Night Eyes (The Detective Temeke Crime Series Book 2) (15 page)

Fowler shot a brief look at Mrs. Oliver whose eyes were wide and searching. “We don’t have all the forensic pieces and it would be wrong to speculate.”

“What’s the motive?” Cyn shouted.

“We think its money,” Fowler responded.

“In exchange for Adam? Well, where is he then? Any news of Mayor Oliver? Is he still in a coma? Are the police really up for this?”

Fowler’s response was drowned out by another volley of questions and the room was louder than the New York Stock Exchange.

Malin heard Temeke’s whisper, warm breath tickling her ear. “Cyn’ll be out stone cold on the floor soon if she doesn’t stop bleating. She’ll also have a surprised look on her stupid face after Fowler’s put his boot in.”

“She’s got a point,” Malin hated to admit. “The first Press Conference didn’t go much better. She accused the police of hiding information she thought the public should be made aware of.”

“When you look at Mrs. Oliver. What do you see?”

Malin saw a woman who should have been the face of Yves Saint Laurent. She was talking to the press now, pleading for the kidnapper to bring Adam home safe. “Confident, determined. She’s looking right at the cameras like a news anchor.”

“She was a model. She knows how to work them.”

“She’s gripping that cell phone, keeps looking at it like she’s expecting a call.”

“Wouldn’t you if you lost your son?”

“You’ve always said concentrate on the facts. Boy goes missing. Fact. Father gets shot. Fact. Kidnapper calls the wife. Fact. Police are no further in their investigation in the five long days since Adam disappeared. Fact.”

“That’s why Hackett’s called this Press Conference, Marl. To see if the local rag can get the ball rolling since we’ve managed to come up with bugger all.”

“But Fowler’s telling them the motive’s money.”

“Good. Then if our kidnapper’s watching, he’ll have a bloody good laugh.”

Ramsey was laughing again. Long drawn out sounds that seemed to scrape and churn in his throat and echo around the hunter’s cabin. Sometimes he spat that laugh right out where it left a glistening trail in the carpet. Sometimes he clutched his chest where his heart was because he said there was a tear in it.

It was the grass and tobacco he rolled, smelled like burnt hay every time he took a drag. Said it was safe to smoke inside, said the walls were thick enough to hide the smell. Sometimes, he would grasp his thigh with both hands and then he’d lie back in that chair with a glazed look on his face.

It was Monday morning. Had to be. Adam counted the days off on his fingers and he was on the fourth finger on his right hand when he heard the rise and fall of Ramsey’s voice. He was on that phone again, only this time he was talking to himself, leaving a message that nobody heard.

Something about Midsummer’s day and how he should have been there. The rest was muffled behind a hand, like he didn’t want Adam to hear. The phone lost its juice after that and Ramsey turned the volume up on the TV, sat smoking that thing until it was no bigger than a child’s tooth. He muttered to the wall as if there was someone else in the room and then he sighed, shoulders jigging in a sob.

It was the tears that made Adam shudder. He’d never seen a grown man cry, slumped in the chair with his head in his hands. It went on for a while until Adam could hear no other sound but the wind. He wanted to run away, wanted to charge through the front door. The deadbolt was engaged, he could see through the gap in the frame and there was no key in the lock to open it. The cabin was old, plaster stripped down to the wall studs and the wind whistled through dirty panes of glass.

He felt sorry for the man, felt a clawing at his heart. Ramsey had been a little harsh in the beginning. But he hadn’t tried to kill him, hadn’t tied him to a tree and left him there for the wolves. Brought him to the cabin… house… whatever it was, and laid him in the bed. Even put a thick blanket over his shivering body. Adam had been crying then, missing his dad, and Ramsey stayed until he fell asleep. But there was something that bothered Adam, something he needed to ransack from that cluttered mind of his.

It was his sixth birthday when they were living in the big white house, the one by the sea. He remembered the cake, the candles. He even remembered the walk down to the beach, the rush of wind across the dunes. He could still feel the warmth of his dad, arms around his thigh like he’d never let go.

They walked in the tideline that evening, watching their footprints as they dimpled the sands. He remembered the thud of the waves, the swell and the foam, and he remembered the man. A figure in the distance at first and then a solid shape as he came up close. His hair was cropped short like the men his dad once knew.

You always remember things like that, when a sharp yellow sun rides along the coastline and stretches out of sight, and all the rest is gray sea, sand and sky. Before they said goodbye, the man crouched down and gave Adam something and said something too, only he couldn’t remember what it was. But there was one thing he remembered. A raw red line that ran along the man’s left temple.

