The phone stuttered in her pocket and she instinctively fumbled for it.
“Isaac Estrada from Midas Mutual,” the voice said. “Sorry to call you so late. It’s been one hell of a day.”
Malin cleared her throat and muttered a cool thanks. It must have been the search warrant that added to that hell-of-a-day and she assumed Mr. Estrada had called Northwest Area Command to verify her credentials. But this late?
“As far as I can make out, Ms. Delgado has received all her monthly payments since September 2008. Paid into Wells Fargo,” he said, rattling off a ten digit account number. “They would also know the date of her last withdrawal. I can only tell you the amount the Mutual transfers each month.”
“Which is?”
“This is off the record, isn’t it?”
That’s why he called so late. “Of course.”
“$10,000. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
Ten thousand... Malin nearly choked on that bit of news. “No... no, thank you. I think that’ll do it.”
Listening to the dialing tone for a few seconds, she hung up knowing she would be meeting the manager of Wells Fargo Bank tomorrow morning if she could swing it.
She cracked open the sliding doors to the balcony and breathed in the cool night air. There was a small trickle of water over a palisade of rocks at the front entrance and an owl sitting in the cottonwood, eyes caught in the headlights of a passing car. The road was wet and shiny, reflecting the light from the gas station at the end of the street and Malin could hear the wet hiss of car tires on tarmac. She wondered where Lily was, whether she was missing because she wanted to be, whether she was chained to a wall and crying her eyes out.
The clouds had rolled in during the evening and behind them was a full moon. She refocused on a scatter of rain drops on the glass, closed the sliding door and checked the lock.
Old Man Topper, a neighbor downstairs, had given her the remains of his newspaper. Most of it had been used to dab up an oily mess on his countertop and the salvaged part showed a gutted house on the southeast side of town, leveled in what was originally thought to be a terrorist attack.
Even anchorman, Stan Stockard, pointed to the wreckage on the late night news, saying that no terrorist in his right mind would be interested in a student house off Smith Street, unless he had somehow overshot Kirtland Airforce Base. It was an accidental gas explosion where a young woman had been killed and several residents injured.
A sudden thought gave Malin a jolt. What if Old Man Topper left his gas on? Hopefully, someone would smell it even if he didn’t, because he smoked all kinds of things in his bedroom, some of which were still in his mouth when he woke up in the morning.
The cell phone was pinging again. Wingman, the man she had met in a chatroom a few months ago, had sent her a message. No longer willing to risk using email, he had elected to send text messages instead.
Wingman: According to the weather reports it’s going to be one humdinger of a January. So I’m going away, my little bird. Going south. How will you manage without me?
She shook her head and typed: Better than you think. What in hell’s name did he look like? He had to be an old judge according to his vocabulary. Wouldn’t want to tell me your real name before you leave?
Wingman: No, I wouldn’t. Besides, you’d only despise me and I rather like this anonymity. If you’re smart, you’ll find out all by yourself. That’s the mark of a good detective. Now, if anything should come up, I’ll be checking my messages from time to time.
That was comforting, she thought. He’d be checking them late at night when his wife, if he had one, was out of mind. Malin determined he lived in a large house, definitely had three children and a Mexican cook.
She had already tried two options. To open the command console on the computer and run a who-is check on the emails he’d sent and second, to run an internet lookup, both of which resulted in no data available. A cell phone would be easy to trace. The only person she was willing to confide in was Temeke, only he would chastise her for not telling him sooner.
Malin: Would you like to meet?
Why not? What kind of detective wouldn’t ask to meet a faceless stranger on the internet. One who had been so helpful with their last case.
Wingman: Nice try, Malin. But we are meeting, in a way. Isn’t virtual the thing these days?
Malin: Not very original, is it?
Not very personal either. It was getting boring tapping out texts. So much quicker on the phone. So much more revealing in person. And why not get a court order and get it over with? The back of her neck felt clammy despite the chill and her fingers lingered on the keys.
Wingman: I’ll get straight to the point. The man you’re looking for has an unnatural interest in Temeke.
Malin felt her throat tighten, stretched her fingers and then began to type: Unnatural?
Wingman: I knew you’d hang onto that word. Use your talent, dear heart. It’s all in the details. You’re just starting to get the hang of this caper. Starting to get that fire in your belly. Our perp is in for a treat.
Our was a word they commonly used when a case pulled at the heart strings, Malin thought. Putting it before a name meant only one thing. Wingman was associated with law enforcement.
He was quiet then, waiting for her next move. She decided to change tack. Do you know the perp?
Wingman: I never really know them. It’s always guesswork.
Malin: Name?
Wingman: Tut, tut. We’ve been over this before.
Malin: Height, weight. Why not arrest him yourself?
Wingman: He wasn’t doing anything wrong.
Malin: Then why worry?
Wingman: Because he will, Malin. This one’s a little green-eyed, tipped right over the edge. Dangerous place to be. Would you like to be Unit Commander one day? Supervising Northwest Area Command and representing the police department on various committees and boards.
Malin: No.
Wingman: How about a pay increase? Let’s consider doubling that $58,000 you currently earn.
