The question was, did she fight back?
Temeke peeled off his coveralls, leaving the technicians to process the scene. Silent thoughts echoed in his head as he staggered back to the car, until his attention snapped back to Luis’ voice.
“You OK?”
Temeke wasn’t sure he was, but he was darn sure about one thing. “This wasn’t a chance encounter or a one-night-stand gone wrong. It wasn’t a symbolic sacrifice either. It was a druggy, burnt-out psycho on a revenge kick and with any luck the perp might have left traces of himself all over her. Unless he was suited up.”
“Chemical tape and goggles...” Luis jutted his chin at the crime scene techs and nodded as if he noted the ingenuity of it. “’Course, you’d need to work in a place like that. Storm’s coming.”
Luis looked up at the clouds, hair flattened by a sudden gust of wind.
Temeke wasn’t worried about the storm. It was a face that suddenly came to mind. A face in a white suit, a face he recalled on his last case. Pauline Bailey’s former intern.
The car radio burst through his thoughts, a plaintive voice trying to raise them. He slowly lit a cigarette before announcing his whereabouts into the microphone.
“I’ve been trying to call you for ages,” It was Malin. “Adel Martinez... she’s missing.”
FORTY-SEVEN
Temeke arrived at Columbia Drive and adrenalin hit his nerves like a double shot of espresso. There was a light burning over the porch and the huddled figure of Detective Suzi Cornwell, punching a text into her cell phone with one finger.
Temeke stiffened at the sight of a cordoned off front yard and two Crown Vics parked against the curb, light bars flashing at full tilt. An elderly man in a housecoat had wandered out onto a neighboring yard, eyes screwed up against the rain. Officers must have been searching his house.
At this stage of the case, the victims were all apparent drug users ‒ a problem in Temeke’s mind because it widened his field of suspects. According to Hackett the public was concerned over these deaths, echoing one nagging question: Who’s taking our girls? Local news stations were asking if these women had any enemies in the drug world.
Suzi was pressed against the front door trying to keep the rain off her hair. “What have we got?” he asked.
“What was I thinking?” She blew hot air into her hands. “I told Roach it was a bad idea to let your lot in. Well, she’s gone. And you know the strangest thing? Adel Martinez doesn’t strike me as the type of girl who could find her way out of a paper bag.”
“Did you know she was a Lilin?” Temeke said, knowing Suzi was hinting at Malin’s incompetence.
“Off the record,” Suzi said, moving a little closer, “if Martinez is one of these made-up Lilins―”
“Which she is.”
“She’s probably taken off on her broomstick.” Suzi brushed a blonde curl off her forehead and looked up at him with clear blue eyes. “Might explain why no one saw her.”
“You’re not taking this seriously, are you?”
“Is there any reason why I should?”
“Since this is not my scene, as you correctly point out, I’ll leave you with the broomstick issue. No doubt you’ll have to extend the area of your search and a few more men. She could be in outer space.”
Bright red lips widened to a smile and she was giggling now. She was also standing too close within the limits of his personal space and he was aware of a thick flowery scent following her like an echo.
“Tell me,” she said, blinking away a drop of rain. “Are the rumors true?”
“What rumors?”
“That you’re a single man?”
His fingertips began to tingle in his jacket pocket as if they had touched a clump of ice and were warming up again. “Separated,” he corrected.
“We should have lunch.”
“Not many great restaurants in your neck of the woods.”
“Who said anything about my neck of the woods.”
Temeke’s mind went back to the conversation Captain Fowler had had with Hackett in the board room, the one about Suzi Cornwell becoming a third spoke in their cozy world.
“My treat,” she said, sensing his hesitation.
“Good. Let’s talk soon then.” He heard a dog barking and glanced up the street at a Belgian Malinois and a dog handler. “I see you put officer Manning’s K-9 to work. Looks like he’s parked his ass in front of the neighbor’s house. Bang goes your broomstick theory.”
