Unidentified Flying Suspect (Illegal Alien Book 2)

by Carrie Harris

  “Oh, damn it,” I muttered, reaching for a napkin. But the spot where they usually sat was bare and empty.

  “Here,” said Scorsone, walking over.

  He handed me a pristine white handkerchief, the kind that no one carried anymore unless they were the oldest of old school. When I didn’t take it, he dabbed at my coffee-stained hand himself, the movement gentle. I stared at him, stricken, as he did so, trying to ferret out some tell-tale sign that would help me decide whether he was secretly ill or not. I sure couldn’t ask out here in the open, but maybe if I followed him to his office and shut the door, he might be honest with me.

  Before I could suggest it, he said, “Jesus, Audrey. Are you okay? You look like you went toe-to-toe with a whole ream of paper.”

  It took me a moment to get the joke, but then my hand went up to my abraded face. I supposed it did look like I had a million paper cuts. I’d hit the pavement with my noggin during my fall, and the results hadn’t been pretty. If I’d been vainer, I would have covered it with makeup, but that seemed like a waste of precious alien-catching time to me.

  “Oh. Yeah, I’m okay. Shoulder moves just fine. I’m stiff, but that’s nothing that a couple of days won’t take care of. I think I got off easy.”

  “Good, good…” He rubbed his hands together in an unaccustomed gesture that seemed to indicate nerves. I’d never seen him nervous, and I’d seen him in all kinds of circumstances. Taking down violent criminals. Hunting down his friend’s murderer. And now he was nervous. Something had to be up. “Now that you’re recovered, what do you remember about your attacker? There’s got to be something.”

  I started to shake my head, but then I remembered one thing I hadn’t mentioned in my initial debrief. “Right before he attacked me, I remember a smell like old libraries. Dry. Maybe a little musty. Maybe he shops at thrift stores and doesn’t wash the clothes.”

  “Homeless, likely.” Scorsone nodded. “Okay. What else?”

  “That’s it. I didn’t see anything. He jumped at me from behind and wrapped something around my face.”

  “What was it? Fabric? What did it smell like? Did it itch?” he prompted.

  I’d heard all these questions before. Used them—or a variation thereof—on what felt like a million witnesses. But I’d already given my statement when the ambulance had picked me up, and I’d talked to Burgess, and I was beginning to get a little sick of going through it over and over again. Hadn’t he read the reports? If he was so eager to know what had happened, it seemed like a logical first step.

  Besides, I wasn’t about to admit that I’d been suffocated by what felt like a snake. No way was I going to spill anything until I had a logical explanation for it. Or proof for my illogical explanation, more likely.

  I began to shake my head when my desk phone rang, saving me from the trouble of answering. I glanced at the console to see Aunt Rose’s number. She didn’t often call me at work, so the call suggested that something had gone amiss, and I felt obligated to answer it. The fact that it saved me from having to answer Scorsone was only a side benefit.

  “That’s my aunt. Give me just a second to make sure it’s not important,” I said, holding up a finger. Scorsone knew I didn’t usually slack off on the phone at work, since we’d partnered together way back when he was still a detective and I was greener than Kermit the Frog. He leaned against my desk and folded his arms, making no attempt to hide the fact that he was listening in. I sighed in exasperation, picked up the receiver, and said, “Hi, Aunt Rose.”

  “Have you caught the rat bastard yet?” asked my Aunt.

  Her voice was raspy with age and whiskey. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I thought it sounded weaker than the last time I’d talked to her. It felt like everyone around me had aged while I wasn’t looking.

  “Which rat bastard? I’ve caught quite a lot of them. It’s my job,” I said, trying for my usual flippant tones. They felt flat.

  “The one who put you in the hospital last night,” she said. “Jennifer called me. I’ve always liked that girl. She’s got spunk. I invited her for Shabbat on Friday. You should come too, if you don’t get yourself killed first.”

  “Thanks for that vote of confidence.”

