Dead Cold

by Claire Stibbe

  “You didn’t give her your work number, did you?”

  “Nah.”

  Flynn knew Santiago would ask for it. She already had cell site information on Flynn’s old phone, which had been crushed under a semi. As for Jesky’s home number it was likely filled with his mom’s insanely long conversations with every utility company known to man. The inner workings of her mind were as much a mystery to Jesky as they were to him.

  “Rich and Miley asked for the service to be postponed for one more week. They wanted you to be there.”

  “I’d rather go to hell for a day.” Flynn wished he hadn’t said that. But the truth was Richard and Miley Walley-Bennett probably hated him. Probably thought coming back would teach him a lesson. Get him arrested.

  “Did you love her, son?”

  “I thought I did. After two years I realized we had nothing in common but an acute awareness of how trivial my salary was. When I met her, she’d already cleaned out boyfriends one and two and ended up marrying an average Joe. Only I don’t think she realized how average.”

  He felt like the prostitute to Tarian’s pimp. Owned. Abused. Imprisoned. If life didn’t kill him then Tarian would.

  “How’s mom?” he asked.

  “Fine.”

  “Jesk?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When did mom last speak to my dad? How many years ago, roughly?”

  “Twelve, fifteen. Why?”

  “Is he still alive?”

  “Thought you’d want to know one day,” Jesky said. “Lives in Sedona. Does consulting work for Arizona Oncology. I called last year. May, I think it was.”

  “You spoke to him?”

  “Nah. But the lady I spoke to was called Fatima Chance. You’d never forget a name like that.”

  Flynn tried to stop the chortle in his throat and failed. “Did she say where he was?”

  “Couldn’t give me any information over the phone. Said he’d been away a few days, probably back the following week. So I gave her my name and number. Never heard from him. Your mom said not to expect much.”

  That’s why she left him. Too many lonely nights with a man lying on his back, alcohol oozing through his skin. Flynn remembered the distant, empty stare when she told him about his father. He was feeling a bit of it now. “How’s she taking it all?”

  “The press were outside the house again wanting to talk about the fire, the murder. Something about a chair. You know how it goes.”

  Flynn felt a surge of fear—he couldn’t have imagined a better occasion for a murder than a fire to cover it up. The chair? He’d have to tell Jesky about that.

  “Jesk?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tell mom the wallpaper’s sick.”

  Flynn hung up. Breathing heavily, he reveled in the solitude and the crisp breeze rippling through the long grass. His life had been a chaotic mess, fraught with hostility and danger, and there were few times he felt at peace. But here, in this rugged and vast wilderness, he was happy.

  More than that, he was free.

  TWENTY-TWO

  She was standing by the door, one leg slightly bent. Temeke could anticipate the scent of her hair and the softness of her cheek as it brushed against his. Her tapered waist under his fingertips. Serena looked happy.

  “How have you been, David,” she asked, unbuttoning her jacket.

  Temeke studied dark red lips for a moment and cleared his throat. “Well, and you?”

  “Good. You look different. You look... healthier.”

  Temeke couldn’t have agreed less. A diet of beer and hotdogs made him look skinnier. Thankfully, he’d left out the baked beans or he’d certainly be gassier. “Not drinking as much now, love.”

  She sat in the chair opposite and hiked one hip to cross her legs. A taste, he hoped, of what was round the corner. She ordered a Citron Pressé. He ordered an iced water to support his newfound abstinence. “You look gorgeous.”

  “Don’t,” she whispered, fingers caressing her collarbone.

  The rebuff felt like a kick in the stomach until he caught the smile in her eyes. He decided to give it another shot. “You always look good in gray.”

  She took a sip of the fresh squeezed lemons, ice clanking against the glass. Her tongue ran along her bottom lip and the scent of her made him restless. Was there someone else?

  “How have you been feeling?” he asked.

  “The doctor said my blood tests are normal.”

  “Normal?”

  “Within range.”

  “Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t feel so foggy, you know, in my head. Not as anxious. And the aches are almost gone.”

