Alien Rites (16 page)

David leaned forward. “Who, Ms. Nassif? Who made the complaint?”

She shook her head. “Not going to happen. Not going to tell you.”

“I'll have your records subpoenaed.”

“Best of luck, Detective. In the meantime, how's
your
home life? You got kids of your own?”

The anger was so sudden and so intense that for a moment David could not breathe. And laced with the anger was a sliver of fear. How was his home life? Okay, except his wife threw things at him whenever he walked through the door. Perfect environment for nurturing children.

Mel leaned forward. “Hey, lady, you late for your medication or something?”

Nassif stuck her chin up. “Everybody's vulnerable to Social Services.”

Mel leaned back against the couch, stretching his arm along the top. He smiled. “So true, Angie girlfriend. And Crystal there looks underage to me.”

Nassif flushed a thick dusky red that crept from the top of her halter bra, up her neck, across her cheeks. “That girl has been victimized all her life, victimized by men just like you. My home is a
haven
for her.”

“No doubt you make beautiful music, blah blah blah, so what? My partner here happens to be a world-class father, so don't give yourself airs. 'Cause you mess with him, and that'll piss me off.” He leaned forward, voice going low. “And believe me, you don't know from victimized.”

“You guys get out.”

David stood up. “I'll have a court order ready in twenty-four hours. Watch for it.”

“Have somebody read it to you,” Mel said.

THIRTY

There were no restaurants that allowed pigs in the dining room in any capacity other than barbecue, and it was too hot to leave Pid in the car, which was why they ended up eating at the Thunderboat. The kids loved eating there, and though he complained about the food, David liked it too, grease and all. It was a period piece, shaped like a sailboat, blue paint peeling. The hook was car speakers that fit in your windows, and human employees who brought food on a tray that clamped to your door.

There were picnic tables and a playground, a scummy fish pond, and a sandpit for pouchlings where the girls put Pid while they ate. The pig was feeling energetic, and tried to climb the sides of the pit three times, each time sliding back down to the bottom. He finally curled up and went to sleep.

The girls sat at a table near Pid, and David sat farther away, across from Mel, String, and Aslanti. Aslanti was part of String's chemaki—the Elaki family grouping String had formed to meet the needs of the human child he had co-adopted with another Elaki police officer. The child was the son of Arson Investigator Yolanda Free Clements, who had died in the line of duty, and left the care of her son to her Elaki partner, another member of the chemaki.

One thing that David loved about the Thunderboat was that it only catered to humans. Elaki were welcome, there was a sandpit for the pouchlings after all, but there was no cinnamon in the food and no tacos on the menu.

String licked the straw in his root beer float.

Mel shook his head. “You don't lick it, String, you suck it. Haven't you figured out straws?”

“The ice cream bobs and will not be still.”

“That's why it's called a ‘float,' so it's not like you weren't warned.”

David unwrapped the double-wide cheeseburger with catsup, mayonnaise, onion, lettuce, tomato, and pickle. It had almost sounded good, thirty minutes ago. He looked at a grease spot on the table. A dead fly had died happily in the middle.

Mel crunched an onion ring. “So then I say, ‘Hey, that girl of yours, Crystal, looks like she's underage to me.'”

Aslanti took a bite of chicken salad on whole wheat. “Must take care with these workers who are social.”

David rewrapped the burger, shivered, looked at Mel. “You forgot the part where you asked her if she was late for her meds.”

String quit eating and David saw his belly ripple. Elaki amusement.

Mel looked at David. “You can't be cold.”

Aslanti swiveled an eye prong in his direction. “Outdoor temperature still in the eight zeros now, even as the sun packs up.”

Mel wiped his fingers on a napkin. “You don't look good, David. You sick or something?”

“Tired.” David took a sip of iced tea. It felt good going down his throat.

“You're pale, you know that? And you're sweating.”

“You're sweating too,” David said.

“Yeah, but I'm not shaking.”

