Dead Cold

by Claire Stibbe

  “You’ll see the victim was not in a pugilistic attitude normally found in a fire,” Dr. Vasillion continued, “but rather lying in a fetal position on the floor beside the bed. There was trace evidence of a volatile accelerant on the bedding and on a tote found at the scene.”

  “Three fingers are partially extended,” Malin said.

  “Good observation,” Dr. Vasillion said, head aslant as he seemed to study Malin through a pair of watery blue eyes. “Two are broken, likely in an attempt to ward off her attacker. The skull shows impact on the left supraorbital margin. Fractures extend into the left orbit, across the forehead, through the bridge of the nose and into the right orbit. There is also sharp force trauma to the temple. Two chop wounds approximately one millimeter in length with a space of half a millimeter in between.”

  “What are we looking for?” Temeke asked.

  “Judging by the angles and margins, the wounds are consistent with the claw end of a crowbar, that type of thing. It was likely wielded with a tremendous amount of force and significant angular acceleration. But it’s only a theory, of course.”

  A tool they might have some hope of recovering in a burned out house. Temeke could taste a bitter tang in his throat as he studied the body. It was the skin splits and exposure of internal organs that made him realize these images would be replayed in both their minds for days to come. All that was left of Tarian McCann were blacked bones in an attitude of sleep and resembling the bodies at Pompeii, which had been preserved by hardened ash and captured at the moment of death. It made him anxious to interview Cliff Jaynes as soon as possible.

  Malin’s eyebrows furrowed and then relaxed. “We found a poem in her mailbox. It was typewritten. She might have been afraid of someone and the only someone she lived with was her husband. He was big. About six feet.”

  “You can never judge people based on their size, Malin,” the doctor said. “Both males and females are capable of enormous levels of violence given the proper motivation.”

  Dr. Vasillion moved on to the next photograph. “This is a close-up of the tongue which, unlike the second victim, carries no soot in the mouth, nares, trachea and bronchi. All I can say is Tarian McCann was already dead before the fire. I can find no other cause of death.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Flynn wondered why he hadn’t heard the wail of sirens and for some inexplicable reason, he didn’t care. Either he disappeared into the mountains tonight, or they found him at the hotel first. With gray hair? Get real.

  Murder didn’t exist in his head, a half forgotten TV show, or a nightmare. It had happened and there was no use pretending it hadn’t. But he could pretend, just like he always did and then it would all go away. Change activity.

  He shrugged on his backpack and decided to take a short recce in the grounds. The air was crisp in the hotel park, the type that went deep down into the lungs and gave them a good cleaning. He walked between a line of gas torches, boots crunching on pine needles and gravel, and then he paused before a trail bordered with aspen and pines. He liked the cold and the silence.

  At the top of the trail where the light ended and the darkness began, the gardens were greener than a cut emerald and the tangy breeze had the strangest effect on his spirits. Honey clementine, he thought, like the Yankee candles Tarian used to burn.

  He looked ahead for the source and found a woman jogging toward him, thighs sheathed in spandex and blonde hair scraped back in a bun. She tried to avoid eye contact, lips giving the barest twitch of a smile. As she came closer he noticed those lips were softened with a shade of lipstick mirroring the towel around her neck. She waved a greeting and then turned toward the swimming pool.

  He exhaled through his nose, not wanting to catch her scent as she plowed across his path. Something made him glance after her as she slogged along the trail, heavy panting from an unfit jogger; a feeling she was trying too hard. She looked a little like Tarian. He wanted to follow her.

  Turning back toward the restaurant, he heard chairs scraping on the patio and the light chatter of guests. Most dined heavily and took no notice of a teetering man on sore feet making heavy weather of an evening stroll. Waiters lighted candles and where a multi-colored string of blue and red lights flickered over a stained glass window. In a former life he could have stayed and enjoyed it, but tonight he limped on with his head down.

