The 9th Hour (The Detective Temeke Crime Series Book 1)

by Claire Stibbe

  “I want this farce over with, do you hear? It’s a copycat killer. Has to be.”

  “Very good, sir. I’ll take a little drive to PNM and tell Erikson the good news.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. It was his blood on the Williams girl’s teeth after all. You’ll get down there as soon as possible and you’ll squeeze the bastard until he gives you a name.”

  “Talking of names, do we have one for the dead girl?”

  “Not yet. And by the way, I’m fed up with you using that elevator. It’s going up and down like a schoolgirl’s skirt.”

  Temeke heard the click and shook his head. A diamond-bright moon shone down through a black sky peering through the window with a big round face. He could have watched it for hours, only the doorbell rang and gave him a start. It was too early to be Malin.

  Creeping back into the bedroom, he watched the rise and fall of Serena’s chest, the soft purring through an open mouth. Hauling on a pair of pants and grabbing his harness from an ottoman, he sprinted barefoot downstairs. There was a grill in the half-lite door and squinting through the glass, he saw a frosty beam. He pressed one hand against the frame and slowly turned the knob.

  An icy wind tore into his chest like a thousand tiny knives. He had to shield his eyes against the glare of headlights from a departing car as it reversed up the driveway and swung out into the road. It was silent for a few seconds before the engine began revving behind a stand of sycamores before the driver hit the gas. Probably two teenagers parked in the front yard having a good snog and a grope.

  Bloody kids, Temeke thought. He’d string them up next time.

  It wasn’t the first time they’d parked under those tall bushy trees, misting up the windows and bouncing the front bumper off the tarmac. But it would be the last.

  Silence.

  Only the leaves shuddered in the night breeze and moonlight blinked between the upper branches. He could still see exhaust vapors hanging two feet off the ground like a curl of angry ghosts, and there was another scent, familiar, sickly, like the inside of an old church.

  He turned to go, foot brushing against a rolled up copy of the journal. Blimey, he thought. Newspapers were getting earlier every week. Just as he picked it up something slipped out and rattled onto the doorstep.

  A charred bone. On his doormat.

  Not a dog bone. Much longer than that. The shaft was slender and slightly arched, knuckled on one end and rounded on the other. A thigh bone.

  A human bone.

  Temeke shuddered as he crouched, heart hammering so hard his vision began to blur. He tried to work up some saliva by sucking on the roof of his mouth, fingers twitching, almost touching. And then he snatched his hand back. Why would kids leave a bone on his front doorstep?

  Idiots, that’s what.

  He was hoping for a magic flash of inspiration and when none came, he picked the thing up in his fist, stashing the newspaper under one arm, and brought it inside. A macabre image of a corpse popped into his mind, one that was missing a leg, and he nearly dropped the damn thing on the threshold.

  I need a smoke, he thought, slamming the door. What he actually needed was a joint. Reaching behind the antique coffee grinder on the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet, he retrieved a packet of Marlboros and a box of matches. He was startled by the sudden click of a timer at the base of the Christmas tree, lights suddenly winking through the darkness.

  The blue numbers on the microwave said it was now four minutes before five, and trudging through the hallway to the kitchen he punched the start button on the coffee-maker, looking forward to that first cup of piñon roast.

  First things first.

  He placed the newspaper and then the bone on the breakfast table under a pendant cut-glass lamp. Gorge rising and bitter in the back of his throat, he saw no evidence of blood or tissue. The thing was smooth except for what appeared to be a piece missing near the top of the shaft. He couldn’t be sure, but it looked like a gunshot wound.

  Wrapping it up in the newspaper, he left it on the chair by the front door. It was a prank. That was all there was to it. But he’d have it examined by forensics just in case.

  Taking a ladies coat from the hall closet and an old pair of gardening shoes, he took his coffee outside to a wrought iron table. The snow was just a light dusting of powder now and there was little of it on the patio.

  What’s with a bone? he thought, wondering if the teenagers hadn’t left it after all. Wondering if it belonged to an Alpaca, those hairy goat things that grazed in a nearby meadow.