  “You need a dog like Dumbass. Better yet, move back in. I could use someone to help bring in the groceries. The fucknuts who bottle whiskey need to use lighter glass. Those things weigh more than me.”

  “Okay, so I’ll see you on Friday,” I said, trying to stem the tide. Aunt Rose liked to complain, and it was usually entertaining to listen to, but I didn’t have the time today. “I’ve got to go try and catch the pee—”

  I broke off. Aunt Rose would love hearing my nickname for my attacker, but at the office with my superior officer sitting just a few feet away wasn’t the place to shout it out loud.

  “Catch the pee? Honey, you’re too young to have bladder problems,” she said. “Now quit avoiding my questions and go do your job.”

  She hung up on me, and I scowled at the phone for a moment before turning to Scorsone. He stared at me for a moment before pushing heavily to his feet.

  “You know, she’s got a point,” he said. “I apologize for listening in on your personal conversation, but it doesn’t change the fact that you’re avoiding our questions. I don’t know why that is, Audrey. I don’t know if you think you messed up and don’t want to admit it, or because you’re frightened, or because you don’t trust me anymore. But I don’t like it.”

  “Honestly, I don’t remember anything useful,” I said, trying to put every ounce of sincerity I possessed in my voice. “But I think it’s smart to search the tunnels between where I went in and where I came out. The guy dragged me in there pretty deep, which suggests a familiarity with the layout. And if he’s homeless, maybe he’s squatting in one of the unused pipes. But that’s all I’ve got.”

  “I already have the maps and requested to be put in contact with any personnel who are familiar with this area of the tunnels,” he said. “We’re working through the area, but it’s slow going. But thanks for the suggestion.”

  I couldn’t tell if he really meant that or if he was being sarcastic, so I said nothing as he turned his back on me and walked away.

  CHAPTER 17

  As the day progressed, I began to feel more and more like a circus animal on display. I hunched over my desk, trying to complete a new series of annoying documentation that had been forced down my throat by the DA’s office, while my coworkers gave me the side eye as they passed my desk en route to the coffee. A few of them commented aloud, which I didn’t mind so much. They told me they were glad I was okay or observed that I looked like I’d been through a few rounds with Mike Tyson, which I thought was a bit exaggerated but still not terrible. Others, though, whispered behind cupped hands like junior high mean girls, only with pot bellies and five o’clock shadow.

  I’d gotten the same treatment after Ronda had died, and it had bothered me then too. That thought made my eyes flick to her desk, although I supposed it was Hardwicke’s now. I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him all morning, and at first, I’d assumed he was just avoiding me. It seemed like the kind of infantile thing he might do. But when I’d asked the department secretary, she’d said he was helping to work the sewer search. At least I knew where he was after that, and it made me feel a little bad about my earlier assumption, although it sure would have been nice if he’d told me himself.

  The tense situation didn’t break until just before lunchtime. Brent Bingham, who had been in our department for about two months before Scorsone had him transferred to computer crimes where his compulsive internetting might at least do some good, came to get a cup of coffee. Technically, the pot belonged to the Crimes Against Persons unit, but we didn’t complain when people from other departments got a cup so long as everyone left their quarter. Bingham was a first class ass, and I wasn’t talking about the shape of his tush—sometimes he tried to sneak three or four cups at a time without paying. I’d call
ed him out on it a few times, so now he made a point to glare at me whenever he walked past, like it was my fault he was too big of a tightwad to pony up three quarters.

  This time, he took his dislike of me one step further and made a nice loud observation as he passed my desk.

  “I’m always saying that chicks don’t belong in the bureau,” he declared. “They’re fucking weaklings. Can’t even beat off an attacker without backup.”

  Then he shot me a pointed look like I might be too obtuse to figure out that he was really talking about me. It was a pitiful attempt to get my goat, so I didn’t even bother looking at him. Instead, I rolled my eyes and said, “Don’t you have anything important to do, Bingham? Maybe you could go look at some rubber ducky porn on the clock. Again.”

