Alien Heat

by Lynn Hightower

  She swung her legs. “Yeah, do you?”

  “Omaha?”

  “No, New York.”

  “You’re pretty smart. Maybe we should get married.”

  She cocked her head to one side, then glanced at his left hand. “You’re already married. Can’t be married two at the same, my mama says so.”

  David looked at Clements. “How old?”

  “Four,” Penny said.

  Clements gobbled ice. “Tell Detective Silver what you told me.”

  “Which thing?”

  “Start with the balloon man.”

  “He was fat and silly shape, puffy. And he walk funny.”

  David was intrigued but knew better than to interrupt.

  “And he have lots and lots of big purple balloons. I didn’t want one.” She looked down at her sandals, and David knew her feelings had been hurt. “But Markus got one. He got a whole bunch. I waited to see if he might share or trade me—I got a dead turtle. But he didn’t come back out.”

  “Why didn’t Markus come back out?” David glanced at Clements. She looked away.

  “Burnt up.” Penny’s lower lip drooped.

  “Where did Markus live?”

  Penny twisted sideways and her Sno-Cone dipped. With the immediate reflexes of an experienced father, David grabbed the Sno-Cone and turned it back up before it spilled.

  “Hold it straight,” he said.

  “I know.” Penny said. She pointed. “Markus live there.”

  David looked over his shoulder to the house where he’d found the woman and child in the stairwell … where the baby had died of carbon monoxide poisoning … where a mother had piled her children on the bed and shielded them as they died … where the family dog died outside the baby’s room, body next to that of Theresa Jenks, mother of Arthur Jenks.

  “That house,” David said.

  “Markus had talking shoes too. Chippers. And lots of new clothes. And a new scooter and a key chain with a whistle. He got lots of new stuff.”

  “You miss Markus a lot?”

  Penny shook her head and a tear slid down her cheek, leaving a trail in the sweat on her heat-flushed face. “He let me ride the scooter and blow the whistle. He let me keep the chain for a while.”

  David sat down beside Penny, looking at the thin legs, the scabs on her left knee. He pointed to a partially healed scrape.

  “How’d you do that?”

  “Fell off the scooter. And I stumped my big toe.” She pointed to a toe swaddled in a filth-encrusted Band-Aid.

  “How come Markus got so much new stuff? He have a birthday?”

  “Nope. For his birfday he got a trike with a horn. It was used to belong to his sister, but his mama clean it up and paint it. It had a dent, but it worked good. The scooter was bran’ new. It smelled nice.”

  “You know where he got all the presents?” David asked.

  “From the lady. Markus said there was lots more where that came from.”

  “You know who the lady was?”

  “Nope. But she come to the house.”

  “She did?”

  “The day Markus burnt up. She come and then the balloon man come.”

  “You said he walked funny?”

  She tipped the rice paper forward, trailing her tongue in the juice, which ran down her chin and lined the soft folds of skin in her neck.

  “Did he limp?” David asked.

  She shrugged.

  “Just walked funny?”

  She dug into the pocket of her shorts, fists bunching them tight against her leg. She opened her palm, showing David a key chain and a whistle. David remembered the woman in the white dress, clutching the ring in her fist.

  “I better give this back.” Her chin sunk low on her chest.

  David closed her fingers around the whistle, pressing gently. “Markus won’t mind if you keep it.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Penny who liked to be called Lafarge was blowing the whistle as they walked away. The new shoes were tied neatly on her feet, the old sandals tucked into the red plastic bag.

  “You realize her testimony’s tainted now, Clements. DA will never get around the Sno-Cone and tennies.”

  “Like I’m going to put a four-year-old in court.”

  The whistle shrilled again and David grinned.

  “You think this lady Penny talked about was Theresa Jenks?” Clements asked.

  “Extremely possible. Interesting that she’s giving them money, bringing them gifts. Something very funny going on here, Clements. How’d you find Penny, anyway? Door-to-door?”

  “Naw, Silver, my son was with me. He went out to play, and she liked his shoes.”