“What do you know about dogs?”
“I know Brock’s canine teeth are made of titanium and I know he’s telling us this is where he needs to be. Adel must have jumped over the wall between her house and theirs, walked straight through the front yard and hitched a ride out of the Dodge. A four-year-old could work that one out, love.”
Temeke muscled his way past her and squeezed in through a half open door. Cold air seeped in behind him and he closed it with a bang.
“What the bloody hell happened?” He followed Malin into the bathroom, wind whipping the shower curtain through the open window. He could hear a woman crying down the hall. “Did Adel slither out of there all naked and wet? Bet that gave the neighbors something to gawp at.”
“She took her phone, purse... probably jeans and a black sweater.” Malin was rubbing the back of her neck with one hand and pointing at the window with the other. “The window’s three feet by two. I just measured it. I should have followed her that night, not Paddy.”
Malin led him to the living room, dimly lit and thickly carpeted. “Now you’re here you might as well take off that wet coat.”
Temeke shrugged off his leather jacket and hooked it over a chair. “Who’s relieving you tonight?”
“Officer Jarvis. Midnight.”
“Where’s Sarah Hughes?”
Malin sat on the couch, head to one side, watching him. “She’s in her room, crying her eyes out. Maggie’s with her. I’ll freaking kill Adel!”
“Now remember, Marl, forgiveness is the vernacular of Christianity.”
“Where could she possibly have gone?”
“I doubt the dozy cow’s sipping Chardonnay and dipping her feet in a Jacuzzi. Let’s think about this for a minute. Was she happy, angry, upset?”
“Upset. Said she felt boxed in, smothered. Can’t blame her with all the police attention she’s been getting. She also said, and I quote, ‘I’m glad Paddy’s dead because now no one else can have him’. Maggie found a note Adel must have written. Found it on the kitchen counter.”
“What’s it say?”
“First off, you’re the one who doesn’t like coincidence and it’s a coincidence Zarah Thai’s alert and talking. Let’s just say Adel had a plan when she told me she was going to take a shower.”
“Shall we toss for it, Marl? Cause the way I see it Adel doesn’t have the balls to kill anyone. Hasn’t exactly been lifting weights on the sly, has she? And her voice is nothing like the one I heard in the cornfield. If you’re worried about Zarah, don’t be. She’s got more security than Governor Bendish.”
“The killer... there’s been no cooling-off period, sir.”
Temeke knew this was the most dangerous time, when the killer began to lose his grip on reality, no organization, no planning, just an orgy of bloodbaths. As in the case of Ted Bundy, his mind had become so chaotic leading to decompensation, recklessness and mistakes, it was surprising he could function at all. Temeke refrained from digging into that deteriorated and rotting psyche because Bundy had worked alone.
He was also conscious of a wave of wretchedness as he relived an interview with an earlier serial killer whose stories were a rats' nest of hallucinations, lies and fantasy. A getting-off on the torment he forced his victims to endure, reliving it, taking pleasure in it ‒ so much so ‒ Temeke no longer wanted to encounter that kind of evil.
This killer was another he would have to confront, to study the coldness of those eyes, the nothingness, until he was drained and incapacitated. U
ntil he eventually lost his mind.
Malin took the note and handed it to him. “Read this.”
He allowed his eyes to skim over the words in the note, knowing they were significant.
Sarah, everything’s OK. I just went out to get something. I’ll be back before you know it.
He felt the tension in his spine at the first crack of thunder outside and the wind whistling against the side of the house. Judging by Brock’s announcement Adel had been picked up outside the neighbor’s house. And possibly by someone she knew.
It was Malin’s voice that made him realize he had been staring at a slick wall of rain against the window for too long. He forced down the vile images, forced himself back into driving mode.
“Adel mentioned something about a questing demon, the type that moves around a lot, lives rough, homeless. Like the intersections before the freeway, or general dosser territory on 2nd and 3rd Street. It’s a weak thread, sir, but I can’t help thinking he’s the answer.”