  He looked all affronted, like he’d never do such a thing when everyone in the Crimes Against Persons unit knew it to be true due to the fact that his headphones hadn’t been plugged in all the way one time. The moans had been bad enough, but then the girl started talking about rubber duckies, and we all lost it. He didn’t like to be reminded of that. He left without his coffee, all sulky like I’d ruined his fun. I heard a couple of snickers from nearby desks, and one of the guys gave me a thumbs up but didn’t say anything because he was on the phone. As nice of a gesture as that was, it didn’t do much to alleviate my overall frustration.

  I hoped a relaxing lunch break might help me feel a little better about life in general, because I’d been feeling awfully pessimistic. My leftover sesame chicken wasn’t the most awe inspiring meal, but I had a strange affinity for cold egg rolls from my favorite takeout joint. I brought the whole thing to my desk and decided to surf the web a little to unwind, although I drew the line at office ducky porn, because I, at least, had standards.

  After scrolling through Facebook and finding that it still contained 90% cat videos and political shit I didn’t want to see and 10% updates regarding people I actually cared about, I found myself on a police job board. I told myself it was just curiosity, that I simply wanted to know how much other departments around the country were paying, but I knew I was lying. I wasn’t happy. And it wasn’t just about the attack and its aftermath, or my mental state over the past few months. For some reason, I no longer felt at home here. The job used to exhilarate me, but now it just stressed me out. If I wasn’t worried about my performance or my sanity, I agonized over my coworkers. It felt like at any moment, one of them might fall off a building or have a heart attack or something. I kept waiting for another death to fall on my hands. Maybe it came from sitting across from her empty desk every day. Maybe Scorsone had been right to fill it, but I worried it might be too late.

  Something had to change, or I knew I’d break completely. If I was being honest with myself, I’d already cracked. I didn’t have a problem with therapy, but this felt like the kind of problem that wouldn’t be dented by sitting on my ass and talking it over. I’d met plenty with Dr. Boudina, and if she hadn’t fixed me already, it wasn’t going to happen. I needed to figure out what was wrong, or else I’d end up in Topeka, working for $10k less than I made now. Plus, I’d be in Topeka, which didn’t top my list of ideal destinations. It might have been a step up from Toledo—I’d never visited—but it wasn’t exactly a dream location. If I did end up moving, it would be to a place with waves.

  Hardwicke finally decided to put in an appearance, right around the time I started looking at photos of beach houses I couldn’t afford. He sat down opposite me with a cup of coffee, sniffing the air and wrinkling his nose.

  “Christ, Vorkink, what are you eating?” he asked. “It smells like something died.”

  I sniffed the air but didn’t smell anything untoward. It wasn’t like I was eating office tuna. We’d had a secretary who loved to bring tuna to the office, and when she’d been canned, someone hung up photocopied pictures of a tuna with a big red X over it all around the office. Some of the other office assistants had taken offense. I’d found it pretty funny myself.

  “It’s just takeout from China Express. Are you sure you don’t smell yourself? After spending half the morning in the sewers, maybe your sense of smell is wonked.”

  I tried to keep it light, but he seemed to think I was trying to start an argument. Or maybe he’d just been looking for an excuse, and I’d conveniently provided one right off the bat.

  “I wouldn’t have had to spend the morning in the tunnels if you hadn’t gone off on your own like a vigilante again,” he snapped.

  I’d had it.

  “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” I said, my voice ice cold. “I called you. You didn’t bother to pick up, even though I know you had your phone. Why is that, Brad? Did you choose not to answer my call just so you’d have something to complain about later? Do you just not want to talk to me at all? Because if so, that means you’re at fault for your sewer slog and the attack on me to boot. You could have gotten me killed. So if you’re going to be mad at me for what happened to Ronda, you’d better take a ticket and get in line, pal, because you deserve the same treatment after leaving me high and dry.”

