He thought of that Persian carpet laid out on a table in Matt Black’s lab, rusted with gouts of dried blood and a light powdering of human bone. He’d already called Asha Samadi’s father, listened to him sob and howl like a baby. It was the nightmare he didn’t need at nearly ten minutes before midnight.
“My head’s buzzing, Marl. There’s too much work. I wonder if we can handle it all.”
“I’ve already interviewed the bank manager about Lily’s accounts. Looks like she drew out ten thousand in cash on Thursday, January 17. I thought we could tie her to something with her bank records, but no plastic, no paper trail since then. And Minerd’s sold a van to a Gabriel Mann. Number’s no longer in service and the address is invalid. The report’s on your desk.”
She pointed at a stack of typewritten pages in his in-tray and then looked sourly at his cigarette. “I’ve applied for a search warrant for Paddy Brody’s residence.”
“If he has one―”
“Actually, sir, I asked Maggie Watts to drive behind me this afternoon. She followed Mr. Brody home and I confirmed the address with Adel Martinez.”
Thoughts ricocheted around Temeke’s head and he felt the adrenalin pumping. Malin was good at creeping about in the shadows, rather like a reporter he knew at the Journal. “What was Paddy’s state of mind?”
“Stressed. Jumpy. Kept looking around like he was expecting someone. He’s dabbling in things he shouldn’t be dabbling in. The occult’s dangerous. It can get you all weirded out and start playing with your mind. He seems normal on the outside, it’s the inside that bothers me. Like a bunch of wires that have got all tangled up and don’t work right. I’m guessing he was too far in, had a thing for Alice. There’s always jealousy if the girls liked the same guy. Isn’t that what the principal of Los Poblanos told you...”
Temeke listened to the words, hardly able to take it all in. He chewed it over and stared through the window at a gray-clouded sky. Cult leaders had a way of manipulating their members with emotion-laden tactics and mind control. But who would have coerced an intelligent young woman to take her own life?
Over Malin’s voice he thought he heard Fowler thudding up the stairs to Hackett’s office, took a final drag of his cigarette and flicked it in the trash can.
“... what’s the betting someone did something and forgot they’d done it? It could have happened if they were high.”
Temeke felt himself stiffen. “How can anyone forget committing a murder?”
“Paddy said he dabbled in this and that. Probably did more than weed if he could get it. And don’t forget the amphetamines and partially digested belladonna the lab found in Alice’s stomach. Dr. Vasillion’s report mentioned an empty shampoo bottle with traces of vodka. It was on the floor when they found her. Toxicology said her blood alcohol level was twice the legal limit. What if they all had a little stab at it, sir... kind of like what happened to Julius Caesar?”
“Then she wouldn’t be covered in self-inflicted wounds, would she?”
“What if they weren’t self-inflicted?”
“Listen, I’ve had it up to here.” Temeke indicated a point well above his head. “Haven’t had a sodding wink of sleep since this whole thing started. You know what I think? I think Paddy Brody hasn’t got anything better to do but waste police time.”
“Two dead bodies isn’t a waste of time,” Malin said, tapping the headline section of the Journal on her desk. “They’re claiming Ms. Voorhees and Ms. Belmonte are the victims of a serial killer. And there’s another article underneath titled, Asha Samadi puts distinct stamp on Chopin. Will the pieces of this cryptic puzzle ever be found?”
Temeke began pacing around the office, blowing out a chain of deep sighs and wondering why it was so bleeding difficult to keep anything from the Press. “Who’s been talking to them?”
“The articles are all written by staff writer Jennifer Danes. She must have spoken to the faculty heads, students... parents. Clues are pouring in thick and fast.”
Temeke could only see the top of Malin’s ponytail over the newspaper, head turning from left to right as she scanned the articles.
“Tried to call Paddy Brody this morning. Never picks up.” She turned a few more pages. “Looks like those electronic cigarettes are becoming popular. It’s called vaping.”
“Put that damn paper away.” Temeke had no intention of swapping nicotine for steam and it was the second time she’d suggested it.
“Let’s talk about appearance, Marl, because it’s important. These victims had no physical characteristics in common. The first was a redhead, well-toned, physically fit.” He wanted to say beautiful but the word stuck in his mouth. “The second was Arabic, dark and slender, and the third was tall and blonde. Different academic fields and disciplines, and apart from Alice they lived within five miles of each other.”
“They all went to Los Poblanos Academy and Gibson Uni, sir. Oh, and I checked in with Zarah Thai. Everything’s good.”
Something had changed in Malin, Temeke thought. It wasn’t like he was indulging a novice, a simpering girl too wet behind the ears to deal with the horrors of Violent Crimes. By ignoring her emotions, she found a rotting corpse stinking like old vomit in the undergrowth more manageable. No, she’d done some growing up since then. Gone out on a limb and made her own decisions. And they were good decisions.
Temeke almost jumped when the phone on the desk gave a piercing squeal.
Malin hooked the receiver onto her shoulder and for a brief few seconds she just listened. “5025 Watercress Drive. Off Jefferson, you say? Yes... I’m on my way. Thanks, Maggie.”
