Night Eyes (The Detective Temeke Crime Series Book 2) (13 page)

It was midnight when they climbed down that ladder, wind buffeting the packs and forcing them along the path to the west. A round moon gazed down from the sky, shrouding the trees in a ghostly shade of silver.

Adam felt his belly tremble. He was scared alright. He was a bit sick too. The rabbit had done a number on him in the cave and he’d had to pull his pants down five times. Ramsey had caught him perched on a low stone wall, scooped him up with both hands and told him not to crap on an ancient monument. Said it was sacred and defiling it was a fine of two hundred grand or life imprisonment. Made him use the ladder and do his business down there.

Adam knew he’d have the trots again before the night was out. This time it was worse like his bilge was filling with sewage and he had no idea where it was all coming from. If only if he could just wait until they were beyond the cliffs and trees . . .

Ramsey raised one hand and they stopped for a while, staring at the track and the opposite slopes. Something scampered between the sand and rocks, stopped, and then went on again.

“Coyote,” Adam whispered.

“You saw it?” Ramsey edged his way in the shadows beneath the cliff. He was limping a bit but that didn’t seem to stop him. “Those rangers have gone on ahead.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know.”

Adam felt his nose run, wanted to blow it real bad so he wiped it on his sleeve instead. “Can they see us?”

“They’ll hear us if you don’t shut up.”

Adam gripped onto the straps at his shoulders, felt a familiar stab of pain in his side. He’d have to ignore it for now until they were at least a hundred yards beyond the cliffs. There was wide open country then and only a few piñon trees to squat behind. His butt was sore and he was shaky and soaked with sweat.

He could hear the occasional rattle of pebbles beneath his feet, saw Ramsey lift his hand to warn him. The sky was darker in the west and so was the land and as they walked under a myriad of stars, Adam remembered the scout troop he’d left behind. He could picture the tents, a pulsing campfire and a pot full of beans. And he could hear the ghost stories that everyone liked best. He missed them all and he wondered if they missed him.

It was an hour before the cliffs became a flat-topped promontory fading out into a talon of rock. It was barely a glimmer now in the distance and they were walking through tufts of long grass tall enough to reach their shins. There was no sign of the rangers. Just a dark horizon ahead and a few scrawny bushes reaching upwards like dead men’s fingers.

Ramsey stopped for a while to get his bearings, didn’t need a compass, didn’t need a map. He pointed to the hull of an old boat, only Adam told him it wasn’t an old boat. It was the hollowed out husk of a tree. It had been lying on its side for hundreds of years, smooth and calcified and dry.

They hung the tarp down from the top edge and weighted it with rocks, spread out their wet coats on the ground. Ramsey gathered what he could of the kindling, made a small fire and fanned it to life, sparks hurtling into the night sky.  

“I need toilet paper,” Adam moaned.

“There’s no toilet paper. You can’t want to go again.” 

“I do.” Adam gripped his buttocks with one hand as if it would prevent a sudden blow.

He began hopping too. First on one leg and then the other, and then he dropped both the duffel bag and his pants before Ramsey could count to three.

“I feel better now,” he said afterwards.

Ramsey’s head was bent over and his shoulders were shaking. “By the laws of gravity your insides should have fallen out by now.”

It wasn’t funny. It was the rabbit that made him purge. “Give me some paper.
Please!
”

“You can have a pile of grass like before. And that’s my final offer.”

Grass wasn’t half bad. It was leaves Adam hated the most. Prickly and cold against your skin and soaking from the rain. But it got the worse off and that’s all that mattered.

Ramsey showed him how to hold a gun, showed him how to aim, except it was too dark to shoot it. They drank hot chocolate and ate marshmallows and talked about their favorite movies.

“Jurassic Park,” Adam said. “That’s mine.”

Ramsey sighed and looked up for a time. “The Deer Hunter, that’s mine.”

The wind coming off the grass smelled faintly of corn husks and the faint susurration of the feathery tufts nearly put Adam to sleep. Ramsey left the jug out for the rain before they lay down for the night.

In the morning there was a faint rumble of thunder and a few spits of rain that pattered on the tarp. They ate the last of the venison for breakfast and buried the rest of that rabbit before striking camp. Adam knew Ramsey had been sick in the night, heard him retching too. He wondered if there were a few pages missing from that book and decided to ask.