“I’m counting on him sticking out, Marl. A man called Demon... a man with a demon tattoo dressed in Goth clothing. Sounds like a few familiar faces in the International District. Someone might have noticed him.”
The dense area around Central was a possibility, once called the warzone due to low income and crime. Temeke felt a spike of hope. The chances of picking up his trail were strong.
“I knew this would happen. Haven’t slept a wink for the past two nights,” she said, patting her chest. “I could feel it in here every time I prayed.”
It was during times like these that Temeke wished he had an in with God, and he began to wonder what specialized coms Malin used to raise him. “Listen, I know how you’re feeling, love. But you can’t be in every room.”
Temeke felt his phone shudder, saw a message from Dr. Vasillion’s office and pressed the speaker button. The words came out in a fluent stream like an eager sprinter who had bolted before the starting pistol.
“The blood on the doorframe belonged to Paddy Brody, but not the handprint. Blunt force trauma caused by the antique iron. Heavy... it would have taken some strength, but it would have brought him down. Easier to get a quick slice to the throat then.”
“And Ms. Samadi?”
“Asha Samadi was killed in the house and latterly moved to the cemetery. A blow to the right of the cranium and above the ear was made by an object with a sharp edge. Consistent with the metal poker your boys sent over. Contusions to the forehead suggest her head was thrown forward onto the stretcher bar below the music rack. She was playing the piano when she died.”
“Would that explain the blood spurts?”
“Not the first blow. There would have been bleeding into the cranial cavity at this site. But the second and subsequent strikes would have caused spattering, rather than a strong stream. Depends how close the assailant was to the victim.”
“Of course, the crime scene was compromised, doc. The roommate was there for a few days trampling in all the good stuff.”
Temeke tapped the phone off, dragging a wrist over his forehead. Blood typing was fast. DNA not so fast.
“Listen, love. I need to wash all this stink off before going to Valerie Delgado’s.” Temeke studied a brave smile. “You should go home. Cornwell’s requesting it.”
He felt a draft of warm air on the back of his neck, gooseflesh raising on his arms. He didn’t want to leave Malin when she was chugging along on the last gallon of energy, battling whatever dark forces were at work in her mind.
“One more thing.” He could see she was examining him, wondering what he was going to say next. “Remember Pauline Bailey’s intern on the Oliver case? Find out what her name was, will you?”
FORTY-EIGHT
Temeke relit an old cigarette butt he had found in his top pocket and dribbled the smoke from his nose. Two more drags and the rest of it was posted through a gap in the car window.
He was proud of Malin and the way she handled the interviews, and he was proud of her profiling skills. She could match the best of them and in keeping with being a truthful lawman, he would state it to her personally.
He also had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach and tried to fight the impulse to pull over and throw up. His stomach was rebelling against the absence of food and a sudden hike of adrenalin that threatened to put his mind on overload.
Something was wrong the minute he turned into his driveway. The rain was coming down harder now against his windshield and in the moonlight he could see an ornamental tree stooping in the wind. There were tracks across his lawn, a kidney-shaped piece of artificial grass which the New Mexico water service wholeheartedly supported. He was too lazy to walk around it to get to his mailbox and his feet had worn a path down the middle.
It struck him that the screen over Serena’s old quilting room window was lying against the exterior wall. Either the hardware had rusted and caused it to pop out, or someone had removed it. And if someone had removed it, they might still be in the house.
Turning off the ignition, he reached inside his jacket and drew his weapon. Over the patter of rain he could hear the sound of breathing as if he was sharing the same space with someone else. Not someone, something. He wasn’t imagining it.
He turned and scanned the driveway, cloudy from jeep exhaust. It was full of shadows. Nothing between the trees, no movement, no signs of life.
It could have been Fats Riley’s dog chuffing in the long grass. But that was unlikely since the old wooden kennel was saturated with rainwater and there would have been a few loud barks as Temeke drove in.
