Alien Heat

by Lynn Hightower

  He could only just hear the music over the noise of traffic, the rush of wind. He squinted into the rearview mirror, thinking how tired he looked, knowing that tonight he would not sleep.

  David turned into the long gravel drive of his house, stopped halfway down and got out. He shut the door carefully, told the car to kill the engine and the lights, and stood in the darkness.

  Wife and kids inside. One cat, one dog, one errant iguana. Two bunnies in the barn and a yearling cow that liked candy. A list of overdue bills in the computer.

  He walked to the house, unhurried, gravel crunching beneath his feet. In the back of his mind, he planned. He would take Teddy to dinner tomorrow, he would take her to Pierre’s. He checked his watch, saw it was after three-thirty. Tonight, then, since it was already tomorrow. He would wear the blue shirt, it was his favorite.

  There was a light in the living room—the reading lamp, turned to the lowest setting. The petunias by the porch had crumpled and turned brown from lack of water, something he should have seen to.

  The porch swing creaked as he went by. David told the front door to open locks. He went in quietly. The living room was medium neat—ice cream wrappers on the floor, licked clean by the dog, school discs on the chair, right by a backpack and one pink tennis shoe.

  Rose, asleep on the couch.

  He was able to look at her with an objectivity that surprised him. She was something of a beauty, his wife. Small and fine-boned, dangerous. Thick curly black hair, blue-violet eyes, the lashes dark against her cheeks. She wore nothing but a linen shirt and panties, and had wrapped herself in a blue wool blanket, like a moth inside a cocoon.

  Asleep, she looked very sweet. He had seen her kill with her bare hands; she had a past in the DEA branch of the military that haunted her still; she was a hired mercenary in the fight for animal rights.

  He was shocked not to feel any guilt. He had never once strayed, all the years of their marriage, but he knew what he should be feeling now, and he did not. Could they be so very alienated, that infidelity was beside the point?

  Perhaps it always was.

  He heard footsteps in the hall—one of his daughters. Lisa stumbled toward him, arms out, her voice small and heavy with sleep.

  “Had a bad dream, Daddy.”

  He pulled her close, smoothing hair out of a face so like his own, thinking how glad he was that he was home when she had a bad dream and needed him.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  David was dozing when the phone rang, and he picked it up on the second ring, thinking it would be her.

  “Yo, David, wake you up?”

  “What?”

  “It’s Mel. You remember me, we work together?”

  “It’s still dark out, Mel.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s almost five A.M, so it would be. Figured I better remind you, we’re doing an early bird on Tatewood.”

  “Tatewood?”

  “Yeah, David, Tatewood, guy you wanted to talk to? Supper club fire, business manager, mortgages, Mind Institute.”

  “I got it, Mel, I’m awake now.”

  “You get anywhere with Teddy Blake last night?”

  “What?”

  “You know, the psychic. Said you were going to see what she knew about this Mind Institute. Thought you said you were awake?”

  “Mel, let me get a shower. I’ll meet you in front of Tatewood’s place, we can talk then.”

  David looked for the battered green Buick, saw it was parked four houses down from Tatewood’s duplex. Mel had the seat on recline, his head turned to one side, eyes closed. His tie was loose, collar open, sport coat wadded in the backseat.

  David shook his head. Early as it was, this was not a place to fall asleep with the windows open and the doors unlocked. Even in a car this old.

  “What you looking at?” Mel’s eyes stayed closed.

  “Lipstick on the front of your shirt. Midsection, Mel, that’s interesting. You sleep in your clothes?”

  Mel opened one eye, then the other. “Not exactly. Somebody took my clean shirt, and to tell you the truth, I didn’t sleep.”

  “You should save this stuff for the weekend.”

  “It is the weekend, David.”

  “Miriam?”

  Mel smiled.

  “We have good relations with the coroner’s office, Mel.”

  “Relations are just getting better, David. This could work for us.”

  “And it could backfire.”

  “Get in, will you? I brought coffee.”

