“So, how can I help?” he asked.
Malin frowned a little behind her dark glasses. “Sold any used cars recently?”
“How recent?”
“Last two months?”
Charlie rubbed his chin with oil stained fingers and nodded. “Three sedans and two vans.”
“Thriving business.”
“You could say, only the vans don’t sell too well.”
“Remember who you sold them to?”
“The vans? I’ll have to check inside. Some old guy bought the white 1972 Chevrolet C10. A young guy bought the gray Chevy van, same year, I think.”
It was the latter that sparked Malin’s interest and the mention that the man was young. “What did the young guy look like?”
“Pale skin, black hair, brown eyes.”
“Pitch black?”
“Huh?”
“His hair?”
“Oh, yeah. Darker than yours, so black it was blue.” He seemed to laugh at that.
Malin appreciated Charlie’s feminine side. It sure helped to give her a vivid picture and the young man clearly wasn’t wearing sunglasses if Charlie could tell the color of his eyes. “Anything unusual. Accent... walking stick?”
“Accent? Came from round here, I think. Black clothes, if that helps.”
It didn’t really, but Malin forced her worries to one side and refrained from pushing it.
“He was carrying scissors,” Charlie said, as an aside.
“Scissors?”
“I don’t think he was clipping his nails over there by the sedans. You can start a Camry with a pair if you can unlock the door first. Wrote a check for the deposit, then paid the rest in cash, wads of it. I’m not complaining. Always nice to have cash.”
“Always nice to keep the books in order.”
Charlie’s eyes seemed to wander a bit, sometimes up, sometimes down. “I bet when you were at the police academy you were one of those muscular gels, you know, pumping iron to outshine the men.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Malin looked around the yard, taking in a stack of brand new tires by a blue porta potty and a mangy dog that hobbled on three legs between the cars. “Got an address for that young man?”
A nod and Charlie mopped his face on the back of his sleeve. He swaggered toward the RV, a Great Dane of a rig, fully loaded and painted silver.
Malin followed him in, saw a bunch of papers on a table, noticed how easily Charlie dug beneath the pile and found exactly what he was looking for. He turned, eyes wide as cups when he saw her standing on the top step.
“Here,” he said, pressing a few sheets of paper against his belly and smoothing them down with a hand. He held them out, wrist twitching slightly.
“Not fiddling your taxes, are you?” It was a stupid question, but one Malin couldn’t resist.
“Naw, I don’t do taxes.”
Malin grinned. There was something about Charlie she rather liked. A raw strength, a couldn’t-care-less attitude and heck, look at the monster RV. He must have been doing well for himself.
Malin skimmed the paperwork silently for a moment, blinked, read it again, noted the address and the date of sale. Sure enough, the van was bought a month ago by a Mr. Gabriel Mann, address off Bridge Boulevard near Central Avenue.
“How much did you sell it for?”
“Three grand. It was worth more than that, but the kid had a frowny look like he could really use it.”
“Kid? I thought you said he was a young man.”
“He was. Green, you know how they are when they’re first starting out. Felt sorry for him.”
Malin checked her watch and gave Charlie the paperwork. “I appreciate you showing me this,” she said.
She sauntered back toward her car, moving one foot in front of the other, feeling the thudding of her heart. She had no reason to suspect Charlie of anything and it was hardly his fault if he took cash from a young man who made every effort to remain anonymous.
The number was no longer in service when she tried it and she suspected the address was false too. The truth was, she had nothing to go on.
She wanted to find answers before Temeke did, a man so skillful in tracking a felon, he put all his peers to shame. A man who was everything she would never be. She shrugged off the thought the same way she shrugged off bad dreams because she had a choice. It was a matter of making the right decision and forgetting Wingman ever existed. He was a distraction, just when things between her and Temeke were going so well.
