Alien Eyes

by Lynn Hightower

  “The boys?” David said.

  “Back in the bedroom with Law. Lawrence. Their grandfather.” She wiped her eyes. “Doped to the gills all three of them, and curled up on the bed together, watching cartoons. Anything, to take their minds off—” Her voice cracked. “Detective Silver, please. What exactly happened?”

  “Someone—more than one, we think. Came in at night, probably just after your son and daughter-in-law had gone to bed.” David pictured Charlotte McCallum tangled on the floor in fishing line and blood. “And killed them,” he said lamely.

  “What about Stephen? No, my gosh.” She put a hand to her mouth. “He wasn’t there. He’s out of town. I need to call him.” She bit down on the back of her hand. “Oh, God.”

  “Who is Stephen?”

  “Stephen Arnold. Charlotte’s father, he lived with them. He teaches at Edmund. They both do—he and Charlotte. Oh, my God.”

  “Mrs. McCallum, we found the body of an Elaki juvenile. We think maybe this Elaki may have—”

  “Probably Barran. Sitter, they called him. He lived with them. Kind of greyish on the outside, and red in the middle?”

  David raised a hand, noncommittal. There had been little left to ID.

  “He gets room and board in exchange for helping with the boys. Kind of like an Elaki au pair, though I understand he was studying the boys for some kind of project. I … so he’s dead, too?”

  “If it’s him. We don’t have a positive ID yet.” He looked at her. Her face was blank. She hadn’t taken the hint. No matter, David decided. He wouldn’t ask her to look. There wasn’t enough left for her to tell for sure anyway.

  “How … how did they do it?”

  David put a hand on her knee. “Charlotte was shot. Mark was drowned in the bathtub.”

  She whimpered, swallowed hard, making a kind of gurgling noise.

  “Let me get you a glass of water,” David said.

  She shook her head. Her bottom lip quivered and she caught it between her teeth. She breathed hard, through her nose. “How long did they suffer?” She looked puzzled. “How long does it take to drown?”

  “He would have lost consciousness fairly quickly.” David did not elaborate. She’d find out soon enough. He’d make sure Miriam talked to her before she got details from news reports. For the moment, he needed her mind as clear as possible.

  “I have videos of them. Charlotte and Mark, and the boys. Do you need them?”

  “Not just now,” David said. He shifted sideways in the chair. “Tell me. How were things going? Between Charlotte and your son?”

  “What do you mean? Do you mean their marriage?”

  “Any problems? Did either of them seem worried maybe, or preoccupied?”

  “Um, no. Well. Charlotte was … had something on her mind. But it didn’t have anything to do with this.”

  A door opened and a toilet flushed. David heard the faint rumble of a television before the door shut.

  He smiled at Wendy McCallum. “What was Charlotte upset about?”

  “She … her period was late. She thought she might be pregnant. I think she was pregnant. And she hadn’t made up her mind what to do about it.”

  “Did Mark discuss this with you?”

  Mrs. McCallum shook her head. “Mark didn’t talk to me about things. He was very reserved. But Charlotte … she was close to me. Truly a … a daughter. She lost her own mother when she was so very young, and she seemed—” Wendy McCallum’s voice broke. “She seemed genuinely pleased to … to kind of let me be her mother.”

  “Did either of them ever mention upsetting phone calls? Crank calls or—”

  “Someone had been calling and hanging up. It was traced, of course, to some kind of phone booth. They didn’t think much of it. You think it had something to do with … with this?”

  David shrugged. “Probably not. Mrs. McCallum, how were the two of them getting along? You said Charlotte was pregnant? Would that have been a problem, between the two of them?”

  Wendy McCallum drew back. “It was Charlotte that didn’t want any more children. Actually, neither of them did. But I honestly don’t think Mark knew. She was only a few days gone.”

  “Any other problems?”

  Wendy McCallum bit her bottom lip. “They had a good marriage.”

  David looked at her.

