Dead Cold

by Claire Stibbe

The unit roared past at speeds Flynn could only imagine, and seventy feet from the mouth of an intersection it began to weave from side to side. Flynn inched in as close as he could, waiting for the car to veer to the right, waiting for the gap. He counted down in his head. Three, two, one...

  He shot through and found himself on Mendoza heading east. There was no sign of the unit, but he could hear the pulsating wail of rage as it got closer and closer. The light was green at the intersection and he swerved out on Munoz Drive, back tire bouncing off the median with a smoking squeal. That move alone made him a target as he slotted into the near left lane and braked to a stop. The cars in front had slowed down to a trickle, huddled together and drivers appearing blank and empty as if they had done the commute a thousand times.

  Sirens bellowed through his helmet and planes rumbled into the air from the municipal airport. He tried to figure out what to do, tried to reason through a skewed sense of panic. It was then he caught movement in his side-view mirror. A woman hunkering down beside an idling car about fifty yards behind and wearing what looked like a fanny pack around her waist. But on closer scrutiny she had a law enforcement badge in her belt and her hands were gripped around a firearm.

  Flynn’s stomach went sour and his breath began to hitch all over again. He kept looking over his shoulder, kept thinking he should gun it between the cars and get the hell out of there when he heard the woman shouting. On that prompt alone, he snaked between the cars, trying to remain attentive to whatever scheme the police might throw at him.

  Dropping between two trucks at the intersection, he waited. Were the police shouting? The lights turned green and he hit the gas, a smooth lightning-quick move that brought him into the lead. But only for a moment. Ahead was a bottleneck of cars which had formed around the left-hand lane closed off for roadworks. It promised a good ten minute standstill. There was only one thing for it.

  Maneuvering between the traffic cones, Flynn looked over his shoulder at the units now howling for space. Cars mounted the sidewalk in an attempt to let them through, but there was no space wide enough and pursuing him through a snarl-up was futile. Another check of his mirrors. Flynn kept his speed strong and steady along a newly paved surface a quarter of a mile to West Aztec Avenue. Then he turned a sharp right.

  There were sirens in the distance, sometimes a short yelp, sometimes a drawn out whine. He had no idea if it was a private language the police cars spoke and whether they knew exactly where he was. Flynn’s breath turned shallow and if he wasn’t exceeding the speed limit his heartbeat was.

  He sped into Hillcrest cemetery, a dry stick of a place, flanked by two brick pillars and a metal gate. It was deserted, save for an old man picking his way through weatherworn cherubs and family tombs—a caretaker Flynn assumed by a pile of dead flowers he crooked in one arm.

  Flynn pushed the bike inside the open gate and parked it behind the wall. What in hell’s name was he thinking? He hadn’t got time to visit a dead relative during a police chase and the paths were hardly the place for a Grand Prix circuit. Something told him the cops wouldn’t think of looking there, not with the scent of flowers that marked a headstone in the center of the cemetery and a fresh mound of earth. Taking off his helmet, he sank to his knees. He was almost out of breath.

  The last of the sunlight trickled along the cross bars of several crucifixes and shadows were beginning to cling to the cemetery. When Flynn could pick himself up his boots crunched along the gravel path beside an enclosed family crypt, breath still hitching when he reached the second level. A solitary headstone stood under a piñon tree and at first he thought it was blank, until he walked around it to read the epitaph. Abraham Flynn McCann. No dates. Just a simple inscription. Run wild, run free.

  Despite everything—the drinking and the dishonor of an absent father—Flynn still loved the ghost he’d never met. Here, in this remote parcel of land, Abe had escaped the prurient interest of a passerby by having his headstone turned to face the outside world, a place he felt most at home. It was as if those dead eyes could see the road at the boundary of the cemetery, running north to south and curving into a residential area.

  Flynn pulled the letter out of his pocket and stared at the name on the envelope. His name. Flynn hoped the many questions he had would be answered. That the emptiness and resentment would go away.

