A shadow fell across the window, short and wiry and likely dressed in a brown suit. Temeke heard a scuffling, heard the doorbell and a few seconds later, the growl of the engine.
Shoes pattered on the staircase and Francisca peered into the library first, eyes scanning the entire room as if there was some filter of doubt. “You want coffee, tea… something to eat, Detective?”
“No thanks, love.” The shrillness of her voice struck a chord that made him clench all the muscles in his face. He needed that search warrant. “Tell Mrs. Oliver I call again.”
Francisca opened the door to retrieve the package, gave him a curt nod as he slipped past her to the driveway. The wind reached him through the trees and so did the smell of traffic fumes. The chill from the icy ground worked its way through the soles of his shoes, snow crunching underfoot.
All the way back to the office, he kept wondering about the Tuesday entry and the one question that scratched away at his subconscious. Whose heart was breaking like hers?
Malin tapped the keyboard and squinted at the computer. He knew she could hear him over those loud frustrated clicks. “What time did Megan leave?” he asked.
“Ten minutes ago.”
If Megan was on her way back to the mansion, he would have just missed her. “How long ago did she try picking the locks on those journals?”
“She said she was alone in the house during the Annual Mayoral Luncheon, so… two weeks ago,” Malin said without looking up. “After everyone left, she went snooping in the library. She was worried about Mrs. Oliver.”
Temeke straightened his chair, scuffed it away from his desk and rocked it back and forth a bit. “And Cesar? Cause he’s not exactly squeaky clean. Imagine two members of staff going through your stuff. Just because they’re worried about you.”
“Apparently, the Mayor shouted at his wife several times, only one time he slapped her. Megan saw it all through the living room door. She was certainly frightened enough.”
Temeke began to imagine two dark silhouettes in front of the fire, one leaning over the other and shouting at the top of his voice. The whole house must have heard them. “Did she say what they were arguing about?”
“A letter. Something to do with a test.”
THIRTY
An afternoon of studying the mayor’s resume and making phone calls of all the references listed had given Malin an appetite. She tore the lid off a microwavable lasagna, inspected a few steaming strings of cheese and took a bite.
“Judge Matthews called yet?” Temeke asked.
Malin shook her head and shaved another slice of lasagna with a plastic fork. She knew he was itching to get back over to Mrs. Oliver’s house to get those journals. “What are you working on?”
Temeke smeared a layer of paste on a thin slice of toast. Gentleman’s Relish, he called it. “Checking with the Chief Administrative Officer to see if any of the mayor’s staff were absent this week. So far, all present and accounted for. The Media Enquiries director had to set up a ‘Mayor Oliver update’ line.”
“That’s a bit impersonal, isn’t it?”
“Not after they received three hundred phone calls in less than an hour. Jammed up the front desk.”
Malin read the Mayor’s tweets out loud, the most recent of which commended Unit Commander Hackett as employee of the week. The rest were return to work bills, donations, youth ambassador promotions and a celebration of the legacy of Martin Luther King, Jr.
There was also a picture of the Press Secretary on the Fox News couch giving a brief update on the Mayor’s health, concluding with legislative priorities for the coming year. Malin looked up and realized Temeke had already glazed over, couldn’t care less about Twitter.
Pressing the sticky lid of her lasagna back in place, she threw the remainder in the trash. Temeke opened his desk drawer, pulled out the piggy bank and peeled off a rubber seal from its belly. He shook it a few times until a handful of change clunked onto his desk.
“What?” she said, knowing he was jumpier than a housecat.
“When Mrs. Oliver called the police on Sunday night, she insisted she read the time off her cell phone. That means she had the cell phone in her hand. Yet she chose to call 911 from the landline instead.”
“Maybe she was expecting a call on her cell,” Malin said. It was the only explanation she could think of.
“That’s why she chose to be with the Mayor… in hospital. It wouldn’t have mattered where she was if the kidnapper had her cell phone number.”
