The beam of Greg’s flashlight danced in the puddles and then crept over the walls at a series of empty hooks. “There were shears on the floor beside the chair and a gag, and a Barbie doll on the shelf.”
“Sitting or lying?”
“The doll? Sitting. Eyes open, staring in that blank way they do.”
“Well, we’re not going to get any bloody drier wallowing about in this,” Temeke said, paddling for the door. Any thoughts of terror were quickly spent, leaving emptiness in its wake. “See any familiar faces in the crowd when you got here?”
“Nah.” Greg led him back to the house. “I’ll go back in, if you don’t mind. Arson investigator wants my report ASAP.”
Temeke nodded and shook Greg’s hand. He liked the man, knew he still suffered from the loss of his wife in a house fire eight years ago. The stench of smoldering timbers had to be a constant reminder.
Keeping behind the tape, Temeke followed the muddy footprints, guessing they were a size eleven. Big guy whoever it was. As for the waffle soles, he couldn’t count how many times he’d seen that print, common shoes that everyone had. Quiet shoes. Distinctive tracks leading to the back door.
“Temeke!”
Temeke turned at the shout. Baby-face Jarvis was beckoning with a pudgy hand, pants bloused above his boots as if he was expecting a bad case of chiggers.
“Found this inside the mailbox,” Jarvis said, gripping an envelope, which he had placed in an evidence bag. “You might want to see it.”
“Inside the mailbox?”
“Yeah, inside.”
“That’s a felony, Jarv, looking in people’s mail boxes. Was it the only letter?”
“Yeah.” Jarvis looked down at Temeke’s shoes now planted firmly on the centerline of the street. “Been paddling?”
“Water up to my ankles. Felt like a bloody passenger on the Titanic.” Temeke caught sight of his captain in the crowd, hand patting the shoulder of a new female detective who was wearing a short coat over bare legs. “When did Captain Fowler arrive?”
Temeke could smell garlic in the air as Jarvis leaned a little closer. “About two hours ago. He gave Detective Cornwell a ride. Her hair was all mussed up and I doubt she’s got anything on under that coat she’s wearing. Anyway, he wasn’t interested in going in the house, said there was nothing to see. But he did go in the back shed. Confirmed it was a sexual fetish.”
“Somehow you associate him with things like that.” Temeke couldn’t help wondering if Sarge had called him as an afterthought.
Jarvis cocked his head to one side. “You heard what the doc said? Dead when they found her. Probably murder. Who knows what else they’ll find.”
“They always find something,” Temeke said, curling his toes and puckering at a whiff of wet sock.
“The paramedic said the homeowner had blood in his hair. Shone a light in his eyes and tried talking to him. Nothing. Doctor said he was in shock. Could hardly open his mouth for a swab.”
Temeke fed the murder scenario into his mind but somehow the pieces didn’t quite fit. Instead, he found himself staring at white flakes in the air slowly descending on the street like a shower of desiccated coconut.
Jarvis put a finger to his mouth and lowered his voice. “I’ll bet you three pints the homeowner torched the place to get the insurance.”
Temeke resisted a roll of the eyes. “You should have been a detective, Jarv. Now give me that envelope and bugger off.”
THREE
It was seven forty-five on Monday morning when Temeke backed into a parking space. He sat looking at the front of Northwest Area Command, Albuquerque’s largest substation, which sported a gray block façade and an oversized porch. Situated next door to Fire Department Station No. 21, the two buildings dominated the northwest quadrant of the city with a message of strength and stability.
He lit a cigarette and stared at a blue haze that began to collect inside his car. The envelope lay on the passenger seat addressed to a Mr. Flynn McCann, self-seal closure and partially unstuck. Balancing his cigarette on the dash, Temeke snapped on a pair of plastic gloves and worked the tiny hole open with a finger. Inside was a single sheet of lined paper with two sentences.
I want to tell you how I feel. So there won’t be any doubt. You’re so dead cold to think of. And so hard to live without.
