What if the man saw it? Adam didn’t want the barrel of a gun pressed against his head and filthy words spitting in his face. He didn’t want his hands tied either.
On towards the wall to a place where a hole gaped between the hedge and the gate post. He hadn’t noticed it before. Twigs snapped and then a ripping sound as he was wrenched through.
The truck smelled of new leather, driver’s window open a crack and letting in a cold draft of air. The man pushed him over into the passenger seat from the driver’s side and locked the doors.
“Stay down!” he shouted, snapping on the seat belt.
There was something in his voice that sounded pained, like he’d sat on something sharp. Then he slammed the car door and ripped off the duct tape. Adam yelped. It hurt like hell.
The truck lurched down the road, engine rumbling and growling onto Riverfront Drive. In those few precious moments while his pulse throbbed and blood streamed through each limb, he remembered writing down the truck’s license plate on the back of a piece of paper. Only like an idiot, he’d left it in Wendover’s car. His mom would be home soon. She would know what to do.
He could see car lights on Coors through a thick veil of snow, see someone getting out of a car at the gas station. So close, but too far away to hear him. They were almost at the intersection before the man slammed on the brake. “Ho-lee crap!”
He let out a string of cuss words, something about a cyclist and a barking dog, and then he picked up speed after that.
Adam still felt the prickle of fear as he slumped in that seat, felt his throat go dry. “My dad… is he dead?”
The man lit a cigarette, took a deep breath and let out a jet of smoke. His head seemed to rock from side to side and he was grinning like a clown at the fair.
THREE
At the end of her shift, Detective Malin Santiago changed into jogging clothes and ran two blocks along the street to a leafy track behind Corrales Cafe. She was thirty-five but with a youthful glow attributed to Hispanic roots, she could easily pass for twenty-five.
As she ran through the parking lot, through seams of amber light cast by the restaurant windows, all she could hear was the steady crunch of her running shoes on snow. Eleven-thirty on a Sunday night and a thin mist meandered listlessly between the trees, three strands of it like thick bellied serpents floating on air and close enough to touch.
She thought about the Ringmaster, a name the Press had given to the killer of eleven young boys missing since 2001. Boys ranging from six years old to thirteen, all snatched from a skateboarding ramp where teenagers gathered after school to blow off steam. It was thought the killer had lured them into his car with a promise of a ride home and a bottle of alcohol.
They were found tied to trees and arranged in a circle two hundred miles away in Gila National Forest. The bodies bore evidence of high levels of drugs and alcohol in the blood system, rendering them insensate before being killed. The trail had gone cold after 2011, a dead end. No evidence. Nada.
Then a phone call came in a week ago, a deep voice that sounded genuine. “There’s a boy,” it said, “or what’s left of him… tied to a tree… must have been there for years.”
They found Evan Trader, the last victim in a circle of trees, wrists and ankles bound. Dr. Vasillion had reported extensive blunt force trauma to the head and death by asphyxiation, probably within five to six hours of the kidnap. Twelve years old. Missing for two years. They cut him away from a pale coated aspen still pink with dried blood. Just like the trees she saw now. It made her sick if she thought about it, played tricks on her mind as if she could see it happening in real time.
She could hear the rhythm of each breath and the distant sound of friendly chatter from the street. After twenty minutes the track became a concrete roadway, winding behind a strip mall into a parking lot. She stopped to catch her breath, looking up at steely clouds in a dark sky.
The snow came down hard now and she could hear cars racing through slush. There were two servers sitting at a table in the café kicking back at the end of their shift. She could see them through the window. Kissing, laughing, touching.
It had been three long months since she last saw Sargent Hollister in New Jersey, the one man she could really call a boyfriend. Three long weeks since she saw him on Heartfree.com, the only dating website worth joining. He invited her to chat, reminded her of the good times, said he’d keep in touch.
She hadn’t dared talk to him again, not after making such a fool of herself. Begging was a fool’s game. You never tell someone you love them online. Never… never… never. And the same fool couldn’t wait another three long weeks for a reply.
She’d sent a photo this time. A selfie leaning against a tree, hair mussed by the wind and eyes staring off into the distance. An Hispanic model with perfect skin and a few touchups here and there. If he asked, she would tell him it had been taken by Detective Temeke down by the Bosque five weeks ago. Let Hollister figure out why they had been there in the first place.
What’s the point, she thought. Hollister made himself available with a bunch of other single men desperately seeking who knows who. There was no avatar. He was too smart for that. And she wondered if he would ever reply.
She glanced at her watch, aware of her wheezing breaths and the sound of a throbbing heartbeat. A scuffling sound a few yards to her left. Something ran along the top of the wall behind the houses. Instinct told her to look back along that track, through a milky haze where a shape darted into the shadows and out of sight.
She was too close to the road to be gripped in some paralytic terror only to find a coyote, the most skillful of impostors, prowling among the trees. She stood there on the sidewalk wondering why the creature was comfortable in such a populated part of town. It must have been attracted to all the rotting food in the dumpsters.