Malin tapped something into the computer and gave him a wide-eyed look. “Paddy Brody’s car is registered to that address, a white Honda Accord with a damaged passenger wing mirror and out of date tags. I’d like to follow him.”
“I need to pack it in, love. Get a few hours’ kip. You ladies be careful.” He looked at her a beat too long, saw her eyes drop.
Temeke walked out into the parking lot, felt a stab of fresh air in his lungs as he blinked the moisture out of his eyes. He half walked, half ran toward his jeep, breath drifting like clouds as he unlocked the door.
He was half way up Guadalupe Trail and about to turn into his driveway when he saw the figure. A young man standing in the middle of the road, dark hair gusting across his face and jutting cheekbones that made you think he needed a good meal. It was what he was holding that made Temeke screech to a halt.
A gray cat with a little red coat.
TWENTY-FOUR
Temeke turned the wheel as hard as he could, veering sideways to avoid hitting the man. He pulled over and lowered the window, pushing his head out into the cool night air.
“Where did you find him?” he shouted.
“Under that tree,” the man said, jingling the identity disk with one finger. “Caught a bird and ate it.”
“Cheeky sod. The cat, I mean.”
Temeke tried to make out pale features in the shadows, thought he saw the flicker of a smile and then a pair of anxious, melancholy eyes. Young, early twenties at a guess, hair partly covered by a woolen hat.
“You live around here?” Temeke asked.
“Just passing through. Here.”
A ball of gray fur was suddenly posted through the window, claws clacking on the dashboard as the cat settled into the passenger seat with a disgruntled meow. Temeke noticed his rearview mirror was filling with the headlights of a passing truck and he motioned to the young man to step further back onto the grass curb to let it pass.
A loud honk from the driver indicated Temeke was too far out in the road, so he put the car in gear and rolled forward a few feet into his driveway. Holding his breath, he counted to three as the truck sped away leaving behind a thick spray of leaves.
His eyes swung back to the grass curb. There was no sign of the man, not until Temeke caught a slither of movement in his wing mirror. A figure jogged down the middle of the road through a cloud of exh
aust, turning sharply to the left and stooping beneath the branch of a tree.
Temeke closed the car window, fumbled with the key fob and locked the car with a bleep. He wasn’t about to lose sight of someone whose comment of passing through gave the bell in his brain a small tinkle.
The identity disk was engraved with his last name and address, and since Temeke was pulling into the driveway the young man would have naturally assumed he was the owner. But how long had he been waiting?
It looked as if he had bolted in the direction of the small adobe ruin. Temeke called it the ruin because the owner had done nothing in the past ten years to make the rental look habitable. Cracked stucco walls and weeds reaching almost as high as the nearest utility pole. It was the dope hut of the neighborhood.
He started walking away from the car, blinked a few times and wiped a stream of moisture from his eyes. It was bloody freezing and he thought he felt the first brush of snow on his bald head. Two street lamps spread a circle of light on the pavement below, not enough to give him an inkling of what lay beyond the trees.
Jogging down a small slope into an overgrown front yard, his boots crunched on brown balls of sycamore fruit and tapped against loose gravel. He studied every bush and shadow, hoping to see something moving near the perimeter. It was darker than a coal shed and he tensed and took a few steps forward.
To the right was a barrier of saplings and a rotting trellis. To his left a culvert of slurry and ice that swung sharply around one side of the old house. He’d seen the homeowner, what... twice? Spoke to him about the renovations, told him about the squatters. The City had recently dug a trench for the cabling, anything that might bring the place forward into the twenty-first century.
Temeke shouldered his way through a narrow gap in the trellis, cupped his hands around his face to peer in through a small side window. Couldn’t see a whole lot through wooden boards and tattered curtains, and the back door was locked. He was glad. Didn’t want to find two people in there having a shag like last time.
Locked?
So someone was looking after the place.
He had a sense the man had run along the gravel track behind the house. Couldn’t hear shoes pumping against rock and there was no sign of movement. Picking up speed, he jogged for several minutes beneath a full moon that had risen above the trees, blue and brooding against a wintry sky. The path was well worn and level, leading through clumps of sage to a cornfield and a stand of cottonwoods beyond.
Right where the field ended and where the trees began was a dark colored van parked on a narrow road that tapered round to Guadalupe Trail. He couldn’t recall the name of the road, but he reckoned it was a minor artery that fed into Fourth Street. One the farmers used. He had a moment of distraction, couldn’t decide if the towering stalks were maize or corn, and judging by the musty smell, the farmer had left the field to dry out too long.
The sound of whispering made him stop, made him peer between brittle husks, eyes swinging up and down the rows watching for movement. He couldn’t make out the words, only a slight swell in pitch before it was accompanied by a female voice.
He cast a glance behind him so he could get his bearings. Taking two careful steps at a time, he paused and listened to a rise in the wind. The voices grew louder, leaves rattling as if they had taken off toward the far corner of the field.
“It’s not working,” the female voice said.
“You’re just scared.” The second voice was deeper, certainly male.
“Well, maybe I am. I’ll get caught. The bad guys always do.”
“Down like flies. One by one. Dead and buried. You can do it.”