He felt the hair lifting on the nape of his neck and his hands were clammy. A poem, a hidden message and typewritten to keep the author anonymous. Placing the envelope and the poem back-to-back, he eased them into the evidence bag and removed the gloves.
Two things came to mind. No stamp. Hand delivered.
Sticking the cigarette back in the side of his mouth, he opened the car door to a rush of cool air. Sauntering up the front steps, he wondered if yesterday’s flasher was back in the cells again. The judge couldn’t hold him and patrolmen frequently picked up the same offender day after day. The laws needed to change. It was getting old.
Fergus ‘Tiny’ Woodrow, they called him and he wasn’t tiny by any stretch of the imagination. Some prison name he’d been awarded for a certain part of his anatomy he assumed everyone wanted to see. A man who drank a skinful and spent a restless afternoon in one of the cells singing a song at the top of his sod-awful voice. The words he didn’t know came out as a string of na-na-na-naaaa and something about Napoleon surrendering at Waterloo. He got around. Citizens had complained of seeing his ‘tiny’ even as far as Las Lunas.
Temeke spat out a shred of tobacco before flicking his cigarette behind a box hedge. There was a bang on the front window and Sergeant Moran’s haggard face gave him a stiff smile. He also gave him a stiff finger.
“Morning, Sarge?” Temeke said, dribbling a leftover trickle of smoke from his nostrils as he walked inside.
“I’m surprised that hedge hasn’t caught fire,” Sergeant Moran said.
“Officer Manning’s K-9 did an arabesque over it yesterday, Sarge. About a gallon, I should say. That should keep the worst off.”
Sergeant Moran idly traced his moustache and studied him as if he was a particular rare clock on the mantel. “I’d like you to talk to Mr. Flynn McCann, homeowner of the house on Vista Bella. He wanted to know why we took a swab last night. I explained it was to rule out any DNA in the house that wasn’t his.”
“Did anyone sweep his hands for gunshot residue?”
“Yeah. You could tell he was a bit freaked out.”
Temeke gave a curt nod, couldn’t wake up any enthusiasm about McCann. “Has the arson investigator talked to the first responders? Has he talked to Mr. McCann?”
“Yes and yes. Preliminary report said doors, windows, fire hydrants, all in good working order. Something about a faulty smoke alarm in the master bedroom. Investigator said he couldn’t get much out of McCann in hospital. At worst, he was staring at the wall. At best, he was second-guessing himself.”
“Maybe he ran out of things to say.” Temeke grabbed a newspaper from the arm of a chair and followed the sergeant into the inner sanctum.
“Bad news is he had a long conversation with someone from the Duke City Journal. He was released after two hours,” Sergeant Moran said, cracking his knuckles and lowering his voice. “Funny thing is, when they loaded him into the ambulance he didn’t seem upset. Didn’t even ask after his wife.”
“What were his injuries?”
Sergeant Moran grabbed a buff file from his desk and opened it. “First degree burns to the feet and calves, trauma to the head. He had minor smoke inhalation and a slight concussion. And bruising to the testicles. Yeah, I know, but that’s what it says here. McCann was found face down on the kitchen floor when they found him.”
“Skip the foreplay, Sarge, and get to the point.”
“All these years talking to grieving spouses and victims... why is it they always break out into dry sobs? And why’s he out so quick?”
“Hadn’t sunk in yet.”
“If that was my wife, I’d be a mess. He was giving the paveme
nt most of his attention, like he was thinking things over.”
Or it may have had something to do with the fact that McCann had narrowly escaped death himself. Temeke kept his thoughts to himself. It was the blood samples from the back shed he was more interested in.
“I’d like to talk to Tarian McCann’s father,” Temeke said.
“Her father is Richard Walley-Bennett. And, no, he’s not up for interviews until after the burial.”
“Who spoke to him?”
“Captain Fowler. He said he was sobbing and incoherent. Conversation was brief by all accounts.”
Temeke wondered if his own methods of persuasion would change the family’s mind. “Did Fowler remind him the fire looked suspicious?”
Sarge made a downward swoop of his hand, signifying he hadn’t asked. “I don’t think he got in a full sentence before Mr. Walley-Bennett hung up.”
