Alien Blues

by Lynn Hightower

  David walked around the edge of the table. Miriam peered into Dyer’s mouth.

  “Look at the tongue. Bitten, hard. The front tooth there is broken.” She peeled back the lip. “And the tissue severely abraded.”

  The teeth had dark stains on the back.

  “Blood?” David asked.

  “Tobacco. But here.” She pointed to a molar. “In the crown. That’ll be blood.”

  “He was beaten then.”

  “Badly,” Miriam said. “Bit his tongue almost clean through when the pain got bad.”

  String began to sway back and forth and David realized that the Elaki was losing his pinkness. The droop in String’s left eye prong gave him a lop-eared look. There were two bald patches in his scales and the edges of his side flaps were slightly irregular—a far cry from the symmetrical elegance of Puzzle.

  “Death bothers you?” David asked gently.

  “It is not that. The corpse is, after all, not Elaki.”

  David frowned.

  “It is … may I be honest? It is the smell of the corpse, and so many humans in a small room. And mixed with this chemical odor.”

  “Wait outside, then. I’ll brief you later.”

  “No. Please. It must be more difficult for you—you knew the human. I will do what must for the job be handled. Could the window be raised?”

  Bradston looked up. “Hell, no. We’d get a yellow code in our printout. Opening a window constitutes a security violation.”

  “I am not sure I follow.”

  “He means no,” Mel said.

  David looked back at Dyer. “Was he dead before they cut him up?”

  Miriam stopped in front of the terminal next to the exam table. “Case number—” She looked at the ID stamp on Dyer’s foot. “Two six three A four. Crime scene.”

  The computer beeped and flashed a drawing. David saw an empty chair in a ramshackle kitchen. Bloodstains fanned the wall behind the chair. He recognized the kitchen in the abandoned house on Possum Head Lane.

  Miriam pointed to the arc of blood behind the chair. “Look at that. Now look at him.” She took another bite of sandwich, smearing egg salad on the corner of her mouth. “I haven’t programmed the data in, this is all prelim guessing. But I’ll bet we’ll find the guy was sat in this chair and beaten. He was tied up most likely—the wounds are close, he wasn’t able to move much to protect himself. Then, somebody took his head off. Very little blood on the floor. You can see where it slid down the walls and went … nowhere. So there was plastic down, or something. Under the chair. They knew they were going to kill him. Whoever it was had a long blade, razor-sharp. Not your average pocketknife, folks.”

  “Machete?” Mel asked.

  She nodded. “Easily. This may be our boy again. You okay, Silver?”

  “Sure. When was the leg taken off?”

  Miriam set her sandwich down on the terminal. “Dyer worked vice, didn’t he? You know him?”

  “Not well.”

  She peeled back the sliced edge of the pant leg, and David made himself look at the bone and muscle of the leg.

  “He was cut up afterward, Silver. They tied him to the chair and beat the crap out of him. Then one of them chopped Dyer’s head off, and it was over. They cut him up and dumped him in the lake.” She lifted the cuff of the pant leg, her elbow resting on Dyer’s big toe. “Look at the indentations on the shin here.”

  He folded his arms. “Tell me.”

  “Trunk latch, I’ll bet you money.”

  “She’ll bet you pickles,” Bradston said.

  “So cheer up, guys. He was stuffed in a trunk, which means there may be a car in the lake. Get me the car, and we’ll find a million ways to nail your perp.”

  David touched Dyer’s left ear. It was lacerated from the center to the edge of the lobe. Someone had ripped the unicorn earring out. Souvenir?

  David looked up. “You said they, Miriam.”

  “Please?”

  “You said they. More than one killer?”

  “Oh. Yes, I think so. Unless the guy who worked him over had a powerhouse left and a powerhouse right. Most have one or the other. But I’m not sure.”

  Mel headed for the door. “Okay, David, let’s split up. You go after vice. I want a talk with that Elaki shit in the museum.” He crooked a finger at String. “Whyn’t you come with me? We’ll go and talk to your boss.”

  “You must promise no disrespect to this personage. Please, he is most eminent.”

  “You mean ’cause I called him a shit? Oh, String, String. No disrespect intended. It wasn’t an insult or anything.”

