Dead Cold

by Claire Stibbe

  “Not until the time she followed us home. She said Flynn had left his jacket in her car. He said he’d never been in her car. He didn’t even know what she drove. Two weeks later we were invited by Cliff Jaynes to go to the races in Santa Fe. She kissed him on the lips in front of me. In front of everyone.” Rosie swallowed, tears welling up in her eyes and a tiny voice came from somewhere in the back of her throat. “That’s when it ended.”

  “So, she was the reason for the split?”

  Rosie took a deep breath and glanced out of the window for a second. “He moved out two weeks later. Left a few boxes behind.”

  “Did you think he was coming back?”

  “I did wonder.”

  “So when did you hear from him?”

  “When he sent me an invitation to the engagement party.” Rosie dabbed a tissue to the corner of one eye and fought back a grimace. “I shouldn’t have gone. Jesky tried to make it better. But it’s never better, is it? Not when someone steals your life.”

  “You must have been angry?”

  She looked out of the window at the shrill twittering of birds. “It’s that feeling when someone’s been through your things, knows all your secrets. I didn’t hear from Flynn for two years after they were married. Then he started calling again. Just chatty. Nothing special.”

  “Something change?”

  “He said she’d changed.”

  Temeke’s mind cracked open a visual of the chair in Flynn’s back yard and the cuffs and he shook it away. “Anything stand out that you recall?”

  “It wasn’t like him to beg, but he needed somewhere to stay for a while. He said he needed a break. I wasn’t keen because I knew she’d come knocking.”

  “But you caved.”

  “I was worried about him. What he was going through. His back was covered in welts and there was a deep cut on his arm. I saw it when he was sleeping.” Her eyes roamed over the bed as if she could still see Flynn, a clear indication he had once slept there. “He didn’t want anyone to know Tarian was beating on him, especially his mom. Is it normal for a woman to beat on a man?”

  “You’d be surprised what we see. About three percent of reported domestic violence cases are abused men. You were saying?”

  “He told me she hit him if he did something wrong. Used a baseball bat once. He got rid of it so she couldn’t do it again. When he stayed here,” Rosie said, “she followed him home, kept ringing the bell until he answered the door. It’s like she planned it all from the beginning. She was toxic. We both knew it and we both hoped after all the stalking she’d crack. But she didn’t crack. It was a game to her. We’d suddenly turn around in a store and there she’d be on those silent cat feet. I knew what she was. I just couldn’t prove it.”

  “What she was?”

  “Manipulating. She even told his boss he wasn’t fit for work.”

  “She wasn’t his therapist anymore.”

  “No, but she still had access to his files and Flynn didn’t want it all to come out. He was embarrassed enough to admit he’d fallen for his counselor. She outplayed him.”

  Temeke knew if they could get a written statement waiving patient confidentiality they’d see just to see how fit for work Flynn was.

  “Sounds like she needed some ethical scrubbing,” he said. “She was blurring the lines between patient and doctor boundaries right from the start. Ever heard of erotic transference? Sexual fantasies a client feels about their therapist. Or in this case, the other way around. You guys never thought of calling the police? It was a clear violation of the restraining order.”

  “No. What could the police do? Camp out in the front yard, make a line on either side of the road like an honor guard?”

  “Did you tell anyone else?” Temeke asked. “A friend?”

  “I told Cliff. Like I say, I don’t know him that well. But he knew Tarian. She found out Flynn had taken some money out of the bank account.”

  “So, he was her husband. He was entitled to half of it.”

  “It was to stop her from cleaning him out. It wasn’t only meth Cliff gave her. It was prescription drugs. Antidepressants. Between you and me, Cliff knew she had money. He once had access to the family bank accounts when he worked for Rich. I think that’s why he chased her.”

  As far as Temeke had understood it, Tarian had pursued Cliff, if Cliff’s story was to be believed. He ran a hand over his head hoping the frustration wasn’t evident on his face. “Incidentally, did you take any pictures of the bruises Flynn had?”

  Rosie wrinkled her mouth and inhaled with a shiver. “Yes.”