Adam looked over at a pot belly stove in the corner of the room, coals flickering through the fire door. A kettle began to steam on the hotplate, a shoot of it almost to the ceiling. Ramsey pulled his sleeve down, grabbed the thing by the handle and poured two cups of water.

It was the sound of thunder that made Adam flinch, rain rattling against the roof. He came out of the bedroom and sat down on the floor next to Ramsey, looked up at two wide eyes.

“You knew my dad from before, didn’t you?”

Ramsey took a sip of that tea and offered a slight nod. “Well, that would take all night. It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“But I do worry.” Adam was worried Ramsey’s leg would fester and he would die out here, and Adam would never find his way home.

“A lad like you has a mother for that stuff.”

“Yes, but she’s not here is she. And I’m worried now.”

Ramsey sucked in his bottom lip like he was thinking real hard and he seemed to study the cracks in the floor. “There was a time,” he said, “when I worried a lot. Thought I’d die once, but I didn’t. Better to laugh, remember a few good jokes. Awful world to be sad in.”

Adam smiled at that. He’d laughed about the raptors in the long grass, the stupid growls Ramsey made all the way to the cabin. They’d run like two madmen anyway.

“Got us here, didn’t you, Mr. Night Eyes?”

“You got us here.”

“Between those eyes and my belly, we got us here. Eyes to see, belly to sense. That’s what it’s all about. Teamwork. So tell me about the girl you like at school?” Ramsey said.

Adam told Ramsey her name again, told him how he liked her hair and the way she rocked her head from side to side when she spoke. “She’s Indian. They do that, you know.”

Ramsey glanced down at the phone on his lap. “I like someone too. Well, love, actually. There have been others, but no one like her.”

“Did you ask her to marry you?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because it wouldn’t have been right.”

“Why?” And when Ramsey didn’t answer, Adam remembered the photograph. “It’s that girl isn’t it? The one in a bathing suit. Why do guys look at girls in bathing suits?”

“You wouldn’t understand―”

“Why won’t you tell me?”

“Well, it’s hard to explain. So I’ll leave it for now. Until you’re older.”

“What if I die before I’m older. You promised!” Adam was kneeling now, fists by his sides and shaking too. There was something Ramsey wasn’t telling him and that made him mad. “It’s all that sex stuff isn’t it. The kissing.”

“It’s more than that.”

“You did something… you did something bad.”

“Now, son―”

You killed my dad!”

Adam started thumping Ramsey then. On the cheeks, on the head, on the scar. He thumped Ramsey in the chest, on his thighs until he crumpled to the floor. He felt the hand on his head as he sobbed. Felt so wretched.

“Who are you?” Adam whimpered.

“Just a small piece of your life, son. That’s all. I made you a spitfire when you were a kid. Painted it too.”

Adam shook his head at first and sobbed some more. And then he remembered the old plane in his bedroom, the one high up on the ledge, the one with the tattered paint. He recalled running around the garden with his arm in the air, plane banking first to the left and then to the right, tongue bouncing off the roof of his mouth in a stutter of gunfire. He kept it on his windowsill at night, watched the moonlight spill over those gray and green wings and dreamed of it bursting through the clouds. He was proud of it.

“It’s still in my room,” he murmured.

The little plane was no longer in pride of place and half hidden behind a larger Spitfire, a few Junkers and a couple of Messerschmitts. But it was still there.

“That’s one of the small pieces,” Ramsey said. “Maybe you’ll have a good laugh at some of the things we did. Maybe you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me. And maybe you’ll marry Runa and tell your kids about me. I’d like that.” Ramsey always looked at him with squinty eyes, face tilted to one side, mouth almost a smile.

“You never taught me how to shoot a gun. You only taught me how to hold one.”

“I’ll teach you how to shoot. After you learn how to load and aim.”

“And you said you’d tell me everything.”

Ramsey agreed. Said he’d already started writing it down in his blue book. Said he’d give it to Adam as soon as he’d finished writing it. “Do you remember what I said to you that day? On the beach?”

Adam shook his head. It was always blur.

“I said I was proud of you. That you looked like your grandma. Same eyes. Same nose. It used to tilt up like this.” Ramsey pressed one finger against his nose and pushed it as high as it would go. “Looked like Miss Piggy.”

Adam sucked in a smile, wasn’t going to let Ramsey get off too lightly. “Is Ramsey your real name?”

