The 9th Hour (The Detective Temeke Crime Series Book 1)

by Claire Stibbe

  He threw the car into reverse, felt the shudder of the powerful engine. He also felt an eagerness to get on the road, invigorated by the sudden change as if an invisible wall of darkness had somehow been breached. Instinctively, he tapped the stereo to life, listening for the pounding of the base.

  Instead, a preacher’s voice blared out over the sound of the engine.

  … And no wonder, for Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light. It is not surprising, then, if his servants also masquerade as servants of righteousness. Their end will be what their actions deserve.

  Ole balled his right hand into a fist and mashed the button.

  FOURTEEN

  Malin rubbed her eyes and yawned. It was nine o’clock in the evening now and Corrales Café had been closed for nearly an hour. No good wanting a decent meal at this time of night when all the best places were closed.

  She glanced at the buff file on the coffee table. Morgan Eriksen. She had read it from cover to cover and she needed fresh air to clear her head.

  Heads. Eriksen wanted heads. To tell the future, so he said. She remembered the Norse legend of Mimir, a wise man decapitated in a war between two groups of gods. Odin was said to have found the head and kept it so he could listen to its prophecy.

  But the ninth hour? None of the girls had been killed within nine hours. According to the pathology report, time of death ranged between twenty-four and seventy-eight hours, all in the early part of the afternoon.

  She cracked the sliding doors to her second floor apartment. It was too cold to sit on the balcony but she liked to listen to the water tumbling over a palisade of rocks at the front entrance. From her bedroom the soft susurration was a comfort at night, far better than one of those sound machines that mimicked waves on a sea shore.

  Only tonight there was nothing but silence. The fountain was likely turned off due to the freezing temperatures and there was a fresh coating of snow on the floodlit monument sign which read Puerta de Corrales. Wind sighed through the branches of a cottonwood tree and there was the distinct smell of burning cedar wood in the air.

  A young boy in a bright red sweater ran out into the parking lot. He pressed a ball of snow in his gloved hands and began to roll it along the ground. It was sticking. He’d have a snowman shaped in less than twenty minutes if he was lucky.

  She wished she knew the Morans better, just enough to snatch a cup of coffee and a chat. Becky was a nice kid, smiley, friendly. It was the clothes that bothered Malin. She had seen how men looked at her, protective at first and then hungry. Old men, young men, men with needs.

  Malin swallowed back a lump of shame. She’d messed up her life alright, working in back alley nudie bars and escorting the paunchy elite. How Hollister found out, she would never know. But there he was one night, leering up at her from a table in the front row. Just as she lifted her right leg against the pole, a black diamante stiletto flew from her foot and out into a cheering crowd. It gored Hollister in the groin, a bull’s-eye she could never have managed no matter how hard she aimed. It had been funny then. But it wasn’t funny now.

  Minerva – she hadn’t looked at the website for months. Opening the laptop on the coffee table, she keyed in her password and checked the email. A familiar feeling came crashing back and so did the same old men, wondering what had happened to her. And then she saw the email from Hollister. Just one sentence.

  Where are you?

  She was suddenly immobilized by a feeling of self-loathing. She’d been a stripper for crying out loud, shaking everything she’d got to a crowd of weirdos whose eyes were a ghostly shade of white, some larger than cups. It was as if they had never seen a naked woman before. What was that? Those rheumy eyes. Like dead men’s eyes.

  She deleted the message, deleted him. He was gone now at the tap of a button.

  In spite of the chill on that dark night, she felt a trickle of perspiration at the small of her back and her hands were damp, too. Moonlight slithered through the blinds tussled by a night breeze and somewhere a coyote howled. She walked toward the patio doors and stared at the street below. The boy had gone, but there was a lump of snow in front of the office about five feet high.

  It was then she saw the car, sleek and dark, purring along the road like a contented cat. It pulled in opposite the front office, headlights flaring through a haze of fresh sleet. It lingered under the amber glow of the streetlamps like a precious masterpiece in a museum, an artwork so dark it was beautiful.