Tapping into the computer, she checked the wanted status of Gabriel Mann. No felony warrants, no misdemeanor warrants, nothing state wide or county wide. Two things struck her as possibilities. If Temeke was being followed as Wingman had suggested, the in-car video camera system would prove invaluable. Since a prisoner sitting in the back seat could be monitored by live feed sent back to the 911 call center, so too could a car following a few feet behind. Provided the windshield of the following car wasn’t tinted, the driver could be made out by video enhancement and latterly matched with a criminal suspect.
Unless Temeke had been driving his jeep. No video camera in a 1962 Hotchkiss.
Malin turned on the ignition and planted her foot firmly on the gas. The back wheels stirred up a shower of gravel and dust as she accelerated back onto Broadway. Stretching her back, she forced herself to breathe slowly while she drove to Northwest Area Command with one question churning around in her head. How was she going to find Gabriel Mann?
Fear seemed to gust toward her, rolling off the road like curls of smoke and poison gas. Fear was the one thing she hated and the one trick she refused to fall for.
Opening the window a slit, the wind blew into her eyes, making them water. She breathed in a cloud of diesel as she pulled onto I-40, heading west into a long line of traffic and slowing down behind a black BMW.
The metallic paint seemed to give off a flash of blue and she peered over her tinted lenses to confirm what she saw. A dance of color in the sunlight reminded her what Charlie had said about the young man’s hair.
So black it was blue.
TWENTY-ONE
Light seeped in under the steel blinds and Temeke curled his hands around a warm mug with the words Up Yours written on the outward side. The office was bigger than the one he had in Homicide, if you could call a cubicle an office. Gray paint, gray filing cabinets, bleak and basic, a room that demanded productivity so at the end of the day you didn’t mind getting the hell out of it.
He and Malin were what Hackett proudly referred to as the inner core of the investigative unit. It was his way of pumping steroids into the smallest department of law enforcement Albuquerque had. The place where castoffs were given compassionate smiles in passing and a pat on the back; the place where soaks just kept on soaking.
There was that bottle of whisky...
He stared up at the white board, a collage of crime scene photographs ‒ long range, mid-range, short range ‒ Journal articles, dates, an exhaustive record of events since Asha Samadi had disappeared. On the top left was a photograph of Alice Delgado, the face he couldn’t forget. And a new face. A composite sketch of Charlie Miller’s version of the man he saw. Temeke wasn’t ready to put the sketch out to the public yet and alert the perp to a countrywide manhunt.
His mind went back to the interview with Valerie Delgado and he wondered what type of people lived on Bazan Loop, backgrounds, occupations, how big the houses were, how he could get an ‘inside’ look at the floor plans.
He searched for a realtor who served the area, a Bart Stein who had two houses for sale on the same street.
“Number two seven five, a single family house. Four thousand square feet,” Bart boasted. “Four bedrooms, three full, one partial bathrooms, lot size... one acre. Been with Steins for about thirty days. Would you like to take a look?”
“Any other unique features?” Temeke asked.
“Some have turret rooms, lots of light. Nice views. Skylights in t
he kitchens. I understand from my colleague there are two houses in the neighborhood that have boot rooms, basements, back shops, space for antique cars, that kind of thing. But not the ones on our inventory, I’m afraid.”
The sudden jolt of the office door against the wall startled Temeke. He slid his feet off the desk and ended the call. Fowler stood in the doorway, wiped his brow and began pumping antiseptic gel on his hands from the green plastic bottle on Malin’s desk. His nostrils were twitching as if he had somehow managed to trace a residue of cigarette smoke.
“Morning,” Temeke said, marveling at the sanity of any man who dedicated so much time to his wardrobe. “You look like crap.”
“Don’t raise your hopes.” Fowler pressed his lips together for a second and winced. He tried to smooth back his hair and straighten his uniform. “Sandra brought me a take-out from Heaven’s Dragon. A number fourteen. I was doubled over with the worst pain I’ve ever had in my life.”
“A number fourteen? That’s German Shepherd isn’t it?”
Fowler slumped in Malin’s chair, tapped a fist against his mouth and began puffing out his cheeks. “I was alright until I got as far as my car and then I got cramps and gas.”
