There is no death, only a change of worlds.
The worker stopped the backhoe and seemed to be looking for something. Glanced around the cab and tried to find the remote control that had once been clipped to his visor. He shook his head, raised the boom and bucket and headed off toward the open gate, unable to lock it now. Never gave Gabriel’s van a second glance, just slid down the road, red soil dribbling from the loader.
Gabriel looked down at the remote control which was now sandwiched between the hand brake and the console. Memories played with his senses, making him laugh, making him cry. Then he studied the grave through the lens and the shovel leaning up against the tree, and he began to conjure spirits in that dark mind of his. It wouldn’t do to let Demon in. He saw and heard, and he knew enough already.
Gabriel had read A Time to Thrill, a book on convicted murderers on death row in Tehachapi State Prison, where one inmate stated that killing his first victim was like a trial run before the real deal. The trial run was the one that gave him the worst nightmares and the biggest rush. The real deal fueled all that pent-up anger and turned out to be nothing less than a hacked up mess.
Gabriel never wanted Asha to be a hacked up mess. she had been the quiet one, the girl who refused to take part in the torment, the girl who stood at the back and did nothing. But in so many ways that was worse because Asha could have saved him, could have been kind.
Gabriel shivered, felt the change in the wind, the sudden stench of something rotten. He pinched his nostrils to stop Demon leaking from the trees, the ground, the graves, because when he came he consumed him and Gabriel didn’t want to be consumed anymore.
“What we know from the dark ones we learn by someone’s experience,” Demon whispered. “Take me, for instance, I was five when it happened, when the first of the dark ones blew in under the bedroom door. I wasn’t afraid. I knew what it was. So, I opened my mind to let it in. If you open yours, you can see what I see.”
It worked every time. Because Demon was clever, always snickering and goading and stimulating the senses.
“Because it’s so beautiful,” Demon said, likely anticipating Gabriel’s hesitation. “Of course, the truth-seekers don’t think so. They’re spineless. Barking up the two-branched tree. But you’re different. I promised you’d be perfect and you are.”
And then he laughed like he always did. “You just don’t get it, do you? If you want to be in the driver’s seat, you have to let me in.”
Gabriel had always been of a different mind until the storms came. Some were big; some not so big. And then after a time he gave in, even when the words carried a sense of the ridiculous. The first time it happened he floated, an off-the-ground floating that took his breath away.
Tonight, he was very much on the ground, smelling only a residue of that nightmarish stench. Nothing special about a van parked on the broad shoulder outside the front gate, probably abandoned because it was old.
Now came the hard part. He drove into the cemetery and parked under the tree. If it wasn’t for hours of chest presses, dumbbells, pushups, squats, a whole routine, he would never have been able to haul that hideous load through the grass to where an open grave yawned up at a starry sky. Lurching and gasping, he rolled it toward the edge and watched it flop against the bottom.
“More exercise,” Demon reminded with a laugh to his voice.
A shallow pile of dirt still lay on the graveside and, six shovelfuls later, the body was patted nicely into its surroundings. There would be no hint of it when the mourners came and the casket was lowered. No one would know young Poonam Kapoor had a sleeping companion.
Part of him wanted the body to be found before then, because a game of tag isn’t much fun when played alone.
He looked up at that tree, at a smooth patch of wood barely noticeable behind a wrinkled shard of bark. Peeling off about six inches, he scratched the name Mahtab on the trunk with his knife.
Gabriel left the cemetery and drove east along Central Avenue and then north on Ash. Glancing up at the rearview mirror, he decided he looked tired and skinny. Actually he was tired and high. He did it to forget.
Parking near a small brown stucco house on Vassar Drive, he studied the road, the cars, the front door. The place of his next appointment.
There was slender tree to the right of that door still blinking with a solitary string of Christmas lights someone had forgotten to remove. A narrow alleyway separated the house from its neighbor, where tall blades of grass grew between the ruts, suggesting it was rarely used for cars.