  “No?”

  “No, not in the idiomatic sense. Come on, I’ll explain it on the way.”

  Bradston waved a pickle at them. “Don’t be strangers.”

  SEVENTEEN

  It was cool in the stairwell, and dark after the harsh afternoon sun. David hooked his ID to his belt. It had been a while since he’d been downtown to Avery Street and police headquarters. Two years, exactly, since Homicide Task Force had moved to Mitchell Avenue. David’s footsteps echoed on the concrete stairs, and he stepped on a wad of dirty pink bubble gum. The gum was old and dried and did not string from his shoe, for which he was grateful. Stale cigarette smoke hung in the air, mingling with the familiar, musty odor he always associated with headquarters.

  David went through orange double doors, down a hall, and through another set of doors that led to vice. There were eight desks, all but three empty. A man and a woman stared blearily at computer terminals, and another man talked on the phone. None of them looked up when David walked in.

  At the back of the room was a glassed-in office. The name on the door was Lieutenant Coltrane. David knocked. The guy on the phone looked up.

  “I help you?”

  The man was fat and tired-looking. His black hair was combed back with something sticky, but his eyes were alert and friendly. The nameplate on his desk said Detective Harry Myer.

  “I’m looking for Coltrane,” David said.

  “He’s off taking a leak. Should be back soon, if that’s his only business.” Myer waved him to a chair. “Sit down, if you want. Coffee?”

  “No thanks.”

  The woman looked up from her terminal. “He’s not supposed to be in here,” she said.

  “Look at the ID,” Myer said. “Purple code from upstairs. He’s okay to be here.”

  “It gets us killed,” the woman said grimly. “Let these guys in here, and surprise, surprise, we get fingered on the streets.”

  Myer shrugged and went back to the phone. “You still there, sir? Sorry to keep you waiting. Look, it’s like I said. You want a hooker, you call your local precinct. What? I ain’t interested in what you want to do with peanut butter. You got to talk to the service about that.” Myer looked at David and rolled his eyes. “No, I can’t do referrals. I don’t care what they do in Cleveland, buddy, here they got assigned areas. You got to go with the girls in your area. Or boys, yeah, whatever, I don’t want to hear … they won’t, huh? I don’t think they have to do anything. Maybe if you was to bring your own? Tell me, since you brought it up, you use crunchy or smooth? I see. Maybe that’s your problem. Ask ’em if they’ll do crunchy.” Myer hung up and shook his head. “Asshole.” He looked over David’s shoulder.

  “Hey, Coltrane? Detective here to see you.”

  David stood up. Coltrane was young for a lieutenant. He was big, probably six-two, a couple hundred pounds. He had a hefty muscular build that was just turning to fat. His hair was brownish blond, very thick. His eyes were brown and bloodshot and his face was heavy-featured and coarse. He wore a white knit shirt and blue jeans. Sandals, too, like Dyer. David wondered if sandals were part of the vice uniform. His eyes strayed to Myer’s feet. Myer wore traditional black lace-ups, polished. Myer saw his look and grinned.

  Coltrane looked wary. “So, Detective …”

  “Silver.”

  “Silver. Homicide?”

  “I’m
here about Dyer.”

  The room seemed suddenly quieter. David looked around, but no one would meet his eyes. Coltrane pointed to his office.

  “Come on in. Should have let me know you were coming.” He glanced at the detectives in the large workroom and winked. “Hate to keep homicide waiting.”

  David didn’t like Coltrane. Was it justified? Was it the sandals? Dyer had worn sandals. He’d liked Dyer.

  “Sit down, Silver.”

  David was tired of sitting. He wished he had the nerve to perch on the edge of Coltrane’s desk. Mel would have. He sat on the edge of the chair and looked around the office. It was neat and dusty. He got the feeling Coltrane didn’t spend a lot of time there. Which would be odd, for a lieutenant.

  “Tell me about Dyer,” Coltrane said.

  “No.” David folded his arms. “You tell me.”

  Coltrane looked irritated and David didn’t blame him. He was scoring an all-time low on professional courtesy.

  “What was Dyer working on?” David asked.

