Alien Blues

by Lynn Hightower

  Ridel grimaced. “DNA doesn’t match, I reckon.”

  “Information unavailable. But what it looks like, to me, is someone read up on these cases, maybe a few others, and came up with a deliberate M.O. that combined the habits of Webber and Hardin.” She looked at David. “That would keep us busy, looking for a sociopath. Everything would ring right for the shrinks. Everything except the selection of victims. But it kept us looking for random psychopaths—crazies work alone, so we’re out hunting one little nut, not extortionists, or drug dealers going for enforcement.”

  “Why?” Ridel said. “Dealers off people every day, think nothing of it. Why get so elaborate?”

  David leaned forward. “Project Horizon had to be kept going—no interference. At least until they got the Diamond in production, and their people in place.”

  “So now what?” Della said.

  Halliday looked at Silver.

  David sat back in his chair. “You’ve read the report. Maybe Project Horizon found a cure for addicts, maybe not. One thing we’re sure of. They’ve started a distribution network for this new drug. Vice is only just starting to see it on the streets, but if it’s as cheap and effective as they say it is, we may find ourselves back in the 1980s.”

  “Where do we go from here?”

  “According to Dennis Winston, the project is still ongoing, still researching. There’s lots more work to do, duplicating results, so the research can be published through legitimate channels, with no taint of sloppiness or unprofessionalism. These things take time.”

  “So they still need guinea pigs,” Mel said. “Little Saigo, then.”

  “Right,” said David. “We go to Little Saigo, set up someone as bait. Follow through to the lab. That way we’ll get our evidence, and things hold up in court.”

  Pete looked at String. “Excuse me, Captain. But what’s to stop this Elaki here from blowing it all to his friends at Horizon?”

  “Project Horizon is in violation of Elaki law. As member of Izicho—”

  “Pete.” David’s voice was quiet, but everyone grew silent. “String is okay.”

  “But what if they have the cure?” Della said. “We could blow that wide open.”

  “We’ll be careful. We’ll be quiet. We’ll be discreet.” David rubbed a hand across his jaw. “But we go after these dealers. They’re endangering the project, if that makes your conscience easier. No telling what will happen when they get everything they want.”

  Ridel looked up. “Vice in on this, Captain?”

  Halliday looked at all of them. “No.”

  No one said anything for a long moment.

  “Who’s the bait?” Dawn asked.

  “Please explain term of bait.”

  “The hook, the lure, the tease, the—”

  “Ah,” String said. “Like the hormone.”

  Mel frowned. “I don’t think so.”

  “I grew up there, Dawn, in Little Saigo,” David said. “I’m bait.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  It was good to know he could still have fun, good to know he could throw off Machete Man, and Little Saigo, and feel that lift of the heart that turned his mind to nothing more taxing than hitting a ball and running a base.

  And somehow the hot smell of asphalt and dusty grass filled his mind with a vision, of himself as Elaki, standing in a mound of churned-up dirt, miles and miles of emptiness in every direction. A warm breeze blew around and through him, and the aloneness made him sad.

  David shook his head. Elaki memory.

  He felt the sun on his back, and wondered if his neck would burn. He wiped sweat from his eyes, adjusted the ball cap that shaded his head, scratched the new beard.

  Rose stared at him from the pitcher’s mound. The women were two runs ahead. David concentrated.

  The ball sailed close to his shoulder. He swung and missed.

  String stood behind him in full catcher’s regalia. Mel had been teaching him a song while they were waiting around for the game to start. David could still hear the Elaki monotone.

  “‘Take me out to the ball game …’”

  Was String unusual or were all Elaki unable to carry a tune?

  “‘Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jacks’… who, Detective Mel, is this Jack Cracker?”

  Something about the song was sticking in David’s mind. He shook his head, realizing that the Elaki had signaled Rose. She nodded, rubbed her right shoulder, and threw again.

  The ball came fast, and David pulled back. He felt the crack of the bat as it connected and sent the ball between second and third. He ran to first, the loose red dirt of the playing field clouding his feet.