He frowned, eyes weaving in and out of the stand of cottonwoods. Back and forth, back and forth, and returning to the tree closest to the gate. There was something about it and he looked toward the ground first and then up into the branches. Still nothing.
He tried to take in what might be lurking behind the undulating stems of buffalo grass and a slouching desert willow. Then his heart did a wheelie because something had moved from behind the tree and without making a sound. And that something had been real close.
His senses told him it was gone even though his instincts screamed at him to go after it. Too fast for a human, more intuitive like a scavenging coyote.
Wind gusted across a sea of green, swirling leaves and tumbleweeds not yet flattened by the rain. Steadying the weapon in front of him, he eased his way through the front door where two wings of the house fanned out from a large hallway and the kitchen beyond. He checked the patio door, windows, kitchen, closets and living room. All in order, just as he had left them.
He checked the quilting room, heard his own breath, harsh and dry in his throat, and a stillness in the air he was used to. The flip lock on the vertical window was broken, possibly someone using a flat tip screwdriver and a few hard taps with a mallet. Possibly years of opening and closing until the hardware gave out. What would anyone want in Sparta? The name he fondly called his house now most of the furniture and valuables were gone.
The screen had been removed. Fact. The intruder was on foot. Fact. Ergo there would be some muddy footprints around here, on the tile, the carpet...
Nada. Yet he couldn’t help feeling the essence of a second person who puffed out a breath of air every time he did. He looked over his shoulder before leaping up the stairs two steps at a time and was met with an angry meow on the landing. It gave him a start.
Dodger. The next time he caught the bugger crapping in the laundry basket the gun in his hand might accidentally go off.
He checked all the places an intruder would hide, stood for a while listening to the soughing of the heater and the scratch of a tree branch against the bathroom window. All familiar sounds.
The vague footprint when he found it was a boot sole, half on the carpet and half on the tile floor of the bathroom. Serena never wore boots. But he did.
He called himself a few choice names, re-holstered his gun and sat down on the end of his bed. The stink that came off his body was more important than c
hasing ghosts, or even food right now. If there had been anyone in the house they were long gone.
Laying out a fresh set of clothes, he peeled off his harness and hooked it behind the bathroom door. He liked to watch that gun from the shower, inseparable as if it was part of his skin. And he liked the door half open so he could see the bedroom and the hall beyond.
Hot water stabbed at his back and legs and he allowed his mind to swim with images of an open grave, a pale skinned girl, the brutality of it all. This case wasn’t a family massacre but it sure felt like one. Temeke had been exposed to sexual homicide many times and although there was no evidence of sexual assault, the use of a knife could be construed as a substitute for penetration. Worst of all, he sensed the perp reveled in the excitement of the killing and there was no doubt in Temeke’s mind the man was still executing his mission.
There were signs he was unraveling and didn’t seem to care about the chaos of each violent attack. Signs he wanted to escape the terror of his existence, signs he might have wanted to give himself up. Yet, after the field investigators had sifted through every inch of the crime scene it had been curiously clean of trace evidence.
A continual hum followed by a clacking sound pulled him back to the present. His phone was buzzing on the countertop, dangerously close to the sink. He could tell by the tone in Luis’ voice there had been a development of some kind.
“Bad news. Cornwell’s team still haven’t found Adel Martinez and someone leaked her picture to the press. Good news. Manager called in an abandoned van outside the Dollar store on Southern an hour ago. Gay. 1972 Chevy. Back tire was flat and there was oil all over the road. Looks like someone’s been living in it for a while. Security footage picked up a man last night, sometime around nine o’clock. He was wearing a black beanie, dark hair. Got out of the truck and walked into the store. And then ten minutes later he was walking with a bag toward Unser. The manager’s off this week, but she said she’d come in if you could make it in half an hour. I’ll tell Mrs. Delgado you’ll be late.”
Past Rites Page 24
