Looking for signs to West Hopi Drive, he found what he was looking for. A quirky wigwam motel where a Studebaker and a few rusty old clunkers were parked outside. It had been two years since he and Tarian had spent a memorable night in a thirty foot concrete wigwam, eating peanut brittle and lulled by the sound of trains. He’d been too trusting then.
“I’ve been thinking,” she had said, arm reaching across him in the dark. “It’s time to tell Rosie to stop calling.”
“She doesn’t call.”
Tarian had removed her arm and rolled on her back.
“Relax,” Flynn had said. “It’s not like she calls every day.”
“She’s crazy about you, and you know it.”
“That’s not true.”
“Maybe I’m not enough for you.”
“You’re more than enough for me.” He had grabbed her hand and pulled her toward him.
“Are you sure, babe? Are you really sure?”
“Please.” He had tried not to sound whiney. “You know there’s no one else.”
“You don’t get it, do you? She watches us.”
“She doesn’t watch us,” Flynn said. “It’s hard for her.”
“And not for me?”
“We’ve been friends for so long.”
“And lovers.”
Flynn couldn’t argue with that. He valued Rosie’s modesty, her grace, her appeal. She was different from Tarian. But it had been so long ago.
“She says I took you away from her,” Tarian had said.
“Well, you did.”
“And you were willing.” He could still feel her body pressing against his and how her breathing had quickened. “My small town boy.”
He could never make it stop. Sometimes she straddled him and tied his hands to the bedhead. Sometimes it was the manipulation she found erotic, pushing and pushing until Flynn gave her what she wanted. He never thought it was serious. Not until the bruises. Not until the chair.
The memory was shattered by a piercing laugh. Too many tourists walking across the road to get coffee, too many who might wonder who he was. The detour to the wigwam motel was a dangerous one. But nobody seemed to look up despite the soft grunt of the bike. There were moments of silence when he caught his breath to listen to a Snicker wrapper as it scraped along the pavement.
His head kept playing back each memory, hearing the patter of rain on the concrete wall of the wigwam. Number six, he thought it was, and he stared at the white painted door no longer open to a gentle yellow light and her long silhouette against the door frame. It was like being locked in a cage only she could open.
He had to force himself to stop digging up old ghosts. Force because he had to stop fighting against the hatred he had for Tarian. So, he gave up trying.
His thoughts became drowned by the roar of traffic on the road behind him and the laughter of a couple as they exited the motel museum. The man wore a long cowhide leather coat and the woman was dressed in green khaki pants and a black nylon jacket. There was the unmistakable stench of law enforcement about them.
Flynn tensed, swung his leg back over the bike and patted on his helmet. He was right. Reminiscing in Holbrook was a dangerous mistake. The bike was a rare piece of art in his mundane world, attracting the attention of the deputy sheriff who gave him a thumbs up. If the officers were questioned, they would describe him as a man of medium height, gray hair, late thirties, early forties. They would describe the bike down to the olive colored seat and the blue and white logo on the tank.
Flynn turned up the collar of his coat and stooped over the handle bars.
“Nice ride,” the deputy sheriff said on his way past, rolling the brand name off his tongue. He turned for a better look.
Flynn said nothing. A voice could be identified. If he moved too fast they would move faster.
“Got the apocalyptic vibe.” The deputy sheriff studied the tank, dark eyes sweeping from left to right. Eyes with laugh lines that flared out at the corners. “Is it new?”
“Second hand,” Flynn murmured behind the smoked shield of his helmet.
The man backed up a little and gave a few nods, face clean and square like a regular lawman. “Have a safe trip, sir.”
Flynn watched them walk toward a black and white unit parked across the street, heads turned in the direction of a large group of singing tourists. Perhaps they were turning a blind eye, perhaps they knew in doing so he would make a mistake and they would pick him up later.
He swung out into the street, keeping to the speed limit until he was out of site of the black and white unit. He knew he’d need to top the bike off whenever he saw a gas station, didn’t trust the gauges any more than he trusted the people.