  “There were the usual tensions, of course. Nothing major.”

  “Such as?”

  She curled her feet up under her on the couch and squinted. Fine lines crinkled the parchment-thin skin around her eyes. She was aging, right in front of him.

  “The toilet seat thing.” She sounded exasperated. “He always left it up. Charlotte thought it was on purpose and she teased him about it, because he was usually so meticulous. And she and her father had books and papers and disks everywhere. Stephen was a pack rat, and Mark grew up to be a neat freak, though heaven knows I didn’t raise him that way.”

  David glanced at the dark and crowded living room. His sympathies were with Mark, an orderly man surrounded by a chaotic family.

  “Charlotte was the same way. Messy, and kind of stacked things up. But that was just Charlotte, don’t think badly of her. She was a very exuberant person, very good for Mark, who could be a stick sometimes. They drove each other crazy once in a while, but … but …”

  David raised a hand. “I understand. I’m married myself.”

  She sighed. “Then you know.”

  “Had they been robbed recently? Cars stolen or broken into? Interference with credit, or ID?”

  She shook her head. “No. Nothing like that.”

  “You mentioned Charlotte’s father. He lived with them?”

  “Yes. He and Charlotte both worked at Edmund, both taught there. And it was a nice arrangement. He’d be there for the boys if they wanted to go out. And he liked the hustle and bustle of the household, and not having to eat alone. He’s an interesting man, quite brilliant. Dotes on George and Mickey … the … the boys. He always says they keep him tied to reality. He’s a very scholarly man. Quite well thought of, in his field.”

  “What is his field?”

  “Political science. He’s a full professor at the Edmund School of Diplomacy. Chairman of the department, at one time, though he moved away from the administrative side, to have more time to write.”

  “Ah. How well do you know him? How would you describe him?”

  “Well, he, he’s very … intense. Youngish and interested in everything. Very capable, you know. Not the professor stereotype.” Her cheeks turned pink. “But still absentminded, the way brilliant people can be. You know?”

  David nodded.

  “He smokes. I know that’s been a problem between him and Mark.”

  “Can you tell me where he is?”

  “It was some kind of last-minute thing. And Charlotte and Mark had plans to go out—I think she was going to talk to Mark about the baby. So I told Charlotte we’d take George and Mickey for a few nights. We took them fishing. Out at the pay lake on Tonner Mill Pike.”

  “I see. So it was a last-minute trip? Of Stephen Arnold’s?”

  She nodded.

  “When did it come up?”

  “Four, maybe five days ago.”

  “Otherwise he would have been there?”

  “Yes, but …”

  “But what?”

  “It’s just good. That he wasn’t there.”

  “Yes,” David said. “Tell me, was Dr. Arnold political?”

  “Well, of … oh, you mean political.” She tilted her head to one side, narrowing her eyes. “He had strong viewpoints. But he was always very good at seeing both sides.”

  “Did he have many Elaki friends?”

  “Oh, yes. Professionally, and personally. Students. He was very popular with the young ones. And colleagues, of course.”

  “Did he have any affiliation with the Guardians?”

  “The Guardians? Funny, now, that you should bring that up.”

  Dav
id sat forward.

  “He did a piece on them—some kind of paper he presented at a conference a few months ago. It was in Austria, I think. Yes. Because he said he ate a lot of pastry there and it wasn’t sweet. There wasn’t much sugar in it. Like here.”

  David nodded.

  “It got a lot of attention,” she said. “They had his picture in the papers. Charlotte said it was major work, but she did tend to … well, to exaggerate her father’s importance. Which I think is sweet in a daughter.”

  “Yes,” David said. “Yes, it is.”

  She was quiet for a long moment. David watched her patiently. She was thinking about something. She closed her eyes, then opened them wide.

  “Detective. Can I go there? To the house?”

