A bitter scent of rotting detritus among the cottonwoods and he could hear the bubbling river and the occasional rustle of a wood duck. There were remnants of footprints in his mind, those of family as they had walked along the Bosque Trail all those years ago. Sometimes riding bikes, sometimes horses. There had been no worries then.
He felt a stab of fresh air in his lungs as he inhaled, felt the joy of homecoming. Once, those rolling hills of sage and sand had been inhabited by coyotes and rabbits, and now they were layered with houses and dust covered streets, brightly colored playgrounds and manicured parks.
The houses behind Corrales Café were reserved for the cultural elite. Even businesses had evolved in his absence, fluorescent signs blinking in the approaching dusk and the steady sounds of traffic as cars rumbled across the bridge toward the crowded restaurants. Everyone ate out these days.
He wasn’t here to reminisce. There would be plenty of time for that. It was then he noticed a metal flood gauge tacked to a wooden post at the river’s edge. It was here he left his mark.
Gulshan.
Muscles tensed and relaxed, his feet met the pavement with the same old spring he remembered as a child.
A street lamp spread a weak yellow light around its base, bright enough to see three cars in the parking lot ‒ two if he didn’t count his van. A white Chevrolet Cavalier and a dark gray Mazda RX7, both facing the river and parked on the summit of a steep slope that curved down to the water’s edge.
The latter interested him the most with its diamante framed plate and the words Ms. Bling emblazoned under the license lamp. Chinless Rosa... so fashionably tacky.
He cast a cursory glance through the rear window as he walked past, saw a young woman sucking Red Bull through a straw. He watched her from inside the van, studied those painted fingernails as they reached down to the passenger seat. She threw her head back and dropped something inside that large mouth. Two bites and whatever it was had been crunched into a pulp and swallowed.
She came here every Saturday night at six forty-five after eating salad with the other singers at Waterfall studios. Parked by the river to eat an addition to that healthy salad, a large portion of waffle fries and honey mustard from the Burger Giant drive thru. Left around seven ten.
The white Chevrolet reversed out of its space, headlights blinking into life as the tires crunched on pine needles and gravel. Just as the white cloud of exhaust tapered off into the night, Gabriel slipped a shoe lace and a small flashlight into his jacket pocket and scrunched an old blanket under one arm.
Never good to feed a habit. Never know who could be watching in the darkness, he thought, walking over to the black Mazda and reveling in the thought that Rosa’s life was very much in his hands.
He dropped the blanket on the ground behind the left rear tire and tapped on the driver’s window. There was a brief whoosh and a clunk before a slit of light appeared at the top of the frame. She turned off a loud belting of classical music and turned to study him.
“Sorry to bother you,” he said, conscious of the salty aroma of French fries. “I hope I didn’t frighten you.”
“No... no, that’s fine,” Rosa said, with a sigh. “What is it?”
“It looks like you ran over a dog. I wouldn’t normally worry, only this one has a collar.”
Rosa glanced at her wing mirror, saw the crumpled heap by the rear tire and groaned. She tapped her forehead with the heel of one hand. “I didn’t see anything.”
“It was probably too dark when you drove in. Don’t get out. I can handle it.”
He backed away from the driver’s door, scooped the blanket up in his arms and walked about ten feet toward a clump of foxtail barley. He knew she was watching, crying perhaps, as he laid it lovingly behind the grasses. She wouldn’t want to look at a bloody pancake of matted fur, wouldn’t want to see the collar and know the poor little thing once had a name.
He could hear Demon in the rustling leaves, hear him urging to hurry up and get on with it. Gabriel’s chest grew thick and tight and he tried to catch his breath.
Click.
The car door opened behind him, gravel grinding under a pair of shoes. Training shoes, he imagined, because the sound was somehow deeper than the simple tap of high heels.
He waited for a few moments until she was clear of the car and then turned slowly, taking painful steps toward her. “You mustn’t worry,” he wheezed. “These things happen.”