“But he called the house. The police were there and so was she.” Malin felt the room spin. There was something in what he said. “I have a list of all her contacts.”
“Call them, will you. Find out if any of them had an appointment to call her on Sunday night.”
Malin found the list, but not before noticing Temeke had something else to say. He was nodding his head vigorously and yawning at the same time.
“I got to thinking, who’s this Andrew Blaine? He’s a sodding PI, that’s what. Said he wouldn’t talk to me when I got through finally. Client attorney privilege, my ass. I asked him why he didn’t call me back the first time and he said he couldn’t understand the accent. Accent? I don’t have a bloody accent.”
“Yes, you do.” A real sexy one, Malin wanted to say and thought better of it.
She called the Berkeley police. Asked them to get a search warrant for Andrew Blaine’s house and then checked her messages for the third time. There was still no call back from Judge Matthews’ office. She didn’t really expect one.
Two more hours of calling Mrs. Oliver’s contacts, most of whom had no scheduled phone appointments with her. Malin checked her watch. It was just after six. The next ten minutes was spent nagging the receptionist of Kim Tzu’s Nail Place for Kim’s home number. Malin’s hands were damp with sweat as she listened to the phone ring, with a sense of foreboding in her stomach. It was the same response she had learned to expect. Kim had not made a phone date with Mrs. Oliver that Sunday night.
Temeke leaned back in that creaky chair, hands behind his head. There was something feral and graceful about him, something otherworldly that made her skin tingle. He cleared his throat a couple of times as if he was about to speak, slipped the pack of cigarettes from his top pocket and flicked open the lid. A match flared and she saw him suck on that cigarette and slowly exhale a lungful of smoke. It always amazed her how he got away with it. The only employee allowed to smoke at work, the only detective Hackett really depended on.
Hackett never told Temeke, of course. He only wrote it in a memo to the Chief of Police that Malin had delivered a few weeks back. Praised Temeke as a tactical thinker, said he’d put up with anything as long as Temeke was given a second chance.
“Who does he look like?” Temeke said.
“Who does who look like?”
“Adam?”
Malin looked up at the cork board and studied the photographs. “Favors his mother. Same build, same coloring. Except in the eyes. Difficult to tell from a picture.”
“You know what bothers me?” Temeke said, fingers pulling at his bottom lip. “How do you think it makes us look if we can’t come up with a single witness? All of them suddenly gone deaf and blind? You go home, love. Get some rest.”
Malin wasn’t about to argue. She grabbed her coat and looked up at the clock. Eight thirty. Not bad for a weekday. She would have called in on Sargent Moran’s wife for a coffee on the way home, but there was an ache in the back of her throat and she had trouble swallowing.
The apartment felt different. Cold, uninviting. The blinds to the patio doors clattered in the wind and she wondered why she would have left the sliding door unlatched. No one could have opened it from the outside without shinning up two storeys and vaulting over the railings. She swatted a drift of blinds and closed the latch.
The laptop took a while to boot up and she noticed WingMan wasn’t in the chat room. No use talking to an imposter. Maybe one last message to vent
the anger she now felt.
All singles use Heartfree, you said. All lonely singles, you said. Lonely? Who said anything about lonely? I know who you are.
She tapped SEND, heard herself laugh and the sound caught her by surprise. She was thinking about what he would say when he saw that message. He’d be biting his nails that’s for sure, right down to the quick. Probably wondering if she had state-of-the-art surveillance equipment to find him with. Probably scared she was already standing outside his window.
Darn it! She should have typed that.
There was nothing on the TV except Jennifer Danes reporting live outside the University campus. A student had been arrested for spray painting Professor Reid is a pederast on the front door of the Law Library. Cyn Wrigley had been nominated for the American Journalist Award for the third time and there was a photo of her getting out of her car, registration plate PMS24-7. And Farmer Capra who had been breeding goats with sheep for four years had finally produced a pair of black and white shoats.
Malin yawned and glanced at the laptop. “Get a grip,” she whispered, flicking on the switch to the gas fireplace.
