Alien Eyes

by Lynn Hightower

  He went to the closest medic wagon. The overturned ambulance still lay on its side. A woman in a Red Cross jumpsuit had crawled through the smashed windshield and was rooting around for supplies.

  A black man with a Red Cross patch on his shirtsleeve gave David a look of annoyance. “Triage, man. If she’s yours, you’d do better to take her to a hospital yourself.”

  David frowned at him. “I’m a police officer. I found her in the middle of the road. She’s shocky, you got a blanket?”

  “You mind getting it? Right there in the truck. Then set her over there, I’ll get to her when I can.”

  David found a stack of slivery thermal blankets, disposable. They felt like old-fashioned gum wrappers. He set the woman in the dirt beside the ambulance, wrapped her in the blanket, squeezed her hand. She opened and closed her fist.

  David walked away.

  A man in a fireman’s hard hat and a business suit shouted for more light. The fire was licked, but the fire fighters were still hauling people out of the supper club. David looked at the growing stack of bodies. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “If you’re through gawking there, they need us to go upstairs and pull crispy critters out.”

  David turned, saw the sweaty, soot-stained face of his partner, Mel Burnett.

  “I see you survived the riots,” David said.

  “Hell, yes, it’s you had me worried, what took you so long? Had to send a cute little mouth from arson in after you, and she was none too pleased.”

  “Arson Detective Yolanda Free Clements?”

  “Her Elaki calls her Yo Free.” Mel sniffed. “Smells like a fish fry, with the Elaki in there.”

  David glanced at the Elaki bystanders and winced. As usual, their backs were turned on the carnage, out of consideration for the privacy of the victims. David followed Mel around the side of the building. His shirt stuck to his back, soaked in sweat. The streets ran with water and garbage.

  “You hear anything on the bomb threat?” David asked.

  “Just rumors, nothing confirmed. Looks like it got called in just as the fire got started. The grids froze traffic for miles, and of course they did a search before they’d release. Then the fire vans got caught up in the middle of the evacuation, so we get this piece of shit circus here.”

  A surge of intense light flooded the streets, as if the sun had come up. The holographic troops faded, the power siphoned to the light generator.

  In better parts of town, this wouldn’t have happened. In better parts of town, a foamy syrup would have dripped from ceiling spigots and quelled the first wisp of smoke.

  David coughed, chest hurting. Technology was a wonderful thing, if you could afford it.

  THREE

  David set the phone down and leaned back in his chair, wondering who it was he’d been planning to call. He smelled bad, clothes stiff with dried sweat, smoke grime, and blood. He wanted a shower. He wanted a nap. The body was weary, but the mind was jazzed.

  He’d like to be clean.

  He glanced up at the captain’s glassed-in cubicle. The people were still in there—an old man, his young teenage son, and a woman whom they all seemed to watch and defer to. They had trooped through the squad room, ducking their heads, too polite to stare, but bewildered by the sweaty, smoke-stained cops, every desk occupied, every printer going, all computers alive and talking.

  No one paid them any attention, except the captain, who paid them too much.

  David took a covert look at the woman. She sat separately from all of them, looking preoccupied and saying little. She cocked her head to one side as if listening to something, turned and looked at David.

  She was pretty, from a distance, and David was aware how bad he looked. He smiled, embarrassed, and she smiled back. Captain Halliday craned his neck to see who she was looking at. The man and the boy turned, and Halliday motioned David into the room.

  “Shit,” he muttered.

  Della looked up at him as he went by. Her expression caught him—he was seeing that unhappy look on her face more and more often. A sandwich sat untouched on her desk. Her hair was bound tightly back, as if she could not be bothered with it. For once in her life, she was not drinking a Coke. The joke around the department was that if she ever needed a transfusion, they would put the IV in the Coke machine.

  “You’ll have to excuse my staff,” Halliday was saying. “We had a bad fire last night.”

  The death toll had been over one hundred sixty, the last David had heard. He did not like being apologized for to these suburban well-feds who ought to have more sense than to be bothering them right now.

  “Dr. Jenks, this is Detective Silver, he handled your wife’s file when it came through our office.”