  There were lots of kids in the outfield, including his daughters, and he had to restrain himself from running to second. Candy Ridel screamed for Lisa to get the ball that had rolled an inch from her foot. It was a different game this year, with the kids and an Elaki involved. David enjoyed their pleasure and the camaraderie they brought out, but another part of him wanted them safely tucked in the stands, so he could do some down and dirty playing.

  Lisa picked up the ball and threw it to Rose. The ball fell short, but the aim was good. She had the moves, Lisa did, if she’d pay attention. He needed to get out with her, and pitch a ball around.

  Mel was in the lineup behind him. He hit the ball between first and second, limping his way slowly to the base. Della was on second and, damn, Rose had the ball already. Della’s mitt was out, waiting to catch it.

  David ran hard, barely aware of the heat and humidity, his stomach tight. Della was straining backward, her tongue stuck out like it did when she was concentrating. He was going to have to slide.

  He was down, now, skidding on his right thigh, dirt swirling, leg hurting, hip aching where he’d twisted sideways. The ball smacked into Della’s glove as the tip of his shoe slammed into the white square base. He stayed where he was, heart slamming in his chest. He wiped the grime from his face with the bottom of his T-shirt.

  Captain Halliday’s arms swung out.

  “Safe!” he yelled.

  David grinned, felt grit between his teeth, and spit. He got up slowly, under Della’s hot glare, knowing he was going to pay for the slide in the morning. Rose raised her arms to the heavens, then turned her hard cold gaze to the next hitter.

  She didn’t throw the ball right away. Something in the stands surprised her, and David knew from the lines of tension in her shoulders, and the sour set of her face, she’d caught sight of something she didn’t like.

  The next guy she struck out.

  David wondered about it later, while they ate. The sun was going down, and it was cooler. His plate was piled with potato salad, baked beans, and three hot dogs running over with ketchup, mustard, onions, and sauerkraut. His stomach yearned toward the food, but he patiently cut up a hot dog for Mattie, and poured ketchup in a large red pool beside it. She swung her legs and ate an empty bun.

  “Just a few beans,” he said.

  She shook her head. He put them on her plate anyway, scoring points for parents. Rose had seen to Lisa and Kendra; it was legal to eat now.

  No, not quite.

  String stood near the grill, smoke from the charcoal blowing across his eye stalks. He held a plate in one fin, and a beer in the other. David waved at him.

  “Come on over. Share the table.”

  String came toward them.

  “Rest your plate here,” Rose said, “and you can eat.”

  “Not necessary.” Another section of fin extruded and picked up a bean.

  “His hand split!” Mattie said.

  “Useful,” David said.

  “These are the baby humans of your pouch?” String asked.

  “He’s the father,” Rose said. “But they come from my pouch.”

  “Most honored, the Mother-One.”

  “Call me Rose.”

  David took a bite of hot dog. The meat had been cooked just a shade too long and tasted slightly of charcoal, reminding him of other sum
mers, ball games, and picnics. He watched Kendra hold a can of Coke with both hands—sipping, sipping, ignoring her food. He took a large swallow of cold beer, and realized he had nothing to eat his potato salad and beans with.

  Rose absently handed him a fork. “See those two guys over there?” She nodded toward two men joylessly tossing a football back and forth. “CIA.”

  “What?”

  “Central Intelligence Agency,” String said.

  “I know that, but what makes you think, Rose, that—”

  “Central Intelligence Agency,” Mattie chanted. Kendra and Lisa picked it up. “Central Intelligence—”

  “Hush,” David said. “Rose, are you sure?”

  “Look at them. Tall, sunglasses, hair cut an inch away from their ears. The main thing is the skin. Pink and waxy and fresh-scrubbed. Got to be.”

  “Maybe they’re on a break or something. Taking the day off.”

  “Nah.” Rose gave him a crooked half smile. “I’m under surveillance.”

  That night he leaned against the kitchen counter and rubbed lotion into the sunburn on the back of his neck. He was dirty and tired, his muscles stiff, his breath rich with beer and onions.

