Dead Cold

by Claire Stibbe

  Malin ran her hands through her thick black hair and rolled her shoulders to ease muscles knotted with adrenaline. She prayed it wasn’t drug money Tarian owed to some lowlife trafficker that no agency had the resources to find, let alone control. She watched Temeke stuff the bills back in the envelope and slide it across the table. Out of reach.

  He removed an exotic bottle from the suitcase filled with yellow liquid. “One bottle of perfume,” he said, holding it up to the light. “Looks like a urine sample.”

  “Bet it doesn’t smell like one,” Malin wrote down the well-known French brand and marked it as a three point four ounce spray bottle, half-used.

  “Three blister packs of birth control—unused.” Temeke pulled out a hairdryer and brush. There were no loose hairs around the bristles and both appeared new.

  He set various items of clothes on the table, all of which were folded in their original packs, merchandise labels attached. “Blimey, she really didn’t want Flynn to know she was leaving. Didn’t want him seeing an empty-ass closet.”

  “Neither would you if you were smart,” she said, lifting one hand to her neck and running it through a silky ponytail. “With that kind of money she could have bought a new car.”

  “Tell me what kind of woman dumps her husband and takes three new packs of birth control?”

  Malin realized Temeke was looking at her, waiting. “What’s the scout motto?” she said. “Be prepared? Those pills are also used for menstrual cramps and irregular periods, sir.”

  “You’ll check with her physician?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Temeke took out a file which contained work related reviews and resumes. There was also a copy of the restraining order and accompanying photographs. All of Tarian McCann.

  “Birth certificate, social security card, car title and a bunch of keys.” Temeke scratched his head. “All the usual stuff a lady needs to make a quick getaway. And stay away.”

  “Can I see the photographs?”

  Temeke handed her fifteen midrange and close-up photographs of what appeared to be defensive wounds on Tarian’s hands and chest, and bruises to the shoulders and thighs. Malin’s jaw tightened and she felt a wave of disgust.

  “Front, right side, left side and hands up against her face,” Malin said, studying the backs of each. “They’re all date stamped.”

  Temeke’s eyes open a little wider, enough for Malin to sense the inexorable process of analyzing in his head. “Any of her back?” he asked.

  “Nope.”

  “There’s a rhythm to all of this, Marl. If McCann doesn’t feel like a hunted man yet he soon will.” Temeke pursed his lips, eyes flicking from her to the window. “The fire investigator ruled out all accidental causes. Investigators sifted through the home with an arson dog until seven on Monday morning. The entire house was damaged by smoke, fire and water and any evidence trashed. Feels like a speedy cremation, doesn’t it?”

  Malin leaned back in her chair and nibbled at her bottom lip. She could only hope some piece of this tortuous puzzle would drop into place and while she was yearning for some quiet time, dark brown eyes glowered and she found the attention unnerving. Temeke always seemed to have a hold on her and the realization only made it worse.

  “I called the furniture stores,” she said. “Nothing from Baroque Warehouse although the lady I spoke to remembered Tarian. She had a call from her two weeks before the fire for a set of custom drapery. The lady remembered because the dimensions of the window Tarian gave were not standard. Hardware was shipped out that day.”

  Temeke gave a nod, eyes dropping on the paper spread out on the desk. He pointed at an article marked with yellow highlighter. “I was told Jennifer Danes and her gang were here yesterday loitering in the lobby. Spent a whole afternoon drinking tea with Jarvis.”

  Malin knew how Temeke hated pictures of victims or perps in the newspapers before a case had a chance to gain leeway. Only this time she had a sneaky feeling he didn’t want McCann to ever forget what had happened to him. She was glad Jennifer was on to it. All this publicity and citizens would be looking out for a degenerate like McCann.

  Authorities Pursue Man In Connection With Fire.

  By Jennifer Danes

  Journal Staff Writer

  Duke City Police are looking for Mr. Flynn McCann, husband of the late Tarian McCann, who disappeared after his wife died in a residential fire during the early hours of Monday morning. Police are investigating possible arson and a message left at the scene.

