Night Eyes (The Detective Temeke Crime Series Book 2)

by Claire Stibbe

“Now you’re talking. Which troop? I used to do scouts. Course I was a bit older than you when I got my orienteering badge. Ever been to Philmont? Climbing Baldy Mountain’s bad enough, only we had to do it at a run. Course when you’re on the top it’s like riding the clouds. Name’s Jim Trader, but everyone just calls me Trader. You have a name?”

  Adam knew he couldn’t give Mr. Trader his name, couldn’t tell him anything and he felt bad about that. “James,” he blurted out. It sounded like an honest name.

  “Good and biblical.” Another rough cough. “Jesus’ brother eh?”

  “Yes, sir.” Adam didn’t want to talk about Jesus, not in the same breath as lying.

  “Here we are then.” Trader opened the front door and brought them into a small parlor. It had a long wooden table in the middle of the room and a range behind it. “There’s some stew on the stove. My Nan used to make a mean stew, only she’s been gone two years now. I’ll get a bowl for the dog.”

  Adam looked for a phone. Couldn’t see one among the old newspapers on the counter and there wasn’t one on the wall. Just a picture of a boy wearing a scout uniform and a second class badge like his. Old people didn’t have cell phones. They didn’t have much of anything, except boxes of nails and old car parts and rusted out tins of who knows what.

  He could smell that mean stew and he licked his lips just thinking about it. Trader said a blessing. It went on for a while and in the background Murphy made slurping noises and crunched on a few pieces of dried toast he found in the grate. After dinner Trader fetched the first aid box down from a shelf in the pantry. Pain killers he said. About six months old. Didn’t need them where he was going.

  “Better stay until the morning, son. It’s going to be dark soon. Storm’s coming. You’ll need to see to your dog.” There were three goat’s-heads in one paw, deep down between the pads. Trader took them out with a pair of tweezers, fingers rough from all the work he’d done. “He’ll need to rest and so will you.”

  Trader made a bed on the couch in the parlor and spread out blankets for the dog. He let Adam take a bath, washed his scout clothes too. Told him about his grandson, how he always wanted to get his Eagle.

  “Did you get your Eagle, sir?” Adam asked.

  “I did, son. Evan would have too… if he’d lived.”

  “What did he die of?”

  “God just takes some folk young, I guess.”

  Adam slipped in and out of sleep that night, happy to smell the dog beside him, happy to hear his snores. He could hear deep throated coughs in another room and his own frail breath in the blackness.

  It wouldn’t be wrong to write a note, something Trader could give to the police. Adam could leave it on the kitchen table with his mother’s name on it. He would leave Trader some money too. He penciled a few lines on a scrap of paper, wrapped it around a fifty dollar bill and left it peeking out under the tea caddy.

  The old man was up at dawn, scraping out a pan of oatmeal into a china bowl. “Sleep all right, son?”

  “Yes, sir.” Adam licked his lips. He looked for the note. It was still there.

  “Seen any woodsmen in your travels?” Trader asked.

  Adam shook his head. Didn’t want Trader to know about the old man. “No, sir.”

  “Where exactly is your pa? He’s not in the woods is he?”

  “Not far. Just over the hill.”

  Trader nodded slowly, eyebrows drawn together. “Sure you don’t want me to walk you?”

  “I’ll be fine. Promise.”

  Adam ate most of that bowl until he couldn’t hold the hurt in any more. It was like when his grandpa was alive, how when they visited him hospital that last time. How those bony hands clawed through Adam’s hair as he said goodbye.

  “My chest,” Adam patted the place where his heart was and he began to sob. “It’s bursting. I… I―”

  “It’s alright son.” Trader put an arm around him, strong and warm and full of love. “I prayed for you in the night and I prayed for your pa. There’s a flask of hot buttered rum in here,” Trader said, taking the pack and slipping over Adam’s shoulders. “A few things I thought you might need.”

  “Do you have a phone?” Adam asked, wiping his eyes. “I need to call my mom.”

  “You can have it,” old Trader said. “I won’t be needing it no more. It’s charged. Should last three days.”

