Alien Heat (9 page)

David rubbed his chest, touching the scar. Pierre had saved his life when he'd been shot. Kept him breathing, until the ambulance came. Some days David wished Pierre had not gone to the trouble.

David heard a gasp, an exhalation of breath, someone muttering Holy Mary Mother of God. He looked up at the screen.

A wall of flame rose up from behind the bar. The room was hazy with smoke, and people and Elaki moved in frantic but oddly aimless motion. The Elaki were at a distinct disadvantage—unable to hold their own against the bone and sinew of people who moved in a thickening mass for the door.

Warden turned his back on the screen with a movement so soft, David was the only one who looked up. David glanced at String, wondering if he would feel the need to show respect and consideration for the recorded death throes of the Elaki on disc. String's left eye prong twitched in a staccato pulse, but he was law enforcement through and through. Turning away was not part of the job.

No one moved and no one spoke, and the air was thick with screams that could not be heard.

The image flickered and went dark. Clements lit the cigarette that hung on her lips. David could see the red lipstick stain the filter. The acrid grey smoke curled into the air, but no one looked up, no one objected.

THIRTEEN

Della was staring at the screen of her terminal, A bright teary hardness in her eyes. A chocolate Twinkie sat on Mel's desk, untouched. David stood beside her, waiting till she looked up.

“Yeah, Silver?”

“I need whatever you've rounded up on Teddy Blake.”

“Background check is in your reader. Looks clean.”

“Della, everything okay with you?”

Her fingers moved over the keyboard, starting slowly, picking up speed. “Everything is fine.”

David looked at the display. The words glowed, white on black.

GO AWAY
   
GO AWAY
   
GO AWAY

David went away.

He sat at his desk, reading glasses loose on the end of his nose. He ran a hand through his hair, thinking it was too short in the back. Rose used to like it long. He had no idea what Rose liked these days.

There was a time when such a realization would have been painful.

He rubbed his eyes. Teddy Blake was thirty-two years old. That much he already knew. She looked much younger, David thought, remembering her in the cutoff jeans, yelling at the basketball players on the big old screen.

She was from Flatwoods, Tennessee, a tiny place in the mountains with the soaring population of 2006. She had a sister, age thirty, and a brother who would have been twenty-eight years old last month if he had lived. Her father had worked as a farm manager for forty years, up until his death five years ago. Her mother owned a shoe store in Flatwoods and land outside of town. Teddy's home address was a rural route.

She was not wealthy. David studied the accounts and decided that she might be wearing cutoff jeans out of necessity rather than style.

David browsed, studied the compilation. Her travel records were interesting, particularly a three-year segment where she had traveled in and out of Virginia.

David pushed the glasses back on his nose, noting that all the Virginia travel was first-class. He compared the records with the other years. Bus, cheap commuters, all in and out of Nashville.

Who had she worked for in Virginia?

He keyed in a request for more data, and got a green flag that blinked over large red block letters.

CLASSIFIED DATA
    
CLASSIFIED DATA

DEMONSTRATE NEED TO KNOW

David cleared the screen, aware that his request would be logged by some computer somewhere, and flagged by the people and programs that watched. Likely, nothing would come of it. Those who would watch were drowning in information these days. The data banks were choked; you had to turn inside out to catch anyone's attention. If you knew what the flags were, you could tailor your behavior to avoid the perimeters of the current programs and slip through the system nearly undetectable.

So what had Teddy Blake been up to in Virginia?

David picked up the phone, linking with the Chicago PD.

“Detective Bruer, please.”

He waited, heard a series of clicks, then a woman's voice.

“Chicago Police Department, Calhoon.”

David frowned. “This is Detective David Silver, Saigo City PD. Trying to get through to Detective Bruer.”

“Bruer's in the john, Detective Silver of Saigo City PD. I'm his partner. Can I help, or you want me to have him call?”

David grinned, thinking that if Mel told people he was in the john he would kill him. “You know, Calhoon, you could say not available.”

