“That van has hit itself into my van!”
Mel craned his neck, looking back over his shoulder. “It’s okay, String, I don’t think it connected.”
David turned, saw another white van, police issue. The passenger door opened violently and Detective Clements climbed out, hair swinging, hands pawing the air.
“I don’t care, you keep it on the track, Wart, and watch those sudden stops, or I’m not letting you drive anymore. Scare my baby to death.”
Detective Warden slid out of the driver’s side ramp. “Pouchling seems happy to sudden stop.”
Clements leaned into the back of the car. “Come on, sweetheart, we got to move, Mama needs to work.”
Mel and David exchanged looks.
“Is little baby one,” String said. He scooted back and forth, moving around David, trying to get a better look.
The boy looked about eight years old, and wore bright red shorts and a grey tank top that said SAIGO CITY ANGELS. David looked at the high-top tennis shoes. Chippers, he thought, the kind Mattie was wanting, the kind that told stories and sang songs.
An expensive brand.
The boy’s movements were jerky and restless, and David watched, thinking there was something different about him. Clements took the child by the hand, and passed her ID through the sensor. She hummed softly, under her breath. She wore heavy rubber boots. She glanced down at her son, looked at his feet.
“Watch where you step, Calib. You hear Mama?”
The boy was looking at String. An experienced father, David knew quite well Calib had not registered a word that Clements had said.
“Detective Yo,” Mel said loudly.
She acknowledged them for the first time, not breaking stride as she passed through the sensor. David was impressed. It took a tough cop not to flinch. Or a distracted one.
“I told you, didn’t I, Burnett? You can’t say Yolanda all the way out, call me Detective Clements.”
“Call me Mel,” he said.
She put a hand on her hip. “Introduce me to your Elaki.”
String was standing next to the vans, looking between them. He waved a fin. “I am String.”
“You know Wart over there?”
“Warden, yes, I know him. He has hit my van.”
Wart moved close to the vans and String. “I did not make metal to metal contact.”
Clements looked at them over her shoulder, lips tight. “Boys, I got work to do, and laundry waiting at home, so let’s get along.”
Ever the mother, David thought.
Detective Yolanda Free Clements led them into the ravaged supper club.
SEVEN
The orb of light stayed with them, bobbing overhead, giving off a harsh, blue-white light that hurt David’s eyes, and washed them all in a cone of illumination that dispelled every shadow and made them look ill and exhausted.
“Fire started here,” Clements said. Calib tugged her blouse and she hugged him, then pulled her handcuffs out of her pocket, securing his small bony wrists. “Play, Calib.”
The boy smiled beatifically. David raised an eyebrow.
“It’s not as bad as it looks. Calib loves locks, and it keeps him busy.”
“He’s awful quiet,” Mel said.
Clements smiled at her son, ran her hand over the tight nap of his hair. “He doesn’t talk, one of many things Calib doesn’t do. They made a mistake with some minor in-utero surgery. These things do happen.”
David watched the boy with the handcuffs. “They could use him in technics.”
Clements grinned. “They won’t let me take him down there anymore. He dismantled a padlock that was supposed to be pick proof, and they haven’t forgiven him yet.” She looked over her shoulder. “Where are the damn—’scuse me, Calib—the Elaki?”
“Still arguing over the vans,” Mel said.
“Hang ’em, let’s get on with this.” She picked her way through the lumps of charred debris. “We haven’t got a lot. I’ve talked to three people and one Elaki who made it out alive. Not a one of them have any idea what happened. Fire seemed to be all over the room before they noticed. Looks like it started in several places at once.”
“Arson?” David asked.
“I say so. We got three alligators—”
“Three what?” David asked.
“Come here and look, behind the bar, see that? See the ragged way it’s burned, like the skin of an—”
“Crocodile?” Mel said.
“God, the mind on this man. Anyway, it’s a matter of where the charring goes the deepest, where the most damage is. That’ll be where the fire starts. Looks like we got three points of origin here, and it didn’t smolder long anywhere before everything else went up. So what it looks like we got is some kind of delayed action, set up in three places, so this place would really burn. There, behind the bar.” She pointed to one side of the room, then waved an arm. “Over here, where they had the music, and there beside the kitchen.”
David looked at the gel-saturated lumps of incinerated garbage, thinking that Clements saw the room as it had been, instead of as it was now.
“That means that likely the bomb threat was tied up with the arson,” David said.
She was nodding. “Could well be. Get the grids tied and locked so the fire department can’t get through. No safety system in this building, thanks to yet another fifty-year extension on the grandfather clauses.”
David grimaced. “Whoever it was, wanted to make sure it went all the way down.”
“Somebody hiding something?” Mel asked.
Clements glanced at her son. “More likely insurance scam. We look into this, we’re going to find the owner’s got money trouble, big time.”
“Why do it when it’s full of people, then?” David said.
Clements frowned. “That’s a sticking point. But if they were hiding something, they hid it.”
David glanced at the ceiling. “Anything from the emergency sensors?”