How the heck did he know that! I’ve done the money thing. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Captain Fowler’s looking for a break. Why not give it to him?
Wingman: You wouldn’t want that. And anyway, there’s no shortage of volunteers, but I need someone with good discernment, intellect. Someone who has a passion for the job. Nice office, leather chair, your own admin.
Malin felt her eyes stinging from the strain of it all and wanted to sign off. I don’t have the experience. Bottom of the food chain.
Wingman: That’s not what I said, Malin.
Malin: So you’d push me in the deep end and expect me to swim?
Wingman: The alternative is pushing paper until you’re sixty-seven and that’s only if you last that long.
She didn’t care for a nice office or a leather chair, or someone to type her reports. She looked around the small apartment and rather enjoyed the fact that the entire complex was run by an office manager and all she had to do was pick up the phone.
To pull all this off, Wingman had to be the Chief of Police, Governor Bendish, the Attorney General, the Mayor... She wasn’t going to beg him for information, because by then it would be too late to rebuild her usual poised image and she was determined to have the last word.
Malin: Guesswork: You’re in your late fifties, early sixties. Wear a suit and a tie, probably earn around $80,000. Can’t be Commander Hackett because he’s got a soft spot for Temeke. But you could be the DA.
She signed off giving him no time to protest. There was something in his manner, the speech pattern, which led her to believe she had met him in court. Not Hackett, since his notoriously bad spelling was bound to emerge in a message.
The DA. Because he disliked Temeke enough to remove him from the state and he was high up enough to swing it.
TWELVE
Temeke was glad to be home, shrugged off his coat and dumped the book on the couch. T
here was a strong smell of ammonia in the air and something told him it was likely to linger for days.
The cat lay on its belly on an easy chair, paws curled inwards and tail flicking from side to side. He seemed to be staring intently at the floor, where his bowl had not been filled since morning.
There were clumps of dirt on the carpet and shredded cigarette papers, and Temeke followed the trail to the potted plant where a large hole had been dug in the soil. He sniffed repeatedly. The cat wasn’t about to let him use the plant as an ashtray without covering the hole with half a pound of excrement.
“Just my bloody luck,” he muttered, looking around for an antiseptic wipe.
Thursday afternoon had been spent in the admissions office at Gibson. A Mr. Fiennes had been evasive until he was acquainted with Temeke’s badge. He smiled a little too much after that, said Lily Delgado was a bright young woman with a bright young future.
Temeke stripped the clear film from a fresh pack of cigarettes, lit up and lay back against the couch with a sigh. He glanced at the book shelf, at the reading lamp that hovered like a decorative shower attachment over a reading chair, at the binoculars on the window sill and the book on the seat next to him. Then he filled his lungs with smoke, held it for a few seconds before releasing. His mouth was coated with a sour nicotine flavor and he was convinced his tongue was coated in fur. All he could hear was the dry wheeze of the boiler and a dog barking outside. And he couldn’t think straight.
Strange how clear the moon was, how bright. It reminded him of a bleak 1922 silent movie where a young man, who was about to go on a long journey to help a count find a house in a fictitious German city, was told what matter if it costs you some pain ‒ or even a little blood?
He couldn’t stand the silence, pulled the cell phone out of his pocket and decided to call Malin.
“These killings weren’t done by a bunch of thugs out on a Saturday night ramble, Marl. And as for the Syndicato de Gato Negro, they wouldn’t waste time with such elaborate crimes.”
“The SGN have a pattern, sir, certain procedures that don’t fit in this case.”
Like a smear of peanut butter over a corpse for wild animals to scent, Temeke thought. The perps were fools if they thought a partly devoured body could never be identified.
“Which leaves only one possibility,” he said. “A contract killing.”
“I have a question. Do you remember the Pardoe case?”
Temeke blew out a jet of smoke as he sorted through his thoughts. “The perpetrator who was so distraught after losing his wife to cancer he killed the doctor who diagnosed the symptoms?”
“Yeah, that one.”
“As I remember it, he claimed a mysterious woman drove to his house and offered him magical powers to get over his sorrow. He also said he was possessed by a familiar. The house in question stood in the heart of a dense wood surrounded by a high wall, gates secured with padlocks. It could only be accessed by a footpath, which meant the man received few callers and was lying through his bloody teeth.”
“But you can’t deny the demon theory isn’t a possibility in the Delgado case,” she said.
“I never thought it was a shaft of lightning up his ass if that’s what you mean.”
“The thing is, if our killer has a familiar then he’s arguing with the devil. And maybe he’s had years of practice. Mix that with drugs and you’ve got a legal combination.”
“I’ll read the sodding book tonight and get back to you in the morning.”
The room went quiet after he ended the call and he stared at the book on the couch, thinking of every excuse not to open it.
There was enough mystery in the Delgado case, enough lies and deception to keep the police guessing. But whatever had gone wrong all those years ago started when Alice bought that damned book.
Everything’s a racket, he told himself, relishing the feel of soft leather and wondering if the girls swore a bond on the book. He might have known he’d have to delve into folklore and magic at some point in his career. After all, crime was full of nutcases who claimed they had been possessed by a demon and then admitted afterwards it was all a bad joke.