  David opened the door to the passenger’s seat and a red light flashed on the console.

  “Security breach.”

  “Guard off,” Mel said.

  David paused, hand on the door. “You got this rigged?”

  “I called it off. Go on, get in, it’s safe.”

  David sat down carefully, but nothing happened, and he let his breath out in a rush. He sniffed, smelling cinnamon.

  “Elaki coffee?”

  “Cinnamon rolls and human coffee. Bakery near Miriam’s place.”

  “She wouldn’t give you breakfast, huh?”

  “She doesn’t like getting up this early.”

  David opened the brown paper bag. “Me either.”

  “The one on top is black, that’s mine. The one with cream is on the bottom.”

  It was a big cup, double order. David opened the top spout and wet steam escaped, coating his upper lip. He reached into the bag of cinnamon rolls, and Mel held out a hand. David gave him a napkin.

  “Did I ask for a napkin?”

  David handed him a cinnamon roll. “Where’s String?”

  “Gumby’s meditating in a bog somewhere. He won’t be in until later.”

  “He’s still mad about the van.”

  “C’mon, David, he can’t just not come to work because he misses his van. Can he?”

  David took a bite of cinnamon roll. It was warm and soft, and the icing was crisp like he liked it. “These are great, Mel.”

  “Yeah, they smelled good. So when you want to go in here?”

  David looked at his watch. “When does he get to his office?”

  “Not till around nine, I think.”

  David looked at the duplex. The windows were dark, soulless. “He’s not even up yet.”

  “The nice thing to do, David. We should let him wake up, go to the bathroom, have his morning cup of coffee.”

  David chewed a bite of cinnamon roll. “What do you want to do?”

  “First we finish our coffee, then we wake him up. Be good police work that way, get him off guard. Speaking of which, tell Rose I’m sorry if I got her up this morning when I called.”

  “No, she slept right through it.”

  “She on the couch again?”

  David swallowed coffee the wrong way and coughed. “What do you know about this guy, Mel?” He took another bite of cinnamon roll. Looked at Tatewood’s house. Still dark.

  “No priors. Keeps himself to himself. Minimal education. Only child … or did he have a brother? I think he may have a brother.”

  David licked icing off his fingers, checked his watch. The left-hand side of the duplex showed a light.

  “Come on, let’s go.”

  “Yeah,” Mel said. “Guy should be about midstream, time we get to the door.”

  Tatewood greeted them in a flannel plaid robe, belted high up over his hips. Wrinkled yellow pyjama legs could be seen beneath the bottom and long-sleeved yellow cuffs peeked from the sleeves, though it was high summer and hot. Tatewood wore tatty brown slippers on his small feet.

  Vinyl, David decided, thinking they would rub blisters and make Tatewood’s feet sweaty.

  Tatewood’s hair stuck up in the back, an oily-looking muss, and the left hem of the robe had ripped loose and trailed blue thread. David felt a surge of pity. Something about this man’s earnest awkwardness stirred his sympathy.

  “Mr. Tatewood? Detective Silver. This is my partner, Detective Burnett, homicide. We spoke t
he other afternoon?” David showed his ID.

  Tatewood blinked and ran a hand over his face. There was a dried smear of toothpaste on the man’s sleeve.

  “Did you want to come in? I’m not really—”

  Mel smiled broadly. “Don’t give it a second thought, Mr. Tatewood. Homicide cops are like doctors, see people in their pyjamas all the time.” Mel chuckled. “Some of them still breathing.”

  Tatewood smiled hesitantly, trying to please. He unlatched the storm door and pointed to the wall. “Mother’s still asleep next door, so we’ll have to keep our voices down.”

  “You live with your mother?” Mel said. He gave David a look.

  “She lives next door in the other duplex. It’s convenient that way.”

  “Convenient for what?” Mel asked.

  Tatewood frowned at him. “She’s not in good health.”

  He led them into a living room that was paneled in dark wood and carpeted in gold sculptured wall-to-wall. At first, David thought there were no windows, then realized that they had been paneled over. He felt creepy. Glad he carried a gun.