  When he rounded the corner to the parking lot he realized those lights weren’t the only thing flickering blue and red in the darkness. Two empty police units came to a halt outside the hotel entrance and another idled by the curb, window open. He heard the low mumbling of a male voice on the radio and the hiss of a bottle of mineral water as the officer unscrewed the lid.

  Flynn backed up a few paces, aligning himself behind a large boulder and a sapling. He could see the officer clearly now, sitting in the driver’s seat, head down like he was writing something. A coincidence? Flynn thought not. They were checking the false ID he’d given to the front desk and going through the belongings in his room. Worse, they had covered every exit the hotel had.

  Flynn caught sight of himself in a ground floor window, face sallow and hair clipped to his scalp. Not exactly the picture of a fugitive the papers painted him out to be. But the thought of returning to Albuquerque in the back seat of a police car was not what he had in mind. A bubble of resentment surged up when he thought of the British detective. Couldn’t they have found someone less academic?

  Flynn figured he could reach the bike in about ten seconds at a walk, less if he could run for it. The cop looked up, scanned the parking lot as he climbed out of the car. Sauntering toward the front entrance, he paused, eyes flicking at the clanking halyard on the flagpole. Craning his head to one side, he listened to the purr of an engine in the parking lot. Nothing seemed to persuade him inside the lobby, not even a white jeep cruising along the driveway and out into the main road.

  A modest current of air carried the scent of chlorine and Flynn heard splashing. A swimmer cut the surface of the pool behind him, first with one arm and then the other, legs kicking out behind. She was firm, blonde hair slicked against the curve of her skull and breasts straining against her swimsuit.

  The pool was out of the cop’s field of view and Flynn inched his way along the path leading to a row of empty sun loungers one of which was draped with a pink towel. A latte stood on a nearby table, steam curling from a hole in the lid.

  It was the blonde jogger and he watched as she climbed out of the pool, water dripping from her thighs. He gave her a searching look from top to toe and then back up again.

  “How’s the water?” he asked.

  “Warm.”

  He could see it was from the tendrils of steam curling upward from the surface. She was plucky.

  “Are you going in?” she asked.

  Her blonde hair fell in wet streaks over her collarbone and he watched droplets of water snaking down her arms. “Not tonight. A walk’s good enough for me.”

  “You here for the investors workshop?”

  Flynn had no idea there was a workshop but he nodded all the same.

  She introduced herself as Eryn. When he didn’t introduce himself as anything, she asked, “You with anyone?”

  Where the heck did this girl come from? Is this a joke?

  He was surprised at how aroused he was, how he could smell the chlorine on her skin, face speckled with water and tilted to his. He couldn’t help wondering how good it would be with glossy, latte-in-one-hand, Eryn, with her wide set brown eyes. How dangerous and wrong it was. How now was not the time to drag her into a bedroom with a cop stalking the grounds. But how right it was because the police would never find him there. Eryn was escape. She was opportunity.

  She was talking to him like he was out of the ordinary and not the dope who couldn’t string an eloquent sentence together, the idiot who never quite understood the meaning of sophistication, whatever sophistication was. She stood within inches of him, nothing like curled-up-in-a-ball Taria
n who lay on the couch every Saturday afternoon with the blinds closed, having sucked down a few anti-depressants, or whatever the heck they were. Tarian had suddenly become like a gray fish that had become landed with no hope of flopping back into its life-giving waters. Why had she become so untouchable? So detached? So dissatisfied? Why was going home a constant dread?

  He paused for that juddering, unbearable moment as if hurtling down a slope that ends in a sixty foot drop. “Can I walk you to your room?”

  Eryn hesitated. But only for a second.

  It was six forty-five in the morning when she lay beside him, one leg curled around his waist. The sheets were still warm and Flynn didn’t know if it was the thought of the cops outside the hotel that gave him such a rush last night, or her hands which kept his engine running.

  “Amazing,” she said, diamond ring flashing on her fourth finger.

  “What’s amazing?”

  “Your feet. You should sue them.”

