Night Eyes (The Detective Temeke Crime Series Book 2)

by Claire Stibbe

  “Thought it worked better with my image,” Ron said and grinned. “I wondered if it would put off the ladies after I repainted the place. Never been busier.”

  The room was basic, a sink in one corner and a small chair in the other, and that empty room on the right-hand side of the front door was narrow and dark.

  “May I ask how you heard of me?” Ron said.

  “Raine Oliver.” There. The name in the papers. The name everyone was talking about. The name Ron should have mentioned when Malin told him she was in Homicide.

  She watched that face, saw a smear of pink that started beneath the eyes and seeped down toward the neckline. He seemed to take a couple of breaths as he ran a comb though the final section of hair.

  “Very nice lady. Thank her for me, will you?”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Awful what happened.” Ron bit his bottom lip. “I hope the police find the boy. You working on that case?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am. How many times do children turn up dead after a week? Imagine, twelve years old, lost in a wood with a madman. Poor kid must be terrified, hoping the police will come. But they won’t. I shouldn’t be telling you this, so keep it between ourselves.” Malin saw Ron nod and drop the scissors in his apron pocket. “There’s some valuable information that went missing last week. A couple of journals from Mrs. Oliver’s bookcase. Probably the cleaner.”

  She noticed Ron wipe a glaze of sweat from his forehead and blink, and she carried on. “There’s something she wrote, something important. Something that would help us find poor little Adam.”

  Ron put both hands against Malin’s chair and swung his head towards the door. He was itching to get out, wanted to get it over with.

  “That’s what I like to see ‒ empathy,” Malin said, pointing at the mirror where Ron’s cheeks had turned a rich shade of puce. “There’s so little of it about. You’d care if it was your son. Got any kids, Ron? Two. How nice. I hope they don’t ever go missing.”

  “Would you like some bottled water?” Ron said. “I’ve got some in the house.”

  He left then, walked right out of the salon and into his front yard. Malin ripped off that plastic cape and slipped into the dark room, flipping through as many books and magazines as she could find. The sixty watt bulb was barely an apricot glaze over a wrap-around desk and three shelves full of magazines. The only drawer had the remnants of old bills, a calculator and a box of ultra grip gloves. She began to panic.

  Peering through the glass door at the front yard and the courtyard beyond, she could see no sign of Ron. That’s when she remembered the water fountain by the sink, full by the look of it. Ron had only gone and done a runner because those journals were here. Somewhere.

  Malin rummaged through the product cupboard, reaching behind bottles of shampoo and conditioner and boxes of aluminum foil. And there, balanced on a large tub of pomade were two leather-bound books.

  “Let the fireworks begin,” she said, feeling the stirrings of light-headedness. She also felt an unnatural desire to laugh.

  FORTY-TWO

  Temeke tossed away his cigarette, watched it arc over the front steps and bounce on the hood of Hackett’s car. He was proud of Malin. She had the journals and without a bleeding warrant from the judge.

  He flung open the front door, feeling a sudden downdraft of hot air from the ceiling. Swept the waiting area from the corner of his eye, couldn’t see Fowler but he could hear him. The terrible sounds of cussing and a few whiny responses from Sargent Moran seem to rise up from behind the duty desk.

  Temeke crossed the lobby in four long strides and he leaned over the desk see what all the commotion was about. Crouched, with their backs towards him, were two tightly trousered rears. Sarge and Fowler were picking broken glass off the floor and blaming the stout wind every time someone opened the front door.

  “Someone have a Greek wedding?” Temeke asked.

  Fowler swung around, face red and glaring. “We don’t need a useless detective to tell us what’s happened. Dropped a glass that’s all.”

  “Doesn’t look like a glass. Looks like Hackett’s plaque.”

  “It’s a glass!” Fowler’s voice was loud and brash, body trying its best to cover up the accident.

  Temeke squeezed his way around the desk just as Fowler was sweeping up a few shards and tipping them into the trash can. “Move that belly out of the way and let me have a look.”