Ramsey pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. “Ramsey… Gray Fox, whatever comes easiest.” He rubbed his leg then, gave a wince now and then. “You want to aim that gun?”

Adam nodded. They were outside before he could count to six. He was scared, but he was excited too. Ramsey checked if it was loaded, told Adam to do the same.

“It isn’t loaded,” Adam said.

“How do you know?”

“You just checked.”

“But did you?”

Ramsey told him to make sure the safety was on, told him to hold it downrange. He shouted a few times, made Adam jump until he forgot which way was right.

“You won’t load it until I tell you to.”

Adam nodded. He just aimed and steadied it a few times, forefinger below the trigger guard. Something about being bitten by the slide and how painful it was. And there was a story to go with it. 

It was fun in a dangerous kind of way and Adam wasn’t sure he wanted to pull that trigger when the time came. Didn’t want the thing to go off and make him deaf. His heart nearly missed a beat, tried to aim at a notch on a nearby tree. Something about sights moving and could he see his aim point. The gun felt heavy in his hands and there was sweat pouring down the side of his face.

“Take a deep breath and hold it,” Ramsey said.

Adam thought he would pop and it wasn’t until Ramsey took that gun away that he let out the breath he was holding. Then Ramsey told him about flying shells and hot gases, how guns were all different. Made him feel important. Made him feel like a man. Told him they’d practice again tomorrow.

It was late when they finished all the food, drank all the tea. Ramsey said there was a town two miles to the north where they could buy more food. They’d stay the night there in a motel, take showers, change clothes. It was something to look forward to.

That night, Adam dreamed of a dark gray sea lifting and falling behind the breakers, and of a man walking through the water, legs frothy from the swell. He woke up once shouting for his dad until a voice soothed him back to sleep.

It was the sound of a dog’s bark that woke him up at dawn.

Temeke drove into his usual parking space to the right of the dumpster and turned off the ignition. His cell phone gave him a jolt. Serena.

It was her voice that made him tense and for some reason he couldn’t stomach her today. He missed her but not enough to bear any more pain. He knew what she wanted. Just couldn’t bring himself to agree to it. 

“Yesterday?” Temeke almost smacked his head and dropped the phone. It was Tuesday. He had completely forgotten. “I’m so sorry, love.”

She said she was sorry too. Said he should have been there to hear what she had to say. There was always a sob in Serena’s voice, a tremor that sometimes darkened his dreams and caused him to wake up sweating. He knew he wasn’t good enough, knew he couldn’t fill that husband-shaped hole. Couldn’t have kids either.

And she’d waited for him in the park. Half an hour she said. Then her tone was caustic, one that told him she wasn’t going to repeat any of what she wanted to say that day. He’d quite simply missed the boat, which was lucky really, because it meant she’d have to wait another month for a signature on those sorry-ass divorce papers.

“Luis is looking forward to his new job,” she said.

“New job?” Temeke hated to sound so puzzled but the truth was nobody had told him.

“Watch Commander. He’s been promoted.”

Watch Commander? Hello… Fowler was after that position and the poor old git got pipped to the post
.

“Score!” he said a little too loudly. “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer person.”

Couldn’t have happened at a better time. If Temeke played his cards right, he might be reporting directly to Luis. Serena ended the call after that. Said she didn’t feel like talking anymore.

Temeke poked a cigarette in his mouth and grabbed a book of matches from the dash. Two long drags and he was in heaven except for the ash stain on his pants which he worried away with a spit-moistened finger. The wind hurled a handful of leaves in his face, and despite the lateness of the morning, there were only a few cars in the parking lot.

Hackett was going to love Fowler. After more than a week, he still hadn’t come up with any leads and the smarmy bastard was making shoddy excuses due to the lack of manpower. Temeke tried to keep the delight from his thoughts. He’d show the yokels how to get a result. 

His military jeep was covered in a brown slush and it was time to take it to the carwash. A raccoon had once taken to lying in the sun on the canvas roof. Temeke had no idea how much trash was left up there until he drove home one day and a passing driver gave him the finger, complaining of a windshield full of candy wrappers.

Temeke liked that raccoon. He was the only friend he had these days. Smart those raccoons. They had sharp eyes that burned into your mind like they could read it and they could pick a lock no matter which way it was turned. Must have had a den in that dumpster. Looked better fed than he was.  

He puffed a smoke screen out into the parking lot, dropped the cigarette and gave it the full weight of his foot. Sarge was in the lobby on the phone and staring blankly at his clipboard. “Round nine thirty? Very good. I’ll tell him.” He hung up and nodded at Temeke. “Megan Sterling. Housekeeper. She’ll be here in ten minutes. Good news. Seems Mrs. O got a phone call yesterday from the kidnapper.”