  David frowned, shook the man’s hand, thinking Jenks was a name he recognized. The man’s grip was firm, but his bones felt frail. His hair was white, tufty, his eyes pale blue, with heavy bags underneath. His suit was expensive, and David knew from his days in bunco that the man’s watch was worth more than a year of his own wages. The man’s air of sad fatigue quelled any flutter of envy.

  “My son, Arthur,” Jenks said softly.

  The boy was overweight, mannerly, and serious. His hands were soft and childish, but his grip was firm.

  “How are you?” David said.

  The boy blushed, ducked his head, and looked at the floor.

  “Teddy Blake,” Halliday said, looking over his reading glasses at the woman.

  Unusual name, David thought, shaking her hand. For some reason her cheeks turned pink when he met her eyes—brown eyes, large, gentle, and tired. Her hair was thick and full, and had been plaited carelessly. Likely it had been neat and elegant some hours ago, but now strands of soft straight hair hung down the back and sides.

  She wore loose khakis and a stark white shirt that was too large and slid down off one tanned shoulder. She pulled it up absently, giving David a glimpse of an ivory satin bra strap.

  David remembered the case now. Theresa Jenks had disappeared in Chicago three months ago. She’d been seen in Saigo City by a friend, and the Chicago PD had contacted their office, asking them to follow up.

  It was a courtesy thing, a not very likely lead that had petered out. David had done what he could, which wasn’t much, considering the workload.

  “Any news from Chicago?” he asked gently.

  “Cold trail,” she said, low and soft.

  Halliday was nodding. “Detective Silver will pull the file, answer your questions, anything else you need.” He seemed to be talking to Blake, who nodded. “Any problems, concerns, questions, he’s your man. David, I think conference room C is open.”

  David gave him a thoughtful look. Conference room C—reserved for top brass and special occasions. It actually had carpet, and almost-fresh paint on the walls. No windows, of course. That would have been too much.

  Halliday gave David a careful look. “Ms. Blake was called in to help by the family. She’s been working with Bruer in Chicago.”

  She didn’t look like a private investigator, David thought. Which would probably make her a good one.

  “I’m a psychic, Detective Silver.” Blake lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes.

  David’s smile faded. He looked at Halliday, making it intense, then cleared his throat. “The conference room is this way.”

  Teddy Blake’s smile had faded with David’s. She raised an eyebrow at him and headed out.

  David waited till everyone was clear before he spoke. Halliday was still standing, his tie knotted neatly, pointed chin clean shaven. He didn’t show the fatigue he surely must feel. He’d gone home and had a shower, David thought, wishing he’d done the same, wishing he was there now.

  “Any chance we can reschedule this, Captain? Under the circumstances?”

  Halliday sank into his chair and rubbed his forehead, eyes shut tight. “These people are wealthy, David, they have influence. I have orders, which means you have orders. Go.”

  David w
ent, pulling Halliday’s door softly shut. String, the Elaki David and Mel often partnered with, was holding up a fan of cards to Della. David noticed the boy, Arthur, edging close.

  “Please to choose,” String said.

  Della glared at him. “String, I am not in the mood.”

  Arthur took a small step forward. “I’ll choose.”

  Dr. Jenks shook his head. “No, no, Arthur, don’t—”

  “It’s okay,” David said.

  String’s left eye prong swiveled and he slid close to Arthur, who swallowed, but stood his ground. David had the impression Arthur had never been quite so close to an Elaki before.

  String was fascinated by human children; he would be kind with this boy. David had the feeling that Arthur needed kindness.

  He looked at Teddy Blake. “I’ll call the file up and print it out. Be just a minute.”

  “There’s physical evidence, isn’t there?” She was civil with him, but the warmth was gone. “The detective in Chicago, Bruer. He said there was a sweater. I’d like to see it, please.”

  “Picture do?”

  She looked at him like he was stupid. “I need the actual sweater.”

  “It’s in a warehouse, all the way across town. May take a while.”

  Her chin lowered and she looked away. Evidently she wanted it now. Had she expected him to keep it in the bottom drawer of his desk?