“Of course I didn’t use any,” Ramsey said, giving Adam a drink of water before folding the tarp. “Paper’s for girls.”

Being with Ramsey was different to being with his dad, the tired old man who rarely smiled. It wasn’t his dad’s fault. It was his job, so his mom said. Being Mayor of Albuquerque had its downs, especially when he rarely came home. When he did, he was sleeping mostly, didn’t want to play cards, didn’t want to walk the dog. No, this was more like being with his mom, someone you could tell jokes with, someone who found the world a fun place to live in. 

Ramsey shook out the cups and looked down at Adam’s upturned face, gave him a wink. “Wanna hear a joke?”

Adam nodded. It probably wouldn’t be funny. Old people never made jokes funny. But it was funny. Side-splittingly funny and his body began to quake, breaths hitching. He must have laughed all the way to a clump of trees darkened from a forest fire. They recited cuss words to see who knew the ugliest and then they talked about the meaning and where the words came from.

“Course you mustn’t use those words in front of a lady,” Ramsey insisted. “Probably shouldn’t use them at all.”

He pointed at a low stone wall about fifteen feet from where they were. “Must be the foundations of an old homestead. There’s a few round here, old and gnarled and burned to the ground.” he said, unscrewing the cap off the water jug.

“Did all the people die?”

“Mostly,” Ramsey nodded, looking around. “They died of cholera. Can’t see any headstones. Can you?”

Adam shook his head. All he could see were dark shadows from horizon to horizon and acres of grass where the sun shone down. He hated the gray emptiness of death and he was scared of it too. “They’re not underneath us are they?”

“Dang, you’re not scared of skulls and bones are you?”

Adam didn’t like the idea of skulls and bones wandering about and causing a ruckus. “Oh, no. I was just wondering that’s all.”

“Well that’s good. Cause I don’t want some cry baby worried about skulls and bones going on a scare bender.”

“They do?”

“Do what?”

“Go on scare benders.”

“There was a time when I used to sleep rough out by the volcanoes,” Ramsey said, looking off in the distance. “But you don’t want to hear about that.”

Adam damn well did. And urgently. “The ones out by Grants?”

Ramsey nodded and handed the jug to Adam. “It was back in the 1900s. Three girls went hiking after church in the spring. Went all alone without a chaperone. Police didn’t know what they were doing out there in their Sunday best. Couldn’t find them. All they did find was a lace glove and a straw hat. And further up in a heap of ash, a pink ribbon. They were never seen again. But I heard them one night… screaming.”

Adam nearly gulped on that water. “Screaming?”

“I often think of them when I go there. Sixteen, seventeen… too young to die. Pretty too. I dream of them sometimes. The wind blows ash tens of thousands of miles away… and it blew those screams. I wish I could have done something.”

1900… Adam tried to do the math in his head and gave up after a few seconds. “How old are you?” 

Ramsey grinned. “Old enough.”

Maybe Ramsey was already dead. Maybe he was just a ghost limping about in the long grass and babbling on like one too. But he wasn’t limping. He didn’t seem to give that wound much mind and he was walking faster like it never happened, putting on a brave face.

They sat on one of those stone walls, ate crackers and drank water and then went on again. It was hard going with the duffel on his back but Adam wasn’t giving up. He sensed ghosts in the sighing pines that grew along the route and wondered if Ramsey was just hallucinating with all that stuff he snorted. He hadn’t smoked a cigarette since they left the lodge because he said the reek would give them away.

“Ever smelled a yellowbelly?” Ramsey pressed his nose against the thick, flaky bark of a Ponderosa. “It’s like cinnamon.”

All Adam could smell was wet earth and the occasional whiff of butterscotch. He was tired of wading through drifts of pine needles and patches of snow one day to clear blue skies the next, and he was tired of smelling like a porta-potty.

It was late afternoon before they reached a meadow of corn-colored grass and a hunter’s cabin. Each stalk swayed back and forth in a fickle wind, whispering and chattering as if something lived in it.

“Can’t see them, but I know they’re there,” Ramsey murmured.

“Who?”

“Better do it now. Better do it slow.” Ramsey raised one eyebrow and flicked a quick glance at Adam. “Before the raptors come.”

Serena had called again and they’d talked. Only this time she wanted to see him right away and that made Temeke jumpy. He hoped it wasn’t another round of accusations and torture, and he hoped she’d leave him with some furniture this time. Eleven thirty today. In the park. He wouldn’t forget.

