Dead Cold

by Claire Stibbe

  Will I? thought Flynn. He nodded and scraped a spatter of cheese from his bottom lip. He scanned the restaurant façade, the potted plant that quivered suddenly from the breeze of an open door and a family of four who seemed to make a wary circuit of the line-up barriers.

  “If you want to talk about it...” Jesky trailed off as if he knew he was stepping over the line.

  “Not sure talking helps.”

  “Whatever happens I’ll take you home like I said. No questions asked.”

  But Jesky was already asking questions. Already poking a finger through the bars and there comes a time when the beast inside can’t take any more. Flynn had his whole lifetime ahead of him and a chance to hit the reset button. Trouble was, no one was letting him. Least of all Mr. Philosophy here.

  “I’ll go first,” Jesky said. “Used to work for Al Sadim on Rio Grande. Groomed his horses, kept the place clean. There was an old run-down shed on his property and no one ever went back there ’cause there was coons and rats and all kinds of snakes. Me and this other guy used to fire up a doob in the evenings, have a drink and a good laugh. Until the shed burnt down and bang went our dope meet. It was the end of an era. The stud manager told us to stop screwing around or it was both our asses. And we was told to give up the dope. Funny thing was the cops was never called.”

  Well now, this was a different vibe, Flynn thought. He knew Jesky took to rolling his own in the toilet when he was young, but smoking weed at work and setting fire to sheds? “Did big Al know?”

  “Of course not. Nice clean-cut gent like him. He was moral with a capital M.”

  “Your point being?”

  “I’m not Mr. Perfect.”

  Everyone has a secret, Flynn thought, staring out at the cars in the parking lot. Four white trucks, six sedans, a man with a dark blue baseball cap sleeping in a red Cutlass. A red Cutlass? Are you kidding? “So if you’re not Mr. Perfect who are you?”

  “That is one of my faces. The other... well, I’ve been trying to bury it ever since. Slate’s almost clean.”

  Almost? Some people get all the luck. Flynn still wasn’t ready to talk and he studied the red car even down to a small hole in the front left fender. The driver was still asleep and no threat for now.

  “I know you think that’s nothing, son. But I want you to cast your mind back to the big fire at the Coors Gas Station last year. Made front page news and they never found the man what did it. Luckily no one was hurt. But someone must have filled them pumps to the brim ’cause they was overflowing all over the pavement. Thought it were rain water as I was pulling out. Lit a cigarette and dropped a match out of the window. Watched it slither down one of them storm drains. And whump. Everything in the rear view mirror went orange.”

  Flynn felt the unmistakable vibration in his gut and the chuckle was louder than he expected.

  “Wasn’t funny son. I never owned up and I was lucky it wasn’t curtains.” Jesky took a final swig of coffee and crushed the plastic cup in one hand. “I might look frail but I can run faster than your internet connection.”

  Grey hair, yes. Frail, hell no. Flynn reckoned there was a solid wall of muscle underneath that wrinkled tee shirt, and as for his stories, he was probably more of a danger to himself than anyone else. Jesky got out then, tossed the wrappers and cups in the nearest trash can and took a leak behind the truck.

  Except for the wind moaning occasionally the parking lot was quiet. Too quiet for Flynn’s peace of mind. His nose twitched in the draft from the open door and he wanted to get out and enjoy the day for what it was. A hike would be nice, only Jesky would sit on a rock and watch him, probably have a few smokes while he was waiting. They said his heart was failing last year, only Flynn didn’t have the guts to ask how it was now.

  “On our way,” Jesky said, sliding back into the front seat.

  Flynn snagged another look at the Cutlass on the way out. There was a flash of black along the rear fender, paint transfer from a recent scrape. The driver was gone.

  With Jesky’s foot pressed down on the gas, Flynn watched the street lights zip past at sixty miles an hour and the closer they got to Albuquerque, the more lightheaded he became.

  “Slow down,” Flynn murmured, “there’s only fifty miles left. The odd second isn’t going to make any difference.”

  “Heading for Iliff Road,” Jesky said. “Penny for them?”

