Alien Heat
Page 23
As far as David knew, the case was still under investigation. Public opinion was unsympathetic. Annie Trey was not pretty. She was below average in intelligence. She was not married, though she had admitted wistfully on the evening news that she’d like to be. She was from the South, somewhere small and obscure in Mississippi. She was quoted saying things like “being done dirt.”
People did not like to think that newborn babies could die suddenly, painfully, and unexpectedly without someone to blame. Even those who were objective enough to reserve judgment could not help thinking there must be some reason the newspapers were after this Trey girl. And if Annie Trey had indeed poisoned her child, horrible as that might be, the tragedy kept its distance. Pregnant women could rest easier knowing such a thing could not happen to their babies.
David held out a hand. “Let’s get you and your little one out of the rain, shall we?”
She looked at him. Blinked.
“I’m Detective Silver. David.”
It took another beat for the words to sink in, and even then, she was wary. She inclined her head toward a knot of uniforms and detectives next to a patrol car.
“They said I had to stay.” Her voice was in the upper registers, sharp around the edges.
David’s jaw went tight, but he smiled. “Not in the rain, you don’t. Let’s get your baby out of this wind.”
She thought a minute, then nodded and followed him to his car, which he’d left parked in the middle of the exit ramp. The headlights cast strips of illumination across her wet jeans. Drops of rain jittered in the light.
David opened the passenger door, motioned her in. He reached for the baby. She paused, looked at him carefully, and handed him the child. The father in him applauded her caution.
He peeped under the blanket, careful not to expose the child’s head.
A beauty, this little girl. Eyes big and brown, fat black curls damp and wiry. She had sweet, fine, baby skin, flushed red now, with fever. The tiny button nose dripped, and David wiped it clean with his handkerchief.
The baby coughed, croupy and deep. David handed her to her mother and closed the door on the rain. He opened the trunk of the car, found a thick blue towel, worn but clean, opened the driver’s door.
Annie Trey took the towel, head cocked to one side, eyes narrow, while he gave instructions to the car.
“Ms. Trey and her baby will be sitting here for now. Please stay put and let Ms. Trey instruct you as to heat and comfort.” He smiled at the girl, who was only a few years older than his own Kendra. “Be right back.” He glanced over his shoulder, resisted the urge to tell her to lock the doors. She should be safe, cops everywhere you looked.
He had not recognized the woman in the beige raincoat, and he studied her as he approached the cluster of detectives. She was short and stocky, built like a large dwarf, not unattractive, hair short, thick, and swingy. Her eyes were brown, carefully made up, eyebrows thick.
She stood next to Vincent Thurmon, Detective, Missing Persons. This one David knew. He held out a hand.
“Vince?”
“David? I heard you caught this one. Didn’t recognize you down there.”
They shook hands, Thurmon squinting through reddened blue eyes. The lenses of his eyes were milky and opaque—no surprise he hadn’t known David till he was close enough to touch. Seven years ago he’d disarmed a man threatening yet another MacDonalds, eyes powder-burned in the struggle as the gun went off in his face. It was a freaky thing—the bullet missed him entirely, but his eyes were seriously infected by the time he made it through the clogged healthcare system. The routing physician made a miscall—not terribly unusual. Thurmon had lost sixty-five percent of his vision.
“I guess this is your baby now,” Thurmon said. “Let me know how I can help.”
David nodded, frowning. Definitely alcohol on the man’s breath. Maybe he’d been off duty when the call came in. As always, he wore a hat, and water had beaded on the brim. He motioned for David to come under the umbrella.
David shrugged. “Can’t get much wetter than I am already.”
“Where is Annie?” This from the woman in the beige raincoat.
David gave her a second look, knowing that both she and Thurmon had watched while he settled the girl and her child in his car. Perhaps this was her way of muscling into the conversation.
He ignored her. “I don’t have much background on this, Thurmon.”
Thurmon nodded. “Came in as a 911 five days ago.”
“Tuesday,” David said.
The woman grinned, friendly. “Very good, Detective. Tuesday was five days ago.”
Thurmon waved a hand. “This is Angie Nassif. She’s—”
“I’m a social worker. Annie’s one of mine.”
One of mine. David did not like the way she said it. He gave her a stiff nod, thinking this was the one who had turned Annie in for investigation. Realized he was taking sides way too early in the game.
