Alien Blues

by Lynn Hightower

  EARLY BIRD BOOKS

  FRESH EBOOK DEALS, DELIVERED DAILY

  BE THE FIRST TO KNOW—

  NEW DEALS HATCH EVERY DAY!

  PRAISE FOR THE WRITING OF LYNN HIGHTOWER

  “Lynn Hightower is a major talent.” —Jonathan Kellerman, New York Times–bestselling author

  “Hightower is a writer of tremendous quality.” —Library Journal

  PRAISE FOR THE ELAKI NOVELS

  “The crimes are out of The Silence of the Lambs, the cops out of Lethal Weapon, and the grimy future out of Blade Runner … Vivid and convincing.” —Lexington Herald-Leader

  “One of the best new series in the genre!” —Science Fiction Chronicle

  Alien Blues

  “Hightower takes the setup and delivers a grittily realistic and down-and-dirty serial killer novel.… Impressive … A very promising first novel.” —Locus

  “Brilliantly entertaining. I recommend it highly. A crackerjack novel of police detection and an evocative glimpse of a possible future.” —Nancy Pickard, bestselling author of I.O.U.

  “[The] cast of characters is interesting and diverse, the setting credible, and the pacing rapid-fire and gripping.” —Science Fiction Chronicle

  “An exciting, science-fictional police procedural with truly alien aliens … An absorbing, well-written book.” —Aboriginal Science Fiction

  “Truly special … Original characters, plot twists galore, in a book that can be enjoyed for its mystery aspects as well as its SF … A real treat.” —Arlene Garcia

  “Hightower shows both humans and Elaki as individuals with foibles and problems. Alien Blues provides plenty of fast-paced action.… An effective police drama.” —SF Commentary

  “Hightower tells her story with the cool efficiency of a Mafia hit man.… With its lean, matter-of-fact style, cliff-hanger chapter endings and plentiful (and often comic) dialogue, Alien Blues moves forward at warp speed!” —Lexington Herald-Leader

  “A great story … Fast and violent … Difficult to put down!” —Kliatt

  “An intriguing world!” —Analog Science Fiction and Fact

  Alien Eyes

  “Alien Eyes is a page-turner.… Fun, fast-moving … A police procedural in a day-after-tomorrow world.” —Lexington Herald-Leader

  “Hightower takes elements of cyberpunk and novels about a benevolent alien invasion and combines them with a gritty realism of a police procedural to make stories that are completely her own.… A believable future with a believable alien culture … Interesting settings, intriguing ideas, fascinating characters [and] a high level of suspense!” —Turret

  “Complex … Snappy … Original.” —Asimov’s Science Fiction

  “The sequel to the excellent Alien Blues [is] a very fine SF novel.… I’m looking forward to the next installment!” —Science Fiction Chronicle

  PRAISE FOR THE SONORA BLAIR MYSTERIES

  Flashpoint

  “Diabolically intriguing from start to finish.” —Publishers Weekly

  “Miraculously fresh and harrowing.” —Kirkus Reviews

  “Rings with gritty authenticity. You won’t be able to put it down and you won’t want to sleep again. Riveting.” —Lisa Scottoline, New York Times–bestselling author

  Eyeshot

  “Hightower has invented a heroine who is both flawed and likeable, and she knows how to keep the psychological pressure turned up high.” —The Sunday Telegraph

  “What gives [Eyeshot] depth and resonance is the way Hightower counterpoints the murder plot with the details of Sonora’s daily life in homicide.” —Publishers Weekly

  No Good Deed

  “Powerful, crisply paced.” —Publishers Weekly

  “Refreshingly different … A cracking tale told at a stunning pace.” —Frances Fyfield

  The Debt Collector

  “Hightower builds the suspense to an almost unbearable pitch.” —Publishers Weekly

  “Well-written and satisfyingly plotted. Best of all is Sonora herself—a feisty babe who packs a red lipstick along with her gun.” —The Times (London)

  Alien Blues

  Lynn Hightower

  For Scott, who helps run interference when I’m working, because he swears I am dangerous when disturbed. And who doesn’t mind (or do you?) dropping everything to discuss the latest idea.