  “I probably made it worse,” Temeke said, wondering why he hadn’t understood Graves’ disease more. Why he’d been so blind, as Malin had said.

  “It wasn’t the hours, David. Every case was an obsession. Men like Eriksen, you were saying his name in your sleep. All those little girls. I thank God for you. For men like you. But you have to let it go.”

  “I let it affect you as well. I’m sorry, love.” He cleared his throat again, wishing he could take all those years back.

  He tried on a smile for size but it turned into a grimace. He could still see the victims on his cork board, smiling faces, all of which he begrudgingly took down at the end of every case to make way for more. They were shadows, a constant reminder of the brutality of mental illness. At least that’s the way he coped with it. Sick perpetrators whose abuse affected others, shattered innocent lives and reaped nothing in return. They were thieves, sadists and destroyers. They were the runts of a litter they themselves had chosen.

  Serena studied the glass, eyes rooted on the red plastic sword she used to stir it with. “David?”

  Something in the inflection made him tense and he hoped she wasn’t about to tell him she’d found someone else. In the months she’d been gone he’d wondered what type of man filled his shoes, what career he had.

  “I’ve got a part-time job.”

  He huffed out breath and almost rocked back in his chair. “Congratulations.”

  “At Rust Hospital in the Mammography Unit. I work for two technicians. Monday and Tuesdays. It’s a start.”

  Temeke could feel the fizzing up his legs that dissipated somewhere between his belly and his waist. It was more than a start. She had told him where and when. It was a victory. “I’m happy for you, love.”

  “Don’t see much of the doctors, but the nurses are good.”

  He was glad she didn’t see much of the doctors. They were a horny lot. “Is the car working OK?”

  “Luis took it for an oil change on Friday. He said everything’s good.”

  Temeke wondered how Luis had time to do anything now Hackett was off. Luis adored Serena. He’d do anything for his only sister but Temeke wished Luis would leave some things for him to do. Like taking out Serena’s trash, pulling weeds, taking that sod awful dog for a walk. It was a shame the thing didn’t just run off. Temeke could help it on its way by leaving the back door open.

  “You don’t still have that yappy poodle?”

  “Yes, I still have that yappy poodle.” She lifted a finger. “He keeps me company. I’d be lost without him.”

  “You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do?”

  She nodded over her glass and took a long sip, eyes floating around the restaurant before narrowing and coming to a stop at his chest. “I see you have a cat.”

  “Yeah, Dodger. He’s a British Blue. Well, at least I think that’s what he is. One back leg’s shorter than the rest, got a gangster lean. He can be an old bugger at times.” Temeke lowered his voice and put up hand in an apology for what was coming next. “It gets worse. He’s marked all the chair legs, crapped in the house plants and made a bed in the laundry basket. I’ve got more hair on my shirts than Rasputin.”

  Serena nearly head-butted the table and did one of those wheezing laughs he loved so much. It took her a while to recove
r.

  “Speaking of influential people,” he continued, “Hackett’s on leave. Got some trouble with his back so his wife says.”

  “What happened?”

  “He’s in hospital. Herniated disk. Happened two days ago. There he was walking with a limp toward his office and the next thing he was hunkered on the floor. Poor old sod. What with that cough and now this.”

  “Who’s supervising?” she asked.

  “Fowler. Hackett doesn’t do much now. Stays in his office, cozies up to his heater and counts down the days to retirement. Let’s hope he retires before he paints his office. Keeps threatening to do it a bilious green and it’s the size of a football field.”

  “I’ll go and see him. Take his wife some flowers. She’d like that.”

  “You could take him a chocolate milkshake. He likes chocolate milkshakes.”

  “Too much mucus.”

  “You’re beginning to sound like a nurse, love.” He met her eyes, but she looked away at a child on the next table.

  He couldn’t help looking at her, feeling a flash of pride at what she’d achieved. He breathed in deeply, putting himself back in a time of his life when Serena told him how much she loved him, how much she needed him. He felt the guilt every day that he had broken up the only home they had and he’d given up guessing what was normal or rational anymore. It was his fault. Not hers.