A silver-yellow moon illuminated the way back to her apartment and the rich scent of cedar wafted towards her in the windless air. She bolted through the parking lot and across the road to Calle Cuervo, spine sheathed in a film of sweat. Took the steps to her second floor apartment, two at a time, and unlocked the front door with one flick of her key. Not much of a run, but at least her heart was pumping now.
Breathless she stared at the laptop on the kitchen table and grazed the mouse with her middle finger. Typing in her username and password, she saw a single message in her inbox from WingMan.
Love the photo.
Wait… that was it? She felt the slow, steady thud of her heart, felt her fingers tapping the keys.
Good to talk to you.
She waited for a moment, heard the clock ticking on the mantelshelf and the loud breath of the heater. The screen glared back at her for nearly a minute. Three dots and a bubble. He was typing.
I’ve been waiting for you.
Malin blew out a loud sigh and sat back in her chair. She wanted to know what he’d been doing. Instead she typed just three words.
Where are you?
I could be outside your front door?
Malin listened to the leaves outside as they skittered down the stairwell and the high pitched moan of the wind. He wasn’t the dark shape behind the café. She’d be in his arms in a heartbeat if he was, asking him if he missed her, wanted her. Did he?
Do you miss me?
She winced after she pressed SEND. A fool never learns. A fool knows if a man doesn’t call, doesn’t send flowers, doesn’t say those three glorious words it’s because he doesn’t want to.
She stared at that screen, thoughts fading in and out, knowing the excitement they once had was all but gone. He made her wait. Always made her wait. Three minutes this time as she made a cup of tea and sat in front of the computer mashing that bag with a teaspoon until it was a heap of leaves and soggy paper. The cloud popped up again and the same little dots flickered back and forth.
Know what I think? You shouldn’t have said goodbye.
So that was it. He didn’t like the night they’d spent togethe
r, the night where she slept in his bed without taking off her clothes. He hadn’t exactly been the model of good manners, picking at her bra with his fingernails, grunting like a pig in a pen. It scared her, that’s what. Malin bashed out a message and hit ENTER.
You’re full of it.
He wasted no time, the dots virtually vibrated now.
That’s my Malin. That’s my girl. Plenty more bullets in your chamber. So…been jogging?
She was about to type something when he beat her to it.
Lost any weight?
Malin scratched her chin. There wasn’t a squelch of fat around her stomach and thighs. All hard and mainly muscle.
Fifteen pounds. I look like Barbie.
You’ll always be my Barbie.
All of a sudden she wished she hadn’t said Barbie. There were loads of bottle-blonds in the Camden pubs all looking for good night out, all happy to give themselves away without a wedding. ADA Valerie Weeks for one, or the twenty-two year old from the liquor store on Madison Street.
Malin wrote: Thought you didn’t like blonds. He didn’t like assistant district attorneys either.
More blinking dots: A guy can change his mind, can’t he? Now, now, no need to be jealous.
She gulped in air, felt like she had been winded in the stomach. He was playing her and if she wasn’t careful she would plummet down a mine shaft and never get out.
Who said anything about being jealous? Two minutes passed this time, not that she was counting. Are you still there?
I’m always here.
Part of her wanted to ask him if he thought of her during his down time. She stared at that screen, took a sip of tea and peeled a stray leaf from her lip. Why talk to a man who had broken her heart, dumped her and run off with a blond.
Three little dots. Any good cases?
Unreal. All he wanted to do was talk about work. She wanted to tell him to mind his own business, but settled on: Same old.
If you need any help just let me know. I’m always here.
So you’ve already said, she whispered between gritted teeth. The conversation was going nowhere. Feel like using the phone?
Better this way. More private.
She imagined a blond in his apartment fumbling with the zipper on a tight blue dress, felt the familiar prickle of jealousy and began to chew herself out.
We could text?
So many questions. So little time.
She wanted to tell him to stop messing about, to be serious. Instead she settled on: Why can’t we talk on the phone?
It’s too late for that.
Too late for what? Three little dots blinked, only this time WingMan faded to a blur and signed off. Not even a goodbye. Probably still mad that’s what. Mad that she had once been an escort on a well-known website in her younger years to pay off a student loan, mad she wasn’t cheap and slutty like he’d hoped.
She knew a thing or two about computers, knew her way around the chat rooms, the dating sites. So what was he doing on there anyway? Surveillance? All that talking on the computer made her body feel cold.
The phone rattled on the table beside her and scooted to the floor. She stared at it for a moment and decided to let it go to voicemail. Five seconds later, it rang again. She had an uneasy, nagging feeling and this time she picked it up.
“Might want to get down here, Marl,” Detective Temeke said. “Twelve-year-old boy’s gone missing and his dad’s taken a bullet. The Mayor’s residence. Big yellow house on Riverfront drive. Can’t bloody miss it.”
FOUR
Detective Temeke wiped a hand over his bald head and took a deep breath. He checked his watch against the mantel clock. Eleven thirty-six. He took one last look around the Mayor’s living room, smelling the tart scent of cedar in the hearth and imagining flames leaping up a deep throated chimney. There was only a faint glow in the ashes now.