  She couldn’t see the driver through the tinted window but she knew he was watching. Something.

  Corvette? Camaro? One of those.

  A plume of steam oozed from her mouth and curled in the breeze. Crouching, she peered through the balusters as the front tire slowly stuttered along the verge, gravel rattling against the exhaust. It was only a few seconds before the engine shuddered into life and the car arced back into the road, brakes squealing and taillights dwindling into the shadows.

  Had he seen her crouching there with the light of the living room behind her? Had he even seen her face?

  Malin blinked the sweat out of her eyes and retreated to the living room, locking the sliding doors. Her heart was pounding as she entertained the possibility that the car was Hollister’s, that he had come to torment her.

  It was impossible, of course. He was in New Jersey and she was in New Mexico. But he could still get her number, her address, anything he wanted. He was a detective after all.

  The thought gave her a headache and there was a buzzing in her right ear. Fear began to ebb but in its place was a surge of guilt.

  Be careful, poppet. There’s bad men out there.

  It was her mother’s voice, strained, sad. Malin had been close to her mom, iron-willed and always armed with a look of disapproval. There was something vulnerable about her at the end, something Malin had never seen before. It made her want to cry, knowing her mother had never told a soul.

  “I wish I could just pick up the phone and call you, mom,” she said out loud with a sob in her voice. “I wish there were phones that could reach to heaven. I just wish I could see you one more time.”

  She sighed and brushed away a tear. She wasn’t going to cry. No use in crying. Not when it made your nose red and blotchy.

  That was before the doorbell rang, heavy and menacing like a ship’s muster. Her mouth went dry and her throat tightened. She wasn’t expecting anyone and the thought of going out there in the freezing cold was anything but tempting.

  There were only shadows through the spy hole and, grabbing her gun from a holster hung over the kitchen chair, she opened the door.

  Crisp brown leaves whispered along the galleria, whirling through the bannisters and along the corridor like wood fragments from a carpenter’s bench. Even though she moved out of the open doorway looking left and right along the dimly lit walls, the icy wind took her breath away. No one would be out in weather like this. No one sane, that is.

  Hollister would no more follow her here than a call-girl to a brothel. He was too pleased with himself for that.

  “Malin, it’s me. Alex.”

  Malin heard the thudding of footfalls coming back up the stairs and she saw the boy with the bright red sweater. Alex Moran.

  “I thought there was no one home,” he said, lips curling. “Mom wants to know if you’d like to come over for dinner. It’s not much, just spaghetti.”

  The sound of another human voice was such a relief, Malin almost hugged him. “I’d like that,” she said, nodding.

  “Were you crying?”

  Malin was surprised at the observation. Her eyes were probably redder than a lobster’s claw and there was no use saying no. “I miss my mom. She died this year.”

  “I’m sorry,” Alex stammered. “That must be awful. To lose your mom, I mean.”

  “Here,” Malin said, backing into the apartment. She handed Alex a fur coat that was hanging on a hook behind the door. “It was hers. It’ll keep you warm.”

  “Cool!”
Alex ran a hand up and down the collar, hem dragging on the floor. “Dad’s home and he’s made some apple cobbler. Do you like apple cobbler?”

  Malin almost laughed. She enjoyed the refreshing chatter as they walked under a full moon where trees and shrubbery rustled and shadows curled across the front lawn. She pointed at the snowman, gave him a few tips on how to shape the head. Wasn’t going to think of any more headless corpses tonight. She wasn’t afraid any more.

  Think of yourself like this, her mother used to say. Pretend you’re a master of self-defense. Not the black-belt type, the street type. The type that puts on an imaginary armor. Someone that knows the streets are not filled with human beings, but with demons. You’ll be stronger then. Unbeatable.

  Malin had inherited some of those knife-edge debating skills – and tenacity – from her mother. She could pretend armor behind a Kevlar vest but she certainly couldn’t pretend she was better than her opponent.

  You better just hope you are, she thought.