“Yeah, I could, if my mama had raised me better. Can I help you out here?”

“I'm calling about the Jenks homicide.”

There was a pause. “Last I heard, it was a missing person. You guys got a body?”

“DNA match came through last night.”

Calhoon sighed. “So all this time, she's dead?”

“Been dead less than forty-eight hours.”

“Do I have to play straight man here forever, Silver, or are you going to tell me a story?”

David focused on a spot on the wall. Was everyone in a bad mood today?

“I got more questions than answers, Detective Calhoon. Her body was found in a project house that burned along with a supper club, night before last.”

“She died in the fire?”

“Before. Strangled.”

“Weird. Any clue what she was doing there?”

“Not yet. Any information you can—”

“Done. We got a lot. Jenks is a big name in this town, so we hustled our butts.”

“One other thing. You work at all with a so-called psychic by the name of Teddy Blake?”

“Ted? Yeah, she was in on it. You're sounding a little hostile, Detective. You got a problem with Teddy?”

“No problem. She any help?”

“Yeah, sure, but no onion, my ulcer won't like it.”

David frowned. “Pardon?”

“Excuse me, Silver. We were talking about Ted, right? The thing is, I don't know how useful she was. She was sure Theresa Jenks was still alive, but she seemed real worried about her.”

“Makes sense,” David said. If she wanted to play Jenks, she would keep him wound tight, but hopeful.

“What do you mean, it makes sense?”

“Just thinking out loud.”

Calhoon sneezed, said excuse me. “You don't like psychics, do you, Silver?”

“What are you, a detective?”

“The reason I bring it up is, most of the time, I'd agree with you. We got a guy here in the department, goes to a psychic once a week, won't leave the house till he reads his horoscope. He's rude as hell and says it's because of the sign he was born under. But Ted's okay, Silver, you want my opinion. Bruer brought her in when Jenks was agitating for outside help. No stone unturned, you know how it is with families when people disappear.”

David winced. He knew.

“I know she worked with homicide in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, and I hear they were happy with her. She was in on that Squire bloodbath.”

“Was she? I didn't know they used a psychic on that one.”

“They used everything, plus this is Wyoming, the new California, dude. Using a psychic doesn't make the news out there, it's SOP.”

“Okay, Calhoon. Thanks.”

“You want me to tell Bruer to call?”

“Not till he's through.”

FOURTEEN

The lobby floor of the rialto hotel had been waxed to a feathery soft shine. Chrome fixtures glimmered behind a string of double doors. David counted them. Ten doors.

An Elaki-friendly ramp had replaced the stairs, and most of the people David saw were in hotel uniform, hair slicked back on the men and women, no beards, mustaches, or sideburns on the men.

The doorman nodded at String, gave Mel and David a sideways glance. String glided ahead of them across the buffed floors. David's shoes skidded and squeaked, bringing a look of disapproval from the front desk clerk.

David shivered. The lobby was chilled to the temperature he liked his beer on hot summer days. In spite of the occasional well-fed, tanned, and beautifully toothed person crossing the lobby—usually into the bar, which was open already—it was a top-notch hotel, which meant it was nearly Elaki-exclusive.

The desk clerk wore white gloves, and his hair was blond under the heavy gel. Elaki did not like the unruliness of human hair, and a hair in their food was a crisis.

The clerk nodded at String. “May I help you, sir?”

David was aware of the man's sweet powdery scent, the same odor that had emanated from the doorman. Elaki could be picky about human smells. He'd heard of establishments where people had to be perfumed, but he'd never been in one before.

“Detective Silver, homicide.” He showed his ID.

The clerk kept his focus on String.

“As in
police
,” Mel said. Loudly. An Elaki stopped in mid-glide and turned their way. “We're here to see Bernard Jenks. Can you tell me what room he's in?”

“Sir, it is not hotel policy to give out that kind of information.”

Mel leaned across the desk. “My partner here showed you his badge, didn't he, Mr., uh, Sam? Sam, huh? Don't use last names in a hotel this nice?”