  “New police tactic. Take your kids along.”

  “Kids on the street know more than the hookers.”

  “Balloon man the torch?”

  “We got witnesses saw him deliver a balloon bouquet to the supper club right before the fire. Maybe half hour, forty-five minutes, three weeks. Nobody ever agrees on the time, you noticed that?”

  “Excuse me, Clements, but where are we headed?”

  She chewed the edge of the rice paper cup that held the remains of her Sno-Cone. “I got two problems. One, this case is going in too many directions, and taken together, they don’t make a hell of a lot of sense.”

  “And two?”

  “I’m so hungry I’m going to eat this cup, and I don’t care how nutritious they are, they taste like crap. You like Caribbean food?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come on then, baby. Time you found out.”

  The Jamaican Café was brown inside—brown upholstery on the booths, brown tile floor, brown doors. The walls were painted in murals by an artist who favored broad strokes, parrots, vibrant shades of green, red, and blue that somehow made David wish for time off and a slower pace.

  He noticed two doors in a hallway—one for MONS and one for WOMONS. A ceiling fan swirled and his hair stirred. David looked up, mouth open.

  “That’s not a hologram?”

  Clements grinned at him. “The real thing, right on down to the breeze on the back of your neck.”

  David watched the wood blades circle lazily.

  Clements chose a booth across from the bar. A stuffed parrot sat on a stool next to the kitchen, and he sat alone. Business was slow. The left side of the bar had no stools, though David could see the scars on the linoleum where they’d been ripped from their mooring. The Jamaican Café was Elaki-friendly.

  “They put cinnamon in the food here?” David asked Clements.

  “They ask first.”

  He sat down and tapped the menu.

  “Silver?”

  “Yeah?”

  “This is one of those places barely makes it one year to the next. So it’s pretty old-fashioned.”

  “You have a point?”

  “You got to read the menu. It won’t be talking to you.”

  “Oh.”

  “The jerk chicken’s good. Get the lunch platter, if you’re hungry.”

  David ordered lime water and Clements took iced tea, and they commiserated over their inability to order beer. David leaned back in the booth. It smelled good in here—spicy sweet, mingled with the char of the grill and the afternoon sun. A battered door behind the bar swung open, making the parrot sway. Inside, the kitchen was tiny, overcrowded, hot and steamy. David loosened his tie and rubbed the back of his neck.

  The air-conditioning was marginal. Authentic tropical ambience. He wiped sweat off his upper lip with a napkin. Clements drummed her fingers on the tabletop.

  “So what’s bothering you, Detective Clements?”

  “Silver—”

  “Call me David.”

  “Yolanda.” She leaned forward and shook his hand, her grip firm and damp. “I got a court order. Went through a storage warehouse that belongs to the owners—a couple of humans … Listen to me. Couple dudes, brothers, name of Jimmy and Duncan Bernitski.”

  “And?”

 
“And there’s a lot of interesting stuff in there, but not what I was looking for.”

  “Which was?”

  “Stuff from the supper club. Stuff they might take out of there, because they know there’s going to be a fire. Food packages, like were missing from the kitchen.”

  “When did you go to the warehouse?”

  “This morning.”

  “They had plenty of time to move it, then.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure that’s it.”

  Their food arrived—chicken tucked next to a creamy potato salad, black beans and rice with a dollop each of sour cream and salsa, and a piece of corn bread.

  Clements sighed. “Heaven.”

  David took a bite of chicken, tasted lime and the tang of the grill.

  “Like it?” Clements asked.

  He nodded, tried the potato salad. Different. Wonderful. He made inroads into the black beans and rice.

  Clements ate her corn bread with a fork, like it was cake. “The one consistent name we do get is a real estate broker name of Tatewood. You know him?”

  David shook his head, picked up the corn bread. It was sweet and thick with bits of things he could not identify. He cut another bite of chicken.

  “Mr. Tatewood has two other supper clubs in his portfolio.”

