Dead Cold

by Claire Stibbe

  Matt Black rushed out when he saw her, gave her a flash of his boyish grin. “I would give you a walk through,” he said, peeling off a pair of gloves, “but there’s not much to see. It’s just fire debris now.”

  “I’ll pass then,” she said, looking up at hazel eyes and shaggy hair. He couldn’t have been more than thirty. “Just wanted to get a feel for the place, you know?”

  “Yeah, soak up the atmosphere, imagine what it was like.” He blew out a series of short breaths and glanced at the front door. “Well, not exactly what it was like. Nobody can know exactly. Can’t imagine dying in a fire. Can’t imagine starting one either. I read somewhere it’s nearly two billion a year in property loss.”

  “Arson?”

  “Yeah, arson. Only I doubt the person who did this found it exciting or sexually gratifying. And pyromaniacs are rare. It was probably done for profit, or secondary criminal activity.”

  “Like concealing a crime?”

  “Yeah,” he said, eyes touching hers and then looking away. “Victims who manage to escape a fire often recall a once familiar home becomes a twisted fairground of horrors. In this case, only one survived. You feel sorry for the neighbors. It stinks up here.”

  Malin ran a hand through her hair and resisted the urge to smile. When Matt went off on one of his rapid rants, his brain had either short-circuited or he had run out of things to say.

  “Well, I’ll be going,” she said and began walking back to her car.

  “Yeah. I’ll be seeing you then?” He did not add that he wanted to show her more of the house. But it was implicit in everything he said.

  Too much, too soon, she thought, turning briefly to wave. She saw him rocking back and forth on his heels before heading toward the van. How long had she known him? Five months? Someone at a crime scene every time there was a homicide. Someone with a retentive memory that put hers to shame.

  Yeah, she hardly knew him at all.

  Driving to the substation, she listened to the radio chatter between dispatchers and Detective Suzi Cornwell. Flynn McCann had skipped town. A New Mexico state police officer heading east on I-40 between Church Rock and Gallup, had sighted a Jeep Compass said to have been rented by Flynn McCann. It was cruising at around sixty-five behind a large Peterbilt and headed west towards Gallup. The officer radioed dispatch as he made a U-turn on the median. He was following a safe distance and three cars behind, headed toward a road block which was being set up before the flyover on I-40 and East Highway 66.

  Flynn McCann. Handling death in his own way. Malin could almost recall the debilitating pain of losing her mother, holding on to the hours and minutes since she died and wading through each day just to get to tomorrow. Yet here was a man who was going through the motions, feeling a terrifying emptiness as if he was imprisoned inside himself and living in hell.

  McCann wasn’t balled up in hospital unable to function or being fed intravenously until doctors could compel him to eat. He was running away. Why?

  Malin drove out of the subdivision and headed back down the hill, breathing a lungful of fresh air. She turned into Cibola Loop and saw Temeke waving outside the front door of the substation and crushing a half-smoked cigarette under his heel. She pulled up to the curb.

  “Gallup?” she asked.

  “Lunch,” he corrected, settling into the passenger seat. “State cops are on it.”

  “Since when—”

  “Since today. Step on the gas, love, I’m hungry. By the way, did you qualify?”

  “Firearms? Yep.”

  “I think the Range Master’s got the hots for you. You can tell by the way the target rattles after a hail of bullets. He does it hoping you’ll notice.”

  Malin snorted. She allowed her eyes to wander over Temeke’s smiling face and she couldn’t resist a chuckle. Things were different between her and Temeke now. He wasn’t the bigot she thought he was, poring through her background and sneering at the escort agency she once belonged to. She wasn’t proud of it. Only did it to pay off her student loan. He wasn’t the bawdy Brit she’d been told to steer clear of, the man everyone loved to hate. Somehow, with all their differences, with all their baggage, being with the Duke City Police Department had changed all that.

  “Maggie and Jarvis are wrapping up door-to-door enquiries this afternoon,” she said, feeling a tinge of remorse at not being there herself. Officer Maggie Watts had become one of her closest friends since joining the unit. “Only the neighbors can’t make up their minds if the car they saw outside the McCann house that night was black or red.”

