of course gives him droves of customers. The man is simply not greedy enough for this town. Very suspicious. Of course the Inferno offers every variation of vice, including some I'd not heard of before, which is impressive. Keep your eyes wide open when you visit. It should be an intriguing experience and I'd be interested in your opinion of the operation. Do be careful that you aren't kidnapped by a white slave ring, though."

I wasn’t worried. My modest scouting expedition would never bring me into contact with Mr. Big, anyway.

"Could you fill me in more on CinSims?"

"It's short for Cinema Simulacrums, which won't mean anything unless you know what a simulacrum is. Do you?"

I happily pled ignorance and got the full lecture.

"In occult writings, the word simulacrum designates some object meant to represent a whole for magical purposes. In voodoo, a fingernail or a hair can represent the whole person it belongs to and is believed to trap part of that individual's essence. Simulacra like hair or fingernails can be inserted into a doll representing the person to cast spells upon."