  David raised an eyebrow, but kept eating. He was getting full, but the food was too good to pass up.

  Clements took a bite of chicken and corn bread, a large swallow of tea. “He also handled a refinance for that restaurant that caters to Elaki. Pierre’s, you know it?”

  David felt the scar throb on his chest. Purely psychological. He set his fork down.

  “Yeah, I know it. But it doesn’t cater to Elaki, it’s half-and-half. Pierre doesn’t care who eats, so long as they eat and like it. He’s a gourmet. Gives away half his meals to people who are broke but have a palette, charges a fortune for everyone else. He likes Elaki because they’ll eat anything. Literally.”

  “Like what?”

  “Beetles in puff pastry. Stuff like that.”

  She took a bite of potato salad. “Must be five hundred grams of fat in this. Probably why I like it. Not much fat in beetles, I bet.”

  “Fat’s good for you, remember? They’ve changed their minds again, Clements, keep up.”

  She shrugged, chewed. “Anyway, I’m a go talk to Tatewood this afternoon. Want to come?”

  David scooped a forkful of rice out from under the mushy black beans. “Can I bring my Elaki?”

  NINETEEN

  A dreary, heat-soaked crowd had gathered in front of Tatewood’s office building. David got out of the car, saw the attention was centered on a police issue van which had locked bumpers with a jeep from the City Exterminator’s office.

  He looked at Clements. “I see your Elaki proceeds us.”

  Clements rolled her eyes, slammed the car door, and ignored the protestations of the driver of the jeep.

  “File a claim with our office,” she said over her shoulder, herding the three of them inside.

  The sign said TATEWOOD REAL ESTATE BROKERAGE, the glow of letters hard to see in the harsh light of afternoon. It was an old building—you could stand in the lobby and judge the success of the occupants. The directory promised a hypnotist, a private investigator, the local headquarters for the Church of Scientology, an insurance counselor, and a schizophrenia rehabilitation clinic. The second floor had an ad agency and a criminal lawyer whose name David recognized.

  “Isss most dirt-ridden in thisss hallway.” Warden shook his bottom fringe. A web of dust coated the scales.

  Clements looked back over her shoulder at David. “This guy Tatewood’s been getting threats off and on, last eighteen months.”

  “Who from?”

  “SCAE.”

  “Iss Skinhead Christians Against Elaki,” Warden said.

  David grimaced. “Blowhards.”

  “Don’t dismiss ’em entirely. They been blowing up churches down in Florida.”

  “Everybody blows up churches down in Florida.”

  “They go after any denomination that—how do they put it—accepts the Elaki abomination.” Clements grinned at Warden.

  “They have Nazi affiliation?”

  “Not these guys. They just shave their heads and chant the Bible at you. Real perverts.” Clements knocked at a thin, pinewood door.

  “Coming.” The voice was male, a tenor.

  Tatewood had the emaciated look and stiff-legged gait of an ex-con who would not thrive in prison, but would be conscientious under house arrest. He had a haunted air that made David think somehow, sometime, something had pushed him so far he could not get back. His cheeks were hollow, there were circles under his eyes, and his hair was black and shiny. The ends curled up in a dip despite the heavy coating of hair oil.

  He caught David looking and whipped a comb out of his pocket, smoothing out the flip. He smiled self-consciously, and offered Clements a hand.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Tatewood. I’m Detective Clements, we talked on the phone?”

  He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple prominent. “Pleasure.”

  He shook David’s hand, holding the grip a shade too long, making serious eye contact. David was surprised by the direct, intelligent gaze. Tatewood ducked his head shyly and waved them into the small, dusty office.

  There was a desk in the room, an ancient computer, a phone, and a stack of boxes. The window was hidden by grimy white plastic blinds. David had the urge to trace his name in the dust. None of the chairs looked comfortable.

  “Got those letters for you, Detective Clements.” Tatewood came up with a large battered mailer that had gone through the U.S. postal system one time too many. He waved it uncertainly.

  Clements held out a hand. “Come to Mama.”