“There’s a reason why we call it the Heaving Dragon,” Temeke said, resisting a roll of the eyes. “Lucky you weren’t in the emergency room.”
It was the mushrooms ‒ tiny gray rubbery things that always made Temeke hurl. Something about them, made you see bright colors if you kept them down long enough.
“Sarge had a call from a builder this morning. Found a plastic bag in the back of his truck, a metal poker and a towel, both covered in blood and hair. Matt Black went over to pick them up. Fat Mule parking lot on Fourth.”
Only three bloody minutes from home, Temeke thought, feeling his stomach lurch. He rubbed his shoes together to get the circulation going. No mention of the shower curtain, but then he half expected that. “Anyone see anything? Security cameras?”
Fowler cussed loudly and shook his head. “Place is as run down as a homeless shelter. Listen... Mr. Lahaye is downstairs with the artist. Just wanted to let you know.”
“Very good.”
“And that girl you went to see. Adel Martinez? Think she knows anything?”
Temeke felt he was suddenly in free fall, floating weightless until he gripped the sides of his chair. He was tired, that’s all. “Ms. Martinez was under the impression Asha Samadi had left the country with a boyfriend. When I spoke to Miss Samadi’s father that wasn’t the case. He keeps her passports in his safe, arranges all overseas trips. His daughter isn’t as independent as some.”
“Passports?”
“She was born in Riyadh. Family was plastered over the front page recently for having a winner at the Kentucky Derby. Desert Rum it was called. She rarely goes home to the Kingdom now. Mother’s name was Salwa Bint Saud. Hefty price tag if we don’t find her. There’s some movement in her credit card account, gas stations, hardware stores, clothing stores. All of them here in Albuquerque. According to Luis, someone sent a message on Asha’s laptop. I’d like to email them back and tell them to pack it in.”
“What about her lifestyle? Money?”
“Gobs of it. Father’s a prince, remember?
“What’s to say she didn’t drive to Miami and set sail for the Bahamas.”
“Not likely, is it?” Temeke gusted through the information he had on his computer. “And while we’re on the subject of women, keep your sniffer away from Detective Santiago. One touch, and I’ll have a harassment report on Hackett’s desk.”
Fowler looked pained, but only for a second. He clearly played a dominant role in his own castle and the rest of the time he was a toady for Hackett. It provided the only excitement in his artificial, mendacious lifestyle.
“Do you have any leads yet?” Fowler asked, which in Temeke’s opinion, was another way of asking if the case was in a rut.
“Not yet.”
He suddenly saw the word loser on the walls. He saw a few other words too, failure, letdown, FIASCO growing larger and larger until they all hit the ceiling. He began to wonder if he had a bunch of fairies in his head.
“Must be hard living on your own now,” Fowler said, pushing his chin forward, nostrils wider now. “Got any pets?”
Temeke didn’t know how to take the pet comment. It could have been some sexually suggestive reference to females, or it could have been code for we’re replacing you at the end of the month whether you like it or not.
“Dogs are the best,” Fowler continued, “only you’ve got to walk them. But they’re good company. We had a cat once, only it got stuck down a hole ...”
Temeke couldn’t bear thinking about Dodger in his little red coat stuck down a hole. It was time to put a few flyers around the neighborhood, an article in the newspaper. He’d already called the animal shelter, the pound and the veterinary clinic in case someone had taken him there. The sod hadn’t been microchipped, but he did have tags. Someone must have seen him.
“My head hurts.” Fowler finally muttered, forcing himself to a stand. “I feel terrible.”
Not wanting to contribute to a conversation on the worst foods that gave a man Delhi belly, Temeke carried on typing his report. “See you tomorrow,” he offered.
Temeke’s fingers couldn’t help tapping out a rallying tattoo on the keyboard as he entertained a suspicion. It struck him as odd that Fowler was talking to him in the first place and in a mature manner that promised to end with a handshake rather than a few rude gestures he could name. They rarely agreed on anything.