“I can’t do it,” the woman whined. “They always come back from the dead.”
“Then we’ll just kill them again.”
Temeke could see a cloud of breath above the corn as if the woman had thrown her head back in frustration.
There was nothing unusual about two lovers debating the course of their relationship. It was the reference to killing someone that made the hairs on the back of his neck itch, made him wonder if they were dealing in more than just morbid repartee.
Gang activity had become massive over the last ten years, bringing a whole new meaning to the slogan united states. Heroin and cocaine trafficking were only the top layer of the onion; the internet being the most powerful medium for key players rather than meeting in basements like they used to do.
He felt like a sodding stalker and without a good visual he had no idea if he was following the cat-man or two drugged-up lodgers from the old ruin.
He heard a sneeze and then an angry word. The man was playing her.
“Don’t even think about it. I know how your squalid little mind works. But then again, what makes me think you even have a mind?”
“Why me?” she said. “Wait, let me guess ‒ it’s because you’re too chicken.”
There was silence for a moment before stalks began bending and swaying as the couple broke into a walk.
“You’ll be free of them. Just think.” The man drew out the last word, said it like it would make a difference. “You have to do it. And you’re already half way through. Can’t stop now.”
The wind tugged at the stalks and the whole field seemed to rattle from the sudden gust. Temeke never heard her response, only the sound of the man’s voice when the wind died down.
“How I love this time of night. Porcelain and pristine. So very pretty.”
Temeke had to force himself not to run, feet moving carefully through the crunching detritus in time with their footfalls. He stood still for a few seconds, thought he saw movement through a thicket of corn about ten feet ahead. Snapping sheaves and swaying tassels told him the couple had circled back around, heading this time toward the very place he was standing.
Backing up in a narrow aisle, Temeke held his breath and listened. He parted two branches with both hands and watched a figure step out onto the moonlit track. The same man he had seen on Guadalupe Trail, the man who likely had a molt of cat hairs on that jacket of his.
“I’ll get the pizza.” He paced from side to side and seemed to be staring at someone in the shadows. He couldn’t have been more than ten feet away. A rustling sound and he stepped off the path and back into the darkness. “We’ll leave it outside the door with a note. She likes pizza and she likes cheese. Don’t you remember?”
“I can’t‒”
“Oh, but you can. You can go to Keller’s and get a bone. And don’t forget to cancel that dinner order.”
“There must be another way.”
Temeke noted the change in the woman’s voice, frightened now and trembling. He couldn’t see her, couldn’t identify her, and that made him nervous.
“There’s always another way.” The man paused for a moment. “Wait... I heard something.”
Temeke’s breath came hard and fast, adrenalin racing through his veins, and he covered his mouth to hide the vapor. The other hand hovered over the Glock in his belt.
A brief silence before leaves snapped and the two of them thundered in a southeasterly direction. It wasn’t as if the man assumed Temeke’s footfalls were those of a grouse. He knew he was being followed.
Temeke ran as close as he could, breaking out at the edge of the cornfield behind the van. He heard a door slam, engine revs, and then the thing swerved from side to side along the narrow road without any headlights.
Lurching onto the main road toward Corrales, it disappeared into the cold gray night.
TWENTY-FIVE
Gabriel approached Victory Hills around eight thirty on Friday night. He parked on Girard and removed the magnetic pizza delivery banners from both passenger doors.
Then he walked the rest of the way, smelling the metallic scent of a butcher’s bone in his backpack and the rush of a cold breeze. It was a close call.
He’d been playing that detective like a fish on a line, wanted to see how far he could go without being caught. There was a fifty-fifty chance those sha
rp black eyes had the license number of the van.
“You better hope it was too dark,” Demon said.
Gabriel stood at the west end of San Rafael Avenue, looking east toward a glazed hump of a mountain range, peaks capped in snow. It was the police unit parked half-way up the street that caught his eye, the only thing that marred his sense of peace.
“Always a cop when you don’t need one,” Demon muttered.
Gabriel stood beside a one-level home, white brick with a gray tiled roof. A corner lot with a five foot wall that faced Girard and curled around to San Rafael. Hauling himself over the wall, he scanned the back yard and the lots beyond. Judging by the block walls between each property, Gabriel only needed to scale about four of them to get to the back of number 5507 without being seen.
It was easier than he imagined. The homeowners who hadn’t drawn their blinds were glued to the TV, never saw him bolting across their yards.
When he arrived at the house, Gabriel saw the dog before it saw him, lips drawn back to receive a shank bone he’d bought from Keller’s meats. It was like a big spotted Labrador with a wagging tail, didn’t take much to coax it to the back corner of the lot where the thing had dug a crater-sized hole out of boredom.
The back door was locked, Gabriel could see the shadow of a bolt between the frame and the latch. The doggie door was his best bet, a large white frame that took up nearly half the bottom panel. He removed his backpack, pushed through a wide vinyl flap and crawled into the kitchen.
The remains of a medium-sized pizza box lay on the kitchen table with sprinkles of parmesan on the floor. She had staggered into the living room where he found her sitting on a wheel-back chair, groaning and hunched over a desk.
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