David turned to look at his daughters. Mattie was feeding Pid the end of her chili dog. Sometime during this long day the pig had crossed a threshold, and was eating almost everything in sight. Lisa wore her disc phones, eyes dreamy, tuned out. She nodded her head to music only she could hear, and divided her barbecue into tiny little pieces, then chewed them slowly, one by one.

David was glad, suddenly, that his daughters were with him. He was convinced that Annie Trey had not hurt her infant son. He promised himself that somehow, in the course of the investigation, he'd clear her name. Some days he liked his work.

He looked at the car. The drive home was going to be long and grueling. He promised himself early bed.

He thought of Crystal, how she had happily been stroking Pid's soft white flank when he and Mel came out of the house. She seemed quite comfortable with his daughters, but as soon as she saw David and Mel, she'd headed back across the street. She had a peculiar walk, a kind of sideways shuffle where she stared at the ground, then lifted her head in a quick, furtive reconnaissance before tilting it sideways, and staring back down.

David watched that walk and would have known, even without Nassif's backfill, that Crystal had the kind of background he didn't want to know about.

He looked up, realized Mel was watching him.

“Welcome to the world, David.”

“I'm sorry, what?”

“Aslanti wants access to some of the physical samples Miriam took during the baby's autopsy.”

David looked at the her. “You've seen Miriam's notes?”

“String bring them. Some bits of true interest. Would like to run a simple test, maybe three. Even four.”

David frowned. “I doubt we can get you access.”

Mel quit chewing. “What about that Caper guy, Sam? He seemed okay; maybe he could run them for her.”

“Yesss,” String said. “Runs tests under wing span homicide.”

“Something like that,” Mel said.

David nodded. “Worth a try.” He was tired of craning his neck to look up at the Elaki. He put his cheeseburger back in the bag. Maybe one of the kids would eat it on the way home. “Okay, guys, I'm going to call it a night. You going home, Mel, or coming with me?”

“No offense, David, but peace and quiet sound attractive tonight.”

“Must not be coming to my house.” He turned away, heard Aslanti say “please to excuse,” heard her sliding along the pavement behind him.

He glanced backward, gave her a lopsided smile. “You want me?”

She kept rolling, moving along at a good clip. David saw Mel give them a look.

“Progress further into the parking lake for to get privacy.”

“Lot,” David said.

“What?”

“Parking lot.”

She looked at him, a look that gave him pause. He followed her, hands in pockets. She stopped by an empty speaker, and David leaned against the white metal support post. His back scraped shreds of paint and he knew they would cling to his shirt. He was too tired to care. He held his jacket, sweaty palms making wrinkles in the khaki sleeves.

“What's up,” David said.

“You have had much time spent with this Trey, Annie?”

David scratched his neck. “Some. If you want my opinion, I think she's innocent.”

“And she has other children?”

“A little girl. Jenny. Eighteen months old, give or take.”

“Girl for sure, no boys child? Other than sad infant mortality?”

David swallowed, tried not to think about how sore his throat felt. It was the heat, that was all. This heat would take it out of anybody.

“And you, Silver David? These three noise happy ones are yours?”

“All mine.”

“Are there more? Male ones?” Both of Aslanti's eye prongs were slanted his way, and layered beneath the Elaki nonchalance was a concern that made him wipe the sweat from his upper lip.

“No. No boys.”

“Good this is.”

The normal thing to do would be to ask her why—why did it matter if he'd spent time with Annie Trey, if either of them had male children? Her newborn baby had been male, and her newborn baby was dead. If the child hadn't been poisoned, what had killed him?

Something extremely toxic, according to the autopsy. Something swift and nasty.

Oddly enough, he was not curious. He just wanted to take his girls and his pig and go home. He tried to smile.

“We appreciate your time and trouble, Aslanti. It's late, though. Time I got my girls home and in bed.”

“Detective David, pleasss. How physical do you be feeling?”

“Listen, Aslanti, don't go all medical on me. Learn to leave your work at the office.”