“If I look familiar, it’s probably because you’ve seen me on the news.” Her grin had a sort of gamine, chipmunk quality. Which was not reason enough to dislike her as much as he did.
Cops and social workers, he thought. Oil and water.
“Why are you here?” David asked.
Her mouth opened; then she shrugged. “I’m here to look after Annie. And the child, of course.”
She was standing uphill, but was short enough that he still looked down at her. “You must have just gotten here, Ms. Nassif. You’ll be relieved to know that Ms. Trey and her baby are safe in my car. Out of the rain and the wind.”
She had a clear, dusky complexion. The blush spread from the neckline of the tight white Peter Pan collar on the silk blouse, up the short neck, across the powdered cheeks.
It shut her up.
David turned back to Thurmon. “Who made the call? The 911.”
“Annie … uh, Ms. Trey. Said she was on the phone to this kid, Luke Cochran, and he said something about somebody messing with his car, and he’d be right back.” Thurmon belched discreetly into his fist.
“Then what?” David said.
“She waited on the phone a while, but he never came back. So she called the police.”
David frowned. “Why’d she call the police?”
“What?”
“Most people would assume they were cut off.”
“Phone told her he’d left the room. He didn’t come back. We sent a patrol car out. Car and the kid both gone.” Thurmon shrugged. “So. He left her hanging, not a criminal offense. All things considered, we didn’t make too much of it.”
No, David thought. Someone like Annie Trey worried about a boyfriend. Not a ripple.
“Anybody seen him since?”
Thurmon shrugged. “Not sure.”
Didn’t check, David thought. “There’s blood in the car.”
Thurmon grimaced. “I heard. Look, Silver, I’ll send you my file. A recording of the 911 thing. Anything else—”
“I’ll let you know.” David shook the man’s hand.
Thurmon turned away, then looked back over his shoulder. “We’ve got a hell of a workload, Silver. And you know how they are.”
“They?”
“Women.”
David nodded.
“Angie, I give you a ride?” Thurmon asked.
“No, I think I’ll stick around.” She stood on tiptoe, trying to look over David’s shoulder.
He turned, saw the first yellow van that meant media.
“Detective Silver?”
“Yes, Ms. Nassif?”
“Are you going to be questioning Annie?”
He looked at her, said nothing.
She stood up straighten “Maybe I should come along.”
“Why?”
“Pardon?”
“Why should you come along?”
“Well … I …” Her eyes went narrow. “Most police officers cooperate with my department, Officer.”
“Sooner or later everybody runs
out of luck.” David jammed his hands in his pockets, headed down the exit ramp to his car. He wondered why he’d declared out and out war with Social Services. As if he didn’t have enough to worry about.
THREE
The baby was dry and sleepy, Head on her mother’s shoulder. Annie Trey had used the towel to buffer the child from her drenched shirt and jeans. David slid wetly into the driver’s seat of the car and looked on approvingly, judging Annie’s motherhood, as if he had the right.
The air in the car was sweaty and thick, the windows fogged. David took a deep breath of stuffy air, inhaling the milky soft smell of baby mixed with the camphor odor of cough medicine. A sticky orange film leaked from the corner of the child’s mouth. The same stuff he gave his kids.
The baby coughed, eyes flicking open, then rolling back as she settled again in sleep.
“Medicine helping?” David asked.
Annie Trey hugged the child close to her chest. “Not so you’d notice. Sometimes it takes a while.”
“How long’s she been sick?” David asked gently.
Annie looked away, voice toneless. “I took her in to the clinic soon as she got a runny nose. Ms. Nassif can tell you.”
David met her eyes. She looked hunted. In spite of the lack of emotion in her voice, her hands were shaking.
David patted her shoulder. “I need to ask you some questions, but I think you better get that baby tucked into bed. Would it be all right if I have a patrol officer drive you home, and stop by later tonight, or early tomorrow morning? It’s important I talk to you right away.”
“Do you think he’s dead?” It was a small voice, and weary.
David looked at her, hesitated. He wondered what had caused the wound on her cheek, wondered how she would look without the brownish-red scab. He could not imagine her looking pretty.
“They showed me Luke’s shoe.” Her lower lip trembled.
David kept his voice steady and gentle, and did not look away when she gave him the mingled look of hope and dawning horror that was always so hard to watch.