  “That’s quite a range in color, Marl.”

  “I went to see the house, sir. They were cleaning up the scene.” She could feel his eyes boring into her. Probably didn’t think she had the foresight to acquaint herself with the crime scene like everyone else. Silence made her change the subject. “Commander Hackett wants us back at three.”

  “Does he think we’re going to go chasing after some stupid sod of a runaway? I’m not putting anyone in my car without probable cause or an arrest warrant.”

  “Why did Hackett pass us over for this case?” Malin heard herself moan. “Cornwell doesn’t have seniority.”

  “Cornwell wanted to lead a case, get some well-deserved attention. You and I will conduct interviews, shuffle paper, take a back seat and watch her screw up.”

  “Provided McCann hasn’t had any military training he shouldn’t be hard to find,” she said, turning onto Alameda.

  “Between you and me, Hackett’s sending her off to widen the wedge between her and Fowler. It was getting a bit hardline, if you can call Fowler’s flings dating. Talking of a wide wedge, Marl, the whisky I left in the warrant binder’s gone missing.”

  “Who knew.”

  “Might need a search warrant.”

  Malin had no interest in discussing the missing whisky Temeke kept on top of the filing cabinet. It would only be a matter of time before someone opened that warrant binder and got wind of Temeke’s shortcomings. Someone who had been itching to oust him from the unit.

  Temeke jerked his chin at the turnoff to Hannah and Nates Café. “Why do you think an innocent man would do a runner?”

  “I think we know exactly why he did a runner, sir. He was beating on Tarian McCann three months prior to her death. You saw the photographs. Doesn’t look good, does it?”

  Temeke clamped a cigarette between his lips and sucked on it for a while. “I checked with dispatch and there isn’t one domestic dispute for that address before the restraining order. The violation, if you recall, was for Ms. Ellis’ residence. The good news is McCann has options now. He can either drop by and have another chat, or we can wait for Suzi to bring him in. It’s not all sunshine and cherries at DCPD.”

  “Bring him in for what?”

  “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

  Turning into the parking lot, a ray of sunlight streamed in through the windshield promising temperatures of fifty degrees. Malin parked the unit around the back of the restaurant.

  “Just received the Fire Marshall’s report and the initial autopsy,” Temeke said, as they walked to the front door. “Dental charting and surgically absent appendix confirms the first decedent was Tarian McCann. She had size seven feet so it’s possible the impressions in the back yard are hers. Although the doc wouldn’t be led into saying anything more. Second decedent was Edward Quinn. Left behind a wife.”

  Seven was a regular size, Malin thought, looking down at her own feet. A familiar sense of impatience surged through her body and she knew this was not the time to get emotional. Having packed on a few pounds since Christmas, her once defined thighs now resembled two packs of turkey sausage which only a baggy pair of sweatpants could hide. She preferred to think of her body as powerfully rounded like her rear which today had been stuffed into a pair of tight fitting khaki pants.

  “What type of woman do you think Tarian was?” she said, taking a place in line behind a family of four. A burst of sta
tic from dispatch and she turned her radio down.

  “She didn’t strike me as the type to fanny about and waste time, Marl. I think she wanted a divorce so she could move on.”

  “Women don’t always call 911 at every sign of abuse nor do they get divorced, sir. They know they can run away before they’re too scared to leave the house. But all they see is a good-looking, charismatic man they’re lucky to be married to.”

  “Eggs benedict?” Temeke said as the hostess showed them to a table by the fireplace.

  Malin nodded a yes and heard Temeke order a plate of Nates Melt before slipping out onto the terrace to talk a K-9 sergeant. The hostess pointed Malin to a table by the fireplace with the twinkle of track lighting overhead. She knew the routine; knew Malin and Temeke often took to-go boxes in case they were called out.