“Did they get a trace?”

“West Fork Gila River. It’s a wilderness up there.”

Temeke lowered his voice and leaned towards the desk. “Is the old git in?”

Sarge’s eyes snapped over Temeke’s right shoulder, gave a smile and widened his hands.

“The old git is in,” a loud voice confirmed over a theatrical cough. “And he’s going home.”

“Bad cold?” Temeke said, turning around only to be greeted by a filthy rag bunched up under Hackett’s nose. He’d snuck down the stairs this time in those soft whispery shoes.

“I’ve had it since Christmas.”

“Might I recommend a good dose of whisky, sir. And by a good dose, I mean more than just an eyebath. Good news about the phone call.”

“Freakishly long river. We’ll be lucky if we find him. I’ve emailed you the file.”

Hackett paused by the front door, watching a small white Cavalier as it crossed the parking lot and splashed through a puddle right in front of his nice clean car. “It’s been twenty-two years,” he muttered. “Twenty-two
long
years in this dried up hell-hole and it’s never rained this much.”

“Good for the reservoirs, sir,” Sarge piped up. “Just think, no water ban this summer.”

“He’s got a point,” Temeke said, hoping to get shot of the boring conversation. “Course it makes no difference to me. My lawn’s plastic.”

They both looked at him with empty stares, the kind that told him he was a traitor to nature. Temeke was partial to his tacked down grass. No mowing, no watering, always green no matter the season. Just needed a little vacuuming now and then.

Hackett buried his nose in that oily rag and braved a slanting rain. When he was gone Sarge gave a big sigh and opened his desk drawer. He held up a pile of telephone messages addressed to Captain Fowler from Gloria Pacheco.

“She’s called three times and he won’t talk to her.”

“Do yourself a favor, don’t show any of these to Fowler on account of his bad temper. Rumor has it, he’s been ghosting Gloria after he found out it was a pair of old socks down her sweater.” Temeke tapped his nose. “Nothing special about her weapons.”

Temeke barged his way past Fowler and Jarvis on the stairs and shut himself in his office. Logging into his computer, he found the sound file from Hackett. It was clearer than he expected, voice deep and homely. Couldn’t think of any other words to describe it.

Midsummer’s day… I should have been there. I wanted to be. He’s a good kid. Knows how to shoot and fish. You know how they made us. Rock hard inside and out so our hearts don’t feel anymore. It wasn’t right… just wasn’t right….

The phone went dead after that. Adam was still alive and still very real to his kidnapper. But there were two things that kept nudging at Temeke’s subconscious, things he needed to talk to Mrs. Oliver about. Accessibility to a private number. And the word’s
I should have been there. I wanted to be.

Temeke checked his watch and found an empty interview room near the front lobby. Closing the blinds, he cracked two slats open with a finger to see a ginger blond by the front desk. She was clutching a small yellow purse in both hands.

“Can I help you,” Sarge said.

“Detective Tamale?”

“Temeke,” Sarge corrected. “And you are?”

“Megan Sterling.”

“I’ll tell him you’re here.”

Sarge drifted across the lobby and tucked his head around the door. He gave a slight chin jerk and a long drawn out, “Housekeeper’s here.”

“Get Santiago,” Temeke said, both hands raised.

He didn’t relish the thought of being shut in with a girl whose rear was squirming to get out of those spray-on jeans. As for the accent, he’d need subtitles.

Temeke held out a hand and showed Megan a chair. “We appreciate you coming in today.”

Malin arrived shortly after, hugging two cups of coffee. She recorded the date and time and all the people in the room.

“Do I need an attorney?” Megan asked.

“You’re not a suspect. But if you would prefer to have an attorney―”

“Oh, no, that’s OK.”

“So, how long have you known the Olivers?” Malin pushed a cup of coffee across the table.

“Nine months.” Megan gave that small yellow purse a chair of its own. “I came straight from college.”

“What was your degree?”

“Cooking.” Megan lightly cocked her head towards the handbag. “With a minor in shopping.”

Temeke studied the cat-eye makeup and the pale lipstick which appeared to have been smeared on with a generous helping of lube. Her lips were full… full of dermal fillers, he guessed, unless someone had booted her in the kisser. 

“Was there anything unusual you might have seen or heard leading up to Adam’s disappearance?” Malin asked with a terse smile.