Temeke was wondering how to drop the news to Fowler about that jawbone he’d found. Everything was beginning to look prehistoric these days, even Hackett’s suits. He had already interviewed the majority of the Mayor’s staff the week before. There were only three left.

He looked at his cell phone, kept wondering if Serena would change her mind. There were a few unavailable numbers and some he didn’t recognize. It was during one of those blind moments when he convinced himself it was her, too scared to identify herself, too scared to tell him how she really felt. It was a chance in a sodding million.

He was debating a second cup of coffee on that miserable Monday morning that wouldn’t give him heart palpitations like the last one he’d had, when the quick chirrup of a siren in the parking lot shattered the silence.

“Hackett wants his car parked,” sang Fowler from his office in his usual monophonic voice.

“Tell him to bloody park it himself,” Temeke chanted back.

He wasn’t surprised to hear a round of laughter from the cafeteria followed by a bout of cussing from Jarvis. There he was, with his pink scrubbed face surmounted by tufts of blond hair carefully teased straight. He looked more like a cherub than a cop, sweeping through the lobby towards Hackett’s car just to see how far he could grovel.

“Nice tie,” Malin said, headed towards the interview room, with a tray of coffee and cookies.

She noticed, Temeke thought, because he rarely wore a tie. Couldn’t stand the pressure against his throat. “So you cussed him out?”

“I did more than that,” Malin whispered. “I called three times. That should have made his night.”

Temeke was almost beginning to feel sorry for Hollister, only he couldn’t help feeling a tingle of salacious excitement. “Probably saw you on the caller ID and switched it off, Marl. One of those mine?” he said, pointing at the cups.

“For the gardener. He’s already here.”

Figures, Temeke thought. The old boy had likely parked in Hackett’s spot.

Hackett breezed in and pushed through the opening door of the elevator. He gave a dry cough which was beginning to sound theatrical in light of the upcoming press conference. Temeke could still hear it as the elevator ground to the top floor.

Cesar Cruz had greenish-yellow eyes and a thin pencil moustache. He also had a limp, left foot turned slightly inward which didn’t seem to impede his progress. He sat opposite Malin and that bag of cookies, flashing the best of three yellow teeth.

“Thank you for coming in,” Temeke said. “Mrs. Oliver will be here in half an hour and the Press can ask some pretty harsh questions. So tell me, how long have you worked for the Olivers?”

Cesar took a deep breath, fingers massaging his chin. “Eh… four years. Before, I work in Tijuana.”

Temeke noted Cesar’s voice was slow and clipped, every word spoken as if it were new. He didn’t look much, but Temeke betted his mind turned over faster than a V-eight.

“Have you found him?” Cesar said, eyes watering.

Malin patted Cesar on the arm. “Not yet. He’s a scout. Remember that.”

“His troop’s out there looking for him and so are the police,” Temeke added, seeing no visible relief on Cesar’s face. He knew how he felt. The first thing he always noticed about people was their humility. You could see it in their eyes. On a scale of one to ten, this man was a firm ten. “You speak good English, Mr. Cruz.”

“No, no, señor. I speak like the pigeons.”

Temeke refrained from laughter and ran a finger down the resume on file. “It says here you were educated at the Instituto México. That’s a private school isn’t it?”

“Catholic.” Cesar bowed his head where a comb-over revealed a gray painted pate. He took a sip of coffee and smiled at Malin. “My mother was a cleaner for Profesor Francisco. He pay the fees. She make him happy. He very good man.”

Temeke gave a tight grin. “Do you like reading, Mr. Cruz?”

“A little.” Cesar scarfed down a cookie and cracked his knuckles before eyeing the bag with renewed interest. 

“So you like books?”

“I like poetry.”

Temeke had never known a gardener to have a lexicon of leather-bound literature in his potting shed, but this one did. The field investigators found works by Emily Dickinson and Theodore Roethke. “And you like gardening.”

“Oh, yes, señor. I am a graduate of Foley’s Institute.”

Make that a V-eight on steroids, Temeke thought. “How did you come to work for the Mayor?”

“Because…” Cesar looked up to the ceiling and down again. “I am cheap.”

“Cheap?”

“Yes, señor. I am from Mexico.”

Temeke held back a snort and saw Malin cover her mouth. He was growing to like Cesar more by the minute. Truth was, the Olivers always found their gardeners through Foley’s. Anything less would not have been good enough.