  “Are you still looking at cold cases?” she asked.

  “Fowler doesn’t want us delving into cold cases. We’ve got more than enough to do with the McCann fiasco.”

  “Is McCann as angry as the papers say?”

  “We checked Mrs. McCann’s personal bank account. She was a big spender, made impulse purchases she couldn’t undo. She hid a lot of things from McCann. Especially the affair. Maybe after he saw through all her sticky, sordid lies, he cracked. I bet McCann was angrier than Snoopy was when the Red Baron Swiss-cheesed his doghouse in a fly-by shooting. Only whereas Snoopy fixed up the doghouse and went back to napping mode, McCann fought back.”

  “Four years is a long time to be angry,” she said.

  “Yeah. It’s like a deep wound, one that takes that long to bleed out.”

  Serena leaned in close and Temeke could smell the lemons on her breath. “So you’re back out on the streets?”

  “We’ve got a new detective now. She’s in Arizona carrying the brunt of it. That leaves Santiago and me to take care of the interviews and paperwork.”

  “You’re not OK with that, are you?”

  “Truth is, Hackett wants to see what mettle Suzi’s made of. Wants to leave the command in capable hands after he’s gone. He’s a people pleaser, kowtows to top brass. They don’t want me. Sooner pay for my retirement. It’s Santiago I feel bad for. She deserves better.”

  “She’s a smart lady,” Serena said. “And a good detective. She’ll find her feet.”

  “She reminds me of you in a way. Always praying for people. Doesn’t matter who they are or what they’ve done. When I look at her I see a little flaw, something I can’t quite put my finger on. I think that’s what I like about her.”

  “None of us is perfect, David. So stop looking.” She smiled and cocked her head. “Law enforcement should be a citizen’s hero. But they’re killing cops now. Like the man who tried to kill Luis.”

  “Eriksen wasn’t a citizen. He was a drug addict, a threat to normal people.” Temeke tapped his head. “I never asked Luis how it was, you know... what he remembered.”

  “I don’t think he remembered any of it.”

  Temeke recalled how Luis had survived a shooting. A bullet had grazed the side of his head and mashed his ear. He’d been dumped in an arroyo for four days before someone found him and then he was unconscious for a week in hospital. Eriksen was found guilty on eight charges of murder and one charge of attempted murder and those were only the ones they knew about.

  “He killed Jack Reynolds though,” Serena reminded.

  Temeke hadn’t thought of his old mucker in a while and he didn’t want to remember what Eriksen did to him. Shot him in the head. Left him in a car under a bridge. When Temeke did think of Jack, he saw two things: A detective who loved his job, loved helping people and loved his family. And a man laid out in a coffin wearing a tie embroidered with dogs’ heads. It was a nice tie, now Temeke thought of it. Navy blue and silver. Something Jack’s wife must have picked out.

  “It won’t keep me from my job. No one’s going to leave me by the curb for Friday trash pickup. I’ll get them first.”

  Temeke studied the eyeliner that framed two dark eyes, remembering how Serena applied it in the mornings, how she brushed her hair, how she dressed. He felt a tingle of satisfaction at seeing her but he couldn’t ask her to come home. Not yet. Not until he’d mastered it, brought the moods under control, and separated himself from his job so he had something better to offer. In many ways, even though he hated to admit it, this way suited him best.

  “Are you happy, Serena?” Temeke’s heart was pounding and gooseflesh prickled along his arms.

  She kept stirring her drink. “It was hard at the beginning... being on my own. But I like it now. So, yes, I’m happy.”

  “Still go to that health food store on Alameda?”

  “They don’t do Taramasalata anymore.”

  “You mean that pink sh... stuff? What is it? Fish eggs?”

  “It’s a Greek meze and it’s good for you. You should try it.”

  Temeke wrinkled his nose. “Fowler eats that stuff with a tower of pitta. Probably why he’s in the flusher all the time.”

  She giggled, head stooping over her drink. It was a reminder of how they met, how he’d tell her stories that made her stomach cramp so she couldn’t breathe. She said that’s how she fell in love with him.