More sodding bad news, Temeke thought as he walked up the stairs and pushed open the door to his office. Malin Santiago was already sitting in front of her computer licking a smear of sugar from her top lip. She dropped the remains of an apple fritter on a piece of kitchen towel and said good morning.
“So,” he said, “had a good lie-in while the rest of us were wading about in soot?”
Malin leaned forward slightly and the pitch of her voice was low. “For your information I was off yesterday. First real day off I’ve had in weeks. Oh, you hear anything about Detective Cornwell leading this case?”
“Someone has to.”
“This is a different someone.”
Just when Temeke was getting used to his newfound popularity and consequent freedom. If only his unit commander hadn’t signed on new detective Suzi Cornwell two weeks ago his solve stats would have made the Guinness Book of Records. In his mind. “So when was all this decided?”
“This morning.”
“We both knew one day there’d be a third,” he deadpanned, putting the envelope on his desk and shaking out the newspaper.
There was no libelous drivel. Editor Jennifer Danes of the Duke City Journal had been remarkably restrained and on page two there was barely a paragraph. He read it out loud.
Police Suspect Arson In Residential Fire.
Police, who were called to probe the cause of a Westside fire on Vista Bella Place early this morning, now suspect arson. Firefighters managed to put out the blaze before it reached neighboring houses. Witnesses claim the fire started at around 1 a.m. to the single family home before sending a plume of black smoke into the air that was visible for miles around the city.
“Visible for miles around?” Temeke murmured. “It’s pitch black at that time in the morning.”
The article went on to mention how Flynn Mcann was too stunned to speak in hospital and the only words he did utter were, Everything is gone. I have a key to a house that doesn’t exist.
The pager beeped on Malin’s belt and she glanced down at the readout. “McCann’s ready.”
“Criminals are no respecters of Monday mornings,” Temeke said, swinging his chair sideways and putting his feet on the desk. “Who does he think we are? Agony aunts?”
“Not a criminal, sir. A grieving husband. He thinks he might need an attorney.”
“For what?”
She held out the file and gave him one of those sideways looks that always meant one thing. An unusual development she thought he might enjoy. “Homicide are busy with three principal cases and Hackett has tasked us with this.”
He stared moodily at the contents and grunted out loud. Flynn and Tarian McCann, a restraining order three months earlier and a violation three days later which, oddly enough, resulted in Flynn moving back in. Temeke could have done without Malin’s customary efficiency and a reminder pinned to the left-hand side of the file to ask Mr. McCann for details about that restraining order.
“Tell me,” he said, handing her the poem from the McCann mailbox. “What do you make of this?”
Malin read the poem and then turned the bag over to study the front of the envelope on the other side. She handed it back. “It’s the hard to live without that interests me.”
Curious, he thought. It was the dead cold that bothered him. “We can’t put the evil moment off,” he said, snapping the file shut and gripping it to his chest. “I’ll lead, if you don’t mind.”
FOUR
Temeke’s first assessment of Mr. Flynn McCann was a striking individual with heavy-lidded eyes and a goatee. He must have aged in the night since he looked a darn sight older than his twenty-five years. He was slouched in a chair, elbow leaning on the table and staring down at a blank cell phone on his lap. His face was pale in the harsh lighting of the interview room; one foot bandaged at the ankle and a three inch dressing on his head.
“Good of you to come in.” Temeke slapped the file on the table and pulled up a chair next to Malin.
Flynn’s hand was resting on the side of his head which was cocooned in white gauze. “Took me three showers to get rid of the smell. I had blisters and ash all over my legs and the skin melted off my feet.”
“We’re sorry, Mr. McCann,” Temeke said, fascinated by Flynn’s version of his condition. “If there’s anything we can—”
“Brilliant red... the flesh. Apart from the pain you feel tired. I drifted in and out for most of the night.”
“You should have stayed in hospital.”
“How could I? People kept coming in and wanting to talk.”
“Well, you’re all the rage now. Although all the rage does have its disadvantages. Did you have a visit from the press?”