  Son, it’s hard to write a letter to someone you haven’t seen in so long and I wonder if I have to the right to contact you in the first place. When I think about you I think about the hole in my life where a son should be. I think about your voice, how it sounded when you called me dad. Dad probably doesn’t seem right now for someone who’s been absent most of your life. Then I wonder if you’ve forgotten me. I’ll never forget you.

  Do you remember that old stuffed bear you had? Remington we called him. You left his underwear behind and now the poor old thing’s probably running around without his skivvies. I know how he feels.

  I’m sure you’ve formed many opinions about me over the years. Probably think I’m a loser. Truth is, I’m a coward. An alcoholic. A dead loss. I never wanted you to see me like that. Then one day you were both gone. I hate that I never got to say goodbye and I hate that your mom had to do it all alone. But that’s my fault. Not hers.

  I want you to know I celebrated your birthday. Every birthday actually. I imagined holding you in one hand and your mom in the other pretending we were family. But I forfeited that privilege. Your real dad is the man that raised you.

  Even though I’m not perfect, I want you to remember you’re half of me. So don’t hate too hard and don’t hold grudges. When things get tough do the right thing. Face the music. You’ll be a better man than me.

  Abe.

  Flynn hunkered down by the headstone and shook his head. All these years he’d hated his mom for leaving, hated her for not having loved his dad anymore. The bitterness began to ebb as he thought of what she’d been through and the decisions she had to make. How she probably wished she could have had her time over again, and then things might have been different.

  “I’m stoked I got to see your house,” Flynn whispered. “Million dollar views, just like mom said. And here you are, relieved of duty.”

  He felt a bubble of emotion in his throat and he grabbed the rim of the headstone to steady himself. Maybe he’d settled on a version of Abe that never existed, a vision of grace and good cheer. Isn’t that how everyone likes to be remembered? What was he sorry for? Abe’s humble beginnings? Or this equally meager end? It was a toss-up between the two.

  “Listen, I don’t know if you’re with Tarian now,” he murmured. “But if you are, tell her... tell her I’m sorry.”

  He unhooked his backpack, took a handful of crushed bread from the outer pocket and stuffed it in his mouth. His belly reminded him it was time to eat in much the same way as the bike needed gas.

  Sirens... those damn sirens.

  He looked back at the gate and saw it was closed. No sign of the caretaker who had reverently locked up the dead for the night and inadvertently the living. Flynn kissed two fingers, tapped the headstone and hurried back down the path to his bike. It was too late to go back the way he had come and in some ways he was grateful. If he could find a derelict neighborhood, a cracked window he could crawl through, he’d be happy.

  Flynn pushed the bike along a narrow path at the edge of the cemetery, coursing downhill and away from the front gate. He no longer cared if his heels were shredded in his boots, the sirens were baying like a pack of wolves and he had to get to the chain link fence and the road.

  He walked the bike through the markers, some spaced out and choked with weeds and some leaning slightly as if they had sunk into the sand from the rains. At the southeast corner the fence had been cut from the metal post and folded back. A trail of used condoms and cigarette butts told him why.

  On the other side of the road was a windowless brick structure with an empty parking lot and a light breeze tinkered with a loose cable on
a utility pole. It was the same breeze that brought the sound of a barking dog and the shriek of a child.

  The engine stalled twice before turning over at a fast idle and he kept straight along the road, until he found a narrow street. Pedestrians ambled and residents sat on their stoops, gazing suspiciously as if they were familiar with everyone in the neighborhood. That oppressive sense they know you don’t belong.

  Flynn had to assume everyone knew who he was and he had to keep out of sight. Even the man peering under the hood of an old Buick Skylark convertible or the couple nodding on the porch of a white stucco house could easily run indoors and dial 911.

  There was no hiding behind a helmet now and Flynn knew how exposed he was. As the light began to fade, he thought of only one thing. Were officers equipped with welder’s goggles and night sights? Were they equipped... The bike began to stutter. Then it died altogether.