Blue flames fluttered between a pile of faux logs and there was a cloud of condensation on the glass. She sat on the couch and stared at it for a moment, wondering why WingMan pretended he was someone else.
It was the whine of a police siren on the television that woke her up at one seventeen in the morning. All the moisture had been sucked out of her tongue and it was stuck on the roof of her mouth. Gulping down a glass of water, she remembered the laptop.
There was an email in her inbox.
The way I see it is this. Your neck’s on the chopping block. A good detective like you telling a complete stranger about the Oliver case? My, my, that’s worth a firing. You say one word to Temeke and I’ll tell him what you told me. If you don’t, I’ll tell you who took Adam Oliver. So sit tight and wait for my next email. You’re really going to love this.
THIRTY-ONE
Ramsey was looking real bad now. His skin was gray and his eyes were wide and staring and he could hardly move. Kept mumbling about painkillers, about the village, about the stores. Kept pointing at the front door.
“You have to go,” he said, slipping off his watch and handing it to Adam.
Adam was too afraid to go. He knew the rangers weren’t far away. The howling in the night woke them up three times and Ramsey threatened to shoot the dog with all he had. He said it was a black Tervuren, whatever that was. Seen it out of the window scurrying away towards the woodshed, said it was big and dangerous.
Ramsey found cans of food in the hut, found spoons, toothbrushes, oil, can openers and tin plates. He’d found a black and yellow can of gun solvent and a cleaning rod, at least that’s what he said they were.
Adam knew what Ramsey wanted. He just didn’t think he could do it. Staying in the house wouldn’t help either of them so there was only one thing for it. He found the key on a hook under the kitchen sink and he found the duffel. Some of the money was scattered about and some was wadded and sealed. Twenties, fifties, looked like a lot to him. He stuffed a few notes in the pocket of Ramsey’s coat and zipped it up to his chin.
It was all his fault anyway. Ramsey wouldn’t have got sick if he hadn’t pounded that leg and made it bleed again. His mom said hitting came from hatred and hatred was an ugly thing. If you have a problem with someone, she said, look for whatever is true, good and praiseworthy. Ramsey was good as good goes. As for the true and praiseworthy, Adam wasn’t quite sure about that.
“You’ve got a good compass now. So head west. And don’t talk to anyone,” Ramsey said, barely lifting his head.
“How am I supposed to get you stuff if I can’t talk to anyone?”
“You know what I mean.” There was a rattle in his throat that sounded bad, like it was thick with spit. “Make sure you’re not being followed.”
Adam frowned and opened the door. “I won’t be long.”
Ramsey just lay there shivering in that sudden blast of cold air, raising a hand towards the door. He’d made a nest in a pile of blankets in front of the wood stove, hat pulled over his eyes and mouth opened a slit to breathe. Looked like a homeless person, looked like he wouldn’t last much longer unless Adam hurried back.
Adam slipped outside and shut the door. Looked up at the eaves and saw an old bird’s nest wedged into the siding. There were gray and white droppings splattered down the wall and the smell of mold in the wood. Fresh air stabbed his lungs and made his eyes water, and he didn’t know which way to go.
The wood shed was to his left now, kindling barely covered by a rotting canvas. He took out the compass and followed the needle west between the trees to a furrowed field. He’d have to be quick in case the rangers spotted him.
He missed Ramsey to be honest, missed his cheery tone and the way he did things. He could look after himself in the desert, find food and water where nobody else could. He’d saved Adam’s life, hadn’t he? Now it was his turn to save Ramsey’s.
Markers, watch for markers.
The leaves were soft underfoot from the recent rains and there was a haze between the trees. It was the shifting winds that spooked him and the occasional flutter of a bird. He thought he heard someone calling his name. He thought he heard drums in his head.
It was several hours before the sun broke out of the clouds in a long, thin line, striking a puddle in the rut of an old farm track. It seemed to reflect a myriad of colors like a prism and Adam ran towards it, breaking through a hedge of dried out corn husks. There were no cars, cattle or barns. Just acres of land now beneath a birdless sky. With the sun so high it had to be noon.