The clerk lifted his chin. “We are all Sam here, sir.”

“Must make it nice if there's a complaint.”

The clerk blushed. David noticed that his hands were shaking. He was very young. Likely afraid for his job every day of his life.

David put his ID into his coat pocket. “What's your real name, Sam?”

“Brandon Reynolds, sir.”

“It's all right to give us that room number, Mr. Reynolds, believe me. It's even a matter of law. And Mr. Jenks—Dr. Jenks, excuse me—is only human, after all.”

Reynolds spoke into his headset, glanced at the computer screen. “Dr. Jenks is in Suite 3017. But it's a secure floor.”

“Please to have key for elevator,” String said.

“We'll have security take you up, sir.”

Mel grinned. “Now, ain't that nice.”

David took a deep breath when the elevator door closed. It was roomy inside, even with one Elaki and three humans. The carpet was red and flowered and clean—same pattern but better quality than the one at the Continental. The elevator stopped on the twelfth floor and opened to a knot of Elaki who began a concerted surge forward, then stopped and backed away.

“Room is plenty,” String said.

The red-jacketed security woman held the door.

“Thank you, no,” said an Elaki. The other three skittered back and forth, then moved away.

All quite polite and civil, David thought.

“At least they're not crowding us,” Mel said.

The security woman had the familiar powdery scent. Her name tag said Sam.

Mel looked at her. “You say something?”

Her look was polite, but not engaging. “No, sir.”

“How come you slick your hair back like that?”

“I like it this way, sir.”

“Can I just ask you one question, while my partner here hyperventilates? He's okay, by the way, he just don't like elevators. Now what I want to know is, you get fired if you don't wear that special perfume?”

“I would if a guest noticed and complained.”

Mel scratched his chin. “Okay, one human to another. And I know this isn't delicate, but suppose your stomach is upset. Or you eat burritos for lunch, or—”

“I'm sorry, sir, I don't understand what you mean.”

String rolled sideways. “What Detective Mel mean be—”

David cleared his throat. “String? Don't explain.”

“Do not?”

“No.”

The elevator door opened. Sam held the button for them. “Your floor, sirs.”

Mel grinned at her. “Nice meeting you, Sam.”

“You too, sir. Sir?”

“Yeah, hon?”

“Ten-day suspension for a first offense. You're out of work on a second.” The elevator door shut on her thin, elfin face. David watched, but she did not smile.

Jenks was expecting them. The knot of his tie was tight against the crumpled collar, and his shirttail hung loose and wrinkled. He wore lace-up spensers, but no socks, and his eyes were red-rimmed, his color yellowish.

David went through the ritual of ID, sympathy, and handshaking, and though he mentally cataloged the usual suspicions and questions about angry husbands, wills, and insurance that occurred with the knee-jerk but often accurate prejudice of an experienced homicide cop, he still felt bad for Bernard Jenks, doctor.

“Where is the Arthur pouchling?” String said. He did not sit, of course—Elaki did not sit even when they drove cars—and he towered over them, making everyone uncomfortable.

Jenks inclined his head to the bedroom. David heard the whirs and beeps of a video game. String rolled across the floor and peeped in the doorway.

“The pouchling sleeps.”

Jenks took a breath. “Good. He kept me up all night, talking in his sleep and prowling.”

David sat forward in his chair, hands loose between his legs, making a conscious effort not to grit his teeth. Jenks was a self-centered bastard. He wondered if the man had found his wife as inconvenient as he obviously did the boy.

Mel settled into a chair. “So, Dr. Jenks, you stand to inherit a lot of money?”

Jenks turned slowly and stared at Mel. “I don't believe I heard you?”

Mel waved a hand. “Yeah, well, it's no surprise, you being short on sleep like you are. I know you're too smart to take offense when I wonder out loud how much you stand to gain by your wife's death. It's just traditional police work.”

“Suspect the husband?” Jenks said.

“How's about clear your name, so we can go after the real guy.” Mel smiled, showing teeth.