  Rose was putting away food and picnic supplies, and he felt guilty for not helping her. The girls had fallen asleep in the car on the long drive home, and he had put them in bed, grimy and sun-drenched.

  The kitchen lights were bright, lighting the peculiar deep darkness of a sky so far from the city. He wanted to sit on the porch swing with Rose, and look at the stars.

  Rose looked at him while she slid the beans into the refrigerator. She looked at him, but did not see him. David thought about the picnic, and the way Halliday had watched Rose. It was a look he was beginning to recognize.

  He leaned against the counter and folded his arms. “Tell me, Rose.”

  She looked at him over her shoulder. “Tell you what?”

  “What did you do for the DEA? Assassin?”

  “David, I’m tired. We had a good day. Let’s don’t go into this.”

  “No? The mother of my children kills without a second thought, and you say you don’t go into it? It’s ones like you that scare cops, Rose.”

  “Fuck cops. Fuck you.”

  “That’s redundant, Rose.”

  “Fuck redundant.”

  “Look at you.” He touched her cheek, the pale white cheek, cold despite the heat. She pulled away. He backed her into the sink and reached for her hand.

  “Look at the delicate bones,” he said. “The long, sensitive fingers. What hands you have, Rose. All the things you do with these hands. It makes me think, Rose.”

  Rose smiled. “Think what?”

  “Your reputation in my department is unparalleled. Detective Silver’s wife is famous.”

  “You’re jealous, David.”

  “Jealous of what?”

  “I killed him, so you couldn’t.”

  “I wouldn’t have killed him. He was valuable, Rose. He could have broken the case.”

  “You’re a cold man, David. He could have murdered our girls.”

  “I’m not cold, Rose, my love, I’m a cop.”

  “Same thing. I can’t do that. Run hot and then cold. I’ve never been able to do that.” She hugged him, suddenly, and her voice was muffled against his chest. “Did you know that I’m lonely, David?” Her voice was thick now, and he thought she might cry. “You’re right, you know. I don’t know where I fit in. I blew it with the DEA, but I can’t stay out of things. I don’t know how to have conversations with normal people. I have weird laundry problems. Who wants to chat about getting death smells out of clothes?”

  David held her tightly, picturing her bursting through the window in the girls’ room, then twisting Machete Man’s neck.

  “I don’t think you’re lonely, Rose. I think you’re afraid.”

  “Santana,” she said, and shuddered.

  He remembered Winston talking about “S.” He would have to research this Santana. Tomorrow, he’d do it, first thing.

  He put a hand under Rose’s shirt. Her breasts were cooler than the rest of her, and he unsnapped the front of her bra. Her hand went to the inside of his leg, and up. He shivered, and kissed her, and forgot about the swing.

  Her knees buckled. He held her and eased her to the floor, resisting the impulse to question her deviation from locked doors and privacy, heated by her capitulation to the fantasies that distracted him on restless afternoons.

  They helped each other out of their clothes like polite strangers. He tucked his shirt beneath the small of her back, and cushioned her head with his hands. She arched her back and kissed him, and he sighed, and closed his eyes, and grabbed handfuls of her silky, tangled hair.

  So soft, she was, belly warm against his.

  “Closer,” she whispered. “Cover me up.”

  He pulled her tighter, and buried himself inside her, giving her all of the closeness that he could.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  David stood in front of the diagram of Little Saigo. He pictured Rose as he had left her that morning—sitting on the porch swing, one leg hooked over the side. He had cleared the breakfast dishes, made the beds, programmed the laundry to begin. He knew he would return home to dishes on the table, food in the sink, puzzle pieces and plastic animals strewn from one end of the house to the other. It worried him that she was content to sit in the swing, when Santana was somewhere out there.

  Would he come home one day and find her hanging from the end of a rope?

  “Anything else, David?” Captain Halliday was watching him.

  David looked through the glass partition and saw Dawn Weiler. A computer printout hung from her briefcase, and she clutched a thick file in her left hand.

  “No.” He looked at their faces—Pete, Della, Mel. String’s visage was looking more and more like a face. “Study your map of Little Saigo,” he said. “Memorize it and be ready.”