“Yeah.” Flynn paused for a moment as if distracted by the purr of the air conditioner. “They’re saying I did it. That I killed my wife. I never killed her.”
“Do you have any enemies? Anyone out there holding a grudge?”
“A grudge?” McCann flinched when he touched the wound on his head. “Over what?”
“Over anything?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Do you remember when the fire started?”
“All I remember is a big cloud of smoke. And an explosion.” One finger traced the screen of his cell phone as if trying to erase a deep scratch.
Temeke studied bronzed hands, a black tungsten ring that flashed loud and proud on the fourth finger and a face that stared at him, eyebrows raised as if he expected another question.
Temeke decided to change tack. “What do you do for a living, Mr. McCann?”
“Flynn... name’s Flynn. I work at Manzano National Labs.”
Temeke opened the file and glanced down at the case summary. Flynn McCann, twenty-five years old, listed as a Litho Process Technician. Probably walked the equivalent of three miles on every shift. “A lot of leg work then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where did you work before Manzano?”
“Spytech Security. More of a field job. I couldn’t afford a house then so I slept under my desk.”
Temeke wouldn’t have relished catching the morning shift in the cafeteria while wearing his pajamas. Although he had slept in the cells a few times on the rare occasion he was too tired to drive home.
“Did anyone know you were sleeping rough?” Temeke asked.
“It wasn’t rough. Showers, cafeteria and the privilege of having the place all to yourself at night.”
Temeke knew Flynn would have remained unnoticed for as long as he was careful. And he was careful, there was no doubting it.
“It’s a long story, detective. I’m not trying to be pissy, I just need to talk to someone.”
“Want some coffee?” Malin asked, giving him a flash of pearly whites and dark eyes.
“Yeah. I’d like that,” Flynn said.
There was a flicker of a frown only a guy would notice and Temeke knew Flynn was mentally calculating how old Malin was. “You were saying?”
“It all started four years ago,” Flynn said. “A few of us went to the races in Santa Fe. I had a date and...” Flynn gaz
ed at Malin a beat too long as he took the coffee she handed him. “Tarian was there. I wasn’t expecting to like her.”
Temeke studied a photograph in the file, a bubbly blonde with short, wavy hair. Tarian McCann reminded him of one of those WW2 pinups, with her white button-down shirt and khaki pants. Pristine, if he could give it a name. She was also ten years older than Flynn.
“She asked me to move in with her three months later,” Flynn said.
“Striking woman.”
“Beautiful.”
“She was a therapist?”
“Yeah, that’s how we met.” Flynn’s voice tailed off. “I needed counseling. She needed rescuing.”
“From what?”
“A previous boyfriend.” Flynn’s eyes began to roam, landing somewhere between the coffee station and Malin’s head. “Don’t get me wrong. He’s a good guy. But he’s an addict. Always pawning stuff. Got into serious debt.”
“Tarian do drugs?” Temeke asked.
“Sometimes. Although I didn’t know it at the time.”
So Tarian McCann was a crackhead, Temeke thought, feeling the anger rise. He tried to blank out his inner commentary and stop thinking McCann was a liar. Not that there was anything false in what Flynn said. It was merely a sense that he was holding back. A sense that the man was somehow restless.
“She wanted a house in the northeast heights near her mom and dad,” Flynn said. “But the land’s too expensive. So we compromised. Found a house on the west side. She did the interior design. I cleaned up the back yard. Planted a few trees and laid a quarter of an acre of sod. It’s a great little place.”
“You say your wife was into interior design. Where did she get her inspiration?” Temeke didn’t want to rub it in but when a crime scene was nothing but rafters and twisted metal he was having a hard time picturing it.
“Baroque Warehouse mostly,” Flynn said.
“How would you describe her mood the day of the fire?”
“She left early in the morning for work. Came back around five. Didn’t talk to me. She took a shower, took photos of the bathroom window for custom drapes she was having made and then shut herself in the bedroom. She was talking to someone on the phone for over an hour. Then she came out and heated leftovers in the microwave. The dinner I had made wasn’t up to scratch. I’m not a great cook.”
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