It was a fine looking book, pages musty and stale after their long entombment in Baca’s top drawer. Seven endorsements from local publications in the front matter and an author’s note in the back.
Dr. Fatima Gupta (1901-1997) founded the Lilin in 1934, a sisterhood dedicated to the world’s oldest traditions and symbolic disciplines, an organization that exalted Satan.
In her long career, Dr. Gupta’s knowledge in the fields of philosophy, spiritualism and psychology have earned her fifty-seven awards worldwide and a doctorate in philosophy at Gibson University. The Lilin Esoterica represents a lifetime of research into symbolism, demonology and mythology.
Dr. Gupta’s hope was to dispel the myth that women were the weaker sex in society. To educate them on how to ignite the divine spark and become conquerors of the universe.
Temeke poked the cigarette between his lips and turned the page. The prologue gave a brief description of a demon who was said to be a teacher of astronomy and liberal arts, and whose sigil was a wolf vomiting fire. He was also a psychic and a spell caster, and with credentials like these Temeke half wondered if the demon could solve the case for him.
He turned to chapter one.
There is a place high up in the mountains where the snow meets the sun and a woman can touch the moon. This is where her familiar lives.
To become a sister of the Lilin, a woman must summon a familiar and make herself mistress of everything in the world, evil as well as good, pain as well as pleasure, cruelty as well as mercy. Only then will she be in perfect balance to the power of infinity.
A blackened log stirred in the fireplace and crashed onto the hearth. It gave Temeke a jolt, took him a while to adjust his breathing as he flicked the remainder of the cigarette into the hearth. In his mind, he could hear his own voice asking if the book had any link to these killings. Because if it did, it threw a huge wrench into the “contract” theory.
The cat was scratching the paint off the front door, meowing and making a racket. Temeke remembered seeing a miniature dog jacket in the hall closet, one that had once belonged to Serena’s toy poodle. It would keep the bugger warm.
He wrapped the Velcro bindings around the cat’s belly, opened the front door and watched a blaze of red shoot down the driveway and shimmy up a tree. Temeke stood there shivering for a time, then closed the front door and poured himself a large whisky.
How much of this witchy malarkey did Valerie Delgado believe? Poor old cow, he thought. Just when she was getting over her eldest, the youngest had gone and done a runner.
He lay back on the couch, picked up the book and paged through the table of contents. Six short chapters named for each the sisterhood.
Longed For, Light of the Moon, The Bright One, Garden of Roses, Mountain of Light, and Like A Star.
Leafing to the final chapter entitled Destiny of a Servant, he was interrupted suddenly by a continual barking. Not a greeting sound when a dog senses the arrival of family, or a cat up a tree, but a warning signal.
Crooking the book under one arm, he walked over to the window and glanced at next door’s dog. It was tied to a long leash, nose pointing at the ground.
He caught sight of a figure beneath a tree and if he wasn’t mistaken, the person appeared to be examining his front door through a wide angle lens. Swapping the book for a pair of binoculars, Temeke fiddled with the focusing wheel and found he was mistaken. The man was staring right at him, and no sooner had Temeke focused both barrels simultaneously than the figure darted into the shadows.
Bloody teenagers.
He berated himself for not closing the blinds and for reading the stupid book in the first place. He should have taken the sodding thing to forensics.
His cell phone vibrated against the coffee table and he clamped it to his ear. “Go ahead, Luis.”
“Two t
hings. Hackett’s pissed about the article in the Journal this morning. It leads the public to believe there’s a body in the mountains. Why can’t you keep your mouth shut, bro?”
Why not indeed. “Don’t tell me, the bloody Peak Tram’s being going up and down like a pimp’s zipper.”
“Listen. I just had a call from Southeast Area Command. Student on Cornell Drive sounded worried. Her roommate’s gone missing. Said it wasn’t like her to leave without telling someone.”
“When did her roommate go missing?”
“Two days ago.”
“Southeast Area Command, you say? Why us?”
“Ms. Martinez received an email from her roommate this morning―”
“So she’s not missing?”
“...Saying if Ms. Martinez wanted to find her, she was to call Detective Temeke. Looks like you’re being spread a little wider this time, bud.”
Temeke raised his eyebrows and checked his watch. “On my way.”
THIRTEEN
214 Cornell Drive was a standard ranch home, long and squat and overlooked Loma Linda Park on the southeast side of town. There were two cars parked outside, a Toyota 4Runner and an Audi two-door coupe. Both dark gray, both fairly new. Temeke walked to the front door, ground the remains of a cigarette under his shoe and rang the bell.
He drifted back to a time early in his training when he had been sent to a workshop to learn new interrogation techniques. Back in 1986, three FBI agents had drawn up a nine-step approach to an effective interrogation. It had been latterly thought unreliable and responsible for false confessions. It was the fifth step Temeke rather liked. Physically touching a suspect got their attention, but maintaining eye contact and using a first name invariably got results.
He heard the squeak of a raw hinge and showed his badge to a tiny crack of light. “Detective Temeke,” he said.
Past Rites Page 6