  It surprised her to see that the Moran’s door faced the front drive just as hers did. Only theirs was a first floor apartment close to the main office, the second block near the cottonwood and the road.

  Sarge stood in the kitchen wearing a butcher’s apron directing operations with a wooden spoon.

  “This is Rae,” Sarge said, hugging his wife.

  Malin liked Rae instantly. There was a sparkle in those small green eyes and warmth in two pudgy hands. Her eyes rolled over a steaming apple cobbler on the counter, edges bubbling with brown sugar. “Like cobbler?”

  “Love it,” Malin said.

  Sarge pulled out a chair and ushered Malin over with a wave. “Anyone heard from Becky?”

  “She’s working late,” Rae said. “Her boss called. Sounded foreign.”

  They all sat down to eat and Malin was surprised to hear a Christian blessing. She hadn’t heard anything quite like it since leaving New Jersey.

  “So Malin, any more news on the case?” Rae asked through a mouthful of noodles.

  Malin shot a look at Sarge. “We found a… you know.”

  “Found what?” Alex said.

  “A head,” Malin said, wincing.

  “Whose head?”

  “We don’t know yet.” Malin cut into a blood red tomato, oozing with sauce. She knew the head belonged to Patti, and her stomach began to tighten.

  “The man in prison couldn’t have done it then,” Alex said, spooning a few asparagus spears onto his plate. “If he didn’t do it, then who did?”

  “We’ll find him,” Sarge murmured, smoothing his moustache with two forefingers, eyes flicking to Malin.

  “But we’re not safe until he’s inside,” Alex said. “Not really. What if he’s a cop hater? What if he knows where we live?”

  “He doesn’t know where we live.” Sarge leaned across the table and gave Alex the eye. “We’re not in the phone book.”

  “But dad―”

  Sarge held up a finger. “Who’s the best cop in the world?”

  “You are.”

  “Then stop worrying. We’ll find him in no time.”

  Malin’s pulse began to speed. With forensics picking away at every last piece of evidence and Detective Temeke calling all units to pick up a nonexistent Camaro, she was almost angry with Sarge for giving his son a promise he couldn’t possibly keep.

  And there had been a dark car outside the apartment complex less than an hour ago. A Camaro, come to think of it. Just a coincidence. Lots of them about.

  “I heard your mom passed recently,” Rae said, steering the conversation to even less cheery news. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  I’m so sorry for your loss… Malin hated those words. They were unimaginative, stale. Everyone said it at funerals. There must be something better to say, something more uplifting. “It’s not a loss you see. It’s just a parting. I’ll see her again some day.”

  “Yes, you will,” Rae whispered. “And so will I.”

  Malin could feel a few pairs of eyes staring at her but she kept her head down, kept chewing on that blood red tomato. Conversation turned to school grades and Malin almost forgot she was a stranger in someone’s house.

  “Becky’s got a boyfriend,” Alex blurted. “And he speaks funny.”

  Sarge frowned. “Course Becky doesn’t have a boyfriend.”

  “She does,” Alex said, nodding. “She met him in the mall. He’s old. Like dad.”

  Rae began to laugh. “Anyone’s old when you’re fourteen.”

  Malin conjured an image of an older man playing father to Becky’s child. She knew how that felt. Strange. Exciting.

  “How well do you know Temeke?” Sarge said.

  The question took Malin by surprise and she felt the ache in the back of her throat. “Not well.”

  “Nobody likes him. Doesn’t mince his words. Hurts everyone’s little feelers. Thing is though, there’s not much tweaking to his game. He knows exactly where to look.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “They call him the sniper. It’s like he can dial in his inner rifle and scope, and there’s his quarry right in the crosshairs. Dead nuts on.”

  Malin grinned when she heard Alex laugh. “Now you’re making him sound superhuman.”

  “That’s the problem. He’s got more up his sleeve than a gun. He’s BRIU. That’s why we’ve got him.”