  “I can’t―”

  “Yes, you can, son. Here,” he wrapped Adams hands around a black cell phone and nodded. “It’s yours.”

  Adam dialed the number, heard a click and a sharp intake of breath. “Mom. It’s me.”

  She sounded different, strained. “Adam… Where are you? Is it really you?”

  “It’s me, mom.”

  She cried some and then asked the question Adam hoped she wouldn’t. “When are you coming home?”

  “Soon mom, we’re on Operation Gray Fox—”

  “Are you eating OK?”

  “Squirrels, birds—stuff. Everything’s fine Mom.” He wanted to cry, felt a lump in his throat. He wanted to ask about his dad, about the funeral. But Trader was listening, head cocked to one side. “I have to go, mom. Love you.”

  Trader gave him some gloves and a wooly hat. Told him there was enough water for him and the dog. Told him to be careful out there. Sent him out that cloudy day with a wave and a smile. Shouted Godspeed at the top of that grainy voice.

  THIRTY-TWO

  The ground stank to high heaven in the pouring rain all moldy and full of ancient rot, and Temeke cursed his luck for venturing out on such a lousy morning. There was a smear of excrement on the hood of Hackett’s car. It was a sod of a day.

  “Since when,” he said to Sarge, as he walked through the front doors, “did Fergus the Flasher start using that as a bloody toilet?”

  Sarge shook his head and looked down at the slop bucket, suds seeping over the rim. “It all started when Hackett caught him under that tree. Said big trees like that didn’t need watering. Told him he should have gone before he came. Fergus doesn’t own a toilet. Doesn’t have a home.”

  Temeke could see how that would handicap the poor old bastard, but what he couldn’t understand was Sarge’s endless sympathy. He was glad he didn’t have to scrub pooh as Malin called it. “It’s flaming whiffy in here. I’d give him the bleeding scrubbing brush and tell him to do it himself!”

  “What’s that racket down there?” Hackett shouted over the banister.

  “Just a little situation, sir. But we’re handling it.” Temeke craned his neck up to a big silhouette whose shoulders were slumped with the weight of an unsolved case.

  “Handling it!”

  The words were followed by a barrage of cursing, most of which Temeke had hardened to over the months. He kept saying how sorry he was the press had hacked the Northwest Area Command to pieces and how embarrassing it was that he was being blamed for the incompetence of the entire police force. There would be layoffs in the morning.

  “That’s a bit unfair, sir. I mean, it’s hardly your fault. It can take months, years to solve a case―”

  “You’ll be going with Fowler to the Mayor’s mansion. I want to know about that call she got.”

  “What call, sir?”

  “Two of our boys were with Mrs. Oliver this morning. Listened to a call from Adam. Apparently, the boy told his mom they were fine. And who’s they? I want to know what special ops he thinks he’s doing, cos eating squirrels and birds sounds like a frigging camping trip to me.”

  “Well that’s a stroke of luck. We can all go home.”

  “Not so fast, Temeke. The boy’s disappeared again. And what’s more, the number’s registered under a Mr. Jim Trader. Ring any bells.”

  It did. “Anyone called it?”

  “Of course someone’s called it. Several times if you must know. Either it’s on silence or someone’s screening the calls.”

  “Let me get this straight. On the caller ID, do we come up as Duke City Police Department? Cause
if we do, that might be the reason why he’s not picking up.”

  “I’ve noticed a change in you, Temeke. Even the admins are offended by that brash cockney attitude. Any more dirty jokes and you’ll be suspended, you understand? And the parking lot’s full of half smoked cigarettes. It’s a fire hazard.”

  “If it’s not too much to ask, sir, could I have that number. Might speed things up a bit.”

  “Captain Fowler’s got it. Ask him.” Hackett raised his chin a little and narrowed his eyes. “He’ll be picking you up in ten minutes. What’s that on your lip?”

  “Lip, sir?” Temeke picked at the scab where a cigarette had burned dangerously close after he’d fallen asleep in the bath. “It’s a burn.”

  “You smoke too much. Your lungs will catch on fire and so will your house.”

  Hackett began to slide dangerously towards the elevator door and Temeke hoped Sarge had enough time to scrub that car since the odor out there was worse than a turkey farm.