  What if it had been left by next door’s dog? An ornery brown poodle, unclipped and rugged and nothing like his frou-frou cousins. No, Harry didn’t have the clipped yew-hedge look. He even had a full tail.

  But would he have left a bone as big as that on Temeke’s front door mat? He’d left other things. A squeaky toy, a rubber ball, three feet of water hose and, come to think of it, a half-eaten bone from the butcher.

  It’s just a bone, for goodness sake.

  Temeke shook his head and took a sip of coffee. Dark roast, just how he liked it. And then he saw them. A set of footprints neatly carved in the snow and stalking toward the sitting room window. His breath was ragged now, heart-attack breath, and his hand slithered beneath that coat for his sidearm, a 9 mm German semi-automatic.

  No one knew about his secret stash in the downspout. No one knew it was wrapped in a Ziploc bag and covered with duct tape. The footprints had to be his. No point in squeezing off a few shots at nothing. He blew out a loud sigh as he replaced the gun in his holster.

  Pulling out a cigarette, he let it sag between his lips, mind wandering to the night before. Serena was mad because she’d found another packet of cigarettes in the toilet cistern. Lucky she never found his second stash of weed inside the barrel of her hand gun. Luckier still, she’d never had the occasion to use it.

  Scratching a match along the arm of his chair, he cupped one hand around the flame and watched it glow for a moment. The smell of fresh tobacco filled his nostrils and he blew the match out with a lungful of smoke.

  The back yard was nothing much, just like the house. There was a block wall and plenty of trees to stop an intruder. The front was a different matter. It was open to everything, even horse manure.

  That’s how it was living in the nine hundred block of Guadalupe Trail. Maybe he needed a gate and a big fat padlock. Maybe he needed to get going. He took a few more drags and then ground the remains of the cigarette under his shoe, kicking it into a pile of leaves. Snatching a clean pair of socks and a polo shirt from the laundry basket, he shoved the cigarette packet down a side pocket.

  A phone call brought him to the front door. Malin was outside in the Explorer, nodding through a tinted windshield. He waved and flicked up five fingers before grabbing a can of Hawaiian Aloha from the guest bathroom and giving the hallway a vigorous spray.

  “Bye, love,” he shouted, pressing his feet into a pair of dark brown combat assault boots.

  He could see Serena’s face over the bannisters and that narrow-eyed smile. Silken olive skin behind a satin baby-doll, she’d win Miss America hands down.

  “Always in such a hurry to leave,” she said, padding down the stairs. “Pity you can’t stay and enjoy the Christmas tree.”

  “Christmas tree?”

  “We could snuggle together on the couch and watch the lights.”

  What the heck was she on about? Temeke hoped she hadn’t found the contraband on the lower tier. The fairy on top had a packet of Marlboros stuffed up its tutu.

  “Truth or dare?” she said, head wobbling from side to side.

  “If only I had the time, love,” he said, stuffing the pants Hackett wanted in an evidence bag and grabbing the bone in the rolled up newspaper. “I’d be right there like a terrier down a rabbit hole.”

  “Happen to know about these?” she said, holding out a box of cards. “Went to play Bridge with the girls and guess what fell out? Not cards. Oh, no!”
>
  Temeke suddenly found the front door of consuming interest. That was a third stash of cigarettes he’d forgotten about. “You don’t have to tell me. I’m getting my sorry ass out of here before I get a walloping.”

  “What’s that?”

  “This?” he said, clamping the bone under one arm. “Evidence.”

  “Give it here.”

  “No, love. Trust me. You don’t want to see this.” He began to back out of the hallway, one hand raised. “Just going to see a dog about a bone. I’ll be back at nine.”

  “What’s that smell?”

  “What smell?”

  “Have you been smoking?” That’s how it was with Serena. A quick sniff, an accusing word.

  “No, my love. Must be next door, burning leaves again.” Temeke bolted for the door.

  SIXTEEN

  Temeke put the evidence on the backseat of the Explorer and nodded at Malin. “Morning drill,” he said, slipping a cigarette between his lips. “Need a smoke and a think. Meet me at the end of the drive.”