  Malin smoothed her hair into a ponytail and wrapped it with a hair tie. The strong aroma of espresso and fresh banana bread made her stomach rumble and she hoped no one else had heard it. A truck rattled along the narrow road and the old cottonwoods seemed to stoop and groan in a high wind, sending out a spray of last year’s leaves. The weather app on her phone said fifty-three degrees with a chance of showers and then a text alert covered the raincloud icon and she felt her insides quiver.

  Wingman, her mysterious go-to guy, had sent her a text. A man intent on watching her back and someone she wished she had never struck up a conversation with in a chatroom. He was an online stalker or a guardian angel, she couldn’t decide which.

  Wingman: Without thinking about it, Malin, consider this. When everything goes against you, what do you do? Fight or flight?

  She perched on the edge of her chair and stared at the little speech bubble. She had almost given up trying to find out who he was, what he looked like, how he knew what cases she worked on. How he got her cell phone number. He had been squatting on unsecured wireless networks for a couple of months while he used a computer and when she got close enough to find him, he changed his MO, stopped using the internet and started using a cell phone instead.

  Wingman: Malin, don’t waste time. And don’t be wondering where I am. Answer the question.

  She looked around the restaurant and at the vacant tables nearby. It gave her a moment of privacy, a few seconds to tap out a response.

  Malin: Flight.

  Wingman: Makes sense doesn’t it? You see, McCann was uncomfortable in his own skin. Needed counseling. Needed a friend. It’s that friend you need to talk to. And don’t think for a minute anyone has information that will magically solve this case for you.

  Malin made a disgusted sound. Is this your own phone?

  Wingman: No, little bird. It’s a burner like all the others.

  She made another sweep of the restaurant. There was an elderly couple at a table by the door, two love birds in the far corner and three buzz cuts outside on the patio with bomb squad patches and a K-9 on a leash. None of them were on their phones. Then three little dots and a gush of Wingman’s words.

  Wingman: Talking of cell phones, have you tried calling McCann? Might be open for a chat.

  Malin had to think about that for a moment. What makes you think he wants to talk to me?

  Wingman didn’t respond and there was no indication the message had been read. A two week hiatus between this case and the last one and she was still no closer to finding out who he really was. She massaged her throbbing temples sensing he was somewhere close, looking down his supercilious nose and having a damn good laugh.

  Temeke pulled out the chair opposite and sat down. “Penny for them?”

  “Can’t really blame McCann for running,” she said. “Wouldn’t you if you thought everyone was against you?”

  “Yeah, maybe I would. Or maybe I’d just let the cops do the talking. They’re good at that.”

  “He had a close friend.”

  “Rosie Ellis,” Temeke said. “The fact she’s a female makes me wonder how close.”

  Somehow Wingman’s perception of the human mind left Malin feeling like she’d been hit by a truck and left by the side of the road. She closed her eyes for a moment and wondered what his voice sounded like. Deep? Mellow? She was convinced he was older.

  Uncomfortable in his own skin...

  When she opened her eyes again Temeke seemed to be giving her an odd look like she’d been praying over her food. Then he leaned back to allow room for the waiter to leave a steaming plate of sliced roast beef, green chile and caramelized onions, and eggs benedict for her.

  “McCann was raised in a double-wide off San Pedro,” Temeke said between chews. “Went to some religious school up the hill and played a bunch of football. She lived on Sky Valley Way, a green and pleasant cul-de-sac in Tanoan Country Club.”

  “Been there?” Malin asked.

  “Googled it.”

  “So what’s your point?”

  “She could have had any ivy league boyfriend. Did have an ivy league boyfriend,” he corrected, raising his knife. “Instead she chose Flynn McCann. DIY-guy with a wrench for a hand and oil under his fingernails.”

  “Some women like rugged.”

  “Some women can’t handle rugged.” Temeke gazed into space for a moment and then continued eating. “And before you get all snarky, Marl, what I’m talking about is change. Because it’s a big change when you marry into poverty.”

  “So their relationship was a little tense at times. Whose isn’t?”

  She knew Temeke wouldn’t elaborate, but he must have been thinking about the differences in his own marriage; the reason it failed.