  Temeke picked up the wooden base and read the words on the brass plate. “Northwest Area Command ‒ lowest crime rate in 2012. That’s something to be proud of. Who broke it?”

  A consultation, a pointed finger and a swift nod. “It was him if you must know,” Sarge said, sounding sure this time.

  Temeke shook his head. “Trust a bloody useless detective to get the truth out of a crook.”

  “Crook?” Fowler hovered over Temeke like he was about to gouge out chunks of flesh. “You’ve got a nerve walking in here and calling me a crook. If Hackett found out about your stash of African Black, he’d ring your neck.”

  “Been in my office? Thought so. That’s a bag of loose leaf Lapsang tea if you must know. You’ve got a thing about drawers. If your hand isn’t in one, it’s up one.”

  “That’s your province, not mine.”

  “Province? Oh, big words, now. Who’s Northwest Area Command’s super stud? Red hot is what I heard. Must have a bloody blow torch between your legs.”

  Fowler’s mouth dropped open and there were two deep lines etched into his forehead. The sound of Sarge’s sniggers were still with Temeke when he reached the top floor, knuckle wrapping on Hackett’s door.

  “Slight accident downstairs, sir,” he said, voice lowered. “Looks like your pride and joy took a nasty fall.”

  Hackett flew down those stairs like Fred Astaire, shouting words a pastor would blanch at. It was the fist pounding against polished mahogany that shook the windows and made Temeke close his office door. He would have locked it too if he’d had a key.

  There was Malin sitting at her desk, hair loose to her shoulders, hands resting on two leather bound books.

  “Where did you find them?” Temeke asked, feeling a surprising desire to kiss her.

  She tapped her nose and slid them towards him, tucking her face back behind the computer.

  Temeke stuck his nose in the coffee pot. It was well stewed, half an inch of sediment rolling along the bottom like a clump of brown algae. He put his feet up and marveled at the last rays of sunshine. It was going to be a long night.

  He flipped open the first journal, found Malin had already tagged the relevant pages with a yellow arrow. There appeared to be nothing remarkable about the entries after December 1999. Except for one in 2004.

  June 21, 2004: I saw you in the park this afternoon, heard you call my name. And then you were gone. I dream of you.

  Temeke screwed the sleep from his eyes and squinted at his watch. Six-thirty in the evening. Bang went his usual shift of three o’clock in the afternoon until eleven. It had been teeth-gritting hard work ever since the start of this case and it was downhill all the way until they got results.

  He glanced out of the window at a dark world, wind howling through the trees and leaves drifting across the parking lot. Raine Oliver was beginning to burrow under his skin, almost as much as that bottle of whisky as it whispered his name over the wailing wind. True, there were cracks in her perfect world; a relationship that somehow went south and a diary to talk to. She had married a father figure to fill that void and she’d been playing the grieving widow ever since.

  Temeke cast his mind back to Art’s conversation, heard that voice go from flashy to sober.

  I think she’s a doll. She’s been through a lot. Not so as you would know. Hides it all behind a brave smile. But you can sense it, feel it.

  There was no reason for Cesar or Megan to pry into her private affairs unless they had witnessed something they weren’t telling him. And as far as he could make out, t
here was no new slander about the Olivers in the newspapers, unless…

  He struck a match on the side of the desk and took a few drags of his cigarette. “Jennifer Danes… you crafty little cow.”

  He saw Malin look up as he dialed Jennifer’s number at the Journal, put the phone on loud speaker. The light, squeaky voice was as greasy as ever and Jennifer was appalled he hadn’t called, felt slighted and somewhat offended. He scoffed it off. Told her to put on a pair of big-girl knickers and stop playing games.

  “You can play with me any day of the week, Detective.”

  “And this day of the week you can tell me what you have on Raine Oliver.”

  She repeated the name like it was something far back in her memory. “I’ll let you know if I do.”