  He had a few long puffs as he listened to the rain pattering on the roof of his house, driven by a sudden gust of wind. Albuquerque, the city of roadrunners, of chile, of lobos, where one heard the dialects of Spain and Mexico. Where a menace lurked beneath the enormous sky – one who spoke none of those languages and who wiped away all evidence of his very existence.

  He stood in the beam of Malin’s headlights, flicked the lighted cigarette in next door’s dumpster, half hoping it would go up in smoke and take away the stench of old socks. It wouldn’t be the first time the thing caught fire. He’d thrown a lighted smoke in there a couple of weeks ago not knowing the neighbor had discarded an oily rag from his garage only moments before. The blaze was spectacular. And so was the heat.

  He jumped into the car, noting Eriksen’s files still sitting between the handbrake and the console. “Find anything?”

  “I’ve been thinking, sir. The ninth hour doesn’t mean the number of hours the victims were missing before they were killed. It means the hour of day. Any day.”

  Temeke stared ahead through the windshield, watching the flash of traffic lights as they sped past. “Nine o’clock in the morning or nine o’clock at night?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On whether you're talking about Jewish or Gentile time.”

  “What's the difference?”

  “From a Jewish perspective, the day begins at six o’clock in the evening and ends twenty-four hours later. So that means the ninth hour of the day would be three o'clock in the afternoon. Jesus of Nazareth is said to have breathed his last breath at the ninth hour – three hours before the day ended.”

  “Well, that’s excellent news, Malin. Hackett will be pleased.”

  “Can’t you see? It gives us more time.”

  “It’s a gamble,” he said, arranging his cigarettes within easy reach and flicking a match into life. He felt the heat of Malin’s eyes as they searched his face, his mouth, his body. He began to wonder if she had come at Hollister with those large staring eyes all excited and dribbling.

  Once a stripper, always a stripper, he thought, hoping she wouldn’t push him in a tight corner and take off her top. She’d be disappointed if she did. Boobs did nothing for him. Never had. It was the ass he liked. And hers was as flat as a park bench.

  “Let’s get one thing straight,” he said. “No lies, all right?”

  “I don’t lie, sir.”

  “Hollister was your boyfriend, wasn’t he? Only he got mad when you signed up to be an escort on the Internet. Can’t stand a woman getting the better of him. Sounds a bit like the nutcase we’ve got inside. Gawd!” he shouted, feeling the heat on his finger before shaking out the flame.

  The car came to a screeching halt at the side of the road, rocks splattering against the side fenders. The seatbelt dug into his belly, squeezing out an almost audible belch.

  “Cussing I can take,” hissed Malin between clenched teeth. “Blaspheme and you’ll be walking home.”

  Temeke shrank back from the onslaught but Malin was still on the attack, eyes black and glittering. He gave a half-hearted flutter of his hand. “I’m very sorry. I’m not at my best when I’m hungry.”

  “You’re not at your best at any time.”

  As usual Malin was driving too fast, and Temeke was seriously beginning to like her. Her mood showed in her driving, swerving out onto Highway 550, twisting the wheel as they took the onramp to I-25.

  He didn’t mind seeing as ten minutes later they were sitting in a rest stop eating hot burritos and drinking coffee. She knew how to keep a man’s stomach in order, knew when his needle was past hungry. His last partner ate refried beans and hot Doritos, and the air was ranker than dog breath.

  “Looks like that shirt’s been at the bottom of your laundry basket,” she said, talking at last.

  “It beats a deerstalker and cape.” Temeke lit another cigarette. “This car is going to be our home for the next few days. We’ll be tired and covered in sand. You’ll spray whatever feminine stink you’ve got secreted in that duffle of yours and I’ll smell like a pair of old socks.”

  He heard the ring of laughter over the scrunching of paper, and he watched her ball the bags and toss them into a nearby trash can.

  “Catching this guy is our number one priority,” he said, sighing a cloud of smoke. “Time you talked to Morgan. Time you gave him a real taste of Norway. Time he told us who he really is.”