  And for Alan, Laurel, and Rachel, who played Authors & Editors when they were little, instead of Cowboys & Indians, and who are all wonderful storytellers (sometimes when they shouldn’t be).

  And for Matt, who is terrific to work with and a good pal, and who has the endearing habit of calling and asking after my characters as if they were family. Which they are.

  PROLOGUE

  Out of the chill and the shadow

  Into the thrill and the shrine

  Out of the dearth and the famine

  Into the fulness divine

  —MARGARET E. SANGSTER, Going Home

  The old woman felt a hand on her shoulder, and the faint tickle of a kiss on her cheek. She opened her eyes reluctantly; it still felt like the middle of the night. She clipped her hearing aids on and eased her legs over the side of the bed.

  It was dark out. Storm coming? Nothing better than hot coffee on a rainy day. She took a deep breath, but didn’t smell coffee. She was puzzled. Earl never woke her till the coffee was hot.

  She looked at the clock. Three forty-two. No storm coming, it was the middle of the night. And Earl had been dead three years. Her eyes moistened with tears.

  A loud squeak came from the kitchen, followed by a groan. The old woman trembled. There was no mistaking that noisy kitchen window. Someone was breaking in.

  She stood up. Her legs were shaky and stiff—they never worked good in the morning. She glanced at the phone, but decided that calling for help would take too long. She needed to get upstairs, between the intruder and the children.

  She took a step, then hesitated. There was no need for the stairs—the children were grown and gone. Wake up, she told herself. Wake up.

  She heard the kitchen faucet smack into the wall and the clunk of dishes on the counter. She considered hiding in the closet, curling up small and tight. She’d read that possums didn’t really play dead when they were scared; they passed out. She had laughed when she’d read it, but she believed it now.

  She didn’t have much to steal. Who would break in and bother an old woman?

  All kinds of people, she guessed. The world being what it was.

  The old woman folded her arms across the sag of her tired breasts. She had nothing on but cotton underpants and a blue nylon gown that didn’t quite reach her knees. The news disk was full of Machete Man bulletins, but Saigo was a large city. Why would that killer pick her out of all these people?

  Because you’re old, said a nasty inner voice. Because you’re helpless. He likes them helpless.

  When she’d had children to protect, she hadn’t been helpless. Once a neighbor’s dog had gone crazy during a storm, and run into the yard after her daughter. She had streaked from the house like lightning, beating the dog with a broom, screaming for her little girl to get inside. She still had the scars on her hip and calves where the dog had bitten her open.

  She heard footsteps in the kitchen, and then in the hall. Get out, she thought. Get out, get out. She stumbled and fell into the dresser, wincing at the crash and tinkle of her lipstick tubes, perfume bottles, and picture frames. A sweet puff of spilled powder smoked the air. The light in the kitchen went out.

  The old woman held her breath and listened. The footsteps had stopped. Whoever it was had stopped to listen, too.

  She took a breath and waited for her eyes to adjust to total darkness. She let go of the dresser and walked forward, hands outstretched. She f
elt for the doorjamb and crept into the hallway.

  Someone stood just outside the kitchen. The darkness was denser there. And she smelled him—a rank animal odor of urine and sweat. She heard a small intake of breath, and a footstep, and felt the surge of another human being heading her way.

  Her legs were working now, and she ran forward, veering left into the living room. The front door was locked up tight—three dead bolts all solidly in place, two of them requiring keys.

  No, not keys. Her grandson had put the voice activator in a week ago. Bless Dennis, dear Dennis, the Good Lord bless his heart.

  “Open locks!” Her voice was shrill. She heard the creak of the old wood floor as the man tried to find her in the dark.