“Is it dead?”
“Quite dead.”
She looked so forlorn, nose wrapped in a handkerchief and shoulders heavy with guilt. Gabriel almost wanted to call the whole thing off, give her a hug and just go home. But he had a job to do. And he was beginning to wonder if he felt well enough to do it.
Her breath almost mingled with his as they stood there in the parking lot. Brown hair slicked back behind her ears, roots boosted with mousse and ends flat-ironed to death. It was a popular style, better suited to a woman with a chin.
“Can I see it?” she said.
He wasn’t expecting that. “No, don’t. You’ll only make yourself sick.”
She stared at the foxtail barley tufts stooping in the breeze. Took a few steps forward and then stopped with her back to him. “I didn’t mean to. Really, I didn’t. Did he have a name?”
“Otto,” he said, taking a brief look around the parking lot before taking the shoe lace from his pocket, curling it around both hands as he crept up behind her.
“We should call the number. The owners will be worried.”
Gabriel was tired of the charade and rolled his eyes. The ligature caught her by surprise, tightening around her neck until it was so tight she could no longer breathe.
He half-carried, half-dragged the dead weight back to the car and arranged her in the driver’s seat, clicking the seat belt into place.
Once the driver’s door and window were closed, he walked around to the front of the car and crouched beside the front bumper. Sure enough, no concrete wheel stop, good clearance between the underside and the ground, nothing to stop that car hurtling to the bottom of the river.
He inched around to the passenger side and turned on the ignition. Shifting the gear lever into drive, he pushed the passenger door closed, never heard it click as the car inched forward slowly at first, before tipping over the verge and picking up speed down the slope.
As the car bounded over the bicycle path, the passenger door swung open. Gabriel could do nothing but watch as it hurtled over the sandy verge, rushing toward the deepest part of the river.
It hovered there for a time, front end slowly dipping beneath the waves like an old gray submarine.
SEVENTEEN
Temeke arrived at Northwest Area Command at seven fifteen on Monday morning. He looked around the parking lot hoping to see the reassuring sight of Malin’s black SUV, but no sodding luck.
He recalled waking up in the night to a feeling of panic. The cat had been missing since last Thursday. Never made it home after racing up the nearest tree and for all he knew, Dodger was still up there, looking down on the world from his leafy perch and not as stuck as Temeke believed.
And then there was a crackling sound like gravel being hurled against a window. He checked the glass for cracks, or better still, no teenagers skulking about in his driveway, giggling and carrying on.
It reminded him of the figure he’d seen under the tree that night, left knee turned sideways and shoulders back as if he was in the military. Certainly not Paddy Brody. He was too stocky for that. But Temeke had mapped the posture in his head and he would remember it if he saw him again.
The road had been darker than freshly brewed coffee and he’d sucked down a few jugs at three forty-five in the morning. Couldn’t stop wondering about the Persian rug in Adel’s house, whether it was blood that had disfigured the pattern when he’d last seen it. So he called Matt Black, resident crime scene specialist, and asked him to take a look.
He yawned loudly as he tugged at the fron
t door of the sub-station, book wrapped in an evidence bag and tucked under one arm. There was no sign of the impact sergeant in the lobby and Sandra was the only admin behind the front desk.
She placed a flat hand against the corner of her mouth and whispered, “Fowler’s in the boardroom with Hackett. They were supposed to be going through bonuses.”
“Blimey, love, that’s like luring a child into your car with candy.”
“Remember the woman who died in a gas leak on the southeast side? Commander Roach called. Might not be an accident. And there was a witness, a student who thought he saw a stranger about an hour before it happened.”
“Names?”
Sandra tapped the keyboard and peered at the computer screen. “The gas leak victim was a Mackenzie Voorhees. She was a student at Gibson. Witness; a Mr. Tom Lahaye, also a student at Gibson. I’ll write his number down.”