  He watched her fingers as they shook the glass, yellow mixture swirling around the ice cubes and washing away a coating of lemon pith. He hoped she’d get hungry and ask for a menu.

  “Would you like another?” he asked.

  “I should be going.” She buttoned up her coat and gave him a long hard stare.

  “Maybe next week, love, if you’d like a coffee?”

  “Maybe. I’ll be praying for you.”

  She always said that and he wondered what it meant. Some people burned sage and waved vapors over their heads. Some chanted and rang bells, some prostrated themselves on carpets and some simply knelt by the side of their beds, hands pressed together. He’d never seen Serena do any of those. She’d talk to herself sometimes, eyes open, lips moving. Maybe that’s what she meant. Thinking of him. Thinking she was with him. He liked the sound of it.

  “I’d like to see you again,” he said.

  She leaned over and hugged him. It was a tight hug this time, face nuzzled into the side of his neck. Then she broke away and was gone.

  TWENTY-THREE

  As dusk crept along the valley, it grew colder than a meat locker. A twitching bladder brought Flynn outside and he went against an old tank. Apart from the trickle, which was now a loud drumming sound against metal, a coyote yipped in the distance.

  He went through a slurry of emotions trying to remember the stories he’d heard about Abe McCann. A man with thick, wavy hair and a railroad cap. He flew remote control airplanes and came first in Masters at the Nats. As for which year, Flynn never knew, because it would have been announced in a magazine somewhere. Now they lived in separate worlds.

  He wanted to see if they had the same walk, the same voice, the same hands. Wanted to see the man he was supposed to look like. He wanted closure.

  His stomach went sour. The black and white photo in his wallet was the only picture he had. Abe and that six and a half foot airplane. Someone had to have seen him. Despite the visions churning inside his head, Flynn had to stay alert. He had encountered so many emotions since leaving his life behind—despair, denial, hatred. And now a sudden flare of fear. Surely fear was better than no feelings at all?

  Another short h
owl rose and fell in pitch. Then a staccato yip, a distorted sound that passed through the wilderness and sounded like a pack of dogs on the run. Trudging back to the railroad car, Flynn wondered if he was still the center of everyone’s attention, the talk of the town. Two people had already rushed in to offer sympathy and support, and he wondered if it was fake—what they really wanted were details. Detectives Temeke and Santiago knew which buttons to press. They knew how to pick over his insides and make him bleed.

  Do you feel sad? Do you feel guilty? Do you feel anything?

  Flynn tried to climb inside Tarian’s mind right then to see what she saw, go where she went. The flick of her hair as she walked down the street, head turned sideways to see if he was looking. Somewhere during the four year marriage he had become invisible to her. No longer the exciting, rugged boy she’d picked up from a landfill, scrubbed and polished and put on display. He had to spit out whatever it was that tormented him, so he pushed the thought aside.

  He grabbed a bottle of ale and used his nail clippers to crimp off the lid. Slapping a square of cheese between two slices of bread he gave it a good chew. Not a bad meal when you were sitting on the steps watching the sun go down and counting a march of saguaros on the opposite hill. He had two more beers and then went back inside, leaving the empties in the sink.

  Pulling out the cell phone, he checked the battery. Still on ninety-two percent and good for almost three days without a charge. His fingers brushed the keys and he knew there was no point fighting this one any longer. The work number had been drilled into his subconscious and he gave a low moan when he dialed it. No one had seen fit to remove her voicemail and it was strange and unsettling to listen to. He didn’t know why he did it, why he dialed it over and over again, and why any movement, any trace of her was so important now she was gone. All he could feel was an empty pain somewhere between his chest and his stomach.

  The voice was blank, silent, dead.

  The sun slid behind the opposite cliffs and the temperature had dropped sharply again. He shivered a little, not from the cold, but from the thought of spending the night on a hard bench with a backpack for a pillow. Between the windows he noticed a scratch of words. Kilroy was here. So was Abe. So is God.