The 9th Hour (The Detective Temeke Crime Series Book 1) (27 page)

Temeke closed the door and stood in the corridor. He looked down at Jarvis half asleep in his chair. “Think you can handle him?”

Jarvis frowned. “He’s tied up, isn’t he?”

“That’s the problem. They had to take the cuffs off on account of the pain killers. You’ll give him a hand if he wants to take a leak?” Temeke permitted himself a brief smile of satisfaction. “Must be off. Can’t hang about.”

He walked down the corridor to a tall oblong window, took out his phone and dialed Serena.
Your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please check the number and try again
…
He listened to the intercept message before hanging up a second time. And when his phone did ring, it made him jump.

“Serena!” he was happy to hear her voice. “The case? Yes. We’ve got him. I tried to call you a few moments ago.”

She mumbled something about a new number, thought it was time. Temeke felt lightheaded, thoughts scrambling to understand. “I’d like to take you to Ruidoso for a few days. Just you and me. Would you like that?”

He paused when he heard the sobs, the rasp in her voice. It was a sixth sense, something he could smell on the wind, and he tried not to hear her words, tried not to feel the aching in his chest.

“Why?” he asked.

It was no use running home. She had withdrawn to a distant place, far beyond his reach now. It was hard for him to imagine the house without her, an empty closet, an empty bed.

“I know it’s hard for you to say these things. But not over the phone, love. Please not on the phone. We could meet. We could talk―”

She didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to hear another false promise. She was tired of the endless days waiting for him to come home, terrified he was lying face-down in a ditch like Luis. He had nearly died, hadn’t he?

“But he didn’t die, love. He’s awake, talking. He even gave me his car keys.”

That should have made her laugh, but instead there was a tremor to her voice, the sound of soft panting. Then she mentioned the weed, the smoking, the lying.

“Yes, I have lied to you. I’ve lied about the smoking because I’m an addict. I’m not perfect, Serena.”

She wanted him to stop, wanted him to love her enough to stop. Did he love her?

“Of course I love you,” he said. “You know I do. It’s agony for me. All of this.”

What was this thing about Becky? If he was lying about the smoking, then what else was he lying about?

“Oh, love, no. She’s a
child
.”

But there was talk in the department about women. They all gave her strange looks at parties, like she was the last to know.

“I wouldn’t dream―”

He was left with that infernal dialing tone and for a long time he didn’t move. He looked at his caller ID and saw the words
Private
, a message that told him she didn’t want to be found. A small intake of breath, a hardening of the stomach and he raged inwardly at his own stupidity. Too late, he realized. He should have seen the signs.

He stared out at a speckled wilderness regimented with green piñon trees and cone-shaped hills. He began to debate with himself whether to trace the number or leave her in peace. It wouldn’t be fair to run after her
,
he thought, seeing the remains of a white fir tree that lay embedded by the side of a hillock, bark calcified like the bones of some prehistoric animal. The relationship was dead. It had been dying for years.

There was one thing that gave him hope. Serena wouldn’t go far, not with Luis in the hospital. He pictured himself standing in the hospital lobby wearing a dark suit and starched white shirt. He’d have his back to the front door, of course, so she wouldn’t see the flowers.

He pressed the heel of his hands into both eyes, determined not to descend into that black mass of misery. What good would it do?

“Sir?”

Malin hobbled toward him, hand nursing her hip. He ignored her open mouth and the torrent of questions she was obviously itching to ask. “Does it hurt?” he asked.

Her hand signaled a so-so reply, golden skin radiant as if age would never touch her. “Doctor said I’d be fine in a day or two. Have you seen the papers?”

Temeke shook his head. It must have been good if she was smiling.

“The headline read
Two Albuquerque detectives hailed as heroes when they rescued a fourteen-year-old girl from the 9th Hour killer
. We’ve already got six thousands likes. Seems our photo went viral.”

Temeke chuckled. He curled an arm around her waist. She was smaller than he expected, warmer too. He helped that strong, slender body to the parking lot, half-lifting her over the concrete parking blocks.

They found the Charger rammed between two trucks, cleaned and smelling of pine, judging by a small green tree that dangled from the rearview mirror. Malin eased herself into the passenger seat, face cringing with pain.

He started the car, keeping his eyes straight ahead, knowing she was savvy enough to have sensed a change in him. He was lonely. She must have sensed that.

“How’s Eriksen?” she asked.

“Grumpy. I doubt he’ll apologize in court. The jury will deliberate for less than three hours and give him the death penalty. No one will feel sorry for him. Except a few horny girls. He’ll get his fair share of fan mail.”

“How did he ever get into the United States?”

“Apparently, he boarded a fishing vessel at a port in Norway called Svelgen, gave the captain $40,000 in cash and kept him and his crew in beer for six weeks. He landed near Biddeford, Maine and stayed with a man called Mike Salthouse, a dab hand at forging driving licenses. He bought a truck and drove across land to California. Got residency there.”

“That easy?”

“Afraid so.”

“Morgan didn’t kill them then?”

“He’s an accessory.” Temeke blew out a lungful of hot air. “He’ll fry in California if I have anything to do with it.”

Malin nodded. “I want to understand. I want to know why.”

The question took him back to his rookie days in a finger snap. He’d asked his sergeant the very same question. “There’s nothing to understand. A killer is a killer, a creature of incredible appetite. He blends in so you would never know. Alone, he isolates himself from humanity and all the while he lives in a valium-filled trance, pretending he is more than he is. A conqueror. But they all have one thing in common. They’re unable to control their inner monster.”

Temeke knew how flippant it all sounded. He blamed himself for the way it came out, tumbling from his mouth like a gush of words he was too numb to feel.

“Why did Ole keep the heads?” she asked.

“Souvenirs… it serves to refuel the fantasy. He’ll waste away in a jail cell until he dies alone. Something every killer fears.”

Ten minutes later, Temeke pulled up in front of her apartment, powered down the window and let the car suck in the cold air. There were no clusters of swirling snowflakes now, just a glaze of sunlight on a bed of dried leaves.

Malin grimaced, until she dropped her gaze. “Will you keep me on, sir?”

Temeke lifted his chin, realizing he was looking at her with unrestrained approval. She was strangely beautiful in the harsh glare of sunlight. “You’re my partner, aren’t you? Oh, and just call me Temeke.”

She nodded and then smiled. He could smell her perfume now, stronger at the curve of her neck. He was painfully conscious that he had no right to touch her and he paused for a breathless second to look down at those large sympathetic eyes. “I’m proud of you,” he said.

Malin scraped one hand through her glossy, black hair and took a calming breath. “Want to come in?”

He swiveled his eyes toward the parking lot, feeling her straighten just as he had. He almost buckled on account of his loneliness and shook his head. “You better get some sleep, Marl. I better go home.”

Originally from England, Claire is a world traveler and makes her home in New Mexico, USA. She began writing as a child and received school awards for English literature. A former medical and executive assistant, she has helped lead workshops and has spoken at various literary events across the Southwest. Her interest in archaeology has inspired and informed all her writing from historical fiction to thrillers, and she is the author of two ancient Egyptian novels,
Chasing Pharaohs
and
The Fowler’s Snare
.

She has published short stories and once ran a newspaper for two local businesses in Albuquerque. She has completed the second book in the Detective Temeke series,
Night Eyes
, in which she explores how even in the darkness of criminal depravity the light of faith is never entirely extinguished. She is currently working on the third novel.

To learn more about Claire, visit
www.cmtstibbe.com
.

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