  Her hands were slippery on the doorknob, but it turned—thank you, God—and swung wide when she yanked it. Warm humid air rushed through the screen door, and the porch light sent a shaft of brightness into the room. Had she latched the screen? Oh, damn, oh, God, her fingers were shaking badly. The latch bit into the ball of her finger, and she slid the metal clamp aside. She jammed the handle and opened the door.

  He was in the living room now, right behind her. Impossible to resist turning to look.

  He was startled by her gaze. His eyes were sleepy-looking and red around the edges. She gasped and stumbled out the door—three concrete steps, and then she was in the yard. The grass sagged with dew, wet and cold on her bare feet, and chill bumps emerged on her arms, legs, and back. She ran across the lawn, the thin blue nightgown billowing out behind her.

  ONE

  David wondered how long Rose would be gone this time. He ran a finger inside his shirt collar, and wondered what he’d feed the kids for supper. It was too hot to cook.

  Maybe hot dogs? A fine thing for a half-Jewish guy to be feeding his children. But the pickles would be kosher.

  David stood up and stretched. His partner, Mel Burnett, sat at the desk butted in front of his. Burnett yawned and scratched the back of his neck. His hair was brown, thick, and wiry; badly in need of a cut. He was short, but solidly built, barrel-chested. His face was burnished by heavy sunlight, and his eyes were blue. Like Rose’s.

  “You going already?” Mel said.

  “Rose is going out of town again. Got to get home so she can make her flight.”

  “Another animal rescue, huh?”

  David shrugged, aware that Della Martinas was listening.

  “Don’t she give you the details?” Mel said.

  “Somewhere in California.” He glanced at the glassed-in office in the corner behind his desk. Captain Halliday looked up, caught his eye, and grinned with the usual psychotic cheerfulness. How the man could be consistently upbeat in the gloomy precinct room was puzzling.

  The air was thick with the faint hum of printers, and the light was harsh and bright. Marks and dents in the floor were proof that the desks had stayed in perfectly spaced rows for many years, but the precinct’s days of symmetry were long gone. Desks were clumped together haphazardly, making hash of available space.

  The building was done bunker style, built when they were still putting up offices hand over fist. The floor was white linoleum with black flecks, the walls grey concrete block. And there were no windows.

  David wondered how cops could think without windows to stare out of.

  Mel rubbed his stomach, right over the belly button. “I’m hungry.”

  “Come to the farm,” David said. “Have supper with me and the kids.”

  “Naw, I don’t feel like fooling with the brats tonight.”

  “Go ahead, flunk unclehood.”

  “They’ll swarm, and I’m beat.” He rubbed his eyes and looked around his desk. “Hey, where’s my Coke? Della!”

  A dark-skinned woman looked up. She was pretty, with a rich, smooth complexion and long, wiry black hair plaited in corn rows. She took a slow swallow from a can of Coke.

  “What you want, Burnett?”

  “Nothing, Della girl. Just looking for the can I was using as an ashtray.”

  Della smiled. “You don’ smoke, sweetheart. Maybe you should take it up. Soft drinks aren’t good for you—too much sugar.”

  The phone rang. Mel picked it up.

  “What.” Mel grimaced. “Hell, yeah, this is Homicide Task Force. Don’t you know who you’re calling?” He grinned at David. “Naw, Silver ain’t here. This is Burnett.” Mel listened for a moment and grabbed a pencil. His voice changed.

  “Give me that address again.”

  David went back to his desk.

  “Got it.” Mel looked up. “Another one.”

  David’s stomach felt odd. “Machete Man?”

  “Looks like. Victim’s alive.”

  “What?”

  “She got away.”

  “When?”

  “Last night.”

  “Last night?”

  “Didn’t know it was our boy. DNA match just came through.”

  The printer purred and started up.

  “That’ll be our report,” David said. He bent close to his terminal. “Message, Rose. Crime scene at …” He leaned over his desk to look at Mel’s scratch pad. “Twenty-three eighty-nine Spenser. If you can’t wait, bring the kids in. Leave them in a priority car with a uniform. Sorry, babe.”

  David glanced at Halliday. He was reading the report and a look of dark malevolence flitted across his face. So much for good cheer.