  Temeke looked up at the ceiling to hide his excitement. “Can I see them?”

  Rosie nodded. It was a firm nod, one that left no doubt.

  THIRTY-ONE

  When Malin was alone she thought about Flynn McCann. Tossing a buff file on her desk that landed with a big smack, she scanned the photographs Rosie Ellis had given them. Printed out for ease of reference, they showed close-ups of bruises and lacerations—a scar running along his upper arm between shoulder and elbow—three deep stripes on his back stretching from shoulder to hip and friction wounds on both wrists and ankles. She assumed those were from the cuffs he’d been forced to wear. Only there was one screaming flaw.

  She was dreading telling Suzi about that flaw. She could already see penciled-in eyebrows drawn low and a mouth pressed in a tight slash of blood red lipstick. Malin walked over to the window and focused on the trees to give her mind a break. Then down at the parking lot where Lieutenant Alvarez did some ritualistic hand shake with Temeke. They were going out to lunch and promised to bring her a loaded burrito and a vanilla malt.

  Her desk was a jumble of loose photographs and a wad of folders that needed filing. Not to mention eight empty chocolate wrappers. Matt had sent a box over by courier, said he was too busy going through evidence in the forensic lab to deliver them himself. It made her smile. She couldn’t decide which flavors she liked the best, caramel or dark chocolate or the lumpy ones that tasted of peanut brittle.

  The alarm on her computer signaled an incoming email. Detective Mac Webber, the social media compliance officer had sent his report on Tarian McCann’s internet activity. According to him, Tarian had several active accounts on well-known retail sites. Her privacy settings had been set to include an anonymizer in the hope of protecting her identity. Trouble was, she had used it to access SlapChat, a private BDSM networking site, thereby losing the ability to stay anonymous. The site had fingerprinted her IP address even down to the photographs she displayed and the messages she sent. Privacy was a thing of the past.

  Tarian had sent several explicit photographs of herself to two individuals. MetalSnake, aka Cliff Jaynes and MindGames, whose IP address was linked to a man in Seattle, both highly sexual in nature but hadn’t alarmed Mac unduly. Malin continued to flick through the stapled documents, knowing it wasn’t a breakthrough in the investigation. More like a minor development that confirmed Tarian was into porn. As for Cliff Jaynes, his social media accounts had gone eerily quiet and there was very little surfing on the deep web. It was likely any drug activity had been suspended until the case blew over.

  A frail afternoon light seeped through the blinds and thunder rumbled overhead. If it wasn’t for the phone announcing an incoming call she would have padded downstairs, opened the back door and smelled the rain.

  “Anything new yet?” Temeke asked, hardly at the restaurant and he was already checking in.

  “Photos Rosie gave us are no good. McCann’s face isn’t in any of them. Arms, legs, back... all of those could have belonged to the man in the moon.” She heard the deep exhale of breath and carried on. “Comprehensive report came back from Mac. Tarian’s Facebook page was static for almost six months before she died, but she was active on several porn sites. There’s a dark feel to all of this. Gets to your stomach, you know?”

  “Well, I don’t want you on edge, up and down to the toilet.” Temeke’s voice shouted through t
he earpiece. “Maggie found two cars in Rosie Ellis’ garage. One was registered to her and the other was a 1989 Chevy pickup registered to Flynn McCann. She reckoned it hadn’t been driven for a while because the left front tire was flat and the flatbed was full of old tools.”

  “Matt called about those tools, sir. Covered in McCann’s fingerprints and covered in sand. Not been used for some time.”

  More loose ends that needed to be tied up. It was the inexorable feeling Flynn had got in over his head and Malin began to wonder if he was nothing more than a bone between two dogs.

  “They ran those prints from the Little America Hotel in Flagstaff,” Temeke said. “Door knobs, faucets, windows. Unique ridge detailing. Middle finger. Left hand. Scar from a knife apparently. Same prints as those found on the dashboard instrument clusters in that nice jeep compass. You’ve guessed it. Flynn McCann. His DNA was all over those bandages. Not to mention a dribble of saliva in the bathroom. Suzi’s hot on his trail.”