“You keep the garden shed tidy?”

“Ah, the shed. Yes, the shed. Very, very clean.”

“Do you miss Mexico?” Temeke asked.

“No, señor. My father…” Cesar began and then crossed himself. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Had a violin.”

Temeke snatched a look at Malin as if the word
violin
had some secret meaning. “He was a musician?”

“Couldn’t play a note,” Cesar said, peeling another cookie from the packet. “It is where he keep his…
stash
.”

“He was a drug dealer?” Temeke was momentarily speechless.

“Si, si. He talk in code. But every day I do crossword. I know code. One day, he get sick. Look like a naked Chihuahua. Still he work nights. He make money.”

“How much?”

“Forty thousand dollars.”

Temeke had read the case. Cesar was ten years old when a car drew up outside their small house and someone lobbed a hand grenade onto the front porch. Cesar did what any ten year old would do. He promptly pitched it back. By all accounts it was a good shot, slipped inside that car through a crack in the driver’s window. Big bang, lots of police. It was lucky he wasn’t sent to juvie.

“How would you describe Mayor Oliver?” Temeke asked.

“He always say good morning… always take a rose for his coat.” Cesar tapped at his lapel. “He say, ‘Cesar, your roses are the best in New Mexico.’ I very proud to work for him.”

Temeke reached into the brown envelope and pulled out a syringe. “Wouldn’t like to tell me what this is?”

“For the roses. They win the Albuquerque Flower Show every year.” Cesar leaned forward and pointed at the syringe. “I take a white rose, put this in the stalk,” he said, measuring about six inches with his thumb and index finger. “Water for seven days. Color of royalty.” 

“So you dye them purple?”

“Of course.”

Temeke knew Cesar had visited the mayor in hospital with a bunch of roses from his own garden. The officer outside the Mayor’s room had counted over five visits since Sunday.

“Are you close to Mrs. Oliver?”

Temeke didn’t miss the quiver of recognition, saw the slight tilt of his head. It appeared that ‘the Señora’ spent a good deal of time on the phone behind closed doors. And when she wasn’t indoors she was out shopping for haute couture. 

“Sometimes,” Cesar murmured, looking down at his clasped hands, thumb rubbing against thumb, “she sit in the gazebo and she cry. Sometimes she write many letters. But not when it rains.”

“How does that make you feel?” Malin asked. “When she cries.”

“Sad… because she very unhappy.”

“Unhappy?” Malin scooted the packet of cookies a little closer to Cesar’s elbow.

Temeke gathered that Mrs. Oliver had a close friend she regularly confided in, someone she spoke to on the phone. She was now taking some form of medication and sleeping a good deal. The housekeeper often found her napping on the chaise long and had to rouse her with a hard nudge.

Cesar rustled the wrapper and popped three cookies onto the table with his thumb. “The Señora… she have two journals.”  

“Where?” Temeke asked.

“In the library. Look like books.” Cesar wagged a finger. “But not books.”

Temeke knew the sodding FBI hadn’t found them because special agent Stu Anderson would have told him. He was a personal friend. He was also a notorious gossip. “Has the Mayor ever asked you to do extra work? You know, anything after hours?”

“Only the letters.”

“What letters?” Malin asked.

Cesar chomped for a few seconds and then licked his fingers. “He ask me to post letters to Mr. Andrew Blaine. 522 Cragmont Ave, Berkeley.

Temeke reckoned there must have been a whole pile of letters to this person if Cesar could rattle off one name and an address. He also reckoned he needed to talk with the mayor, but not before talking to Mr. Blaine.

“Any chance you know this guy?” Temeke hoped it would save a whole heap of time if he did.

“No señor.” Cesar shrugged and examined the palm of his hand.

“Why were you at the Mayor’s house last Sunday?”

“Mrs. Oliver ask me to sweep the driveway and oil the gates. Mr. Art. He thirty-five last Sunday.”

“Did you see anything unusual? Any activity outside the house?”

Cesar shrugged and shook his head.

There was a light tap on the door and Temeke made no attempt to respond. It was only the silhouette of Captain Fowler smeared against the glass. Just another wall of muscle and spiked hair he’d rather not deal with.

The door crashed back on its hinges and in bounded Fowler, eyes bright and wide. Looked like he was spoiling for a fight.

“Santiago,” he growled. “Phone!”