Monday night, almost midnight. The sky was black, stars winking overhead and always in his favor. He was conscious of a crisp breeze that came in through the crack in the driver’s window, felt the prickle in his cheeks. He’d missed the delicatessen car that always pulled up outside the small adobe house with an order of food. Seven o’clock every evening. Funny how thin, rich girls always seemed to eat a lot. Especially alone.
As far as Gabriel could make out, there were no security cameras, nothing that would announce the presence of an intruder. But he wasn’t ready yet.
It would be three more days before he would kill again. Three more days before Demon told him what to do.
EIGHT
Despite the slow speed of the jeep on the way to Northwest Area Command, pitching and rolling on the narrow road that wound along Guadalupe Trail, Temeke almost fell asleep at the wheel. It wasn’t until he swung out and overtook a jogger with a gym bag that he decided to close his mouth and quit snoring.
Probably one of those squatters in a house he often called the ruin, five houses down from his and on the other side of the street. The residents complained about comings and goings, loud voices and unsightly trash piled against the east wall. Temeke had called the homeowner, suggested he started gutting the property to make it safe again.
The clock showed seven forty-five on Tuesday morning when he finally arrived at the rear gate of the substation, opened his window and showed his card to the reader. Sod his usual three to eleven shift. It was all day, every day now.
A slate gray sky and a single ray of sunlight which turned the trees a bright shade of gold. Perhaps there’s hope, he thought. Perhaps the police could still find Lily Delgado.
As the gate went up, there was sudden movement to the left of him. A flash of cameras, mics and booms, and Temeke instinctively held up one hand. He heard journalist Stan Stockard’s voice from the shadows.
“Detective Temeke, there are rumors that you’ve found a young woman’s body. Can you give us her name?”
“No comment,” Temeke said, easing the car forward through a small group of photographers, half blinded by a burst of light. He had no idea if Stan was fishing for information on the disappearance of Lily Delgado or if it was a general probe for an update on where they were on the case.
Bloody nowhere was the correct answer, especially when Hackett was desperate enough to call in Knife Wing, the lying psychic.
“Will there be a press conference?” Stan asked, following the moving car and shoving a microphone under Temeke’s nose.
“Do you lot always hide behind trees?” He saw the microphone drop, the flicker of a frown. “Seems like a sodding waste of time to me. I’d hate to be a journalist. Out in the freezing cold at, what, six o’clock in the morning? Coffee... protein bars. Tough life. And it’s going to be tougher still when you have to hack your way through the wilderness to get to that swampy crime scene.”
“Where... where is this place?” The microphone was back up now and Stan’s eyes were like two big cups.
Buggered if I know, Temeke thought as he closed the window, turned the wheel and watched the gate go down behind him.
Made a fresh pot of coffee when he got to his office and sauntered over to the window, light fading and rain spattering against the glass in neat little dots. He could see the camera crew below, saw Stan Stockard taking pictures of him at the window and talking into that sodding microphone.
Temeke felt his gut tighten. Why did he always have to open his big, fat mouth?
He glanced at the table beneath him, littered with photographs and a detailed spreadsheet. Alice’s face was the last thing he saw before he went to bed, the first thing he thought of when he woke up. He knew it was a trap to fall in. Pale skin like the inside of an oyster, amber eyes... or were they hazel? It didn’t matter. The visions were endless, kept him awake ever since he’d seen that dreamy expression – and it was beginning to get under his skin.
Valerie Delgado had not answered the question of whether Alice had depression. In fact, she’d sidestepped it with claims about demons flapping about in the attic. Another case of denial, he thought. All parents had it.
Logging into his computer, he found an email from Malin. Four hang-up calls had been made to Valerie Delgado over the last two weeks. The department pinged the number and found it was registered to a pest control technician who had reported his cell phone missing three days prior to the calls having been made.
The network provider compared the signal strength and time lag, and triangulated the phone’s position to Gibson University’s central library. It was found perched on top of a green banker’s lamp and dusted for prints. The owner of the phone had never visited the library.