Something moved between the trees. A shadow in the mist, head nodding from side to side and feathers spinning in the wind.
“Tarahuma,” Adam whispered, pausing there in the road, “is that you?”
He thought he saw a man wearing a gray beaded bodice and leggings with two others behind him. One with a flute and one with an eagle feather, yipping and wailing and pounding the ground. When an eagle shrieked in the distance the drums stopped. There were no shadows in the dew soaked grass and only his footprints marked a light dusting of snow on the road.
The road. He’d found the road.
It had been so long since he’d had a shower, slurped a coke or tied his shoelaces. Pushing one hand further into his coat pocket he reached for the money. He’d call his mom if he could get some change. Wednesday. Must be Wednesday.
He walked that bleak road for an hour, maybe two, turning around occasionally to map the trees and the rutted landscape. He counted the clouds and guessed their shapes. He tried to sing a scout song, only he couldn’t remember all the words. Whispering pines… eagles soaring … purple mountains… azure sky.
Sand and leaves skittered this way and that, and somewhere in the distance he heard the soft jingle of a wind chime. Then the scent of burning cedar and smoke spiraling behind a rise in the road. Picking up speed, he climbed the hill, a cold sweat pricking the back of his neck. Just before he tipped over the rise, a familiar sound. A high pitched whine.
It could have been the wind through a blade of grass or a herder’s whistle. It wasn’t a threatening sound. More like a dog’s version of hello. He turned sharply and there in the middle of the road about ten feet back was a dog. Black coat snagged with mud and leaves, head lowered to the ground.
Adam stood there for a while, hand flat across his brow. It was a large dog with a square head and tail thicker than a rudder. Could have been a Newfoundland or a long-haired retriever. Could have been… no, it couldn’t.
Adam walked back a few paces, and then some more. Crouched and held out a hand. His fingers tingled against the cold muzzle and then he hooked his arms around that neck, smelling wet fur and grass and other things he couldn’t describe. He sobbed harder than he did the first night he was taken and Murphy just made those grunting sounds dogs do. His whiskers were damp from the puddle back there but God
only knew what he had eaten. Probably dug himself a den near a stream, probably ate a rabbit or two. Probably followed Adam’s tracks. But he was alive.
Thank God, he was alive.
“Your dog, son?”
Adam twisted around to find an old man, leaning on a wooden hiking stick. It spooked him at first. “Yes, sir.”
“Looks hungry. Got a nasty limp. If you want, I can give him some food. I can give you some food and all.”
Adam slicked back his hair with one hand and bobbed his head. “I’m a bit thirsty, sir,” he said, standing.
“Where you from?” The old man inclined his head, but he never stopped smiling.
“Albuquerque.”
“You’re a long way from Albuquerque. I’d say you were lost.”
“My… my dad’s sick. I had to leave him back there. He needs help. Real bad.”
The old man nodded his head. “Follow me, son. And bring your dog. We’ll call an ambulance―”
“Oh, no, sir. He doesn’t need an ambulance.” Adam dangled his hand for Murphy to sniff, urging him on with a pat.
The old man walked him to an adobe house with blue painted shutters and small courtyard. There were ristras hooked to a porch truss and wind chimes that twisted slightly in the wind.
There was a shake in the old man’s hand and a wheeze in his voice. He coughed a lot too. “Is your dad coughing? Course if he’s coughing I can make a mug of hot buttered rum. Opens up the chest. He’d like that.”
Adam nodded. Ramsey would like more than one. “No, it’s his leg. He fell. It doesn’t look good.”
“Scrapes get infected. He’ll need bandages. Where are you headed?”
Adam had no idea. Ramsey had never told him. He felt a tightening in his stomach every time he told a lie. “We’re doing an orienteering exercise. For scouts.”
Night Eyes (The Detective Temeke Crime Series Book 2) Page 17