According to the digital display at the pump, the I-40 was clear all the way to Flagstaff and if he was lucky, he could make it in under two hours.
FIFTEEN
A large cloud covered Flagstaff, hanging like a panama hat in the blue, and the road paled away into the murk of the city. Flynn had been daydreaming all the way. Four days before the fire, Tarian bought a chair, black leather with a high back and other features. He was scared the first time he saw it. A hideous thing that opened a door into a part of her he never expected.
“You’ve gotta be kidding,” he had said, recalling the laughter in his voice. “Next, you’re going to say everyone’s doing it.”
“Not everyone, Flynn. Us.”
No, he hadn’t tried it. He didn’t need to. It wasn’t for him. She called him a prude, said their sex life needed reviving. A few quick groans and it was over. Perhaps he was too tired, too stressed.
Reviving? What the hell was she talking about? Sex was great, never tired him out. Not one bit. But he knew it wasn’t the same for her. There was always something missing, something ‘out there’ they should be trying.
“Why?” he had asked her.
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those boring people who hates change.”
Change? She’d changed tack, and that was never a good thing because Flynn always felt left behind. Like he’d missed the boat on something big. She had insisted he try it. Reminded him she’d done him a favor by digging him out of the poverty pit his incompetent parents had provided. He could have answered back instead of allowing her to saw another slice off his ego. Why do the rich assume the poor need saving? In Flynn’s eyes, the rich knew zip.
There was nothing wrong with his past. His childhood consisted of doing a series of prime double-dog dares with Dennis—who could run naked across the lot without being caught and who could pee a complete curve over the top of Grandma Wallace’s mobile home. They used to shoot marbles at coons and cats, until junior year when Dennis sold some dope to an undercover narc. Jesky stepped up to the plate then, decided to take a crack at being Flynn’s ride-along. That was the best part since stepdads had access to power tools and bits of old wall you could drive a screw through.
Tarian’s voice kept slicing through his memories just as if she sat on the bike behind him, arms wrapped around his waist.
“If I hadn’t married you,” she had said, likely flipping her blonde hair to one side, “you wouldn’t know the meaning of pleasure.”
He wouldn’t have known the meaning of pain.
“And if I hadn’t spoken to you first...” He could still feel her lips brushing against his neck. “Imagine how you would have felt.”
How would he have felt? Relieved?
“Devastated.” She had drawn out the word as if it was delicious.
She always reminded him of an overexcited guard dog pulling at the leash to separate him from the self-effacing, shy date he had come with. If he compared them to ice creams, Rosie was dark cherry and chocolate and Tarian was like a collision of caramel and ground almond, the type that got stuck in your teeth.
Shaking with cold and covered in dust, he powered through the city limits. His limbs were stiff and he could feel numbness seeping up from the tops of his thighs. He spied a hotel on East
Butler Avenue with manicured grounds and views of the snowcapped mountains. Owing himself a little luxury, he decided to make it the last pit-stop before slugging through the hills to find his dad.
Leaving the bike in a thick stand of Ponderosa saplings, he took off his helmet, aware of the tart whiff of pine needles and the gentle drone of wind. It was nearly five o’clock on Thursday afternoon and already the sky had turned orange in preparation for a long gray dusk.
The concierge merely nodded when Flynn explained about the lost wallet and how lucky it was he kept a few notes in his inside jacket pocket.
“Very lucky,” the man said, head aslant and eyes flicking towards the front door. He swiveled a damage waiver toward Flynn and tapped it with a pen. “Hotel policy.”
Flynn felt the heat in his forehead and imagined his face had tuned a fiery red. The social security number he provided was false, two digits out. No one would bother to check unless he drilled a hole in the bedroom wall. He barely listened to the spiel about checkout times, and he noticed the man’s attention drawn toward the parking lot again where a guest slumped over a concrete planter and gave the driveway the best of his lunch.
