The 9th Hour (The Detective Temeke Crime Series Book 1) (20 page)

Singing.

His arms were speckled with gooseflesh. The voice wasn’t so different from the first time he heard it. A little older, as if Kizzy had come back. Yes, risen from the dead. She twirled in a tumbled down kitchen, arms out, chin snapping around like a ballet dancer. He’d never seen anything so odd.

She should have been terrified, but there wasn’t a tremor on those fragile limbs, not even a limp. She was quite beautiful and for a moment he was transfixed, feeling a wrenching in his gut. It wasn’t a throw-up wrenching. Something different.

It had to be the drugs he had given her in the car. Not much, just a little chaser before the final dose. He’d never seen one wake up. He’d never seen one survive.

Her gaze slid away from the window, traveling briefly over the furniture before resting on the mantle. She brushed a hand over the old wooden ledge, and those same fingers toyed with a glass bottle, eyes narrowed at the embossed lettering. It gave him a sense of foreboding, a fear he hadn’t had since childhood.

She was leaving tracks. Fingerprints.

Holding his breath, he was faced with the mindboggling possibility that this girl might be smarter than most. She had to have known he was there.

Striding through waist high grass to a stone projection, the back side of a fireplace, he saw a second window. Through a single broken pane, he saw her muted figure shimmered against the wall, back pressed against it, face turned toward the front door. In her hand was a rusty knife she must have found on the mantle shelf.

Clever girl
,
he thought.

She waited.

So did he.

He was invisible in the darkness; that’s when he let his mind wander to the past. Many years ago there would have been a fire in the grate, a crackle of blood-red flames and the smell of soot. Tonight he imagined a white-haired father sitting on a three-legged stool, trembling hands cupped around a bowl of soup. On the floor in front of him two little boys, chins turned up, eyes rapt at the legends of Odin and Glidehoof.

He didn’t understand this sudden rash of emotions, the sadness, the pleasure, the fear. It must have been the moon shining in his eyes, and while he was puzzling over it he saw a flicker on the opposite wall.

The girl was gone. Quick as spit.

He staggered for the front of the cabin. It was deserted, door half open just as she had left it. He turned for an instant to survey the clearing, throat rougher than a carpenter’s bench. He refused to cough. It would only alert her to where he was.

An open stretch of ground led to a knot of trees and a steep downward slope. Adrenalin shot through him and his feet shuffled forward, confused suddenly at the direction she might have taken. He ran full-pelt for the woods until the trees covered him from the moonlight.

Looking left and right, he sniffed the air keeping a sharp eye out for any sign of movement. He knew he could keep going for hours, alternating between walking and jogging, and pausing only to check for tracks.

Then he heard a noise. Sobbing? No. Panting. He saw her a few yards ahead, bent over to catch her breath.

Standing between two young pine trees, he pulled the knife from his belt. Every movement was in his muscle-memory; it was the same every time. A round, smooth swing and he let the knife fly
.

Temeke held Serena in his arms, felt her tears on his neck. He was too tired to talk and there was nothing to say.

Luis was unconscious. Suspected brain damage. With the departure of a friend ended the laughter that echoed in the pubs on Southern Boulevard. Temeke learned for the first time in his life the true meaning of loneliness.

His heart felt like it would burst out of his chest and he wondered how Luis survived with no food and water for four days. He was particularly partial to a good chicken pie and now all he had was tubes.

“He could have died,” she said.

“But he didn’t.” Temeke buried his face into her thick, black hair, holding back a sob. “And he won’t.”

“I want to see him.”

“They won’t let us. Not for another week.” Temeke slowly released a deep breath. At least Luis’ spirit wasn’t climbing into the sky in ever widening circles. At least he wasn’t sitting on a cloud in the winter sun. “He’s sleeping, my love. Getting his strength back.”

“What if he can’t feel. What if he can’t see, can’t hear? What if he never wakes up?”

“He’s strong,” Temeke said, wiping the tears from her eyes with his thumb. “He’ll wake up.”

He kissed her mouth and her cheeks, listening to the purr of her voice. And then came the pounding in his chest, a dull roar, a sound so loud that it seemed to fill all his senses. He tried to ignore it, tried to take no notice of the hissing in his veins. Throb, throb, throb, almost drowning in a roll of excitement.

He felt her go rigid, pushing away. She walked up the stairs, a wadded up tissue in those shaking hands. She’d be like that for a time, all nervous and distant. He wanted to call out to her, to follow her. All he could do was open and close his mouth, struggling to find the right words.

That same old feeling again. It never really went away, the need for peace, the need for a smoke. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves and walked outside to the back yard to the downspout. He always felt like a gynecologist when rooting through a knot of rosemary before slipping his fingers in the pipe. Today he felt nothing but an empty space. He tasted a trickle of hot bile in his throat and nearly gagged.

Someone had taken it.