Subsequent calls to Valerie Delgado were also within range of at least two cell phone towers in the same area. Although the last call was handed off by two towers in southeast Albuquerque they were likely dropped rather than someone hanging up. There simply wasn’t enough data to determine the caller’s path of travel.
Temeke forced out a loud sigh and looked up the website for Los Poblanos Academy, a private school off Rio Grande. It appeared to be hidden behind an avenue of cottonwoods, a mission style building with courtyards and arches and an enfilade of rooms. Elaborate gardens and a senior students’ parking lot on the south side, fifty-two gifted students lounged under wood beamed ceilings, listening to the splatter of a water fountain outside.
Lucky sods, he thought. Since when did students start bringing their own ponies to school?
Temeke saw a list of celebrity boys and girls who graduated in 2012. It all blurred into a gray smudge and then slowly edged back into focus. He rubbed his eyes, wished he hadn’t had that last cigarette before breakfast. It was a stupid thing to do and no amount of mouthwash and fluoride ever took away the taste. He only hoped it took away the smell.
South African, Korean, Greek and Saudi Arabian names. Odd, he thought, to have such a salubrious school in the forty-ninth poorest state in the US. Maybe that was the saving grace. There would be no paparazzi peering through the bushes. The school was bloody hard to find.
He scoured the home page for the number and called the admissions office. A Phoebe Baca said she would meet him at four o’clock and not a minute later. He already had a visual of the woman. Pearly tweeds and a rear end you could balance a plate on.
“How’s it going?” Malin asked, lithe body slipping in through a half closed door.
“Could be better. You?”
“So, so.” She took off her coat, dropped a protein bar and a wadded up tissue on her desk. “I had another bad dream last night.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“It’s really dark and I’m in my car. Up ahead, there’s a bend in the road and there’s this girl out walking all by herself. All of a sudden she turns and stares at me like she wants to tell me something. So I wait and then I hear the words solid ground, not sinking sands. I woke up after that.”
“Something on your mind?” He could see that there was, even though she shook her head and stared out of the window. “I would say the car signifies a safe place. You’re in control. But the girl... she’s vulnerable, out in the open. Knows she’s being followed. As for sinking sands―”
“Hard facts, not make-believe.” Malin gave him a look as if she was letting her gut senses feel things out. “And talking of hard facts, Homicide are betting on how fast you can crack this case, sir. The stakes are at fifteen hundred bucks, so I thought I’d put a few dollars in myself.”
The sound of Malin’s rippling laughter made Temeke smile. It reminded him of the sound of a cowbell with a few extra snorts here and there.
“Am I the only one working on this case or do you have anything worth sharing?” he said.
“Flossy’s in court today but her assistant called. Said latent fingerprints on the cell phone found in the library belong to the account holder and two possible family members. Maggie’s out collecting statements. Another thing,” she said, sliding a photograph across the desk and stabbing a finger at a teenage boy standing in the crowd. “You always told me to look for variations... contradictions. I can’t help feeling there’s something here.”
It was Alice Delgado’s funeral and Temeke recognized Asha Samadi and another girl with a good singing voice whose name he’d forgotten.
“I’ve confirmed the names of all the attendees. His name’s Paddy Brody,” she said.
Temeke studied the boy in the dark suit, brown wavy hair and deep set blue eyes. He stood directly behind Lily and her mother, head turned slightly and staring right at the camera. “Anything different about him?”
“He’s the only one not looking at the casket.”
He was the only one with a small smile that played around the corner of his mouth, an odd expression at a funeral. Temeke swallowed hard, pulse throbbing in his neck. “It’s probably nothing, just a boy who’s noticed a journalist taking photos in the bushes and wants to make front page news.”
Malin frowned, appearing unconvinced. “He could be a model in his spare time. Tall enough for runway.”