  THIRTY

  Temeke pulled up in front of 4300 Ridgerunner Road in Cottonwood Heights. He knew he should have called first but it was more fun this way. Light from a bay window spilled out onto a neat yard, bordered with a box hedge and a metal gate. The squeal of hinges made him wince and so did the doorbell. As far as he could make out someone was moving around inside and he had a feeling they were studying him as he stood on the steps.

  He switched on the micro recorder in his jacket pocket just as the door opened. A pale face looked up at him, lines deepening between two green eyes. Given that the warrant was signed and timestamped, Rosie Ellis would have a hard time refusing him entry. She opened the door a little wider when she saw a female detective behind him and her frown got a little deeper.

  “I hope I’m not intruding.” A courteous statement Temeke often used to gain access into any residence. He briefly wondered if Ted Bundy had ever used this line. “This is officer Watts, our liaison officer. She’ll be assisting you.”

  Rosie invited them into a small kitchen. Temeke glanced at clean white countertops and gray cabinets, where on the higher shelves New Mexico sand had settled in thick quantities.

  “We’d like to take a look around, if that’s OK,” Temeke said.

  “Do you have a—?”

  “Search warrant? Yes, ma’am.” He made sure she saw his ID corresponded to the name of the officer in the first paragraph sworn under penalty of perjury.

  “What is probable cause?” she asked.

  “Reasonable grounds, ma’am.” Temeke ran a finger along the pertinent list and read it out loud. “Items to be seized which may contain evidence to include a cell phone, firearms, tools and gas cans. What size shoes do you wear? Six? Very good.”

  Rosie unhooked her cell phone from the extension cord on the counter and handed it to him. It was an older version of a well-known brand, certainly not a new phone she had suddenly rushed out and purchased.

  “If you’d like to give it to officer Watts here,” Temeke said, pointing at Maggie who was doing her best to step over a bowl of water and a pop-eyed Chihuahua. “She’ll also need to take a look at the rest of the house.”

  It went very quiet in the kitchen after Maggie left. Rosie leaning against the counter and him sitting at the table staring at a plate of star-shaped biscochitos. It made his mouth water.

  “Do you have a cell phone for work?” he asked.

  “No, sir. Cell phones are used by the executives. I use the extension on my desk.”

  Temeke had no idea how many extensions a national security company like Manzano National Labs had. Even though these were exigent circumstances, obtaining a search warrant for real-time tracking on any extension near Rosie’s desk had been near impossible given the confidentiality of the organization.

  “Eight days he’s been missing. Eight days,” Rosie said. “Doesn’t anyone know where he is?”

  Temeke was glad she was counting. “Run off is the correct term for someone like him. Because if he was missing you would have reported it.”

  His neck bristled at her open mouth and the knitted little eyebrows. As he sat across from her he knew the shame she must have felt inside.

  “When was the last time you spoke to Flynn?” he asked. “Off the top of your head?”

  “I think it was a couple of days before the fire.”

  Temeke noticed the tightening of her cheek muscles and an almost imperceptible twitch in her eye. “Not the day of?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “What car do you drive?”

  “A 2009 Hyundai Elantra.”

  “Color?”

  “Red.” She frowned at him. “Are you going to take that as well?”

  “Nope. It’s your lucky day. But I would like to see any receipts you might have. Full service, that type of thing.”

  Rosie took out a thin buff file from a drawer and handed it to him. He flicked through the first two pages and found a receipt for Rio Rancho Imports on the day of the fire. An oil change and a leaky transmission meant the car would have been kept overnight. She was in the clear.

  “The car still needs work,” she said. “Going back to the shop on Friday afternoon. The sun roof’s cracked around one of the mounting screws.”

  Temeke wrote that down in his notepad. Not a serious job, but one that might take a couple of days. He heard the faint humming of the garage door. Maggie was in there taking evidence out to their unit and it wouldn’t hurt to speak a little louder just the cover the noise.

  “So how was Flynn when you spoke to him?” he asked. “Before the fire?”

  “Afraid,” she said.

  “Afraid?”