  “When you talk to Mrs. Oliver.” Hackett’s big thumb was squished against the down button. “Make sure you don’t interrupt. Better results if you don’t interrupt.”

  Temeke had never ridden in Captain Fowler’s car. It was cleaner than a doctor’s office and reeked of freshly laundered linen. There was a Hawaiian doll stuck to the dash, another peculiarity that separated Fowler from the boys. Temeke pressed down on her shoulders and a squirt of air freshener shot out of an orifice he couldn’t see.

  “Women love that,” Fowler said, spinning the wheel for an illegal U-turn and bumping down a puddled lane. “Like the piggybank in your desk drawer.”

  “Bloody marvelous!” Temeke said, wondering if they were going the right way. “The police can’t find a kidnapper but they’ve got the resources to find a piggybank. Are you going to give me Adam’s number or do I have to hold you at gunpoint?”

  Fowler made a left turn in the Mayor’s neighborhood and then a right, and then stopped in the middle of the road. “Where are we?”

  “Buggered if I know.”

  “I made a wrong turn.”

  “You mean the first turn, the second or the third?”

  Fowler refused to comment, shot through a gap in someone’s nicely clipped hedge, fender dipping into a concrete arroyo. They bounced through a narrow stream of water and up the other side.

  The lane was recognizable by a border of honeysuckle draped over an adobe wall. After a few terse ripples of that siren, the gates swung open to the Mayor’s mansion and Fowler released the gear stick in a triumphant flourish.

  “What about that hedge and the tire tracks in the neighbor’s lawn,” Temeke said.

  “Keeping secrets is part of our civic duties.” Fowler put the car in park and turned off the ignition. “Let’s make one thing clear. If Hackett won’t remove you from this case, I will. If you say anything, anything about that hedge, I’ll even kill you with my bare hands, and that’s a promise. And don’t go complaining to Hackett about death threats, Temeke. He won’t believe a word. Trust me, they’re real.”

  “Real? You’ll feel a nasty pain in your groin in a minute,” Temeke snapped, “and that’ll be real.”

  Fowler pressed a fist against his mouth and puffed out his cheeks. “Here’s the number for what it’s worth. I’ve tried several times, no answer.”

  Temeke stayed where he was. “You know what your problem is? You’re scared I’m going to solve this case just like I did the last one. You’re scared I might get a pat on the back from the Unit Commander, two Watch Commanders, Homicide and the Chief of Police. You’re scared Gloria’s pregnant. Since her husband’s a high court judge he’s bound to find out. And just one small detail. He’s black. For someone so good at keeping secrets, you made a right ass of that one.”

  “Gloria?” Fowler’s Adam’s apple clunked up and down as he swallowed.

  “Yes Gloria.”

  There was a long period silence when nobody said anything. Temeke fumbled for his cigarettes, wrapped his fingers around the pack and sighed. “Let’s listen to that tape again shall we?”

  They listened to the short tape of Adam’s voice. There was nothing in the inflection to say he was under duress and nothing to say he wasn’t out enjoying a few days hiking with his troop.

  They were interrupted by a belch of static from the radio and Hackett’s voice tuning into Westside Dispatch. Fowler gave their position and listened to a short report. Apparently, Mrs. Oliver had been prescribed a course of anti-depressants by her loyal and very dependable physician. She wasn’t in the best of spirits and Fowler was to do all the talking.

  Temeke shook a cigarette from the packet straight into his mouth and leapt out of the car. He walked towards the front door and scraped a match down the stucco. He watched Fowler pulling out the best of a box hedge from the front bumper, footsteps clacking on the driveway towards him.

  “You always seem to screw things up in ways nobody’s ever heard off.” Fowler said, walking through a puff of smoke, face deadly white like a corpse. “Why do you have to tell everyone about Gloria?”

  “Tell everyone? What do you mean tell everyone? Everyone told me. It’s like Chinese whispers in the sodding toilets.” Temeke pointed two fingers wrapped around a cigarette. “Calm down. It’s all part of the learning process and you know what a dim old sod Hackett is. He thinks the light shines out of your ass.”