  David chewed his lip. “Just now it might be best—”

  “But, you see, he’d leave his itinerary. Stephen, I mean. One of the note minder chips—these ones with the magnets on the back? Press it and it would reel off where he was going to be. Name and numbers. He always did that. He’d leave it on the door of the refrigerator. So Charlotte could find him if she needed him. I could get that for you and then we’d know where he is.”

  “Why don’t I take care of it?” David said gently.

  “You don’t want me in the house.”

  David frowned. “I won’t stop you.”

  “Oh, but … my son. I almost think I should. Don’t you?”

  “No, ma’am. I don’t.”

  The skin of her face sagged. The veins in her neck seemed to stand out, blue under crepe-thin, white skin.

  “Why do these things happen?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Why would anyone hurt them? Do you know who did it?”

  The thought hit her suddenly. He’d expected it sooner.

  “Home invaders?” she asked. The implications sank in, and her voice moved up a register. “The cho invaders?”

  “Too early to know for sure,” David lied.

  “Oh, no, oh, God.” She waved a hand in the air. “You get them. The bastards.” She sobbed. “Get them.”

  David nodded. It was always the women who wanted revenge.

  “I’ll get them,” he told her solidly. He inclined his head toward the hallway, and the bedroom where two little boys huddled with their grandfather, filling their minds with cartoons. “And you look after them.”

  Wendy McCallum stood up, gritted her teeth, and shook his hand, her own trembling hard. David knew she would take the bargain seriously.

  SIXTEEN

  From a distance the house looked innocent.

  The word stuck in David’s mind. It was an odd aspect of this case—the innocence of the victims. This was not a crime where John Q. Public was out where he had no business being. These were Elaki and humans, locked away in their homes, unsafe in the night.

  He thought of Rose and his daughters, alone on the farm in the dark.

  David told the car to wait in the driveway. The yellow crime scene stamps glowed in the windows of the house, like lighted jack-o’-lanterns on Halloween. The flies were gone—sucked in by the nano machines for analysis of stomach contents. The mailbox had been emptied. David passed his badge across the stamp on the front door. The lock released and let him through.

  The bloodstain was gone, recorded, absorbed, and tagged by the nano machines that had swept through the house. The smell of death was officially erased, though David could detect it in the air. Perhaps the odor came from his own clothes.

  He went to the kitchen. The garbage can was empty. Daley did a good crime scene, no slop. Cops like Daley were unusual.

  The body was gone, but David felt the presence. Memory, he thought. Imagination. Fatigue. All a beautiful dream.

  He never had beautiful dreams.

  But he was glad the body was gone. For a moment his mind superimposed Charlotte’s framed portrait over the ravage of her face. The gaping bloody image won out. It was always that way, and David didn’t fight it. The forensic psychiatrist on staff would never give more than a glance to the faces of the victims. David was convinced she immediately forgot them. Certainly she never remembered their names—it interfered with her empathy with the perp.

  He would let Charlotte be pretty again after he caught her killer. Killers. He could see them, vague images, Elaki images. He picked up the phone and dialed Miriam’s extension.

  “Forensics, Miriam Kellog.”

  “Miriam? It’s Silver.”

  “C’mon, David, I just gave it all to String. Can’t you guys coordinate? I got work here.”

  “The killers were Elaki—weren’t they?”

  “David. Yes.”

  “The same three?”

  “Too early, David. I’m just getting started.”

  “You sound tired.”

  “So do you.”

  “When you do get some information—will you hold the release?”

  “David, I’ve got Ogden to deal with.”

  “Della will be giving you a call, by the way. She’s got some new software to pass along.”

  “How nice.”

  “Pay attention, Miriam. Give the software a chance. No, hush, listen. Let Della show you what she’s got. Will you do that? As a favor to me?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “And no details to the press until—”

  “David—”

  “Until you talk to Mark McCallum’s parents. And until Charlotte’s father’s been notified.”

  “Right. Of course.”

  “And until you hear what Della has to show you.”

  “Ummm.”

  “Thank you, Miriam.”