The phone in his pocket began to vibrate and he could see Hackett’s name flashing on the screen. “How’s Serena?”

Temeke started back toward the house. “Holding up.”

“Temeke, if you need―”

“I need to get back out there, sir. That’s what I need.”

Temeke heard the loud sigh through the earpiece. He wondered if Hackett had had a change of heart, wanted to give him a few days off. Temeke knew how Jarvis and Fowler muttered to themselves in a language exclusive only to them, how they turned their faces to the wall every time he passed. Suspicious of strangers, they turned all outsiders into outcasts. Hackett was no different.

Unless Fowler’s team really had missed something out there at the Shelby ranch. Something they hoped to pin on him…

“Looks like you’re stuck with me, sir,” Temeke dared, listening to silence on the other end as if Hackett had suddenly choked at the idea.

Hackett wouldn’t take him off the case. He couldn’t. Someone higher had requested him and there was nothing Hackett could do about it.

“We’ve got another body,” Hackett muttered. “The red-headed realtor. Seems she wasn’t on that nice cruise ship after all. You find Tess Williams, I’ll deal with this mess. I mean it, Temeke, you foul up on this one and it’s your last!”

“Yes, sir. My last, sir.”

Hackett blew a chunk of air into the mouthpiece. “I sent Malin over to see Darryl Williams. Seems like he’s taking it like a trooper.”

“Like a trooper?” Temeke echoed, glad to be back on the case.

“Yeah, he says she’s a tough one that Tess. Says she can run faster than a hockey puck. Oh, and just in case you were wondering, no, she never talked about running away and no, she wasn’t unhappy at home. Just thought you’d want to know.”

“Appreciate it, sir.”

Temeke heard a scraping sound from upstairs, the chest of drawers being dragged across the floor. He felt the muscles quivering in his neck, heat flushing through his body. It weighed a ton and how in the hell Serena managed to move it he’d never know.

“The Imaging Specialist called,” Hackett continued. “They cleaned up the video outside Cibola High. Our man was wearing a black t-shirt and jeans. He was wearing a full harness. Looked like a cop, probably smelled like a cop. We found the Camaro. It was pulled out of the river just south of Alameda this morning. Had a few holes in the rear side panel. I’ll leave you to guess what he’s driving now.

“Luis’ Charger?”

“He took a whole lot more than that. Stu Anderson remembered seeing a Remington in the trunk. Unfortunately his tiny little brain couldn’t tell us what caliber it was. What the heck was a rifle doing in his car?”

“Hunting?” It was Temeke’s turn to sigh. “Least it’s not a Mauser, sir. They take stripper clips.”

“Listen, I don’t care if he’s got a dozen hand grenades and a bazooka in there. Find him.”

“I will, sir.”

“Becky’s conscious, by the way. I expect you’ll want to see her, but I don’t think it’s appropriate. So I sent Malin instead.”

“Appropriate, sir?”

“Becky described a house on Arroyo Del Oso. Couldn’t remember anything else. She did remember a set of golf clubs in the hallway.”

“I’ll get over there, sir.”

“You better get some underpants on over those tights, son. We’re dealing with more than just your average bed-wetter.”

“Send a car for me, will you?”

“Get your own car,” Hackett said. “Oh, I forgot. You don’t have one.”

The phone was already dead by the time Temeke had formulated an answer sprinkled with a few choice words.

Driving down Alameda toward 2nd Street, he felt a hardening in his stomach and a burning in his chest, especially driving Serena’s yellow Scion IQ. He felt somehow cheated, like he’d been sold half a car. But it went like the clappers and that’s what mattered.

Where would a guy like Ole Eriksen hang out? He had a working knowledge of the upper-crust lifestyle and gripped a putter on the golf course rather than a jug in the pub.

The phone trilled in his pocket and he almost missed the turn trying to pull it out. It was Malin.

“Sir, we need to talk.”

“If it’s about Darryl being oddly calm, he’s probably been drinking some of that homemade hooch. I smelled it on his breath last time I saw him.”

“Can’t blame him, sir. But he mentioned life, death, that kind of thing. So I called his doctor. They’ve put him on suicide watch. Captain Fowler’s got a team of officers over there to monitor all incoming calls.”

“Well good. Because if he tries to hang himself, they’ll book him first.”

“Sir…”

He could hear the hesitation in her voice. She was itching to tell him something, only the phone was tapped.

“Still nothing on Tess Williams,” she said at last. “They found Kelly Caldwell in the Cerro Colorado Landfill this afternoon. The doctor said she’d been strangled and her lungs were full of chlorinated water. I’ve already notified the family. Another thing, sir. The Camaro was found in the Rio Grande. There was a briefcase in the trunk full of photos, all young girls.”

“Our victims?”

“Yes, sir. And there was one of a redhead said to be Kelly. Looks like she was walking down the street and he took it from behind.”