  Last night, Flynn had told her a story about a hot tub accident and then leaned on her shoulder as she led him to her room. Which, incidentally, was a far better place to hide in since his room had been stripped bare by the cops. It had also been a test to see if Tarian’s threats had gotten the better of him. For six months he wasn’t able to be intimate without the embarrassment of failure. She called it stress. He called it a limp windsock. Seemed like the wind had picked up after all.

  Slipping out from under the duvet, he grabbed his clothes and padded over to the bathroom. He thought about his bike parked under the trees, hoping it hadn’t been impounded by the cops.

  “So you’re engaged?” he said through the open door.

  “Long story.”

  Flynn blew out a loud breath and hoped she hadn’t heard it. He hung his pants over the tub and took a small bottle of shampoo from the sink.

  “He was a doctor,” she said. “Worked long hours. It all came to a head two months ago.”

  “For you or for him?”

  “For me.”

  “Yet you still wear his ring?”

  “I still love him. And if you’re wondering why this, it’s because I’m lonely. Who isn’t?”

  Yes, who isn’t. Flynn heard the growling in his stomach and patted it. He closed the bathroom door and ran the tap, using all the soap to scrub away the guilt. There was a blur of red around his irises, broken veins much like a broken heart. He needed to forget, to get the memories out of his blood and he needed to stop pretending every woman he touched was Tarian.

  He paused at a muffled knock from the corridor, pressed his head against the bathroom door and listened.

  “Ralf Gingman, manager, ma’am. I’m sorry, I see you’re about to take a shower so I’ll be brief. The Flagstaff police have been asking us to make sure all the guest rooms are secure. Nothing to worry about. They received a report about a homeless person in the grounds last night. If you see anyone suspicious, let us know.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Is he dangerous?”

  “No, ma’am. Old guy, staggering about near the hot tub. Probably inebriated. Sorry for the intrusion.”

  The door thudded closed and Flynn’s pace seemed to quicken with his heartbeat. What if the homeless person was simply a smokescreen? He had to make it to Sedona today and he had no idea how he was going to pull it off.

  “Everything OK?” he said, walking into the bedroom with his boots in one hand.

  She gave him a full once over, nose twitching at the smell of soap and possibly the fact he was dressed and she wasn’t. “It was the manager, something about an intruder.”

  “Did they get him?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Want to get something to eat?” It was good manners to ask, but he hoped she’d say no. Nothing about her screamed keeper.

  “You go ahead. Will I see you later?”

  “What time’s the workshop?” He tied his shoelaces and grabbed his backpack.

  “Eight thirty. Breakfast’s at eight.”

  He smiled and kissed her on the lips. Left without looking back.

  EIGHTEEN

  Temeke couldn’t stop staring at the fine tailoring that sat in front of him; polka dot silk scarf and a white shirt looking as if it was two sizes too small. A few squirts of Eau de Stink and the girls were all over it. You could read it in his eyes.

  Temeke recorded the day as Friday and the time as nine thirty in the morning. Introduced Malin first and then the interviewee as Mr. Cliff Jaynes of 3649 Live Oak Lane for the benefit of the tape.

  “Do you recall where you were last Sunday night, Mr. Jaynes?”

  “Yes. I was in the Two Fools Tavern. They normally close around eleven but there was a fight in the bathrooms. It took the two landlords forty-five minutes to break it up. With the help of the police, of course.”

  “Would anyone remember seeing you?”

  “I think so. I discharged a fire extinguisher in one of the stalls to stop them.”

  “Around what time was this?”

  “Eleven thirty, eleven forty-five.”

  Very resourceful, thought Temeke, making a mental note of the time. “I understand you work on computers, Mr. Jaynes.”

  “I’m an IT specialist at Summit Solutions.”

  Prohibition-style sophistication, Temeke thought, studying hazel eyes beneath trimmed eyebrows. Hard to imagine someone like that sitting in a gunny-covered cubicle at work staring at a computer screen. He was telling the truth because Temeke had already called the company, where a high-pitched voice answered and put him through to Mr. Jaynes’ extension. No Mr. Jaynes. Yet here he was after the fourth attempt.