“Yeah,” she said, drawing the word out like it was obvious. “Mrs. Oliver was mad, always shouting at Adam to put the seat down, clean his room, do his homework. He’s a good kid. But honestly, she was, like, a total bitch. I wouldn’t be surprised if he ran away just to get away from her.”

“How do you explain the shooting?” Temeke asked, listening to the modulation of her voice, marked by a rise in pitch at the end of every sentence.

Megan sipped her coffee and pulled a face like she was drinking sewage. “Probably an accident. Who knows. Boys and guns. Mayor’s not dead is he?”

“No, he’s in ICU. But don’t let that bother you.” Temeke noticed the pressed shirt and the navy woolen blazer. Even her jeans were designer and he wondered how a housekeeper could afford all that.

“Tell me about Art Ingram’s birthday. Sunday was it?”

Megan nodded. “You wouldn’t think he’s thirty-five. Nice looking. Single. So, she called me in to cook lunch. I didn’t mind. It’s, like, overtime.”

Malin looked up at the ceiling and down again. “You were saying something unusual happened.”

“That afternoon, Mrs. Oliver was on the phone. She was scared.”

“Do you know who she was talking to?” Malin said, lowering her head towards the file.

“Know? Of course I
know
. It was some guy. The volume was turned up so high you could hear it in Roswell. But see, it was really sketchy cause he was talking in code.”

Malin’s head came up. “Code? Can you give me an example?”

Megan had a tongue stud which occasionally popped in and out of her mouth. Since she yawned repeatedly, it spent a good deal of time out rather than in. “Something about PST and LSD. I guess it was drugs. Then he was talking about goals and buds.”

“Where was she when she made this call?”

“In the gazebo.”

“Where were you when this happened?”

“In the kitchen. Only I had to open the window.”

“Bit cold to have the window open at this time of year. Did you burn something?” Temeke asked.

Megan gave a tightlipped smile. “I just wanted to hear what she was saying. See if she was OK. So Cesar and I went outside and hid behind the shed.”

“What else was she saying?” Malin asked.

“She said she was being followed. Said he was angrier now, didn’t want it all to get out.”

“Do you know who she was talking about?”

“Who the
he
was, you mean?” She shrugged. That was the part she didn’t know. And she didn’t have a clue who the voice on the phone belonged to either.

“How far away were you?” Temeke asked.

“Behind the trellis.”

So not behind the shed. The trellis was at the back of the gazebo as Temeke recalled. They would have been closer to Mrs. Oliver than he was to Megan now.

“Anyway I’m thinking she must have had a stupid-ass mental breakdown with all that crying and carrying on. And I’m, like, wondering if she’s going to pass out, when all of a sudden she starts cussing him out. She said, ‘Don’t tell him, cause if you do, I’ll get an attorney.’” Megan was stabbing the air now with a fingernail. “And I’m like… calm down! Cause she was really yelling and the Press Secretary was coming around the side of the house.”

“Did he see you?” Malin asked.

“No, silly. How can he if he’s on the other end of the phone.”

“The Press Secretary.”

“Oh, Art? Just cause he wears prescription Louis Vuittons doesn’t mean he can’t see.”

“You remember the entire conversation?” Temeke said. “Word for word?”

“Word for word. Another thing.” They all leaned in a little closer now. “She’s got a couple of journals.”

“Anything interesting?” Temeke asked.

Megan grimaced for a few seconds and then rattled an array of gold bangles as she brushed an imaginary piece of fluff from her jeans. “Tried opening one with a paperclip. Lock wouldn’t budge.”

“What made you think there was anything worth reading?”

Megan sucked in her bottom lip and frowned. She took the yellow purse off the chair beside her and placed it in her lap. “Mrs. Oliver said something about it to the man on the phone. Said everything was there. All the proof.”

Temeke waited for her to continue and when she didn’t, he said, “Proof?”

“That’s it.” Megan lifted her chin and gave an easy nod. “I thought you should know.”

Blimey, Temeke thought, wanting to give Megan a mental clap around the ear for not opening the wretched thing. He sneaked a look at his watch, stood up and walked towards the door. “I need to make a phone call so I’ll leave you with Detective Santiago. If there’s anything else you need, you let us know.”

He wanted to call Andrew Blaine of 522 Cragmont Ave, Berkeley, before the crafty old bugger went missing in action. And he wanted a search warrant for those journals before someone else got to them. He slipped out of the door, made a mad dash for the next room and peered through the observation window. Malin knew the drill.