“So she didn’t know she was being photographed.”

“Right. Thing is, there’s a building in the background, pink stucco with blue trim. Looks like the Arroyo Del Oso clubhouse.”

“I’m there,” said Temeke, taking a screeching right turn on 2nd Street before she could protest.

Twenty minutes later, he was standing in the clubhouse, one hand on the granite reception desk, the other holding his ID. The man behind the counter was well dressed and hungry looking, and the badge on his lapel read Emilio Vargas.

“Looking for a member of yours, a Mr. Ole Eriksen,” Temeke said.

Vargas laced his hands together and cracked every knuckle. His fingers hovered over the computer keyboard before tapping in the name. He shook his head. “Don’t see an Ol
a
Eriksen,” he said, smiling.

“Oliver Eriksen?” Temeke insisted.

Again Vargas shook his head. “Not listed I’m afraid.”

“How about Morgan Eriksen?”

This time Vargas hesitated, eyes running down the computer screen and stopping, so Temeke noted, at the halfway point.

“We did have a Morgan Eriksen, only his membership expired last month. Nice man. Great tipper.” He grinned until Temeke spoke.

“When did you last see him?”

Vargas scratched his chin, eyes flicking to the floor. “He came in for lunch about a week ago. He was with a woman, well dressed. They left about mid-afternoon just when I finished my shift. Walked up the street to a stone house on the corner. The one with the statue of an angel by the front door.”

“How much did he tip you that day?” Temeke had to ask. That’s why Vargas watched Eriksen as he walked up the street. Probably stalked him and all.

Vargas splayed ten fingers on the counter, then gave a sly smile and tapped his nose.

“A hundred bucks?” Temeke said loudly. “See what you mean.”

He laid the photograph down on the countertop and scooted it toward Vargas’ red and sweating face. He heard the man clear his throat, saw him nod.

“Yes, that’s him.”

Temeke mouthed his thanks and pushed through the clubhouse door and out into the parking lot. Unfortunately, the photograph was of Morgan, but like all the others he had shown it to, it was close enough. His eyes darted in all directions behind dark glasses and he decided to take a stroll up the street to the stone house with the angel.

The statue was large all right, set to the left side of the front door. Lips pursed and cheeks round, it looked as if the poor cherub was about to blow out a mouthful of food.

Temeke pulled on the latex and rang the bell. He waited a few seconds, rang it again and counted to ten. Rang it a third time and took a hike around the back. Heaving himself over a wall, he landed in a courtyard of cherry trees and artificial grass.

Sunlight trickled down between the branches and an edgy wind ruffled cattails, some crowned with shards of glass from a broken window. There was a six-foot chain lying on the ground, equipped with bolt pin shackles.

He cocked his pistol and hesitated for a while behind a tall, skinny spruce, surveying the perimeter. The first thing he noticed was the sliding patio door, blinds closed to the winter sun.

He jogged sideways across the lawn toward the house and pressed his ear to the wooden frame. Jiggling the handle up and down a few times to loosen the lock, he was inside the house in less than four seconds. He parted the blinds with the muzzle of his gun.

To the right was the kitchen and to the left was the sitting room with a high ceiling, running to the front of the house. He froze in the darkness, smelling the tart fragrance of a lighted air freshener. It was the only light there was.

A strong smell of gasoline seeped in from a lit garage and Temeke stared into an empty space. There was no sign of a car, only the imprint of tire treads on a light gray floor. Three cans of gasoline stood in the middle of the floor and he saw a set of oily marks where there had been at least seven more.

He inched back into the kitchen and examined the sink. Empty. No dirty plates. There were three take-out boxes in the fridge, a bottle of white wine and a gallon jug of milk. The owner clearly dined out. The knife block was full and there was another of those fat Santa incense burners on the countertop.

In one of the kitchen drawers was a neat stack of closing papers from Desert Sun Properties, all signed by Ole Eriksen.

“Bingo,” Temeke muttered, flicking through the first few pages.

Tucked behind the first stack was a buff file labeled
Freedom CSP
. There were photographs of dark girls, laughing girls, dead girls, and a log cabin in a wood. He slipped the picture of the cabin in his jacket pocket and crept around the corner in the direction of the hall.

His confidence seemed to rise with every step. He knew he was alone, felt no other presence. The stairs were partially lit by a picture window, looking out on the golf course and the Sandia Mountains. The blinds were turned downward, letting in only a thin sliver of light.

The master bedroom door was equipped with enough hardware to keep a person prisoner and the back of it appeared to be slightly scuffed where metal scraped against paint. There was a small stain on the carpet, possibly blood, and Temeke visualized a small girl hunched on the floor after banging against the door in the hopes of freeing herself.

The room was smaller than he expected, bedspread drawn back, sheets starched white except for a small smear of blood on the right side of the bed. There were scuffs on the bedhead as if something had been tied there.