  “Oh, stop. If Suzi’s hot on his trail then I’m Nancy Drew.” Malin wondered why Temeke always shouted when he was on the phone. It was the older generation. Cell phones were like tin cans and string.

  “I tried to get hold of Suzi for an update but her phone keeps going through to voicemail,” Temeke said. “Come to think of it Fowler’s keeps going through to voicemail and all.”

  “Fowler’s in the boardroom going over a presentation he’s giving to the cadets at the academy tonight. I’ll ask him to call you, sir.”

  “Left a message for Violet Chavez. I’ll let you know if she calls. Heard any news on Hackett?”

  “Just that he’s starting physio next Friday,” she said. “He hoped to be back next week.”

  “That’s what Serena said.”

  “Serena saw him?” No wonder Temeke sounded so cheerful.

  “Yeah. Took him a venti white mocha with a double shot of espresso. Anyone would think she was trying to give him a bloody heart attack.”

  Malin heard Luis’ laugh in the background. “That was nice.”

  “Said you were a good detective. Told me to tell you hi.”

  “Please thank her for me.”

  “Listen. I’ll be back in a few.” Temeke hung up.

  Malin opened her drawer and pulled out a spring assist knife, pressed the button and the blade flashed out with a deadly click. She angled it just enough to check her makeup in the reflection and then snapped it back.

  The corridor was empty and there was no sound from the canteen. Both doors to the conference room were closed and she could hear Captain Fowler talking to Suzi Cornwell through the speakerphone. Malin took a few steps forward and pressed an ear to the door.

  “We followed him on Mendoza heading east, sir. He was doing sixty-five, seventy miles per hour.” Suzi took a loud breath. “Traffic was thick on Munoz. We thought we had him boxed in at the intersection. He looked back a couple of times. I thought he was going to stop. I exited the car, sir, and―”

  “Did you take him down?” Fowler asked.

  “Soon as I got out―”

  “Did you take him down?”

  “No, sir. Soon as he saw me he accelerated between two trucks, swung out into the intersection and disappeared. We were in heavy traffic, three lanes deep... lost him on Park Avenue.”

  Fowler’s cussing was hard to stomach, voice fading in and out over a whispered exchange. Malin could hear a scraping sound as if Fowler was lying across the conference room table, cufflinks scratching against wood. His mouth was probably pressed up against the speaker hoping no one would overhear.

  “He’s lying under a rock somewhere, Sooz. You and I both know that. You have to bring him in before someone else does. Because being an OK detective doesn’t bear thinking about. Do I have to send out a search party?”

  “Rufus―sir, this man has successfully evaded the police for a week. He was given a meal by a woman in Gallup and stayed the night with another in Flagstaff. That’s how much help he’s getting. I can hardly be held responsible for a ditched jeep and a dozy deputy sheriff who now thinks the man he spoke to in Holbrook... spoke to... was riding a motorcycle matching the description we now have for Flynn McCann.”

  “I suggest you and I get some dinner when you get back, Sooz. So I can teach you a thing or two about real crime detection.”

  “A little training, you mean?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  “Let me give you some advice.” Suzi’s voice was getting louder by the minute. “McCann didn’t just have a meal with a woman in Gallup. He gave her proof that her husband’s a pedophile. Do you think he did that to teach her a thing or two? Don’t waste your time calling out a search party. They won’t find him.”

  “Neither will you at this rate. What about those two crackheads who said they saw a ghost on Schnebly Hill Road?”

  “They weren’t crackheads. They were two hunters who thought they’d seen an old friend. Abe McCann.”

  “And you believed them?” Fowler said. “Two dudes who’d probably read the name in the paper and wanted to get some publicity. C’mon, use your head, buddy.”

  “Abe McCann isn’t the name in the papers, buddy.”

  Malin felt the quaking in her stomach chased by a wheezy breath. She had to hand that one to Suzi.

  “This should have been one of Temeke’s cases,” Fowler said, “only Hackett wanted to give you a chance. If you screw up―”

  “Screw up? Oh, trust me, I won’t screw up.”