  Although Mr. McCann has not been charged with starting the fire, he is now a person of interest. He is described as a white male, 25 years old, having a stocky build with shoulder length, brown hair and a limp. Thought to be heading towards the Arizona border, witnesses reported seeing him in Gallup. He was wearing a khaki jacket, light colored jeans and black leather boots. He was also carrying a black drawstring-type backpack.

  Anyone with any information regarding this incident is requested to contact DCPD Detective David Temeke.

  “If only Jarvis hadn’t been blabbing off about the sodding poem,” Temeke said, glad the battery was still under wraps. “Here I was thinking he was showing the press where the toilets were.”

  “He doesn’t know what was in that envelope, sir,” Malin said, hearing the rasp of a match and watching puffs of cigarette smoke drifting like clouds across the room. “The paper should have put the contact name as Detective Cornwell,” she corrected, “not you. Arizona border? That’ll give agent Stu Anderson a run for his money.”

  “Agent Anderson’s a phantom on his feet. Did a search in the northeast heights last year. Got right behind the light switch plates, took a few toilets down and all. Four hours to do two rooms. Of course, they put everything back the way they found it. You’d never know he was there.”

  Malin gave him an expression that suggested four hours was highly improbable. Seven would be more likely. “Flynn McCann messes up every theory, sir. No priors. Nowhere to be found. He made a large withdrawal from his bank account a week ago.”

  “How much?”

  “Fifteen grand. He could have hired a hit.”

  “Pity he’s not poverty stricken and sucking off the federal teat. Make our job a lot easier.”

  “I’m going to pray we find him soon,” she said.

  “Yeah, you do that, Marl. You do your hokey pokey stuff. I’ll make a few calls and we’ll see who gets results.”

  Malin tried to calm her racing pulse, tried to believe that Flynn McCann, abuser and killer was living in his own private hell. Because what he had done to Tarian was nothing short of evil. “We need to talk to Rosie Ellis, sir.”

  “I want her off balance, Marl. Don’t want her to know we’re watching, though. Best to do business on the basis of mutual respect. We’ll put a tail on her.”

  ELEVEN

  Flynn opened the motel blinds and stared onto historic Highway 66, car windows glimmering in the sunlight as they raced through a rose-colored landscape. It took him back to school days where Mr. Fleming illustrated the Dust Bowl of the 1930s by climbing on a table, holding out his arms and pretending to be a two-hundred-mile-wide dirt cloud.

  “Imagine if you will, a mighty wind and a black sky. Imagine living on a farm in the Great Depression and not being able to breathe.”

  The performance was punctuated by a round of giggles and a few disciplinary remarks. It was funny then. It wasn’t funny now. How many died from spitting up dust from the black blizzards, Flynn never knew, but those who survived traveled west to find jobs in California. This was the route they took.

  His cell phone gave an odd croak and the incoming number said private. “Rosie?” he whispered.

  “No. This is Detective Santiago. I thought it was time we talked.”

  Suspicion crawled up Flynn’s throat and he felt the sweat under his jacket. He winced when he heard her voice.

  “I just wanted to let you know a few things,” she said. “The report says there was min
imal smoke in Tarian’s lungs, low amount of CO in her blood, less than one percent. Strange, because Mr. Quinn had between 62 and 69 percent. You recall the seventy-five-year-old saint who once lived next door? Well, he tried to get your wife out of the house, only he didn’t make it. He broke the living room window with a fire extinguisher and then climbed over the sill. Fire investigator found his body just outside her room. You may have heard breaking glass.”

  “Yes...You said something about my wife’s lungs?” Flynn said.

  “According to the report, Mr. Quinn died of smoke inhalation. Your wife, on the other hand, was dead before the fire. Battered to death, I should say. You wouldn’t happen to know how I can get hold of Rosie Ellis?”

  Flynn hung up and stared at the phone in his hand. The detective was provoking him into admitting he and Rosie were talking. She could believe what she wanted to believe because, let’s face it, she didn’t believe one atom of his sorry little story.