Flynn thanked the concierge and shuffled down a corridor to a large well-lit room on the first floor. Arcadia doors opened out onto forested grounds and wire strung from a birdfeeder whined thinly in the breeze.
He removed the gauze from his feet. No bleeding, only a semi-circle of red stretching from the edge of the heel to about an inch in, and pus oozed from a blister on his ankle. He took a long shower, enjoying the burning jets of water against this back but not against his legs. A chance to chill out and take a breather. A chance to find a payphone and call Jesky.
He pulled on a set of clean clothes and repacked the rest in ranger rolls. There was enough space in the backpack for food and water and the first aid pack Misty had given him. Hooking it over one shoulder, he opened the sliding door and heard the crunch of pine needles beneath his boots.
Outside, a russet dusk had descended and he sensed the darkness was never total on the hotel grounds. Paths and terraces were lit and probably stayed lit throughout the night. Stalking on the balls of his feet, he found a payphone at the travel center, dialed the number he knew so well.
Jesky picked up. “Son. I won’t ask where you are, but your mom wants to know if you’re OK.”
Flynn could sense Jesky pulling his face into a grimace which was his interpretation of a smile. It struck him Jesky always had this deep, warm tone and he realized how much he missed it. “I’m OK.”
“Have you read the papers?”
“Haven’t seen one.”
“The detective, the one doing the murder investigation. You might want to sit down, son.”
Flynn took a deep breath. His head seemed to ratchet down toward the ground, eyes following a line in the concrete.
“Detective Santiago said she didn’t know if Tarian had been killed hours or minutes before the fire, but she reckoned someone set fire to your house to cover up the crime.”
Flynn’s mouth went dry and his ears began to hum. All he could do was pant.
“I’m sorry, son. I know it’s hard. But if you come back you can tell them what happened.”
Flynn didn’t give a rat’s ass about coming back. Were they all insane? He pressed a clenched fist against his mouth, struggling to understand what she could have done in those last few days. It was hard enough coming to terms with what she had done in four long years. She was fake. Airbrushed. About as unremarkable as a mid-sized sedan.
“It’s hell,” Jesky murmured.
“You’re damn right it’s hell. You should have been there, Jesk. You should have seen it.”
“Being a parent, I meant. ’Cause there’s so much love to give. Only kids don’t want it.”
Flynn had to swallow, felt the prickle of tears in his eyes. He’d never heard Jesky talk like this.
“I couldn’t identify her, son. They wouldn’t let me.”
“Oh, Jesk. I-I’m sorry.” Flynn never wanted that terrible duty to go to Jesky. He felt a surge of bile in his throat and his head started to throb.
“Anyhow, the detective wants you to call her, son. Says it’s important.”
“You know what, Jesk? I need time to myself. Time to think.”
“But the detective—”
“Will have to wait.”
SIXTEEN
Temeke followed Malin into the well-lit lobby of the Office of the Medical Investigator, a 60,000 square foot facility tasked with investigating violent deaths. From the windows he could see the Sandia mountains; a rugged ridge of buttresses and spires that dominated the eastern skyline. He had hiked La Luz trail many times, jogging along the trailhead and switchbacks stopping to savor views across the canyon to the Thumb rock formation. Today those same trails were hidden among green conifers that dotted the slopes and where the crest was a jagged line against a cerulean sky.
Adjusting his eyes to the elevator doors, Temeke found an anonymous quote on the wall which read, “I will bear in mind always that I am a truth seeker, not a case maker: that it is more important to protect the innocent than to convict the guilty.” Temeke wondered how many other medical investigators had that same quote displayed somewhere in their offices, whether from duty or compassion. Or both.
Glacial fluorescent lighting glared on Dr. Vasillion and two assistants, all stooping over an autopsy table which was partially draped in polythene sheeting. The doctor beckoned them over and pointed at two chairs.
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” he said.