Temeke took another look. He couldn’t seem to tie down the face that floated like a dark blob behind Lily Delgado and he was suddenly struck by an intense feeling of protectiveness. What had Malin seen? What had she sensed?
He stared at the girl on the far right, nondescript features, not that tall, a young man next to her, shoulder hiding behind the girl to his left. And then he saw it. The faint outline of a hand on Lily’s shoulder and he wondered why he hadn’t noticed it the first time around.
“Familiarity?” he murmured.
“Intimacy,” she corrected. “I was thinking about Mrs. Delgado. Why would she use the word kidnap?”
“Her husband was a celebrity, famous racing driver, big fortune. Then her elder daughter commits suicide and the younger one buggers off. No witnesses, no known motive. Kidnap doesn’t do it because if there was a kidnapper he would have left a ransom note.”
“No known boyfriend, although Mrs. Delgado did say something about a man who’s got her. That he’ll let her go when he’s ready.”
Temeke took a sip of coffee, let the caffeine jumpstart his brain. He grabbed the first photograph Malin had shown him and pulled the car keys out of his jacket pocket.
“Call that rep from Midas Mutual. Find out exactly how much Lily Delgado inherited. Where it was deposited and the date of the last withdrawal. I’ll go to that posh school and see what I can dig up.”
NINE
Temeke turned off Rio Grande into an avenue of cottonwoods, finding a parking space outside the school granary between a Ferrari and a tradesman’s van. He walked to the main entrance which exuded the sweet smell of honeysuckle and where a peacock sauntered over the peristyle roof of a small courtyard, train shimmering in blues and greens.
He could smell furniture polish as soon as he walked into the foyer of Los Poblanos Academy; the realm of the privileged. It reminded him of the dining table Serena’s father had given them for their wedding. It was gone now, along with the family he no longer saw and he dismissed the thick wave of gloominess as soon as he met the principal. Phoebe Baca, middle-aged with deep set eyes and a blast of perfume.
“Come in,” she said, holding out a hand and scrutinizing the badge he offered. “Miss Baca. You must be Detective Temakay.”
“Temeke,” he offered. “As in Entebbe.”
“It’
s about Lily Delgado, isn’t it? Yes. I thought so. Coffee?”
“No thank you, ma’am.”
She pecked her way over hardwood floors in high heeled shoes, hair locked with some kind of industrial strength foam that even a high wind couldn’t shift.
“We’re dealing here with a girl who is missing, ma’am.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She gave a half smile and led him into an unoccupied study and closed the door.
“Are males segregated from the females at night, ma’am?”
Miss Baca cast a glance in his direction and squeezed herself into a narrow chair. “The boys occupy Sisneros House, the girls are in Quartermaine. Classes are taken together.”
“Tell me about Lily?”
“Quiet girl. Rather introvert as I recall. She was one of the few resident students I had. The rest are usually overseas or out-of-state. When Alice committed suicide, Lily blamed herself. We all tried to tell her it wasn’t her fault and so did the police. Quite frankly, it didn’t help that her mother thought it was foul play. It wasn’t of course. Anyone could see it was a suicide.”
“Must have been bloody awkward finding her dead on your watch?”
“Awkward, detective? Hardly an appropriate word. It was frightening, actually. I expect you’ll want to see the bathroom.”
“If that’s not too much trouble, ma’am.”
He tried to piece together facts, analyzing different scenarios and formulating consequences, and he came to the not so startling conclusion that Miss Baca may have unwittingly left out a crucial piece.
“Do you smoke?” she asked, waving a hand in front of her nose.
“I do, ma’am.”
“You won’t be allowed to smoke in here.”
He wasn’t aware that cigarettes caused such a stench, except when Malin complained ‒ which she did with maddening regularity.
Temeke followed Miss Baca into a well-lit room. There were twelve tables arranged on a hardwood floor and beneath the stone fireplace was a high table where the principal and administrators sat. Four French doors opened out onto a swimming pool and a lawn irrigated by an elaborate mist of water.
Past Rites Page 4