“Not much more than a head count. We got one strip of carbonized disc, and it’s in the lab. If they can bring up just one segment, we’ll get all the compressed images. Be blurry, but we’ll have it. Be nice to see it as it happened. If nothing else, we may confirm ID on some of the bodies. Make sure we don’t match wrong DNA to the right person. The death claims are pouring in, and we already got two hundred more requests for benefits than there are bodies.”
Calib pulled a short plastic flute from the pocket of his shorts and blew hard, making squeaky noises.
Clements waved at him absently. “You already got those cuffs off?”
David saw that the boy’s hands were free. Clements bent down and clipped his wrists back together. Calib smiled sweetly and dropped the tiny flute.
“Anything else you can tell us?” Mel asked.
She was nodding. “Sensor dogs got traces of sulfuric acid and sugar, right there near the kitchen.”
“Which means?”
“Which means it was there innocently, or it was used to set the fire. Either case, we just got the barest trace—not enough to present in court.”
“But you think it’s arson? It’s enough to convince you?” Mel asked.
“That’s not what convinced me,” Clements said. “Come on into the kitchen here, and I’ll show you what I mean.”
They took her word for it, that the small cramped room, knee-high in sheets and wads of burned lumps, was a kitchen. She pointed to a blackened rectangle, said “Stove,” then went to a waist-high crumple of melted metal.
“Food storage. See those ashes there?”
Mel looked over her shoulder. “See what? I don’t see anything.”
“Exactly right, baby. No food. Should be some packages, some cans, some residue of something. Instead, somebody’s carted it out of here. Beforehand. Some little tightwad who didn’t want to see all that food go to waste. Somebody who knew the place was going up.”
Mel pulled his ear. “Sounds like management to me.”
&nb
sp; A thin trail of music came from the next room. The melody was unfamiliar, and it made David think of darkness, and full moons, and being alone.
Clements looked at him. “That’s Calib.”
“You kidding?”
The music stopped.
“No, Burnett, I’m not kidding. He usually can’t play worth a damn, just makes those squeaky noises that make you want to scream. Then, every now and then, you get this.”
“He had lessons?”
“No, he hasn’t had lessons. Boy has no attention span for anything except locks, music, and those story-telling tennis shoes—been through three pair in the last six months, but it keeps him interested. He doesn’t talk, can’t read, hates vids. But he loves that little flute. Comes by it naturally, his daddy was a musician.”
David knew he shouldn’t ask, but he wanted to know. “Where is his daddy?”
“Left me when Calib was a few months old, soon as we knew the boy wasn’t right.” Clements turned her head sideways, listening. She frowned and went to the edge of the kitchen, sticking her head into the bar. “Calib?”
David heard the edge of panic in her voice, parent-familiar. “He’ll be close.”
“Silver, you’re a prime example of a man who doesn’t understand fire scenes. Close does not mean safe.”
David went to the window and looked out. It was dark and hard to see. “String?”
“Yesss, please?”
“The boy out there?”
“He has unlocked your car and is playing with this radio.” String flowed to one side. “We have had message. Must go to morgue, Detective David.”
“Got you. Keep track of the boy.” David pulled his head back in. String was a fine homicide cop, but he’d be a hell of an au pair. He saw Detective Clements in the doorway. “He’s okay, he’s with String.”
Clements took a deep breath. “Good. Thanks.”
Mel looked over her shoulder. “Find him?”
“Outside with String,” David said.
“Figures. Here, Yo, here are your cuffs. And the little flute.” Mel held the small ivory cylinder up to the light. “I never seen one like this.”
“Besides Calib, that’s the only thing his daddy left behind.”
“His loss,” David said.
EIGHT
The colored lights of the fair rides burned bright in the hot humid air. The Crazy Eight Wheel dipped and whipped sideways, riders held in their seats by centrifugal force, the restraints nothing more than show. David heard a wave of shrill screams, muted by traffic noise and distance, and the faint cadence of music from the carousel.
He had loved going to the homey city carnivals when he was a boy. His father had taken him regularly, unable to resist the blinking lights, the happy screams, the pleading look in David’s eyes.
David had been ten when his father left the house to buy doughnuts and never returned. David and his mother had never known for sure what happened, but they had long since mourned him as dead. He was not the kind of man who walked away from responsibility.
There had been no more carnivals, not with his mother slipping into a chronic series of paralytic depressions that landed them on the hard edge of poverty. Carnivals were beside the point while they struggled to stay alive in Little Saigo, the underground underbelly of Saigo City that catered to squatters, gangs; predators and prey.
“Attention, David Silver. Pollution index and allergens are in the danger zone. Temperature and humidity levels are conducive to heat exhaustion.”
“Thank you so much,” David said.
“You might want to consider closing the windows. The air-conditioning will operate more efficiently that way. You might also wish to know—”
“Shut up,” David said.
The car’s voice stayed pleasant. “Certainly, David Silver. However—”
“Quiet.”
Bad enough that one’s children argued over everything. Did he have to take this stuff from the car?
He was missing his little girls. He’d seen them a lot, while recuperating at home from the bullet in his lung. David had had plenty of time to question the doctor’s decision to go with repair (cheaper) rather than regeneration. Repair took a lot more out of you than regeneration did. It meant scars, rather than renewal. It meant weeks and months of recuperation, rather than days.