  Tatewood went dusky red. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Coke?”

  David saw no sign of a coffeepot or Coke machine.

  “Coffee with much of the cream?” Warden said.

  Tatewood had been on the verge of sitting. “Of course. Just let me dash across the street for one minute.”

  Clements folded her arms. “Actually, Wart here is trying to cut down on his caffeine. Aren’t you, Wart?”

  “Aren’t I?”

  “Yes, you are.”

  Tatewood was red again.

  “These threats come through the mail, Mr. Tatewood?” David asked.

  “Through the mail, over the phone, tacked to the door. Sometimes they access my E-mail.” He tapped the computer.

  “They have sssingle you out, these ones?”

  Tatewood nodded. “I handle the kind of properties that make good targets. Places where Elaki and people mix together. That’s what really gets these people going. The mixing.”

  “Any direct confrontation?” David asked.

  “The windows got broken pretty regularly, before I put the sufplex in. That’s mostly it.”

  Clements waved the sheaf of papers, and David saw that one was actually done in pink and yellow crayon. Some had the letters cut out, some had pictures of burning buildings.

  “Let me see,” he said.

  It was a newspaper photo of a supper club in First Town, Georgia, host to the first Elaki landing. Someone had taken a red marker and put YOU NEXT across the flames.

  “How long has this been going on?” David asked.

  “Year and a half. Two.”

  “How long you been handling Elaki/human properties?”

  “Since I opened my first office, maybe seven years ago. I specialize. Get established in one city, find someone to manage the place, then move on.”

  Clements crossed her legs, rubbed the back of her neck. “I guess the supper club was insured to the hilt.”

  Tatewood’s shoulders went slack. “Actually, no.”

  Clements frowned.

  “The Bernitski brothers were having cash flow problems. I warned them, of course.” He scratched his chin. “They got hit hard, after the fire, with lawsuits and everything.
I’m selling the property for them now, but it’ll go cheap. Burned-out building, with liens, mortgaged. We may not be able to give the place away.”

  “Either way, you still get paid,” Clements said.

  Tatewood’s smile was shy. “Just like you.”

  TWENTY

  String skittered sideways into the trunk of Theresa Jenks’s abandoned car.

  “Comes out, comes out, where some ever you are.” He cocked an eye prong at David. “This isss what the pouchling says?”

  “Gumby, quit horsing around and get out of there.” Mel took his left shoe off and peeled back the sock. “Look at this blister. You see this?”

  David looked, wished he hadn’t. He glanced back up at the hologram Bruer had sent and waved String out of the way.

  Theresa Jenks drove a Jaguar, hunter-green. The trunk was a mess—books, many of them from the Mind Institute, a life jacket, a ski boot, and a melted candy bar.

  String reached for the chocolate.

  “Come on. Quit playing in the hologram.”

  String’s bottom fringe quivered. “Am looking up close, Detective Mel.”

  “Am driving me crazy, Detective Gumby.”

  “Move to interior,” David said.

  The car’s nav program light was blinking red. There were, in fact, red lights all across the control panel. The car was upset.

  Mel poked his blister. “Bruer tells me Theresa Jenks programmed the car to leave the airport. Said it was chugging along under its own speed before it freaked out there, by the side of the road.”

  “Isss not possible the car to drive alone. Against regulation laws.” String shed a scale and it glimmered in the hologram, seeming to hang off the rearview mirror.

  “Sometimes, they’ll do it,” David said.

  “But isss illegal.”

  Mel peeled back a hunk of skin. “Rich people’s cars do things other people’s don’t. Besides, it’s better than letting Elaki drive.”

  “Please, Detective Mel. This picking apart of the bubble skin injury is not good of the way. May cause infection and stomach indigestion.”

  Mel snorted. “A blister’s going to upset my stomach?”

  “No, mine.” David wiped sweat off his upper lip. Even with the air-conditioning going, the humidity was heavy, making the air soft and sticky. The whole building was starting to smell like mildew. Something somewhere was breaking down.