  Malin heard the disconnect tone before Fowler hung up. She could almost see him slouching in a chair with a downturned mouth. Temeke was right. It wasn’t all sunshine and cherries in DCPD. She found it hard to wipe the grin from her face as she opened the door. Stood there with her legs apart, gun belt dangling.

  “Could you call Temeke, sir? Sounds important.” Fowler waved a hand as if he was dismissing a servant, but Malin wasn’t budging. “I hear McCann’s still on the run.”

  Fowler gave her one of those naïve what? looks followed by quick an up-and-down inspection. “It appears Detective Cornwell’s team needs more time.”

  “I thought Temeke and I were Cornwell’s team?”

  “Next you’re going to beg me to be the cavalry Cornwell needs to bring him in.”

  “I wouldn’t put it like that, sir, no. I’ve never thought of myself as one of nature’s beggars. But if you think she’d like some help.”

  “She doesn’t need your help.”

  “Tell me about the bike again, sir. So McCann was... how many yards in front of her unit when he gunned it?”

  This drew a smile. “You mean, if you were on scene you’d have slipped out of the passenger seat, run down a parallel lane and jumped him from behind?”

  “Might have stopped him,” Malin said.

  “Now you’re thinking like a bounty hunter.”

  “Bounty hunters don’t waste time, sir.”

  “You’re wasting mine, Santiago. I know a good cop when I see one. You’re not it.”

  “Is that supposed to worry me?” Malin had a canister of pepper spray in her belt and she was itching to use it. She briefly wondered if forty five thousand volts from a stun gun would worry him.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “What I want, sir, is to understand why Cornwell got the lead. Is it because she’s an excellent detective, or is it because you caught her at a forty-five degree angle against this very table and tried to play hide the salami?”

  “Get out!”

  “Just making sure you’re not withholding any information, sir. You know how we detectives are. Always snooping.”

  Malin blazed down the corridor past a bemused group of officers and a grinning Sergeant Moran. Maybe the department should all chip in to get Fowler neutered. Maybe she should do it herself.

  THIRTY-TWO

  A small house came into view; a white ranch home with beige shutters listed for sale at the end of a cracked and potholed cul-de-sac. The loc
kbox beneath the door knob indicated the house was empty and there was a light on over the porch.

  Flynn wheeled the bike between a shed and a short block wall and left the helmet draped over a handlebar. As far as he could see the back yard was landscaped with shrubs and gravel and a large square of dried out grass. Propping a leg on the top of the wall, he hauled himself over. The soft drone of a TV from next door and the scrape of a dumpster on a nearby driveway made him feel oddly disconnected, as if he were two people: a mourning widower and a man wanted for murder heading for a life of horror and madness.

  He smelled the sweat on him, several layers of it, and relieved himself in the drain of a downspout. He cupped one hand around the outside spigot and drank as much as he could. It tasted good after all the dust he’d swallowed.

  The screened-in back porch provided the cover he needed. A push-button latch opened easily into a twenty foot space equipped with a table, two chairs and a sun lounger. He dropped his backpack on the table and took out his phone and a pen. He pressed his forehead against the inner door, assessing the kitchen beyond before his eyes raked over the dead-bolt and backlit keypad. It wasn’t worth winding his jacket around one hand and punching through the window. The porch would do.

  He plugged the phone charger into a socket under the kitchen window and checked his phone. Three bars, fifty-eight percent. Time to make a call. Judging by Jesky’s muffled response he must have put a hand over the mouthpiece before finding a quiet place.

  “Why are you calling me at this obscene hour?”

  “It’s only six, Jesk.” Flynn dragged his teeth over his bottom lip and felt the hiking in his chest, the squeeze of emotions as he tried to keep them in check. “He’s dead. My dad’s dead.”

  “Oh, son. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “Six months ago. Cancer.” It was quiet for a moment until Flynn was done wiping sore eyes. “Tell mom, will you?”

  “I’ll tell her.”

  “Is there anything new in the papers?”