  Coltrane shrugged. “Couple of things. This and that.”

  “Helpful,” David said. “I’d like to see his case files.”

  Coltrane picked up the phone. “Myer, put together a list of Dyer’s access codes. Silver will pick it up on his way out.”

  “Why was Dyer interested in Machete Man?”

  Coltrane looked puzzled. “Far as I know, he wasn’t. Maybe he thought you guys needed help.” He grinned. “Not funny? Look, Dyer was working on some big dealers. Bringing in a new cocaine derivative called Black Diamond. You heard of it?”

  He hadn’t. “Vaguely.”

  “Potent stuff. Not the usual dealers, either. Far as I know, though, Dyer didn’t have squat.”

  “When a vice cop gets hacked, he’s got more than squat.”

  Coltrane leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk. His feet were large and hairy on the top. His toenails were yellowish and needed trimming.

  “You have to understand about Dyer.” Coltrane bit the cuticle on his left thumb. “He was secretive, very closemouthed. Lots of vice guys work that way. They’re out on the streets, they get paranoid. So long as they’re getting results, I don’t question it.”

  “Why wouldn’t Dyer call you for backup?”

  Coltrane flushed, a red haze spreading from the roots of his hair down his neck.

  “He worked maverick. He liked it that way.”

  David sat back in his chair. The signs were there, he’d seen them before. Coltrane ran a crooked operation, and Dyer was straight. So Dyer worked as an outcast, trusted no one, and every case he handled would be a massive gnarl of workarounds that kept his own conscience clear, and took into account what could realistically be accomplished around bent cops. Coltrane was dirty. Vice was dirty. Dyer didn’t trust Coltrane and neither did David.

  “Who was Dyer’s partner?”

  “Ian Shavstik.”

  “He in?”

  “No. But don’t waste your time. They were partners on paper only. Didn’t even work the same cases. Truth is, Dyer was a stick ass, and he didn’t like Ian. Ian’s a little slow, but he’s okay.”

  David knew what okay meant. One of the guys.

  He thought of Dyer climbing out of his smashed Datsun, looking up and down Possum Head Lane in the middle of the night. He was hurt, bleeding. A lonely man—a cop without backup. Dyer had no one to call, so he called David. Did it have anything to do with Machete Man? He had met Dyer at the Darnell scene. The cases tied together.

  “Silver?”

  “What? I’m sorry?”

  “I said, you sure you don’t want some coffee?”

  “I’m sure.” David stood up. “Good-bye, Lieutenant Coltrane. Be seeing you.”

  “Drop in anytime.”

  He closed the door behind him. Myer stood up—a tall man, pear-shaped, heavy-jowled. He wore slacks, a white shirt, and a tie. Another vice outcast? Some of the most conservative-looking cops were dirty.

  Myer handed him a stack of disks. “You’ll need these. There’s no access here outside the department. And here.” He handed David a yellow sheet of note paper. “Dyer’s access code. Come on, the coffee down the hall is better than what we got here.”

  David followed Myer down the hall and into the stairwell.

  “Yeah, I know,” Myer said. “You don’t want a cup of coffee. You sure you’re a cop?”

  “Some days, not very.”

  Myer tapped the disks David held. “Those are nothing. Dyer kept his real stuff hidden.”

  “At home?”

  “Probably not. He used to, but not anymore. He had a girlfriend—pretty steady. She might know something. Name of Judith. Rawley. R-A-W-L-E-Y.”

  David folded his arms. “What else do you know?”

  Myer held up both hands. “Hey, I’m just a good ole boy, I don’t know nothing. Except maybe that guys like Dyer always wind up in pieces somewhere, and I’m goddamn sick and tired of seeing it.” Myer’s eyes were sad. “That’s all you get, Silver. Get to work.”

  Myer waved a hand and left. He walked slowly, with a slight limp, like a man whose shoes were too tight.

  EIGHTEEN

  The precinct room was crowded and noisy, The airconditioning was not working well and the temperature hovered around eighty-six degrees. Saigo City Utilities was threatening brownout.