  The smell of antiseptic cream made him nauseous, feet bound with gauze and stuffed into a pair of black leather boots and the wound on his head kept pounding out a rhythm. I must be mad, I must be mad, I must be mad. The bathroom stank of mold and the shower curtain was peppered with holes. The Psycho vibe creeped him out and he couldn’t stop hearing a repetitive screech of violins every time he looked at it. Slinging the backpack over one shoulder he sauntered to the front desk, having already given a fake social security number at check-in. He paid in cash.

  Outside, a warm breeze blew down the road while dark clouds boiled overhead. The parking lot was packed to the gills with holiday-makers at five forty in the morning. Dads trying to cram bulging suitcases into the back seats of cars and moms tugging at the dangling ends of security blankets. It was a zoo.

  Two dirt devils competed for the same air space, thundering past him before dissolving into a cloud of dust. He could hear almost anything now, the soughing of the wind in the trees and the distant rumble of traffic. His boots seemed to crunch loudly on the gravel as he walked over to a large Peterbilt parked on the west side of the hotel and close to a payphone. No point using his cell, not when it was equipped with a GPS tracker. He lifted the handset and dialed the board room. Any executive could have picked up, but they didn’t occupy the desk outside and they weren’t expecting a call. Not like Rosie was.

  “Flynn?” She was out of breath. “I couldn’t sleep last night. I kept thinking about you.”

  He heard the tremor when she said his name and he knew she was crying. It was best to deliver the news quickly and painlessly, like pulling off a Band-Aid with one quick tug.

  “Detective Santiago just called,” he said. “I’ve got a feeling she’ll try to contact you.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “She also said Tarian was battered to death.”

  “Oh no, Flynn.” Rosie was silent for a while. “They’re saying things about you in the news. Bad things. They said you called your insurance company... asked about arson.”

  “I don’t care what they’re saying. I loved her, Rosie.”

  Rosie was likely mulling over that brutal morsel because deep down a tiny piece of her had always known. He was conscious of a feeling of flying through pale strands of cloud, a dreamless nothing which somehow stripped him bare of grief. Then she started talking again.

  “Where are you, Flynn? Are you OK?”

  Flynn stood under the shadow of the Peterbilt, pulled up the sleeve of his jacket and checked his watch. Pressing the phone back against his ear, he said, “Cliff Jaynes. Have you seen him?”

  “Yes, of course. He’s been asking after you.”

  “You know him and Tarian were hanging out.”

  “I guess.”

  “Then you’ll know they were doing more than hanging out.” Flynn kept lifting one foot off the ground and then the other to relieve the burn.

  “What’s that supposed to prove?” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “I thought you said—”

  “I said she was seeing him.”

  “I hate it when you do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “Dangle carrots.”

  “I told the police they were having an affair, Rosie. You figure it out.”

  “What possible motive would Cliff have?”

  “I dunno. Jealousy. Maybe he wanted her back. Maybe the husband is the obvious choice.”

  “Stop it, Flynn.”

  He knew she was making hand gestures like she always did. “What has your head and your gut been telling you, Rosie?”

  “That I want to look after you.”

  Tears crept into her voice and made his brain scream. He breathed heavily through his nose and slammed the handset down. Low-lying clouds were gathering on the western horizon, dense and gray like a reel of smoke. Flynn tried to imagine what it would feel like to die in a fire. They say smoke suffocates a person first and they don’t feel a thing. He remembered the smell.

  Water dripped from somewhere under the rig, made a high-pitched ringing as it splashed against a metal sheet. It reminded him of the time he took Tarian to Carlsbad Caverns before they were married, a place where dark trails snaked inside the belly of a large granitic beast, and water dripped down the stalactites into a green and ancient lake.

  He’d hated every minute of it. Not the sights and sounds as much as the constant stomach-churning chatter of how she wanted to improve him. It was, in a word, terrifying. He reached into his pocket and grabbed his cell phone, tossed it behind the back tire of the Peterbilt, imagining a tiny crunch as the big rig pulled out.