Deep-buttoned couches smelled of expensive leather and there was a hint of furniture polish in the air. White shelves lined with books, dark gray walls, hardwood floors, Persian carpets you could sink your toes in. The room was large enough to hangar a Zeppelin.
A shattered window revealed a small hole in the mid right-hand section and the outside security cameras had been covered in duct tape; blinded by the look of it. A thorough job, not an inside job if his gut was working right.
He had worked for long enough in criminal investigations to realize several things. First, there was never a usual suspect and second, keep working your witnesses. Mayor Bill Oliver was a private man, preferring to spend his evenings alone in his study. And tonight was no exception. There were no witnesses.
Instead, Temeke stared at a recent picture on the grand piano; Oliver’s son, green eyes under a fringe of artfully messed hair, sallow skin and a cheeky face. Twelve years old, about five feet tall, and he had hung up on the police less than an hour ago.
Temeke stood at the edge of the room and nodded at a field investigator by the piano. “Hand me that photo will you?”
He also requested a picture of Adam’s mother. He would need both where he was going.
“No forced entry,” the field investigator confirmed. “Except a length of rope over the back wall. Looks like he came in through the back door.”
“Why do you say he? Could have been her, could have been them.”
“Only one set of footprints in the driveway, another set in the rose bed, sir. Lug design, probably a hunting boot. Size eleven, same size as mine. Found a few threads near the gate post where someone had hacked a hole in the hedge. Pale fibers, lining of a ski jacket possibly. We didn’t find anything else so we figured he was alone.”
Tall, thought Temeke, glancing at the field investigator. He was at least six feet. “Where’s this rose bed then?”
“Near the patio doors. And watch your feet. It’s all taped off over there.”
Temeke followed the line of the patio door to the couch with his eyes. It was possible the intruder had been watching the Mayor for some time before he made contact with him.
A female investigator wearing gloves and booties knelt over a blood stain on the carpet, following a spatter of blood from the couch to the base of the coffee table with a latex covered finger. Blond curls spilled out of a badly tied bun and the cloying perfume she wore made his eyes burn. Pauline Bailey had been out on a date.
“Anything unusual,” he said, taking care to stay in the doorway and noticing a younger woman with her.
“See these blood smears?” she said. “Some are arced across the carpet when the Mayor slid forward. He was shot at close range.” She seemed to watch his gaze as they veered towards her companion. “That’s Lily. She’s interning with us for six weeks.”
Temeke nodded at the red head, thin as a stick and strangely beautiful. She gave him a brief smile.
“Where are the staff offices?”
“On the south side. Through the kitchen.”
“Thanks, Pauline,” he said.
Temeke saw her eyes flick towards Captain Fowler as he swaggered in through the front door. If style could blow in off the streets, this was it. An edgy buzz cut and a square jaw, and narrow brown eyes that squinted even in the dark.
Pauline’s cheeks were flushed right down to the open buttons on that tight white blouse. Temeke suddenly remembered the pressing reason why Fowler needed to make good, needed to claw his way back into Hackett’s good books. A new promotion ‒ Watch Commander ‒ one step below Hackett if he played his cards right. Only, he’d missed some crucial evidence on the last case because his attention had been sabotaged by a tight white blouse.
“According to the Press Secretary, Adam was due home at ten o’clock,” Fowler said. “His scoutmaster said it was about ten thirty when they got back. Since he made the call to the police around ten forty-five, we assume he was snatched soon after he arrived.”
Temeke knew it was an exclusive neighborhood, houses sitting on four acre lots, personalized gate posts and miniature fir trees winking wit
h seasonal lights. He wondered what the neighbors saw. “Anyone see anything?”
“The nearest neighbor was walking his dog. Claimed he saw a truck streaking up the road going faster than the speed limit. So he wondered what all the commotion was about. Didn’t get a license number. Too dark. A Mr. Sandoval… Eli Sandoval. Been fishing with the Mayor a few times.”
“Who found the Mayor?”
“His wife. She got back from work just before eleven. Found him lying on the floor, wrists tied behind his back. Had a deflective wound to his right hand and another above his right ear. Knocked him unconscious. She also said the front door was open and the dog had run off.”
“I know how he feels. Where is Madam Mayor?”
“At the hospital with her husband when I saw her. Told me to call her Raine.” Fowler said, spelling it out.
How Fowler had the knack of putting women at ease, squirming headlong into first name terms, Temeke would never know. “Are we tapping cell phones, landlines?” he said, pointing at two phones on a desk in the corner.
Fowler let out an enormous sigh. “Obviously.”
“When she called 911, which phone did she use?”
“The landline.”
“Anyone instructed her on how to talk to the kidnappers?” He saw Fowler nod. “Lucky our man was a lousy shot.”
“We can’t assume he was a lousy shot.”
“Suicide attempt was it?” Temeke jutted his chin at the shattered window, finger prodding the air. “Bleeding impossible to shoot yourself unconscious and then tie yourself up. Anything taken?”
Night Eyes (The Detective Temeke Crime Series Book 2) Page 2