  David sat down at his computer and keyed in a command, bringing up the Jenks’s file. Theresa Jenks had been content to marry a mere plastic surgeon, but she was the niece of Bianca Jenks, who had turned the Jenks’s family money into a hefty fortune. Theresa had numerous assets, and there would be more when Bianca died. David glanced at the husband. He stood to inherit a nice sum, but most of it, if Theresa followed family tradition, would go to her child. David looked at Arthur. The serious look was gone from his face, and he was laughing and talking too loud, as boys of that age did when their defenses were down. David felt a twinge, thinking how vulnerable children were. He glanced back at Jenks, then to the computer screen. He had precious little to report. These people were wasting their time. They were also wasting his.

  The phone rang.

  “Silver, homicide.”

  “Daddy?”

  “Kendra?”

  “No, Mattie.”

  He should have known, but all of his girls sounded like babies when they called.

  “Daddy, you know how you told me to leave Elliot’s food bowl out near the garden? I looked in there and I think he ate something!”

  “Really?”

  “Really, Daddy.”

  “That’s wonderful, Mattie. Did you look around, see if you could find him?”

  “Yep, a long long time, but it’s so hot. I had to come in.”

  He pictured his daughter, sturdy tan legs pocked with scabbed over bug bites, wandering through cornstalks which were almost over her head, rampaging through bean plants and tomato vines, looking for the large, fat, ill-natured iguana who had been missing over a week.

  “Is Mommy there?”

  “She’s outside with Haas. They’re looking for Elliot too.”

  David set his teeth. He didn’t just want to find the iguana, he wanted to find it before Haas did. Rose’s very good friend, Haas.

  “Bye, Daddy.”

  Mattie sounded hopeful and happy. He felt ashamed to resent Haas’s efforts to find the iguana. Likely Haas was reacting to the same thing he was—the look in his little girl’s eyes when she stood outside and called the lizard home.

  “Bye, sweet,” David said. He looked up, saw that the woman, Teddy Blake, was watching him. He looked back to his screen, hitting the print file command.

  What kind of a woman called herself Teddy, anyway? The kind of woman who set herself up to take advantage of a bereaved family, with the willing and able cooperation of the Chicago and Saigo City PD. Money gave wealthy people large pockets of vulnerability.

  Something he’d never have to worry about.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder. Mel leaned down, eyes on Blake.

  “What you got here, David?” Mel had just had a haircut, leaving the brown hair short and curly. His skin was sun-bronzed, his shoulders solid and muscular under the worn suit.

  “She’s a psychic, Mel. Working on a missing person. Remember Theresa Jenks?”

  “The red sweater we found? Next to the book on reincarnation?”

  “That’s the one.”

  A lazy smile spread across Mel’s face. “No kidding? So we’re baby-sitting them when we got a death toll over two hundred in this supper club fire?”

  “Two hundred now?”

  “And counting. Captain wants ’em in conference room C, I bet.”

  “Very good, Mel.”

  “Maybe I’m psychic. Look here, David, why don’t I help you out? No point leaving them standing around in the squad room. I’ll get ’em settled down in C, do the pretty for you.” He squeezed David’s shoulder. “Feel free not to show up.”

  Buy Alien Heat Now!

  About the Author

  Lynn Hightower grew up in the South and graduated from the University of Kentucky, where she studied creative writing with Wendell Berry and earned a journalism degree. She is the author of ten novels, including two mystery series, one featuring homicide detective Sonora Blair and the other featuring private investigator Lena Padgett. Flashpoint, the first Sonora Blair mystery, was a New York Times Notable Book. Satan’s Lambs, the first Lena Padget mystery, won the Shamus Award for Best First PI Novel. Hightower has also written the Elaki series of futuristic police procedurals, which begins with Alien Blues.

  Hightower’s novels, which have been translated into seven foreign languages, have appeared on the Times (London) bestseller list and have been nominated for the Kentucky Literary Award, the Kentucky Librarians First Choice Award, and the Mary Higgins Clark Award. She teaches at the UCLA Extension Writers’ Program, where she was named Creative Writing Instructor of the Year in 2012. The author lives with her husband in Kentucky.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1993 by Lynn Hightower

  Cover design by Michel Vrana

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-2126-5

  This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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