  Fowler seemed preoccupied with his shiny shoes, probably admiring his face in them. “Put that out and let’s get on with this. I’ll do the talking. You see what you can find.”

  Temeke wheezed in a long drag and squeezed out a little smile. “My pleasure.”

  They rang the bell and listened to the first few bars of a well-known theme. Mrs. Oliver was dressed in black satin pants and the cobweb of a gauzy sweater. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “That’s OK, Mrs. Oliver,” Fowler said, and there was no doubting the sincerity in his voice. “Can we come in?”

  “Please,” she swept a hand towards the kitchen, closing the front door after them.

  Temeke could hear her slow ambling gate behind him and the click of heels against the tile. “Nice place.”

  “We’ve lived here for nearly four years,” she said. “The house is older of course. About ten, fifteen, I think.”

  “It’s a sod about your cameras. Just when you think you’re safe and some jackass comes along and covers them with duct tape.”

  Fowler gave him a testy look, if you could call one raised eyebrow and a half-snarl, testy. His flashy good looks didn’t allow the expression to last and he gave Mrs. Oliver and that sweater a generous smile.

  She showed them into the kitchen, a large room which was surprisingly warm from a morning of baking. Two white fans whirred on a large granite countertop, turning in unison like the telescopes of the VLA.

  “We’d like to talk about the call you received from Adam,” Fowler said, nodding at two officers who were sitting at the kitchen table, yawning and staring at the landline phone. “Can you tell us exactly what he said?”

  She pulled the sleeves of her sweater down over her hands, exposing only the tips of her red painted nails. “Aren’t you monitoring all my calls?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Fowler moved in a little closer, looked down at her with a brittle smile. “I just wanted to know if you found anything odd. Anything at all.”

  Found anything odd? It’s all bloody odd, Temeke thought, watching her face and those delicate hands reaching for a tea towel. She was keeping busy all right, probably trying hard not to think about it all.

  “I… I don’t know exactly.”

  Fowler wiped the palms of his hands down his trousers and rephrased the question. “How did you feel when you heard Adam’s voice?”

  “Relieved.”

  “So, he didn’t sound upset to you?”

  “No… not at all. But I wanted to ask‒”

  “Wanted to ask what?” Temeke butted in. He wanted to understand why s
he kept frowning and looking at the floor every time he did. He wanted to know why his foot didn’t clunk against a china dog bowl.

  “I wanted to ask him where he was.”

  “But you asked him something else?”

  Mrs. Oliver merely nodded. “I asked him what he was eating.”

  “You asked him when he was coming home.” Temeke watched those eyes flicking from Fowler to him, watched a small intake of breath. “When you said you felt relieved, was there anything particular that made you feel that way?”

  “Hearing his voice.” Her hands were worrying at that tea towel, twisting it into a tight ball. Her eyes kept flicking to a small red cell phone on the kitchen counter.

  “Does the name Jim Trader mean anything to you?”

  “No.”

  Her fragile smile was on the verge of crumbling and Fowler moved in with the stealth of an alligator.

  “I don’t know what to do… I’m so confused,” she said, voice hitching.

  Fowler gave a few encouraging murmurs, patted her on the back like he was burping a baby. She just stood there, head against his chest, arms reaching around his back.

  Temeke studied Fowler’s belly and wondered if the slimy bastard had put on weight. The once ripped abs had turned into a slush from too many good dinners and he was beginning to look like a retired lifeguard from Baywatch.

  Fine time to start blubbing, Temeke thought, edging his way towards that cell phone. He clicked his way through four calls received since Tuesday afternoon and found one registered under the name, Ron King. He made a mental note and put the phone back on the counter. It didn’t feel right. Two big losses in her life right now and not one mention of the dog. Not one flyer down her street either.

  Temeke made his way to the library, stared at the shelves, the embroidered chair and the reading lamp on the table beside it. Third shelf down, between Huckleberry Finn and The Last of the Mohicans. Just as he thought.

  The journals were gone.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Interview room 4 stank of stale milk and heave from an arrest the night before. The table was clean, tape recorder stacked on a phone book and flushed against the wall.