  “They’d had another argument. Only this time he said it was over. He didn’t say why.”

  “You’ve met Cliff Jaynes, right?”

  “Mainly business,” she said in the same sweet tone.

  “This business have anything to do with Tarian McCann?”

  He knew it was a cheap shot, but Rosie opened her mouth and shut it again. He didn’t have to wait for an answer, he knew she was just as uncomfortable as he was.

  “I don’t know him that well,” she said. “But I do know this. Tarian owed him money. Several grand I was told.”

  “For what?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “Do you smoke, Rosie? Cigarettes, weed, meth?” Temeke heard her say no and felt a rush of relief. Undercover narcs had been surveilling Cliff’s property and to date, there was no illegal dealing.

  “Flynn stayed with you before the restraining order was revoked,” he said.

  Rosie’s lips were pinched tight as if she was searching for something to say. “Only a few days.”

  Temeke decided to forge ahead with a lie and the rest, half-baked guesswork. “Flynn told me you’ve done a lot for him. Helped him when he needed it the most. He said you’d protect him at all costs.”

  Her face displayed several subtle changes, tell-tale signs she was hungry for any morsel he offered. It wasn’t the lack of response that was the problem. It was the hundredth of a second’s hesitation, the hand that rested on her collar bone, fingers rubbing her skin.

  “He’s like a brother to me. Of course I would help him.”

  “When he stayed here where did he sleep?” Temeke asked.

  “In the spare room.” Her eyes were bigger now, more trusting.

  “Like to show me?”

  “It’s untidy. I’ve been throwing stuff away.”

  Temeke stood up, made a show of repositioning his belt and saw her eyes drop to his badge. “I don’t mind untidy.”

  The room was chaotic. Boxes taped shut on every inch of floor and clothes packed to the brim in an open closet. There was a damp stain on the ceiling that corresponded nicely with the one on the carpet and the smell alone told him the space hadn’t been aired or heated in a while.

  “How long have you lived here?” he asked, staring down at a shivering dog that had followed them in.

  “Six years.”

  “Alone?” He glanced at a thick layer of dust on the vanity and on the windo
wsill, and a drape of coats in the corner.

  “Ever since Flynn moved out, yes.”

  He shot her a glance and wondered what ghosts still rattled around in her head. Did her heart still ache for Flynn? “Hard to tear yourself away from a place with so many memories.”

  She didn’t respond. He followed her out into the living area where he noticed the third bedroom furnished with a desk and loveseat. The master was dominated by a king-sized bed. White plantation shutters allowed a stream of sunlight to slant across the room touching down on the vanity and a picture of Flynn McCann. With twenty years of police work and general misanthropy he knew Rosie was still in love.

  “If you’re trying to be sensitive to Flynn’s family, don’t be. It’ll all come out anyway,” he said, silence stretching taut between them. “Best if you tell me everything you know.”

  Rosie sat on the edge of the bed and gestured to a small easy chair. Temeke made himself comfortable sensing Maggie was outside the bedroom listening to every word. He knew because the dog kept looking toward the door.

  “Flynn met Tarian through counseling,” she said. “We never discussed any of it, but I knew he thought highly of her.”

  “When you guys were dating?”

  She pressed her knees tightly together and looked down at her legs. “We were having dinner one evening at the County Line and he kept looking over my shoulder and smiling. She was sitting at the table behind us and he invited her over. She didn’t stay long. Said she was meeting someone. I thought it was odd she was sitting on her own drinking wine.”

  “Did you like her?”

  “I wanted to.”

  Temeke caught a hint of Flynn in the shrug, the self-depreciation and he hated to rain on her parade. “Were you jealous?”

  “Intimidated.” Again the mouth tipped at the corners. “The following week we saw her in the park and then a few days later in the bank. This time she kissed Flynn on the cheek. I thought it was tacky. Is that so wrong?”

  “I don’t think it’s wrong. You weren’t comfortable with it.” Temeke could only bear so much of a silence before he started talking again. “Were you ever afraid of her?”