The bugger was fishing, that’s what. Seeing if he could squeeze another desk into that small office for Suzi bloody Cornwell. He liked her. Could have passed for a young Randolf Scott if the right movie role came up.
Temeke’s jaw began to hurt from all that thinking because when he thought too much, he invented destructive scenarios that often gave him whiplash. Like the time when Fowler stole his jeep and rushed back to Serena for a round of heavy petting.
It never happened, of course, and how such filth found its way into Temeke’s head in the first place, he never knew. He had beaten the imaginary Fowler to death with a baseball bat, blood and brain matter all over the wall before the vision disintegrated into the drab room he now called his office.
Another knock on his door. Luis this time and for some reason Temeke’s throat seemed to contract and the room began to sway.
“I got your photograph of the water gauge. Gulshan? You might be interested to note that Matt’s boys found a word scratched in the kitchen doorframe of Cornell Drive. Mahtab. Mean anything?”
Temeke shook his head. “Sounds bloody foreign to me.”
“Not only did our victims go to Gibson,” Luis said, reading from a slip of paper in his hand, “but they also went to Los Poblanos Academy on Rio Grande. I took the liberty of calling the principal, a Ms. Baca. She recalled six girls in that group. Including Alice, there was Asha Samadi, Adel Martinez, Kenzie Voorhees, Rosa Belmonte and Zarah Thai.”
“Zarah Thai, you say?” Temeke felt his eyebrows arch, took a deep breath. “Do we have an address?”
“5507 San Rafael Avenue, Victory Hills. And yes, there’s a unit outside her house as we speak.”
TWENTY-TWO
The look in his eyes was bright and intelligent and Malin was conscious the young man was nervous. He must have been all of twenty-two years old, six feet tall and about one hundred and sixty pounds of brute muscle.
“I was hoping you’d come,” he said.
“What made you call me?”
“Well, it’s all over the News, isn’t it? Lily Delgado missing, Asha Samadi missing, a hotline number, your name... officer Santiago.”
“Detective,” she corrected. “If you have any information you can use the hotline number.”
“I prefer meeting in person. More intimate this way.”
It was the same voice she’d heard on the phone, the one that asked her to me
et him at Maloof Air Park on 81st Street. The one that made her shudder enough to use a lapel cam to keep the facts straight and an officer in a backup car to follow Paddy Brody home.
“Do you know where the girls are?” Malin said.
“The last time I saw Asha was in the library about two weeks ago. Just to nod to, not to speak.”
“And Lily?”
“At least four weeks ago outside the Frontier restaurant. I waved, but she didn’t wave back. She can be like that sometimes.”
He stood in the middle of the paved runway, hair tousled by the wind and haloed amber by the sun. There was no sign of the frown Charlie had spoken of, or any hint of blue in that dark brown hair. And there was no way you could call Paddy a kid.
“Why did you want to meet here?” she asked.
“So I wouldn’t be followed.” Paddy stared across the runway at the parking lot, eyes wavering between Malin’s SUV and a white truck. Eyes so blue they made you blink.
“Someone following you?”
“I was driving downtown last Thursday night,” he said. “Just cruising down Alcazar when I saw him. Nearly stepped off the sidewalk in front of me.”
“Who?”
“Gray hoodie over his head, black hair, sunglasses... long middle finger. Don’t know his name.” Paddy’s shoulders were hunched inside that ski jacket, breath misting in the cold. “Guilt’s a terrible thing, detective. Makes a person want to crawl into a hole and die.”
“Whereabouts was this?”
Paddy sent her a sideways glance. “Near Talin Market.”
Better known as the International District, Malin thought, as she recalled the drug dealers who used to frequent the area. They had latterly moved to the alleyway behind the Old Bernalillo Courthouse. Who said law enforcement was stupid?
“You said black hair?” she asked.
“Shoulder length.”
“You’d recognize him if you saw him again?”
Past Rites Page 11