A toilet flushed somewhere in the building and Temeke was aware of the gentle blast of hot air on top of his bald head. The heater came on and it wasn’t the only thing. Like a light bulb, he recalled what Adel had said about a funeral at the weekend. She knew the deceased, Mackenzie Voorhees.
“We’ve got a couple of visitors coming today,” Sandra whispered, handing him the number on a yellow sticky note. “Hackett wants us to be sure to say hello.”
“We’ll give them our detective’s welcome. Pat them down, throw them to the floor―”
“They’re ladies, sir. Interns from Cibola High.”
Temeke nodded, relieved it wasn’t the Chief of Police. “Do me a favor, will you? Run a search on Mackenzie Voorhees.”
“Righto, sir. Anything else?”
“Could you check a Patrick Brody? Also goes to Gibson.”
“I gave that information to Detective Santiago.”
“She was here this morning?
“Yes, sir. Left around seven. Something about a scrap yard. She’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
What an efficient girl Malin was, Temeke thought.
“Do me a favor, love. Fowler’s been looking a bit down in the dumps, you know, lovesick. Get him a number fourteen from the Heaving Dragon, will you?”
He swiped his card in the reader and took the grinding elevator to the first floor. There was a tremor in his belly about those crime figures and he tried to chase it away with thoughts of coffee and a good nap. Calling Mr. Lahaye was his top priority.
He shrugged off his coat and locked the book in his top drawer. The smell of freshly brewed espresso and toasted bagels wafted along the corridor, a breakfast perhaps for the Cibola girls. He was a few feet from the boardroom when he heard whispering and saw the back of Fowler’s big, fat head through the crack in the jamb. Hackett stood next to him, tall and bay-windowed from decades of food on the go.
“Over three thousand bucks... Temeke?” Fowler said, slapping a generous portion of cream cheese on his bagel. “You gotta be kidding. He’s been deviating from every procedure since he arrived here. He’s a foreigner. And foreigners suck.”
“Lieutenant Alvarez speaks very highly of him. He’s the only one who can get the job done.”
“He’s not the only one. What about Suzi Cornwell from Southeast Area Command?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“And Santiago? I mean... c’mon. There’s nothing between the ears. I’ve been watching her, sir. Someone was talking to her on the internet, sending snippets of confidential information. I know what she’s up to and I’ll make sure she never hears the pop of a Champagne cork on my watch.”
Temeke heard Hackett clear his throat. “She’s more resourceful than you think. Luis gave me a tape this morning. A tape of your voice.”
“Mine?”
“You asked Santiago out. Said something about a tranquilized carthorse. You also said something about black people. Couldn’t make up my mind if it was sexual harassment or racism. I just happen to think it’s both.”
“Sir, it was―”
“I think it’s offensive when top brass can harass innocent people and get away with it. You’ll write a statement of apology. To both of them. And, while you’re at it, one to Mrs. Delgado and all. I can’t have all these complaints.” Hackett straightened his back. “Who is it... this man she’s talking to?”
“He was piggy-backing on unsecured wireless networks. Squatting, sir. Connecting through her wireless router.”
“Was?”
“Must have known he was being monitored. Mr. W. Ingman or something. Haven’t seen him since.”
It was the footsteps and the chink of crockery that caused Temeke to abandon his short recce for a cup of the good stuff. He looked over the banisters, saw Hackett’s admin tripping up the stairs with a plate of cookies.
Lucky sods.
He loped back to his office with black visions of nailing Fowler’s ass. But a three thousand dollar sweepstake wasn’t half bad. Temeke had to prove himself, that’s all. Had to get a result and urgently. Or that three thousand dollars might as well be a rumor.
He could no longer afford to worry about Malin’s downtime and he needed to quit worrying about department intrigues. Maybe it was force of habit from all those years in Homicide where you prairie dogged the guy in the next cubicle to make sure he wasn’t stealing your promotion.
According to Fowler, Temeke would never receive a promotion. Although he might have met the health and physical criteria, he didn’t have the necessary references from civil servants or senior executives, least of all the DA.