  Flynn thought of his house and what was left of it and he thought of Rosie and her bright green eyes. And then he thought he was going to throw up. “Thinking of home.”

  It must have come out like a growling dog because Jesky gave him most of his attention, head snapping back to the windshield as he tried to watch the road.

  “You don’t want to go home, do you?”

  There’s nothing to go back to, Flynn wanted to say. “I can stay with a friend, until...”

  “Until what?”

  “Until the insurance kicks in. I’ll rebuild the house and sell it. Too many memories.”

  “You might be staying in jail, son.”

  “Is that where you’re taking me?”

  Jesky shuddered as if he didn’t want to talk about it. “I know you think nothing of smoking weed, son, but it were bad. Anything against the law’s bad. It was as far as I went.”

  “Then you raised me well, Jesk. Can I borrow your phone?”

  “Sure, if you can work out how to turn off the caller ID. It’s in settings, son.”

  Flynn took the cell phone from the console, swiveled it on his knee for a bit. It was similar to the one he’d thrown in the dumpster. Accessing the phone’s settings, he switched off the show my caller ID function, crossing mental fingers it worked. Then he sent Rosie a text.

  Are you there?

  He waited for a few seconds for her to text back. There was no response. She was probably still mad at him for hanging up. No harm in tapping out a second message.

  Meet me this afternoon. Usual place.

  He put the phone back in the console and stared at it for a while. “I told Rosie to meet me in Haynes Park. Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea.”

  “Nah, the park’s big enough.”

  While he and Jesky made small talk a question ballooned in his mind. “Where are we staying?”

  “I was thinking of a hotel. Nice view of the freeway from the third floor.”

  Flynn liked the sound of that. “I appreciate it. I appreciate everything actually.”

  The cell phone shuddered and his fingers groped for it. It was Rosie.

  Thank God, Flynn. I was so worried. Yes. Usual place is good. What time?

  Flynn didn’t have a clue what time. A guestimate would be around four o’clock so that’s what he texted.

  Pulling the jacket across his chest he absentmindedly fumbled with the breast pocket. Sometimes he left a twenty in there for a rainy day and today there was nothing in it but a handkerchief. He had never used a handkerchief, always toilet paper and this one was lacy and tied in a loose knot.

  Tarian liked to borrow his jacket. There was a time when she said she liked the smell of him, wrapped herself up in his sweaters and shirts and slept in them. Somehow he could smell traces of her. Sharp undertones of lavender like the large clumps she grew in the front yard. He stuck his thumbnail under the knot and worked it free. Inside there was no sachet of flowers, no comforting scent that he could remember her by. Just a black wedding band.

  FORTY-THREE

  It was late Friday afternoon when Malin stopped the car outside 4300 Ridgerunner Road. It had been a tough week of interviews and she’d worked all day and all night, gone for broke. The camera found inside the doll was pure genius. It pointed to a desperate victim willing to risk his own safety to get proof. It also exposed Wingman’s comment about lenses and once the case had died down she would carry out an internal investigation of her own. She was under no illusion that Wingman was a stranger.

  During the case, she had noticed some internal resistance to letting her succ
eed. Suzi Cornwell didn’t want Malin’s light to shine brighter than hers, but Malin wasn’t the type of woman to allow herself to be pushed over by a smooth-talking academic. Nonetheless, she had a feeling she was being scrutinized.

  She hunched down in the front seat of the car with Temeke, sipping cups of espresso and dining on roasted tomato paninis. On his lap was a large brown envelope with stills Matt had sent from the lab.

  “Video was violent,” Temeke said. “Looks like McCann took a good beating. Can’t say I’d enjoy my wife ramming me in the nuts for nothing. ’Cause that was a question I kept asking myself. Why would a man let a woman tie him up? Now we know. Must have knocked the crap out of him. Murdering little cow.”

  “She might have been pushed too far, sir. A man can abuse a woman all he wants but something’s going to snap.”

  A flame from a match flickered to life, highlighting Temeke’s dark face. He nodded a deep nod as if he was trying to avoid an argument. They had been down this road before and he’d so far been right, but she still had trouble buying it. “I don’t think he hit her.”