“Ms. Trey, I don’t know anything definite yet. But he hasn’t been seen or heard from in—”
“Five days,” she said.
David nodded. “The shoe isn’t a good sign. I wish I could tell you one way or the other, but I don’t know enough yet, and we haven’t had a chance to interview the car.”
“But—”
He waited. She frowned, hugged the baby close. If she wanted more, she’d ask for it. He’d learned to let people take things at their own pace.
Her hair was drying on top—fine, flat, flyaway hair. She tried to pull a piece into her mouth, but it didn’t quite reach.
New hair cut, David thought. Stylish, but wrong for the round, lightly freckled face.
She looked at him, a hard look for a kid this young. “Do you think Luke’s dead? Do you think he is?”
“I think you should be prepared for bad news.”
She nodded and swallowed and gave him an empty smile that made him wince. Women would always smile, no matter what. He wondered what it did to their insides. Annie Trey looked away, wiping the foggy window with the back of her hand. “Is there a bus stop around here?”
David looked over his shoulder at Elaki-Town, dark and heavy behind them at the end of the exit.
“No.”
“There’s got to—”
“No,” he said again. “Not safe, and the two of you don’t need to get any wetter. I’ll get somebody to drive you home.”
Her jaw went hard and she turned sideways, facing him. “They stare at me. Whoever, whatever person you get to carry me back. They stare and won’t say a word. Except some of them, they say awful things. And even if they don’t, I worry they will.”
David looked at her. “How old are you?”
Her eyes widened, then dulled. She was used to impertinent questions. “Nineteen.”
“You don’t need to get … what’s your baby’s name?”
“Jenny. She’s not a baby, she’s almost two.”
They were both babies, David thought, but knew better than to say so. Unkind to take her dignity, especially when that looked to be all she had.
“You need to take Jenny home to bed. She doesn’t need to be out waiting for a bus, and this is a bad area.”
“No worse than where I live.”
David nodded. “But you know your way around there, and you know not to be out alone this time of night. Right?”
Her shoulders sagged. “Okay.”
It was a little test, to make sure she put the baby’s welfare before her own in all things, including pride. David looked at her and saw a good mother.
He’d seen good mothers do terrible things.
Had she poisoned her infant? And if she had, was she a garden variety sociopath, or had she been driven by horrors he did not understand?
“Stay put,” he said. He locked her in the car, feeling silly, but unable to shake that feeling of menace.
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Acknowledgments
My thanks to Rachel, for discussions on psychic phenomena, and for all the help during the summer while I worked. Thanks for the doorbells you answered, and the Sno-Cones you brought me.
My thanks to Laurel, who finds things in dreams, and takes it in stride. Thanks for the discussions and insight on psychic phenomena, and for fielding the phone like a pro.
My thanks to Alan, for discussions on the future of basketball, and pickup games—though never again for money. Thanks for the food you brought to my desk, and for screening the interruptions.
To Walls, who knew I needed to talk to him to research this book before I did. Your insights and your honesty were thought-provoking and illuminating. Take care of yourself.
My gratitude to Gary Nolan, top-notch arson investigator. Thanks very much for your time, which is so much in demand, and for the loan of research materials. Your experiences and insights were fascinating and a big help.
About the Author
Lynn Hightower grew up in the South and graduated from the University of Kentucky, where she studied creative writing with Wendell Berry and earned a journalism degree. She is the author of ten novels, including two mystery series, one featuring homicide detective Sonora Blair and the other featuring private investigator Lena Padgett. Flashpoint, the first Sonora Blair mystery, was a New York Times Notable Book. Satan’s Lambs, the first Lena Padget mystery, won the Shamus Award for Best First PI Novel. Hightower has also written the Elaki series of futuristic police procedurals, which begins with Alien Blues.
Hightower’s novels, which have been translated into seven foreign languages, have appeared on the Times (London) bestseller list and have been nominated for the Kentucky Literary Award, the Kentucky Librarians First Choice Award, and the Mary Higgins Clark Award. She teaches at the UCLA Extension Writers’ Program, where she was named Creative Writing Instructor of the Year in 2012. The author lives with her husband in Kentucky.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1994 by Lynn Hightower
Cover design by Michel Vrana
ISBN: 978-1-5040-2127-2
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