  I paused for breath, half expecting him to leap right into the fray and shout right back at me, but he stared at me with his mouth open instead. Maybe I’d been a little more vocal than I’d intended? When I looked around the bullpen, none of the other detectives still at their desks were giving me the hairy eyeball, so I didn’t think so. Still, I didn’t relish the idea of making a scene, so I packed up my food and stood.

  “I don’t know what happened to you, Hardwicke,” I said. “But you used to be someone I trusted. We could have supported each other when Ronda died, but instead, you threw me under the bus for reasons I don’t understand. Scorsone told us to work together, and I’m trying, but you’re making it awfully difficult. Maybe you should think about that next time you decide to leap down my throat for being a poor team player.”

  With that, I took my food to the break room, hoping for a little peace and quiet before I had to hit the desk again. Maybe I felt bad for yelling at him, a little. Not because he didn’t deserve it, but because I hated the idea that I’d lost my cool. But perhaps clearing the air would allow us to move forward as partners without killing each other, figuratively or literally.

  Yeah, right. That was about as likely as me deciding to run for Miss Detective USA. I wasn’t sure if that was a thing, but I was afraid to Google it, so I ate my lunch and read a trashy magazine instead.

  CHAPTER 18

  My inability to provide any useful information on my attacker bothered me. As much as I’d protested to everyone that I couldn’t identify the guy or remember anything useful about what had happened to me that could potentially link him to the Sankanium found on the grounds, I understood their frustration. The whole situation didn’t really make sense no matter how I sliced it. Why had he gone to such trouble to knock me out and drag me into the sewers only to leave me there? I hadn’t been physically or sexually assaulted. He hadn’t robbed me, like I might have expected from a desperate drug addict or homeless guy. And I hadn’t even seen him. I didn’t even know if he was a him at all; I’d just chosen the masculine pronoun out of convenience.

  Maybe that was the key. I hadn’t seen him or what he was doing, and he was desperate to hide something related to that. If he was the dude who had dropped the Sankanium on the air field, then…

  The penis pustule was an alien. I’d been casually thinking that was the case, of course, but I hadn’t bothered to put forth the effort to follow that line of reasoning to its logical conclusion. The aliens were on the airfield, with at least some Sankanium. Perhaps they were trying to build another UFO. Or salvage one that had crashed. No one would question mysterious flying objects over the air field, especially now, when the air show planes were appearing at odd hours. It was the perfect cover.

  The realization excited me. I’d been hoping that the discovery of Sankanium at the airfield might lead me to some kind of resolution to the whole
alien thing and all those nights spent second guessing what I’d seen. Now it was happening, and I couldn’t let the opportunity slip away. I gulped down the rest of my lunch without even tasting it and threw the Styrofoam in the trash.

  No one would think twice if I drove my paperwork over to the DA’s office personally. Our inter-office mail wasn’t the most reliable thing in the world; your mail got from one place to another but there was no telling how long said travel would take. And with sensitive documents such as this one, I’d always preferred to deliver them by hand rather than trusting to the security of envelopes. It would only take one curious guy with a steamer, and copies would be all over Toledo in a jiff.

  So I dropped off the paperwork to Mitch Yip’s office after lunch. Mitch was an Assistant DA and one of the best prosecutors I’d ever met, but he had unfortunate slime ball tendencies. His political machinations put the average social climber to shame, and he didn’t bother with the niceties if he didn’t deem you worth his time. He tolerated me because I’d delivered enough quality cases to make him look good, but I didn’t get the full on smarm he lathered all over the elite. That really broke me up inside too.

  Most of the time, Mitch annoyed the shit out of me because half the time I needed his advice, he was too busy glad-handing to talk to me. But today, his ass-licking tendencies were a relief, because I could waltz right into his office and drop my manila envelope off to his secretary without having to worry that I’d see his face. His lunches at the Toledo Club took hours and reportedly cost hundreds if not thousands of bucks. I didn’t want to know who paid for them, because I suspected the answer would piss me off.