  Tatewood sat on a brown vinyl couch—matches the slippers, David thought—and shoved a stack of newspapers to one side. A stuffed parrot sat on a perch in the corner, glass eyes glittering. Tatewood got up, turned on another lamp. David settled into a bentwood rocker, Mel into a dark green recliner.

  David smiled kindly. “Sorry to get you up, Mr. Tatewood. We saw the light and thought you might be awake. You’ll be glad to know we’re working night and day on these supper club fires.”

  Mel crossed his legs. “Yeah. Me and David, I think we forget what normal hours are.”

  Tatewood blinked at them. “You saw the light? Were you watching the house?”

  Mel smiled, showing teeth. “Why would we be watching the house, Mr. Tatewood?”

  Tatewood looked from one to the other, licked his lips, frowned. He searched the right-hand pocket of the bathrobe and came up with a Chapstick. He pulled off the white cap, unrolled the fleshy-looking wax, and coated his lips.

  How do people get this way? David wondered.

  Mel crossed his legs. “Mr. Tatewood, we want to know if you’d had any more E-mail threats, phone calls, that sort of thing?”

  Tatewood shook his head. “I told the woman. Clements?”

  “Detective Clements, yes.”

  “I said I’d tell her if I got anything else.”

  “That’s funny,” Mel said. “I would have expected it.” Tatewood shrugged, and Mel made a sympathetic noise. “Real shame about the insurance money.”

  “Yes, I really fell down on that one.” Tatewood gave them a sideways glance.

  David frowned. He could have sworn the man was smirking. Surely he was mistaken?

  Mel picked at the bottom of his shoe. “They must be mad, huh? They going to fire you? You got some kind of malpractice insurance as a business manager?”

  “They were upset, but we’ve come to an agreement. I’ve found buyers for the property.”

  “Did you now?”

  David glanced over his shoulder at the parrot. Tatewood saw the look.

  “It’s not real, Detective Silver. Mother doesn’t like pets. She’s allergic, you see.”

  “Shame,” Mel said. “My partner here, now he’s got all kinds of pets.”

  Tatewood gave David a tentative smile. “Really?”

  Mel held up fingers. “He’s got a cat—big fat cat, looks like a possum.”

  Tatewood covered his mouth with his hand and laughed.

  “And he’s got a dog. Couple rabbits. And—you still got the cow?”

  David nodded.

  “Yearling,” Mel said. “He used to have an ostrich, till it … left. And he had an iguana that just ran away from home.”

  Tatewood’s eyes widened. “A lizard? How big?”

  David held his hands up.

  “Not counting the tail? That’s sizable.”

  Mel gave Tatewood a sympathetic look. “Mom doesn’t like lizards either?”

  Tatewood shook his head.

  David shifted in his chair. “Mr. Tatewood, did you know a woman named Theresa Jenks?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Ever hear the name before?”

  “No, sir.”

  “How about the place next to the club, the people who lived in the house that burned. Hart, that’s what the name was. Did you know them?”

  “No, sir.”

  “They had a five-year-old son, Markus. You ever see him out playing?”

  “No, sir.” Tatewood looked cooperative, polite. No frustration or anger at the line of questions.

  Mel pulled something off his shoe, looked at it, balled it up. “You read your horoscope, Mr. Tatewood?”

  David tensed. Gave Mel a look.

  “No, sir,” Tatewood said.

  “Never?”

  “No, sir.”

  “That’s unusual. David here was just telling me—read it somewhere, didn’t you, David? Eighty-seven percent of the population reads their horoscope. Every day. You read your horoscope today, David? Mine said, let’s see, how’d they put it? Watch for prevaricators. You know what a prevaricator is, Mr. Tatewood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You do? It’s someone who lies, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “’Cause I would have figured you knew those people. The Harts.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Never said hi on the street?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Or been to their house?”