On the rare occasion detectives fraternized with prosecutors, Temeke had been invited to lunch with the DA. On the way out of the restaurant the bloody wind only had to change direction and ash from a lighted cigarette found its way to the upper side of DA Meyer’s fly. The smell of charred wool attracted a nearby firefighter and it was lucky he had a bottle of iced water handy.
“Adel Martinez,” he whispered out loud, as if he could erase corporate politics with a name.
She had been all alone in that house when a few things went missing. A metal poker which, according to the statement Maggie Watts took, had a loop handle and a peg hook. And then there was a blue vinyl shower curtain and a green hand towel for when things got messy. Lucky Adel had been out that night. And damn lucky she wasn’t living there anymore.
He lit the first cigarette of the day while the computer booted up, heard thunder roaring in his stomach reminding him that a tablespoon of Greek yoghurt was hardly breakfast.
There was a copy of the Duke City Journal on his desk. Malin must have left it there, folded neatly where the article began and another fold where the article ended.
Detective Leaks Information On Delgado Girl.
By Jennifer Danes
Journal Staff Writer
Law Enforcement front-runner, Detective David Temeke reacted to a question about Lily Delgado. When asked if he knew anything about a young girl’s remains found in the mountains Temeke spilled the beans about a nasty hacking in a swampy area of Cibola National Forest.
This comment goes against the police department’s mantra of “conserving” information that might be upsetting to the general public and discards a long-standing tradition of respecting victim’s families for no good reason.
Further, for observant readers who are affiliated with the Duke City Journal, Commander Hackett urges people to disregard the flippant comment made by Detective Temeke in a time of considerable stress for the public and law enforcement alike. The report on ‘leaking information’ was found to be false.
We asked a neighbor, Mr. Fitz Riley, to comment on why Detective Temeke was voted this month’s Worst Law Enforcement Officer in the Albuquerque Echo.
Mr. Riley said: “When you think of Detective Temeke, you’ve got to think one thing. His love of pets, particularly his cuddly cat. Heck, no one knows Temeke better than me, how he jogs down his driveway at five o’clock every morning, barks at my dog, brings the paper to my doorstep when it rains and isn’t afraid of being asserti
ve and aggressive when his friends are threatened. If that’s not a good neighbor, I don’t know what is.”
Temeke mashed the newspaper and threw it in the bin. It was Stan Stockard he had spoken to not Jennifer Danes and how she had got hold of any snippets of information he would never know.
He was about to stub out his cigarette when he noticed another No Smoking sign on the wall, only this one was much larger than the last. A circle had been drawn around the dot above the ‘i’ with the words, this is a covert camera and we are watching you.
He found his gaze straying furtively to that dot, falling right smack into the trap. Gritting his teeth, he ripped the sign down with one hand and hurled it into the bin to join that equally asinine article in the Journal.
“Mr. Lahaye?” he asked, after dialing the witness’ number.
The young man needed no reminding of the terrors of Wednesday night and he’d clearly been waiting for Temeke’s call.
“I saw a guy hanging around outside,” he said, “kind of between my house and the neighbor. He said he was looking for Phoebe someone. Forgot the last name.”
“Could you describe him?”
“About my height.”
“Which is?”
“Five feet ten. Had a thick jacket on, couldn’t tell you the weight. Said his name was Gabe. Might have been a little lighter than me. One thirty, somewhere in there. Wore a black beanie, white hoodie... and pants.”
“What color pants?”
“White, like a painter. Looked familiar. Thought he was someone in one of my sister’s classes. But he didn’t seem to know her.”
“Notice anything unusual?”
“He looked kinda lost to be honest. So I asked him if he needed a ride. He said no. I watched him in my rearview mirror. Drove an old van.”
“Did you see the color?”
“Dark blue or gray.”
“What time was this?”
“About ten fifteen. I drove to a friend’s house after that.”
Past Rites Page 9