  David leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. Dyer wrote a dull report, which, as Myer had warned him, contained nothing but surveillance notes. It was amazing how much Dyer could say without giving out information. It was interesting, though, that Dyer was doing a lot of surveillance work on Pitch Avenue and Lombard Street—both of them bordered Little Saigo.

  David frowned. Something about Little Saigo had clicked in his mind, but he couldn’t make the connection.

  He picked up the phone and dialed. It rang once.

  “Agent Weiler.”

  “Dawn? This is David Silver.”

  “You’re psychic, David, I was just getting ready to call you.”

  “Yeah? Business or pleasure?”

  “Business.”

  David felt mildly disappointed.

  “Listen, I’ve got a bad case of the four o’clock munchies. You hungry?”

  He hadn’t had lunch. He was very hungry.

  “I have an incredible craving for an egg salad sandwich.”

  “Rose must be pregnant. Meet me at the Oriental taco stand on Rand. You can just walk over, can’t you?”

  “Yeah, but it’s out of your way.”

  “That’s okay, I’ve got to pick something up in that area later. See you in a half hour.”

  Mel came through the precinct doorway at top speed, String gliding behind him. The cops behind their desks ignored the Elaki, but suddenly there was an atmosphere. David wondered if Mel had eaten. If God was good, he could leave Mel and String looking over Dyer’s case files, while he had tacos with Dawn.

  “There’s something funny going on,” Mel said. His hair was sweat-soaked and curling in the humidity.

  “You find Puzzle Solver?”

  “Yeah. He had an interesting lunch.”

  “He had a most terrible lunch,” String muttered, gliding past them.

  “At least he had lunch.” Was it his imagination, David wondered, or was the Elaki actually sagging around the middle?

  Mel scratched his ear. “Guess where he had lunch.”

  “The Ambassador?”

  “Hey, David, you ever consider police work? Anyway, he’s sitting—I mean standing—around the Ambassador eating with another Elaki hotshot, bellybrain they call Grammr. They finish and head back to the museum, and right when they get to the lobby this other Elaki, Grammr, falls down dead.”

  “Something he ate?”

  Mel stuck his hands in his pockets. “You heard this one before.”

  David sat up. “No, I was kidding. Was he poisoned?”

  “Yeah, but with prior knowledge. He was having tha
t Japanese puffer fish.”

  “People die from eating that every year.”

  “Not Elaki,” String said.

  “Yeah,” said Mel, “they love the stuff, but none of them ever died of it. Till recently. Evidently this guy’s number two. Both after eating at the Ambassador. And that’s not all.

  “I had a talk with Bess Kellog, in statistical analysis. She knows a lot about Elaki. She says it would take concentrated quantities of the puffer fish to kill an Elaki—she researched it when the first one died.”

  “You think he was murdered? An Elaki?”

  Mel sat on the edge of his desk. “Yeah, I know. Impossible. Their social structure is completely self-policing. The group mentality. No crime. An Elaki breaks the moral code and he is sanctioned. So unless this Elaki was up to something, this had to be an accident.”

  “Unless a human killed him.”

  “Difficult. Especially this way. But possible, I guess. Or hell, maybe he was up to something that got him sanctioned.”

  “How could we find out?”

  “Bess says the whole thing’s impossible. Elaki don’t murder each other, sanctions don’t happen so publicly, and Elaki don’t die from eating puffer fish.”

  David checked his watch. “Look, Mel, I’m meeting Dawn for tacos. You hungry?”

  “You go ahead. What you working on?”

  “Dyer’s case files. No, no, look at them later.”

  String edged closer. “Perhaps I could help?”

  David shook his head. “These are critical.”

  “I can make the report. Be most happy to assist.”

  “I don’t know. You sure you wouldn’t rather come with us?”

  “No, please. I stay here and do report.”

  Mel frowned. “David …”

  “It’s okay, Mel. He’s part of the team. Okay, String. There’s an open terminal. Over there. We’ll bring you back a taco.”

  “You will? This is the authentic Earth taco?”

  “Bring you two,” Mel said.

  String quivered. “Home boy food!”

  “Got any questions, even little ones,” Mel said, “you just go ask the captain. Don’t knock or nothing. He don’t stand on formality.”