  David went to the kitchen. The door of the refrigerator was scoured clean. He went back to the phone. Daley was home.

  “Hope I didn’t get you up.”

  “Nah. Just doing a book tape,” Daley said. “What’s up?”

  “I need to know if there was any kind of memo chip—you know those ones with magnets on the back? Were there any of those on the refrigerator door?”

  “I don’t think so. Have to access the list. Can you hold a few minutes?”

  “Sure.”

  David wondered if Daley was married, if he had kids. Home late at night doing a book tape? No kids, likely. Probably no wife. David tapped his foot. He always seemed to be waiting. He hated waiting.

  “Sorry, David.” Daley sounded out of breath. “Baby woke up and I had to stop and pick him up.”

  David heard the soft voice of a young baby who has the four A.M. sociables. Daley muttered sweet witticisms that would go unappreciated by anyone over the age of six months, then his voice shifted into a lower register.

  “Nope. No memo chips on the fridge or anywhere else. What brought this on?”

  “Just a thought. Thanks for checking.”

  “No problem.” The baby squawked. “Somebody’s out of patience here. Better wake Miss Mama up.”

  “Good luck,” David said, and meant it. He remembered, with comfortable nostalgia, long wakeful nights with his own daughters.

  The phone rang as soon as he hung up.

  “Silver,” he said, picking it up.

  “Oh. Detective. This is Wendy McCallum.”

  “Are you all right, Mrs. McCallum?”

  “I just …”

  “Is something—” He was about to ask her if something was wrong, but the question seemed monstrous in its stupidity.

  “I was calling the answering machine.” Her voice was thick. “I wanted to hear my son’s voice.”

  David was quiet a long moment. “Of course. I won’t be here too much longer if you … if you need to call again.”

  “Good night,” she said, barely mouthing the word.

  David hung up. He frowned, then punched in one more number.

  “Homicide Task Force, Detective Martinas.”

  “Della? David. Listen, I need you to get a hold of the department chairman of the Edmund School of Diplomacy. Charlotte McCallum’s father, Stephen Arnold, is a full professor t
here. He’s on some kind of business trip-right now, and I need to find him.”

  “Sure, David.”

  “And, Della, there’s more to this than notification and questioning. Wherever he is, you get the local cops in and explain that we have a situation.”

  “You think he did it?”

  “I think he was the target. I want him protected and brought here.”

  “What makes you—”

  “Not now, not on the phone. Mel around?”

  “Captain’s office. You want to talk to him?”

  “Ask him to meet me at … say, Cooper’s, in half an hour.”

  “Sure.”

  “One more thing. Call Miriam in forensics—but not until Arnold is squared away. Then get to Miriam and explain our new software to her.”

  “Our … you mean what we talked about in that yogurt place?”

  “You had time to look into that?”

  “Hell no.”

  “Look into it. Get Pete to help you.”

  “In our copious spare time.”

  “Do it, Della. We’re going to be taking it from all directions starting now.”

  “We already take it from all directions.”

  “It’s going to get worse. Trust me on that.”

  “And you’re saying the best defense is a good bureaucracy?”

  “Trust me on that, too.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Cooper’s wasn’t crowded after the dinner rush on a week night. Most people in now were there for beer and appetizers, or dessert and coffee.

  David was eating onion rings, ignoring the cup of pinkish-white sauce they came with and dipping them in catsup. Mel slid into the seat across from him.

  “Suppose to use the sauce, David.” Mel looked at the waiter. “Beer. A Gornsby.” He took an onion ring and dipped it in catsup.

  The waiter brought a brown bottle and a fluted glass. “Something to eat?” he said. He wore glasses and his hair was cut short, with a trendy divot in back.

  “Chili dog,” Mel said. “Onions, cheese, and kraut.”

  “More onion rings,” David said.

  “Another beer?”

  David nodded. He took a bite from his cheese steak sandwich.

  Mel closed his eyes and leaned back in the booth. He looked older, David decided. His hair was curly and getting too long.