  Studying the country to the west, he guessed it was three long hours to Sedona by car maybe more and he wondered if it was worth hitching a ride. Walking toward the freeway, he paused as a ripple of pain ran up his ankles to his calves and back down again. There was no way he could make it.

  Cattycorner to the side entrance of the motel was a truck with a Café racer in the flatbed. There was a military looking mesh over the tank and an olive colored seat. Certainly not a comfortable ride and fine for short distances, but the sign, For Sale ~ Upgrade Your Growl, caught his eye.

  The man was older than he expected. Tight jaw and a weary gaze that moved away when it met his. He was more than willing to part with it. Asked for three grand and said it was a steal at that. Flynn’s mind was a blur after hearing about the high quality finish, a nimble chassis and the air cooled engine. How it was better than the best roadsters out there and how he would need a helmet to go with it. It was cheap at the price.

  Growl? It was more like a loud roar as he shot west on I-40 where the road opened out in front of him, empty and dry, and where he could feel a rush of air on the backs of his hands.

  Like hell I’m coming home, he thought, thankful he could no longer feel the tremor of his cell phone through the lining of his jacket. Always Rosie, words rushing across the screen like the ever tapping of a verbatim court reporter.

  This time there were no sorry feelings, no guilt. Flynn was a happy fugitive with a smile on his face, leaving the raw heat of New Mexico behind.

  TWELVE

  Captain Fowler was having another aneurism at the embarrassing fact the police had lost Flynn McCann somewhere near the Puerco river and the I-40 flyover. The case was becoming a political hot potato and the Journal was screaming about a police cover up.

  Vindictive swines, thought Temeke, pouring himself another cup of coffee. Mutterings of I told you so echoed in his head. Fowler looked hard hit. There was something staged about it, especially the raised chin, the hand clawing through a pompadour.

  “Since when do we ever let a suspect cross the border?” Fowler shouted, cufflinks blinking from across the room.

  “When they’re not a suspect?” Temeke asked, swiveling from side to side in a squeaky chair.

  “McCann wakes up in a hospital bed. He’s straight-faced, doesn’t even shed a tear at the fact his wife is being prepared for burial in the morgue because s
omeone bashed her brains out. Then... he decides now would be a good opportunity to take a trip to Arizona.”

  Temeke wiped a hand over his bald head and wondered if it was as shiny as those cufflinks. “So, he’s risen up on the radar because he’s buggered off? Or because he was with Tarian McCann the night she died?”

  “Both.”

  “When people aren’t where they’re supposed to be after a violent crime, sir, they’re definitely worth investigating. It doesn’t make Flynn McCann a killer. Nor does a house full of smoke make him a good witness.”

  “But he was at the scene when his wife died and there were cracks in their marriage a mile wide. It makes him a key witness. Qui bono?”

  Who benefits? It was the question Temeke had been asking himself for days. As he watched Fowler slumping back into a thick leather chair he had more than a glimmer of an idea. “Tarian McCann had money, sir. Stacks of it. And a hefty-ass life insurance.”

  Temeke sensed a spike in Fowler’s interest. “How much?”

  “Around one million, sir.”

  Fowler grimaced. “Someone might know something—might have heard him talking about his private life. Check his work computer for emails, work colleagues, girlfriends, prostitutes. Incidentally, what was Tarian McCann like?”

  “Neighbor made out she was a piece of work. Said they were fighting the night before the fire. Probably about the money she’d taken. She called him names, pushed him up against the wall. Apparently, he never touched her.”

  “Maybe McCann lashed out after she’d cleaned out the bank account. Or maybe he’s a complete wuss and hired a hitman.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to invite her to a remote location and send a bullet through her brain, sir?”

  “You got a sick mind, or what?” Fowler stared blankly at the floor while trying to fix a crooked tie. “Got anything else, dare I ask?”

  Temeke had actually, only he didn’t want to divulge Malin’s phone conversation with McCann. It wasn’t a smart move because Fowler would be all over it, complaining she hadn’t asked the right questions. McCann had likely tossed his old phone by now and bought a new one, and unless the phone was bought with a credit card and a contract, he’d remain off the radar.