“My work is how I finds me. Please answer.”

David shrugged. “Fine. I feel fine.”

“Do not looks fine.”

“I'm a little tired, that's all.”

“Throat sore? Hot the cold sweats, panic tight in the chest?”

David's mouth went dry. “No. Yes.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Okay, maybe a little, but not that much.”

She skittered sideways. “Blood, please.”

“What?”

“Quick sample souvenir.” She had that tension in her belly that let him know she was attempting a joke.

He felt strange following her to her van—as if he were walking on the bottom of the ocean. He looked at String and Mel, deep in conversation. They did not notice Aslanti take out a thin blue case, reach for the packet of latent nano retrievers. She opened a small laptop, about the size of a sandwich, spoke to it softly, emptied the packet into an opening at the top.

She scuttled close and took his hand. Gave it a second look. “How long this scratch infected?”

He glanced down at the swollen red streak. Tried to remember cutting it. “Last night, I guess. When we found Cochran's car.”

“Ah.” Her fin felt soft, like ice-cold velvet. “Nano retrievers, small invasive, no pain. Hand here.”

He pulled away. He had the insane urge to grab his girls and run. Stupid. Whatever he was running from had caught him.

THIRTY-ONE

That night David dreamed of his father.

He was walking through an airport; he had a plane to catch. It had been raining, but the sun was out and he could see through the plate-glass window that the tarmac was rain-streaked, but drying.

He had just veered to the right when he saw his father, on the left side of the corridor, smiling quietly, waiting to be noticed.

“Dad?”

Someone tried to interrupt them but his father pointed a finger and they froze, silenced.

His father looked good. Trim, rested, healthy. David put his arms around him and hugged him, then pulled back and looked into his father's face.

“How can you be here if you're dead?”

His father's eyes were kind, he was smiling. “If you need me to be alive, David, I'm alive.”

The phone rang, jerking David awake. The dream went like a bubble popping in his head. He reached for the receiver, aware of the sweat-drenched sheets, the oily moisture coating his skin, Rose in the bed by his side.

She had not slept near him in months. He would ponder this miracle later.

He took a deep breath. “Hello?”

“Detective Silver? Detective Silver?”

He tried to place the voice. An old man, upset, almost in tears. He thought for a confused moment of his dad.

“Is this Detective Silver?
Please
answer me, please, sir.”

“Yeah, this is Silver.” David sat up, rubbed his face. “It's okay, I'm here. Who is this?”

“It's Mr. Dandy. You gave us all your number, sir. You said we could call.”

David heard an angry scream, the wail of a terrified child. He was instantly awake.

“What is it, Mr. Dandy? What's going on?”

“It's
you
. You people!”

“Please?”

“Valentine said to call. The police are here and they broke down the door. Please, Detective, don't let them take that child from Annie Trey.”

“Broke down the door?” David said. Nobody went through doors anymore.

“They used a battering ram, sir.” Dandy's voice broke. “For God's sake, can't you hear these babies cry?”

THIRTY-TWO

David stayed on the radio all the way in, Car lights blazing through the black void of four-thirty
A
.
M
., August haze milky in the headlights.

Della's voice floated up from the console. “David? You there?”

“Here.”

“Where is ‘here'? I'm not tracking right.”

“Just outside Watson, moving past the Ritter projects to Cracker Village.”

“Don't be going in there by yourself. I'm sending uniforms.”

“The hell you are. Not in that area—uniforms will start a firefight for sure. You send an army or let me slip in by myself.”

“David, I talked to Vice—they got nothing running right now, and they haven't used battering rams since 1997.”

“Maybe the one you talked to doesn't know what's up.”

“And maybe you're being set up.”

“I heard babies crying, Della.”

He left his car out front, wondered if it would be there when he got back. It was hot out, muggy, and he was sweating before he left the air-conditioned coolness of the car. He put a hand on his gun, let it register his prints so it would be ready to fire when he needed it.