  The parking garage was hot and humid. Sweat popped up along David’s forehead and across his shoulder blades. He hated the way the city smelled and felt at the end of a hot day. A humid breeze blew trash across the buckling sidewalks and into the gutter. This time of day the colors were bad—shades of dirt, all the dingy hues.

  Even the people were dingy. Lately he saw them as formless grey hulks, with dark holes where there ought to be faces. He had to look hard to find the faces. In the morning he could find them easily—at the end of the day, not so easy.

  The car was hot inside, and it smelled like cigar smoke and old plastic. David steered them into the road grid and hit the priority vehicle switch. Like magic, traffic flowed out of his way.

  Mel rattled the report. “Looks like they had it down as B and E. Guy scraped his head getting in the window—they got hair root and blood.”

  “An embarrassment of riches.”

  “Says here the victim—a Millicent Darnell—got away clean.”

  David opened his window. The vendors were closing down and the city smelled like a fairground at the end of a run—old greasy food, sweat, hot metal. A man packed up displays of cantaloupe, watermelon, and strawberries.

  David wanted to get the kids some fresh melon. He started to push the pause command, then changed his mind. Money was a little tight this week. He ought to leave everything in the account, in case Rose needed something.

  She never did. When she hired out to the animal activists, she didn’t work cheap. She never took anything with her, money or clothes. She’d leave in a worn pair of jeans, nothing more than a purse slung over her shoulder. And a day or two after she got back, a deposit was made in her personal account. Those deposits had bought them the farm.

  “Where is the Darnell woman?” David asked.

  “Next door. Residence of a Mr. and Mrs. Roderick Pressman. He made the call.”

  Traffic was heavy with commuters heading out of the city—the Friday exodus. It was still light out. David shut his window. The air conditioner battled the hot, stale air.

  In a few hours the signs would be lit, and the broken pavement thick with predators. Up and down the streets, innocents would weave their way in and out, unaware and vulnerable.

  The car slowed and paused. A new BMW with an adapted roof eased into traffic ahead of them.

  “What!” Mel glared out the window. “Since when did those bellybrain Elaki bastards get priority over a police vehicle?”

  David chewed his lip. He could see the faint grey shimmer of the Elaki behind the wheel. Their Ford slid in behind the BM
W. They seemed to be headed the same way.

  “Assholes are like horses. Never sit—not even to sleep. Ever hear of a horse driving a car? They ought to be hauled around in vans.” Mel rubbed his stomach.

  The car bore right and David swung the wheel.

  Commercial areas gave way to residential. Small houses, old and deteriorating, lined both sides of the street. The trees were large and the shade pleasant. David steered the Ford right again, and then left. The BMW stayed ahead.

  A two-story wood-frame house had the yellow-green crime stamp glowing on the door. David checked the address—2389 Spenser.

  The BMW pulled into the driveway. David stopped the Ford in front of the house.

  A guy in blue jeans and a grey cotton sport coat stood in the front yard. His hair was blond and long, and a bald spot was spreading from the back of his head. He wore sandals, his shirt was pink and yellow, and an earring swung from his right ear.

  Cheerful, David thought.

  The man turned, looked at the BMW, then grinned at David.

  David walked over curiously, noting the ID clipped to the man’s belt.

  “David Silver.” He offered a hand.

  “I know.” The man’s grip was firm. “Nice to meet you, Detective. I’m Vern Dyer.”

  David frowned. He knew that name.

  “Oh, yeah,” Mel said, shaking hands. “You work vice, don’t you? I heard of you.”

  “Been inside?” David asked.

  Dyer smiled and flicked his ID with a broken thumbnail. He was tan, his face lined and tired. His eyes were brown and intelligent—bloodshot at the moment.

  “No authorization. Can’t get through the seal. If you don’t mind, I’d like to go in with you. Take a look around.”

  “How come?” Mel asked.

  Dyer shrugged. “I’m on my own time, following a hunch. Something related to another case. Probably nothing.”