Once he made it back to work, he had lost the drive to put in the hours, unhappy with the old routine of catch-as-catch-can with the kids.
He hadn’t been happy at home, either.
He and Rose had lost their ease, and it seemed less and less possible to get it back. He was not sure he wanted it back. He had that separate feeling again, the sense that a wall of glass stood between him and everyone else. It was an uncomfortable feeling, but one he did not want to lose—it gave him awareness; it gave him distance.
He pulled into the parking garage and got out, letting the car find its way.
“I should be back in—” He caught himself, feeling stupid, telling the car his plans.
David heard the screech of tires and stepped out of the way just as String’s van tore into the garage. He ducked behind a concrete support. No point enduring the snide remarks about claustrophobia. No law required him to take the elevator.
It was hot in the stairwell. His cough started up again, and his chest ached. He leaned against the wall, trying to catch his breath. Sweat coated his back, drenching his shirt. He looked down, saw streaks of soot on the cuff of his rolled up sleeve, smears of green from the garden, and blue fire-eating gel. His shower was a mere two hours old, but he wanted another one.
He took the stairs slowly, still coughing, and pushed the heavy metal door to the sixth floor. The hallway was brightly lit and so cool David felt chilled as the sweat began to dry on his back. He saw no sign of String and Mel. Likely they had stopped to argue. He heard voices and the faint hum of printers. The air had that static tang of too many computers running hard.
He pushed through the wide swing doors into the morgue. The smell of sweet soap and death was familiar. Every table was occupied. Staff was working double shifts, all hands on deck.
There were a lot of bodies to process.
A man arched his back and stepped away from the table. He nodded as a technician stuffed what was left of a blackened body into a clear plastic zip bag.
“Another piece of toast, please.”
David heard a woman call his name, turned, and saw Miriam Kellog in blue scrubs, her long, red-brown hair hanging over one shoulder.
“Miriam,” he said, coughing again. “What you got?”
“Where are the other two musketeers, David? I don’t like doing repeats.”
“Should be in the elevator by now.”
She put a gloved hand on one hip and yawned. “How the kiddies doing?”
“Good.”
“And Rose?” Her look was sharp, and David frowned. Funny how word got around.
“Rose is wonderful,” he said. He heard voices and looked over his shoulder. Mel was walking fast, as if trying to get away, and String was rolling behind him at an impressive clip.
“But, Detective Mel, the paint was not chipped before the Warden—”
“Jesus, String, give it a rest.” Mel caught sight of Miriam and scooted close, kissing her cheek. “Been missing me, sweetheart?”
David looked from one to the other. Were they dating? If they were dating, Mel would have told him.
He felt lonely, standing in the harsh light of the morgue. He shivered, realized he was still sweating. He was aware of the murmur of voices, the gurgle of water, the feathery sound String made as he skittered sideways across the floor. The Elaki’s inner pinkness was draining away, leaving him with ivory splotches. String was never much use in the morgue.
Miriam had moved to the table, and Mel was watching her, smile slow and lazy. She pushed hair out of her eyes with her arm, avoiding touching herself with the soiled gloves. She looked at Mel, seemed to lose her train of thought, g
lanced back at the table.
It wasn’t a complete autopsy. The facial mask had not been peeled away from the skull, and the skin was a livid purple-red, blistered and bubbled and raw. She’d been slit for autopsy, Y-shaped incision reaching from the sternum to the pubic bone, ribs pruned apart, blackened skin peeled away.
No need to open her up, unless there was evidence to collect. David scratched his chin, impatient for Miriam to quit looking at Mel and focus on the job at hand.
“Jane Doe, found on the floor of the house that burned, outside the baby’s room, next to the dog.” Miriam probed inside the throat with a gentle gloved finger. “Hyoid bone is broken.”
Mel looked at David. String came close to the table, then skittered away, eye stalk twitching.
“The significance is what?”
David looked at Miriam. “She was strangled?”
Miriam nodded. “Dead after the fire started—there’s carbon monoxide in the hemoglobin.” She glanced at the computer screen. “But the levels aren’t high, so she didn’t take in much. Nowhere close to lethal levels.”
“Someone strangle this female during fire? This is not right of the ring.”
“Yeah, it sounds funny,” Mel said.
David looked at the wadded purple lung tissue. “You say she was found in the hall, next to the dog?”
“What dog?” Mel asked.
“There was a dog in the house, near her body.”
Mel looked at David, shook his head, then looked back to Miriam. “Any clue who she is? No DNA match? Family claim?”
Miriam shook her head. “No DNA records on the residents. She’s too old to be either of the women listed as members of the household, so we think she may have been the visitor. Unless her DNA is somewhere in a listing, we may never figure it out, until somebody misses her. I’m still running it though, and we could get lucky. Won’t know for sure before tomorrow. Computer time is at a premium and we got our budget gutted last year, sorry.”
“Female,” David muttered. “How old?”
“Between forty-five and sixty-five. Every sign of good medical and dental care, cradle to birth.”
“Wealthy then,” Mel said.
Miriam shrugged. “Not necessarily. She could be in a protected profession.”
Alien Heat Page 4