  David saw it for sure this time, the man’s head tucked to his chin, the flicker of a smile. But when Tatewood looked up, his eyes were stricken, chin unsteady. He seemed on the verge of tears.

  “No, sir. I have never gone in their house.”

  Mel pulled into a Quik Pak Food Shop, left the engine running. “Got to make a pit stop, too much coffee.” He looked at David. “Like to meet his mother, huh? You don’t reckon he’s one of those guys, mother is dead but he’s still got her body?”

  David frowned, wondering if he’d imagined the man’s hidden smile.

  Mel yawned, stretched. “Tell you the truth, I kind of felt sorry for him. I read you right back there, David? I was going to use horoscopes to lead into the thing with the Mind Institute, but you gave me that look.”

  “I should have warned you. I’m not ready to fish in that pond, rather look into them quietly.”

  “I thought my recovery was good. Went on the offensive. That lying thing.”

  “Yeah,” David said. “Pat yourself on the back.”

  He waited till Mel was in the men’s room, then showed his ID to the clerk behind the counter and asked for a phone. The woman pointed to a wall extension and David dialed the Continental.

  “Room 352.” He checked his watch, wondering if they’d ring through this early. But it was the Continental. Likely they’d ring through at any hour.

  Teddy didn’t answer. David let it ring a while longer, wondering where she was this early in the morning.

  Shower, he decided, hanging up.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Della was gliding like an Elaki when she came into the bull pen.

  “Good morning, David. Like the tie.”

  David did not remember putting on a tie. He looked at his shirt. No tie.

  “Hi, Mel.” Della took the white bag off the corner of Mel’s desk and fished out the last cinnamon roll, taking a dainty bite. She booted up her terminal, smiled at her reflection in her compact mirror, and applied a coat of deep red lipstick to her lips.

  Mel hung up the phone. “Della girl, I hate to see you this depressed.”

  “I love weekends.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Where’s String?”

  “He and Warden are still trying to run down where Theresa Jenks stayed before she died. They’re hitting every pancake house in the city.�
�

  David looked at Mel. “You get hold of Miriam?”

  Mel put his feet up on his desk. David could see the delineation where the sole of the left shoe had been replaced.

  “Looking bad,” Mel said.

  David rubbed the back of his neck. “Nowhere with the dog, huh?”

  “Dog was killed by somebody ramming a fist down its throat.”

  Della looked up. “Silver, if your wife finds out about this, all hell’s gonna break loose.”

  David ignored her. “Sounds like somebody who knew what they were doing.”

  Mel nodded. “Got a DNA sample off one of the teeth. Human. Male. Miriam’s running it right now, but so far no matches.”

  “She got DNA off the tooth?” David leaned back in his chair. “Let me play this back, Mel. I said what’s up, and you said it didn’t look good. Were you hoping the dog ate the killer’s ID and had it partially digested with the kibble?”

  “Last meal was cereal, bone meal, and beef by-products. Dog food.”

  “Naturally she looked.”

  “Miriam’s very thorough. The bad news is she’s not happy. A, she did not like doing the dog. Said it made her feel bad.”

  “She never objects to cutting up people,” Della said.

  Mel rubbed his forehead. “B, she’s pissed as hell because I didn’t call her this morning after … this morning. What time is it, David?”

  “After four.”

  “Good grief, the woman’s obsessive.”

  Della’s hands stilled on the keyboard. “Did you tell her you’d call this morning?”

  Mel shrugged. “Why’s it such a big deal? I told her I would call, and I would have eventually.”

  “Yeah, Burnett, but you said this morning. Didn’t you?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. If I did, it was just a euphemism.”

  “A euphemism for what, not calling?”

  “For Chrissake, Della, I got a job here, I got stuff going on. I just didn’t think about it.”

  “Then why bother saying it? She’s got stuff going on too. Now how can she concentrate, if you don’t call when you say you’re going to?”

  Mel tossed a pencil in the air, caught it. “Okay, Della let me ask you this. A guy tells you he’s going to call soon. When you expect to hear from him?”