  “You’re not a suspect, Mr. Jaynes, so if you’d prefer not to talk—”

  “No, no, you’re fine.” Cliff Jaynes ran a hand through thick hair lifted high off his forehead and pushed to one side. He copped a brief look at Malin, eyes sliding back to Temeke. “If I can help in any way.”

  “You and Violet Chavez, how long were you dating?”

  “About seven months before she moved to Oregon.”

  Cliff’s right hand tapped out a rhythm on the desk and he looked over his shoulder a couple of times. He didn’t seem to want to add any more to the Violet question and Temeke moved on.

  “Are you using?” he asked.

  Cliff gave a twitchy look as if using was a bad word the police had never heard of. “Occasionally.”

  Occasionally always meant frequently in Temeke’s experience. He opened up his wallet and took out a card with the address of a treatment center he knew. “Ask for Silvia Gomez.”

  Cliff took the card, muttered a thank you and slipped it into his pocket.

  “I want you to be aware of the drug prohibition laws,” Temeke said. “You understand if you are trafficking you will be charged.”

  “Yes, sir. But I don’t trade.”

  Temeke handed Cliff the typewritten note in a clear evidence bag. “Seen this before?”

  “No. Can’t say I have.”

  “Any idea what dead cold means?” Temeke asked.

  “It could be a code word for meth.”

  “Why would it be addressed to Mr. McCann?”

  Cliff shrugged.

  Temeke began to feel some kind of empathy toward Flynn. Cheated on and made to look a fool. He was certainly pathetic enough to be one. “Was Mr. McCann using?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “How well do you know Rosie Ellis?” Temeke asked.

  Cliff acknowledged the possibility with a stern set to his mouth. “The first time I saw her was at the lake. Elephant Butte. Watched her waterski in a black swimsuit. She’s damn good. I formally met her at Tarian’s engagement party. Looked like she was in the wrong place. Not sure I would have accepted the invitation under the circumstances. You know Flynn ditched her for Tarian?”

  “In the same way you ditched Violet Chavez for Tarian?”

  Cliff stroked the corner of his mouth with a finger. “Tarian was tacky. I like tacky.
She didn’t talk much. I like that even better. We dated on and off. More off when Flynn came along. She said we only ever lasted a few beats.”

  “She said that?”

  “Not in those words.”

  “Were you sad when it ended?” Temeke asked.

  “Harsh truth, isn’t it? When a girl decides you’re no longer the man of the moment. But she was never into Flynn like she was into me. I didn’t harass her with take-me-back phone calls. Nor did I follow her down the street like some I could name. But she did come back.”

  “She chased you?”

  “Hell, yeah.” Cliff’s voice was soft, uninhibited. “I was surprised she called. She was surprised I hadn’t. We talked about Flynn. How he didn’t want to leave his sordid little life behind, how spineless he was. I told her she couldn’t expect to put a monkey in a suit and take him to dinner.”

  Temeke held his gaze, using the silence to make him uneasy. He knew Cliff could find Tarian’s house with his eyes closed.

  “We met a few more times after that. It was casual, nothing serious.”

  “An affair is always serious,” Temeke said.

  “I wouldn’t call it an affair.”

  Temeke produced the photographs Rosie had given him, a tangle of white legs and leather. Cliff’s face froze, one hand resting protectively on a man-clutch on the table and his lips barely formed around the words where did you get those?

  “Can you tell me who took these?” Temeke asked.

  “They were on a timer,” Cliff said. “It was only ever her and me. Listen. Is there a problem with S and—”

  “Not at all Mr. Jaynes. I understand you might want to keep a supply of stimulating videos and snapshots to get you in the mood. Got a problem with the meaning of the word affair because according to this you were issued more than a season ticket.”

  “We were playmates. There was no love in it.”

  “No, I can see that,” Temeke said. “But you knew Mrs. McCann very well.”