  “You got a little sassy since you got the night off, sir,” she said.

  Temeke never felt his smile waver. “Got a little sleep since I got the night off.”

  “There’s something about him,” she said, face thin and nervous. “Creepy. You know.”

  “They’re all creepy, you know.” Temeke almost railed at her stupidity and then decided to stay calm. “He likes the dark ones.”

  “He hates the dark ones. He probably hates women. He’s a monster.”

  “Like it or not, that monster’s the difference between finding a body and solving the case. Every day’s the same. You have to sniff the dirt like a dog each time you find a fresh kill. That’s the way we find the deeper mysteries. But if you’re scared, that fresh kill might just be you.”

  Temeke caught the forced smile, the hand that strayed to anchor a strand of loose hair. He continued to watch her with an uneasy silence, uneasy for her. “This isn’t a bullet you can dodge, Marl, not with all the competition out there for a job like yours. No criminal has a face. This one’s no different.”

  At least that’s how he dealt with it. No face, no personality. Just a layer of membrane that barely puckered each time it spoke. It was the eyes that gave it all away, eyes that never lit up even when the mouth dared to smile.

  “I found a few strange things in Eriksen’s file,” she murmured.

  “You’ve gone and done your homework.” He was glad she had.

  “He says the dark ones are the dwarves, the swindlers of the blood of Kvasir. Norse mythology, sir.”

  “It’s all superstitious drivel. What’s all this swindling of blood?”

  “Kvasir was killed by two dwarves. They drained him of his blood and mixed it with honey to make the mead of wisdom. Maybe that’s what Eriksen did to these victims. Drained them of blood to make wine. And the heads? The only thing I can find about a severed head giving wisdom is the head of Mimir.”

  Temeke didn’t know what to make of it. He didn’t know what to make of Malin. A few minutes ago, she was spitting red sparks and now she was wistful, pleasant. He was glad though. He could have landed one of those beefy blond partners with a chest like a tugboat bumper.

  “He’ll keep killing unless we find him,” he said, trying to keep his mind on the matter. “One a month, just like he promised.”

  “Got any leads?”

  “Not unless the doctor comes back with a match. Incidentally, I found a nice little gift on my doorstep this morning. A th
igh bone. Human. It’s on the backseat if you want to take a look at it.”

  Malin curled her lip. “Is it all―”

  “Clean as a whistle.”

  “Who would do a thing like that?”

  “Saw a car pulling away. Thought it was kids at first.”

  Temeke took another sip of coffee, watching a blur of mesa to the west and a wilderness of browns and sage greens. He’d been wondering who the driver of the car was all morning, wondering why he hesitated in the road. For a moment he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being hunted by a wax doll infused with supernatural rage.

  He saw a whole realm of possibilities he had never thought of before. If the killer was following him it wouldn’t be a bad thing. Nothing wrong with lying in wait. It was knowing just where to lie. And let’s face it, with all this driving around the killer would never find him.

  Temeke began to wonder if his suspect was like a wolf in a forest. Someone who could pick up the scent of a deer, knowing how many there were before he saw them. A man who killed without regret or compassion. A man who was unafraid, invincible.

  Temeke would learn to be the same. To believe he had limitless stamina, to not feel the cold, to not feel anything. Rarely had he ever witnessed a killer’s face without that faraway stare as if they had been pulled back to the past and into the worst possible pain.

  This killer hadn’t accounted for Temeke’s skill at tracking. After all, he was a hunter too.

  SEVENTEEN

  Ole yawned and lifted his head. Sunlight crept through a gap in the blinds and he realized he had overslept.

  He remembered the call he made to the police department yesterday, when he put on his best American accent and asked for Luis Alvarez. Captain Fowler wouldn’t tell him much except that he was on leave for ten days. Depending on when he left, Ole calculated Alvarez could be back in a week. It wasn’t long to wait.

  He thought about the bone. He couldn’t for the life of him remember who it belonged to, nor did he care. It was torn off a victim as easy as a drumstick and then he washed it, scrubbed it, and wrapped it in newspaper. Who more deserving than Detective Temeke to receive such a gift?