  Bloody liar, he mouthed at Malin. “How are things in your neck of the woods? You know, the love triangle.”

  “The what?”

  “Captain Fowler. He’s been dressing different. Got a new do. And he’s been sobbing in his office ever since the breakup. You can hear his pathetic whine through the wall.”

  “You mean… him and me?”

  “Yes, him and you. Who did you think I was talking about? Cyn? She’s too old, love.” He lowered his voice just a little. “By all accounts, poor old Fowler had to use a strap-on. Cucumber and duct tape.”

  He could hear the giggle on the other end of the phone and then a sigh of relief. She was probably sitting back in that white plastic chair, staring at the ceiling all teary-eyed and excited.

  “You know,” she whispered, tapping the keys of her computer. “I do have something. It’s not much. An article in a San Diego newspaper dated June 15, 2001. It says, ‘A U.S. Navy SEAL was badly injured in an accident during a training exercise, the Navy said. BUD/S Instructor William Oliver stated that a trainee whose name has not been identified, was shut in an overflow drain at 2:30 p.m. on Friday. The cause of the accident is under investigation.’ BUD/S stands for Basic Underwater Demolition training.”

  Temeke had already read the Mayor’s résumé and an impressive list of SEAL acronyms. It was the expression BUD/S that began boring into his mind.

  “And that shows up when you do a search for Bill Oliver?”

  “Yes,” Jennifer confirmed. “When I do a search for SEAL articles around that time, they mentioned two recruits who were injured badly during training. It looks like only one didn’t go back to complete the other stages. There’s no name, but it says he failed to complete Stage 1. He was removed from training due to an accident in a flooded drain where he lost partial sight of his left eye’.”

  “Was he reclassified?”

  “Doesn’t say.”

  “Instructor’s name?”

  “William Stanton Oliver.”

  “Very good, Jen. I’ll be in touch later. Oh, and you might want to call Rufus before he keels over from all that pining. Hasn’t had a good meal in days.”

  “BUD/S,” he said, as he ended the call. “Why does that ring a bell?”

  He took one last deep drag from that cigarette before it dropped out of his hands and landed on the carpet. He ground his dirty boot in to stop the smell of burning wool.

  “Megan...” Malin said. “It was Megan. When she overheard Raine talking on the phone, she referred to something about PST and LSD. Thought it was drugs. And then she said something about goals and buds.”

  “In Navy SEAL terms,” Temeke said, “PST is an abbreviation for Physical Screening Test. LSD… Long Slow Distance. It’s a term used in one of three types of training… swimming speed and distance, I think.”

  Malin displayed a row of shiny teeth behind that grin. “Here’s a few more interesting entries,” she said, grabbing one of the journals and reading them aloud.

  June 18, 2010: Questions, so many questions. He says I talk in my sleep. Even asked if I was having a nightmare? Living with him is a nightmare. I don’t know why I did it.

  June 19, 2010: I almost left today. But he was waiting for me downstairs. I don’t know how long I can stand it.

  Temeke couldn’t help feeling a familiar tightening in his throat. Raine was being monitored, even then. Malin read on.

  June 20, 2010: Isn’t it foolish how we always wish we could turn back time, to stop ourselves from doing the stupid things we did. I’m sure you ask yourself, why me? Was it fair?

  June 21, 2010: There is one thing I wish and that is to say I’m sorry for the terrible things I did. I should have waited.

  June 22, 2010: I learned two things today. Never tell him what I’m thinking and never tell him where I’m going. Easy to fool a pursuer if they’re driving in front. Harder to do it if they’re following from behind. He hit me again. Always in the stomach so no one can see the bruises.

  There was something different about her emotions then, something fiercer, like a loaded gun waiting to fire. Temeke could only stare at Malin and wonder how, for all these years, Raine was able to hide such a terrible secret. Now they were more like letters she was too afraid to send, letters that intimated a phone call, a chance meeting that would have put an end to all the what-ifs.