  “At any rate, there’s something that doesn’t make sense,” she said, pointing at one of the photographs. “Here it looks like he’s sleeping.”

  “Passed out.”

  “She’s just standing over him. Unaffected, no... remorse. Just a blank nothing.” In a way it frightened Malin. The power Tarian McCann had. How she hadn’t done any of it out of fear. But out of choice.

  “Maybe it was boring for her when he passed out.”

  “No, I’m being serious, sir. This isn’t sexual. It’s punitive.”

  Temeke looked like he was trying to find something sensible to say but instead mumbled, “We’ll never know will we?”

  “Know what, sir? We’ve been sitting in this car for what... three hours?” Malin said, wondering why Temeke was lighting his third cigarette. “No one’s coming out of that house because no one’s in there.”

  “Maybe you’re right. Maybe she saw us coming, climbed over the back wall and buggered off.”

  “Don’t be stupid. Nobody climbs over walls and buggers off. Not unless they see a black and white unit cruising the neighborhood.”

  “This isn’t exactly an old piece of toast, Marl,” he said, tapping the dash. “We’re displaying government plates and carrying enough firepower to wipe out Roswell.”

  “OK, so you’re right. Rosie Ellis is in that damn house and we’re going to stay parked in this street until the witch comes out.” Malin waved a hand in front of her nose and powered down the window to a gush of warm air. “I do wish you’d stop fogging up the car with all that smoke.”

  “I once peaked at thirty a day. Slowed down to five, but I’ve never been able to kick the sodding habit.”

  “And here you are sucking on your third cigarette since six o’clock. When’s your annual checkup?”

  “Tomorrow at one. I tried to change the time but they were dead set on it. What time’s the funeral?”

  “Four. You’ll make it.”

  “Did you know Hackett smokes?” he said. “And it’s not just cigars. Pipes, cigarettes... he pretty well smokes anything. And with all that havoc in his lungs? Never has been able to breathe through one nostril.”

  Malin couldn’t suppress the snort that emerged from the back of her throat and she couldn’t help grinning either. “You spying on him?”

  “No, I’m not spying on him.” Temeke opened his window a slit and flicked the half smoked cigarette onto the pavement.

  He was chilling out in the front seat with a thick jacket over his knees and staring at a scribble he’d made in a notepad. It looked like the chassis of a car with a few tatty old tires, between which he had written the words track 46.5 inches.

  “My guess is the tire tracks outside the McCann house belonged to a luxury sedan,” Temeke said, catching the tilt of Malin’s head as she watched him draw. “Not the Elantra Rosie drives.”

  Malin returned his gaze without blinking. “Whose then?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  Malin felt the urge to do something. To jog. To pump iron, anything to stop her feeling drowsy. She could hear the trees creaking in the wind and cars racing down the road, several they could have stopped for speeding.

  “Ay, ay, look who’s busting ass. Duck down, quick, love. I think this is her.”

  Malin rolled her eyes and stayed where she was. Her thoughts quickly shifted to thigh length boots, jeans and a black sweater becoming more visible as the garage door powered up. Rosie Ellis, hair fluffed up and lips a vivid red, hefted a duffel bag on her shoulder and threw it into the trunk of her car. Malin had a feeling if they followed her they’d soon find Flynn McCann.

  “Looks like there’s trouble in paradise.” Temeke slipped his seat belt back on and radioed their position as 4300 Ridgerunner Road, east of Seven Bar Elementary School.

  Rosie opened the driver’s door and slipped behind the wheel. She started the car and let it hang there for a while, eyes down as if staring at something on her lap.

  “She’s texting someone,” Malin said.

  “What with?” Temeke said with a smile in his voice. “We took the only phone she has?”

  “Of course, we did, sir. People rarely get replacement phones after theirs have been seized.”

  The car squealed as Rosie backed down the small incline and out into the road leaving a trail of exhaust behind her. Temeke put a hand out as Malin turned the wheel. “One small step, Marl. And make sure it’s small.”