  “You really think this Winston will work with us?” Della asked.

  “It’s all we’ve got,” Halliday said. “So do your homework and when the call comes we’ll be ready. We can’t afford any sloppy backup.”

  Dawn hesitated outside the door, and Mel opened it for her.

  “You’re late, kitten.”

  She smiled nervously and sat down.

  “So what you got on this guy?”

  Dawn pulled out a stack of papers and passed them around. “Not a guy, exactly.”

  “Got to be one or the other,” Mel said. “Want I should show you the difference?”

  She handed David a mug shot. “This is Santana. Your hunch was right, he did time with Vernon Ray Clinton.”

  “Machete Man,” Della said.

  “The same.”

  David studied the picture. Santana looked sleepy. He had thin sideburns and long black hair pulled into a ponytail. The skin of the face looked silky and smooth, even in a bad photo under harsh light. David concentrated on the eyes—brown, dark underneath, bedroom eyes. He noted the smirk at the edges of the drooping bottom lip.

  Dawn leaned back in her chair, tapping a pencil softly on the table. Small chips of graphite fell off the end of the pencil and gathered, like ashes, next to her briefcase. She smoothed her collar.

  “Santana is what you would term a hermaphrodite.”

  “Not what I would call it,” Mel said.

  David passed the picture to Della.

  “Please explain terminology.”

  “He has the sexual organs of a man and a woman.”

  “This guy’s done time?”

  “Probably voted most popular in his cell block.”

  Dawn shook her head. “According to the records, Santana was suspected of several assaults and two deaths, and this was in the first three months of incarceration. Nobody talked about it—nobody in the can ever sees anything, and they couldn’t pin anything on him. But unofficially, Santana was a major power base the eighteen months he was there.”

 
; “Don’t look the type,” Mel said.

  “The man is walking death. And he’s connected. He’s a freelance dirty chore man. Worked for the O’Banions—”

  “Irish mob?” Ridel asked.

  “Yes. And Mickey Sifuente, among others.” She glanced at David. “The DEA has been after this boy for a long time. Interpol wants him, the Sûreté. He’s killed a lot of good people.”

  David stared at his hands. “Background. Where was he born?”

  “New Orleans. Left on the doorstep of a birthing center.”

  “I wonder why?” Mel said. “I mean, mother’s got to want a boy or girl. Either way, Santana’s got it covered.”

  “This does seem sensible, Detective Mel. But mothers are known to abandon pouchlings. Possibly, she knew he was mind-diseased.”

  “Elaki mothers abandon their babies?” Mel asked.

  “But yes, when, they are incorrectly formed or they come at difficult moments.”

  “But—”

  “What about Clinton?” David asked.

  Dawn passed him a sheet of paper. “Assault. Armed robbery. Assault again. Manslaughter. PFO.”

  David scratched his chin under the beard. “He and Santana met in prison?”

  Dawn nodded. “One of those synergy things. Guys like this get together …”

  David nodded.

  “Santana is a sexual sadist,” Dawn said. “As is, obviously, Machete Man.”

  “Ain’t that nice,” Mel said. “They shared a hobby.”

  “I’ve got Clinton’s juvie record.”

  “That’s sealed,” Halliday said.

  “You want it or not?”

  David spoke softly. “Arson, first-degree cruelty to animals, assault.”

  Dawn nodded. “You know your sociopath.”

  Mel leaned back and put his feet on the desk. “So how you figure it, David? The Elaki get hold of Santana. Bankroll him to distribute this Diamond, pick up victims for study, and put the pressure on anybody on Project Horizon who don’t like the way things go.”

  David laid his hands flat on the table and looked at Halliday. “We can get him a lot of ways. Dealing, kidnapping, conspiracy to commit murder.”

  “Or all of the above,” Halliday said. “See what you can get out of Winston. Maybe the worm will turn.” He tapped the desk absently. “We need to connect him with Machete Man. Ridel, you and Della work on Clinton’s apartment. And see if you can get somewhere with one of the victims on the project. Maybe somebody saw them together.”