  “Bill Oliver was following her all right, through Andrew Blaine Investigative Services,” Temeke said. “The bastard was trying to exhume the part of Raine’s past he dreaded the most.”

  “There’s two empty years with a few general appointments.” Malin shot him a squinty-eyed look. “There’s a paragraph at Christmas. I’ll read it to you.”

  December 20, 2012: He was supposed to leave for DC tonight with Art but they’re still here. I can hear them whispering. He’s sending Adam on a scout trip next weekend. I think they’re watching me.

  Bill Oliver found out Raine had a lover and he never intended to let her leave, Temeke thought. Probably hated her because she’d betrayed him. Wasn’t going to let the wound heal without grinding a fistful of rough salt into it. Of course, he’d followed her, watched her. Hired a PI to reel her in just tight enough to drive that knife in a little deeper and give it a sodding good twist.

  FORTY-THREE

  There was a 19th Century landowner who died in 1854. Something to do with trains. Close to your heart. Last name only.

  Malin scrolled through three listings on the internet. 1854 Broad Street cholera outbreak, a British landowner named Ramsey who was a philanthropist and High Sheriff of Berkshire. Then there was Ramsey, a borough in New Jersey, named after a Peter J. Ramsey. And lastly, the New Jersey Transit rail station serving Bergen County Line, Main Line and Port Jervis line. Better known as the Ramsey Route.

  She scrolled through eighty-one listings on the database. Nothing. Called that hokey number Temeke had tried for Andrew Blaine and got him on the first ring.

  “Andrew?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Detective Santiago. We’ve been trying to reach you―”

  “Yes… yes, I know. Well, you’ve got me now.”

  “Ramsey,” she said. “How well do you know him?” She heard the sharp intake of breath, the loud sigh.

  “Miss… What did you say your name was?”

  “Santiago. Detective Santiago.”

  “Berkeley Police?”

  She grunted a yes, let him believe she was. “Couldn’t tell me where I could find him?”

  “You talk to Bill Oliver yet?”

  “I’m with him right now. Thought you might want to fill me in with the rest.”

  “You can’t blame him for looking, watching, all that stuff. It’s what any man would have done. Ramsey? No, he’s all brawn and brains and full of spite. I got a ticket and flew to Albuquerque a couple of weeks ago. Followed him to Motel 6 on Alameda and I-25. He wasn’t there for long. Three nights. Ate well.”

  He gave her the dates Ramsey had stayed in that hotel and a running commentary of where he bought vegetables and meat, times he came and went, and how often he drove that nice black truck. Blaine emailed a report to Bill Oliver and flew home after that.

  “Retaliation?”
She could only guess.

  “Oliver had to fail him because of the accident. Took his life away. His pride. Took the two things Ramsey wanted the most. His Trident and Raine Leveque. Listen, don’t call again, OK? You damn people have already taken everything.”

  Malin listened to the dialing tone for nearly minute. Rubbed her brow and sat thinking for a while. The laptop was on the kitchen counter, open when she thought she had closed it.

  You’re hallucinating. Probably left it open because you’re always in such a rush.

  Heartfree. Forty-five people in the chat room. Including WingMan.

  This is our last date, Malin. Make it count.

  She blew out a hefty sigh and began typing. Tell me about yourself. Tell me who you are.

  Three little dancing dots and he was off. People on the outside don’t know what evil is.

  Are you evil? She hoped he wasn’t.

  Somewhat. Evil knows evil. Did you know that strangulation only takes about four minutes. Sometimes less.

  Malin had to ask. Ever strangled anyone?

  I knew a man once. Had strong hands. Killed his girlfriend. Crime of passion.

  Who?

  Not going into details. He had a lot of women then. I guess you could say he was enjoying himself.

  Why did he kill her?

  She started seeing someone else.

  Does infidelity warrant killing someone?

  He thought so.

  Malin listened to her strained breathing, thought for a few seconds before typing. What did he look like?