  “Stick that on your own refrigerator,” she said, easing on the gas and following at a comfortable distance.

  “We’ve got to assume she’s not going shopping with all that luggage in the back. She’s certainly not going to meet someone for lunch, nor is she going to the doctors. While we’re assuming, let’s give ourselves some motivation. Let’s say she’s desperate. Not only desperate, but willing to bestow her hot lusty favors on the man she loves.”

  Malin grinned. At least he was making it interesting. “I’ll keep that dirty little picture in my mind, sir. But what if she’s not going to find Flynn McCann? What if she’s going to meet someone else? She’s pretty enough, isn’t she?”

  Temeke nodded. “She’s easy on the eyes, I’ll give her that.”

  Malin clenched her jaw hoping Temeke wouldn’t see the roll of her eyes or deep breath she took. She allowed herself a brief look at the house as they drove past. No curtains twitching, no sign of life. Quiet and alone, like a faithful dog waiting for its master to come home.

  Temeke swiveled the laptop toward him and began to run the plates. The scanner could scan three thousand six hundred plates per minute and within milliseconds give off an alarm and voice identification for any reason they should stop the car.

  “So why did McCann flee the state after his wife died?” he said. “Why not wait for the autopsy, have a good sob, get it out of his system. Obvious answer: He was guilty, ashamed, had something to hide. Then he decided to commune privately with a computer in Gallup. Keep up-to-date with the bloody news. But when he found out the Duke City Journal had plastered his picture all over the shop, he changed his look. He saw Hammond, got all twitchy and hitched a ride with his stepdad. How does that sound?”

  “He’s ready to give himself up, sir.”

  The road curved around to the left before hitting the intersection at Seven Bar Loop. Malin drew up behind the sedan and through the rear window she could see the sideways tilt of Rosie’s head and the rear indicator flashing right.

  “This is as close as we get, Marl. Make sure there’s at least two cars between you and her. Kind of late to be telling you, I know.”

  Malin took a breath and tightened her grip on the steering wheel. She’d followed people before. It wasn’t like she didn’t know what she was doing, for crying out loud. Why was Temeke so freaking patronizing?

  She waited for Rosie to pull out, keeping her eyes on the car as it hurtled up the
hill joined by a gray truck. Malin eased in behind the truck as they filtered onto Golf Course heading north for half a mile before the car turned east on 19th. For some reason Malin’s uneasiness wouldn’t melt away and she studied Temeke in the periphery of her vision, brow knotted and fingers tapping the keyboard. He wasn’t running plates, only the young guys did that to improve their stats. Always the man with the plan, the one who chewed things over and a seasoned detective like him didn’t replay old scenarios in his mind for nothing.

  Rosie’s car pulled into the south parking lot of Clemency Baptist Church and parked behind an old green dumpster. Malin parked under a tree about seventy feet on the west side of the lot where they were hidden from view by the railings that bordered Haynes Park.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  Temeke ran a finger along his bottom lip. “I made a note Rosie was going to get the sunroof fixed today. Yet here she is staring into space.”

  It made sense that she was waiting for Flynn and Malin watched the street through the rear view mirror, the wide open field in front and the north and south stretch of parking lot. They sat there in silence for a suspended moment and finally she thought she saw him limping through the trees. But it was only a man and a dog walking along the path.

  “She’s looking down at her lap again,” Temeke said, sipping the dregs of his coffee.

  “Another text, sir.”

  The sudden screeching of tires made them hunker down as the red Hyundai Elantra pulled out of the parking space, reversed over the median and took off around the east side of the church.

  FORTY-FOUR

  She’s gone, the ring kept saying. Flynn examined the dual offset grooves at the rim polished white and in contrast to the rest. He told Jesky she’d worn it ever since the wedding when he’d pushed it over her knuckle with a few gentle twists. He hardly heard Jesky’s response over the rumble of the truck as it took the off-ramp to Coors Boulevard and pulled into the parking lot of the Hampton Inn.

  “I don’t get it, son.”

  “Don’t get what?”