  Malin knew how hard the FBI trained its team of professionals in the Behavioral Research and Instruction Unit in Quantico. How they focused on criminal behavior to better understand the criminal. Not only did they study all aspects of violent crime, they also studied the people they worked with. And half of them were nuttier than the nuts.

  “He sees you,” Sarge said, peering through a circle he had made with his thumb and forefinger. “Any twitches, any false moves and its curtains.”

  Malin felt her stomach crunch with laughter, only she caught herself just in time. Detective Temeke wasn’t a laughing matter. He was clearly the burr under everyone’s saddle.

  “And steer clear of Hackett. We call him Lucifer behind his back. Got a telescope in that corner office trained on rare birds. He might look like he needs a personal dresser but he drives like a supercar.”

  Malin began to grit her teeth. That was two dangerous bears she wouldn’t be poking any time soon. “Lucifer?”

  Sarge nodded and tapped his nose. “He roams the earth, the corridors and the toilets. Best keep your phone out of reach unless you want it tapped. Best keep your private life private.”

  Malin walked home in her mother’s coat, Sarge on one side and Alex on the other. Their banter reminded her of home and how much she longed for one of her own. Not just any home. A home with a fire in the hearth and a husband of her own.

  That night she lay in bed, fur coat bundled beside her like a curled black dog. She listened to the wind soughing in the roof and the creak of branches outside. It sounded like the scrape of dry bones against next door’s window and, from time to time, she imagined a corpse in a wood, arms reaching out from under a pile of broken branches as if pleading to be found.

  FIF TEEN

  Temeke squinted at the digital clock on the nightstand. The display read four forty-seven in the morning and, as far as he knew, he’d slept in three-hour increments since the night before.

  He was sweating again. It was that darn Albuquerque heat and then he remembered it was December and snowing.

  Serena. Her body was on fire.

  He remembered the day when she couldn’t lift her arms to use the hairdryer, the day she called in sick. Serena had never been sick in her life, not that he remembered. She soldiered on through colds and flu, mostly coasting in overdrive even in the heat of the summer. She thrived on stress until the depression kicked in, until her hands started to shake.

  Four years ago this month, that’s when she left her job, left the rat-race behind. They said it was Graves Disease. Temeke said it was stress. And now a few pills managed the shakes, th
e sensitivity to heat, allowing her to live a near normal life.

  Normal? There was nothing normal about a woman who stared into space, cried when the weather changed, called him incessantly until he got home. She was worried he’d been kidnapped or shot in the line of duty. He suddenly wished he had.

  She was worried about his smoking. And as for any intimacy, that had been given life without any chance of parole.

  The phone shuddered on the nightstand, a reminder of what had woken him up in the first place. He snatched it before limbering beneath Serena’s leg and rushed into the bathroom.

  He muttered his name in the mouthpiece and studied two half-closed eyes in the bathroom mirror. It was Hackett.

  “Bad news. Forensics said there was nothing on that wine glass. Nada. And second, I need you down at PNM this morning. Nine o’clock sharp. Warden says Eriksen keeps banging his head against the wall. Says his bed’s not been slept in.”

  “My bed’s not been slept in.”

  “Becky Moran didn’t come home last night. Probably nothing to worry about. Got a boyfriend apparently. You wouldn’t happen to know his name?”

  Temeke felt the tightness in his gut and drew a deep breath. “Why would I know his name?”

  “Rumor has it, she’s into older men. Black men. I heard you messed up some evidence yesterday. Sat on a block of wood. Got those pants you were wearing?”

  Temeke rubbed his rear end. He’d never get over that one, especially with half of the department listening into this call. “They’re in a plastic bag, sir.”

  “Another monumental balls-up! Did it not occur to you…”

  Temeke put the phone down on the vanity and began to ferret under the sink for a packet of smokes. But with Hackett cussing like a docker, he reluctantly put the phone back against his ear.

  “Just when I thought we’d tied things up with Eriksen,” Hackett shouted. “Better hope Judge Matthews doesn’t get hold of it.”

  “Better hope the news doesn’t get hold of it.”