Temeke looked at his watch. Thursday afternoon, four days after the fire. He glanced out of a large window with panoramic views of the Big I. The weather was warmer in the afternoons. Clear blue skies and fifty three degrees. But in the office of the medical investigator he had been catapulted back into winter and a layer of frost on the aluminum chair he was sitting on was slowly permeating his biscuits.
The lab was large enough to stable a few thoroughbreds and hermetically sealed from the fresh air outside. He scrutinized the doc they had come to see, artistic gray hair neatly teased to one side, round black rimmed glasses, the type of man who probably rode an exercise bike in his loft. Described as the Chief Medical Investigator, the title failed to include a certification in anatomic, clinical and forensic pathology and a fellow of the Board of Medicolegal Death Investigators.
“Good to see you, Malin.” Dr. Vasillion looked up and gave her a warm smile.
Malin was doing a good imitation of the tough-as-nails detective and leaned forward a little. “It’s been a while.”
“Before Christmas if I recall,” he said. “How have you been?”
“Good. I’m glad the days are getting longer. I can jog in the evenings now.”
“I see you exercise,” Dr. Vasillion said, pointing in the general direction of Malin’s stomach. “You look great.”
You look great? Temeke almost coughed. The man was busy measuring the bottom mandible of a blackened skull while chatting up a female detective. And what was worse, Malin looked as if she was about to crumple to the floor like a sack of flour. It was to be expected, after all Vasillion had hacked his horny way through several nurses at Rust Hospital and a female sergeant from Valley Command. He was currently shacked up with Jennifer Danes and as far as Temeke understood the debonair doc was the hottest item since vintage electronics.
Temeke cleared his throat and studied the charred body of a woman lying on her right side. He leaned forward as the two assistants parted to give him a better look. “Is that―”
“Tarian McCann. There can be no doubt.” Dr. Vasillion said, hand cupping the bald dome of her head.
No matter how many times Temeke had seen burn victims and homicide cases, he never got used to the haunting image of their last moments. How they fought back. If they fought back. He kept wondering who would want Tarian dead. She must have made a few enemies, no doubt. But... want her dead?
&
nbsp; Doctor Vasillion angled the computer monitor to show X-rays and “as-is” pictures of Tarian McCann. There were several photographs of the location and position of her body at the scene.
“Of course, fire fatalities are challenging both from the autopsy side and the investigative side,” the doctor said. “Any time a hose shoots ninety-five gallons of water a minute over a crime scene it’s always contaminated.”
“As luck would have it,” Temeke said, “the news media were herded behind a barrier of yellow crime scene tape. Otherwise the crafty old sods would have been trampling over the evidence.”
Dr. Vasillion flashed a cold smile. “I saw the anchor from Channel 4. Nice man.”
“Stan Stockard?” Temeke hazarded a guess and saw the nod. “Yeah, doesn’t matter what time of day or night. Stan’s always there. I thought I saw Jennifer Danes hiding in that dense mass of humanity. Like an ant scurrying out of the cracks at any sign of sugar.”
Temeke noticed the doc had flushed to a lighter shade of pink, even to the tips of his ears.
“This is the victim in situ,” Dr. Vasillion said, chin pointing at the monitor on the wall. “You can see blackened skin, which in some areas is burned away to reveal thermally coagulated bone and charred muscle. Toxicology portion states that samples of Mrs. McCann’s blood, urine and gastric contents were tested and yielded positive for a small level of alcohol, methamphetamine and trace amounts of the anti-anxiety medication diazepam. Not enough to impede her escape from the fire.”
“So she could have made a dash for it,” Temeke asked.
“Not with a bashed in skull.”
Malin made a feeble attempt to move her mouth and shivered instead. Seeing her like that brought a wash of concern over Temeke as he tried to understand what she was feeling.
“You alright, Marl?” he said. He had to ask and he knew she’d be mad in front of the doc.
“I’m fine.”
She stared ahead, dark eyes flicking over the screen as if she was focusing on a fly that had somehow become trapped behind the visual display. He’d seen that look before, when the cogs were processing every millimeter of footage before spitting out a question.
Dead Cold Page 9