  “According to the file, when McCann was examined there was soot around his mouth and he was grasping his chest. He had burns inside his nose and throat, and he vomited black saliva.” Temeke took a sip of iced water and continued. “Said he saw someone in the house. Might have been his wife, might have been Mr. Quinn. Makes no sense when the house was full of smoke.”

  “He was delirious, hallucinating. Who knows what smoke inhalation does to a person.”

  “Kills them mostly. Yet he was dizzy and confused.”

  “McCann was in the house at the time of the fire. Fact. He was burned. Fact. So don’t you think it’s unlikely he started the fire?”

  “Doesn’t mean he didn’t have anything to do with it, Marl. And why pour a cartload of gasoline all over the shop? Find out who does the homeowners insurance, will you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And find out if there were any phone calls made by Mrs. McCann to Barroque Warehouse before the fire. While I find out what’s with the sodding bondage chair. There’s someone out there who might have seen or heard something that night.”

  Temeke’s phone gave a welcoming chirrup and he switched it to loud speaker. It was Unit Commander Hackett with his usual bluff optimism. Malin could visualize the man, stomach bowed over his belt and teetering back in his chair. He was probably sipping Darjeeling in a bone china teacup and peering over those half-moon glasses of his.

  “Here’s something for you,” Hackett growled. “Dr. Vasillion confirmed Mrs. McCann was clubbed to death.”

  SEVEN

  Before the welcome sign to Gallup, Flynn could make out the thin glimmer of red and blue curving along the pavement. Emergency lights lit up the intersection and he came to a stop behind the Peterbilt, unable to see much of what was ahead.

  He dialed Jesky’s work number and heard three rings before the old man picked up.

  “Where are you?” he said.

  “Somewhere out west, Jesk.”

  “Come home, son.”

  A choked sob almost forced its way out of Flynn’s throat. He could hear a car horn through the earpiece and he could visualize Jesky smoking with the window down. He was likely driving home for lunch.

  “I didn’t do it, Jesk.”

  “I know you didn’t.”

  “I can’t come back if they don’t believe a word I’m saying.”

  “Not surprising with all the bizarre things in the News. W
hen was it you ran naked down the street with Dennis?”

  “Dang, Jesk, I was eight years old!”

  “Was it a dare?”

  “I dunno. Why’s it so important?”

  “I was thinking it’s lucky there ain’t no picture to go with it.” Jesky let out a long breath, probably a cloud of smoke. “The cops are reeling with phone tips and the internet’s lively. Apparently, you’re a serial murderer obsessed with dolls.”

  “Dolls?”

  “Yeah, dolls,” Jesky said. “But don’t let that bother you. It never has before. What are you driving?”

  “A rental.”

  “Use plastic?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good, they know where you are.”

  Jesky, always the practical one. He had a way of looking at the world and a way of walking into men’s minds with the kind of instincts Flynn could only dream of.

  “Give me a road name,” Jesky said, “somewhere I can meet you.”

  Road name... road name... there was one Flynn recalled in Gallup. “Puerco Drive.”

  “OK, son. Tomorrow. Two o’clock.”

  Flynn didn’t know if it was the fact Jesky put the phone down first that made him feel hollow inside, or if it was the word tomorrow. And he hadn’t asked for a landmark on Puerco Drive to find him. Flynn felt gutted all right, felt ashamed too. Jesky was the one dependable thing in his life.

  Stuffing the phone in his pocket, he hooked the backpack over one shoulder. He opened the door and hobbled outside. The pain seemed to leach up to his calves and every stab made him gasp. He crouched behind the Peterbilt without knowing if the police were searching for him. No matter how guilty he may have looked, he was not some crazy killer.

  Hot gusting winds moaned along the underbelly of the rig and the rear mud flaps shuddered in response. Flynn inched toward the back wheels, easing his head around to study the flashing lights he had begun to dread. He was surprised to see an officer standing on the step of the cab leaning into the passenger window. There would have been another officer on the driver’s side, only Flynn couldn’t hear anything over the rumble of the engine.