The 9th Hour (The Detective Temeke Crime Series Book 1) (13 page)

Malin savagely slammed the car onto the frontage road until they reached the racetrack which most Albuquerque residents sensibly referred to as I-25.

“Clocking seventy-five, Marl,” Temeke warned. “State cops get a little snarky around seventy-four.”

She barely reduced her speed, probably desperate to get to PNM and home again. Working double shifts like the rest of them and who were the rest of them? Half the squad were down with the flu and the other half pretended a glut of illnesses Temeke had never even heard of.

Sarge was on family leave. It wouldn’t take his mind off Becky, but it would certainly get his mind off Temeke. The car was quiet without the constant drone of Sarge’s voice over the radio. Until the silence was broken with another voice.

“Got a description on the partial remains.” Captain Fowler crackled over the radio. “Patti Lucero of 5341 Live Oak Lane. Last seen on Thursday, November 27th outside Cibola High in the parking lot. Aged seventeen, dark hair, 127 pounds, five feet five inches tall.”

“Any surveillance videos?”

“Too grainy.”

So there were videos. It had been three weeks since Patti was last seen. “Any chance we can get NASA to clear up the video.”

“I’m working on it. Two things, her mother didn’t know Patti had a boyfriend. Didn’t even know where she was living. The doctor found no fingerprints on the remains in the box. No other blood samples besides hers. Oh, and guess who’s fingerprints were on the bone you sent over on Tuesday?” Fowler paused for extra clout. “Yours.”

Temeke shook his head at the sound of laughter coming through the radio. “You’ve got eyes sharper than a spectroscope, Captain. Course they’re mine.”

“The doctor confirmed ballistic trauma to the femur. Same as those found on the body of Bonner Levinson. He also found the leftovers of meat and fries in her teeth. Since there wasn’t a stomach to do a contents check, he was quite pleased to know that was her last meal. It gave me the creeps. I had a burger for lunch yesterday.”

“If you get kidnapped and decapitated, we’ll know there’s a connection. What else?”

“Nothing much on your pants. But DNA came back on that strand of blond hair found on the victim. It belongs to Morgan Eriksen.”

Temeke turned off the radio, sick to the stomach. “That’s not possible,” he murmured, turning to Malin. “Not unless our killer was wearing Morgan’s clothes. Let’s say Patti had a burger and chips, that says this girl had a good appetite for someone that’s been kidnapped.”

“She was in love with him. Didn’t think he was going to kill her.”

“After a gunshot wound?”

“I’d still be hungry in that many hours. Probably want to build myself up so I could put up a good fight.”

“Maybe. But burger and fries is fast food. Food on the go. Food in the car. It’s not like a home cooked meal of steak and baked potato.”

“So you’re saying they were driving around.”

“I think that’s exactly what I’m saying.” Temeke pulled out a cigarette and sucked on it for a while. “We know Eriksen’s inside so he can’t have done it. Even if the fridge in the barn kept those heads nice and fresh. No maggots, no real time of death. Patti’s head was left in a nice warm house, getting moldier by the minute. A little easier to read wouldn’t you say? Not like he can run back to the Shelby Ranch and burn them. He’d only get himself wrapped up in crime scene tape.”

“Who’s
he
?”

Temeke was lulled briefly by the metrical beat of the windshield wipers. “The man in the passport. The man that calls Morgan from time to time on stolen phones. The man they call Ole Eriksen.”

“But we know Morgan doesn’t have any brothers.”

“Morgan doesn’t. Ole does.”

Malin’s head twisted around and Temeke could feel those steely eyes trained on him as if she had no idea what he was talking about.

“According to his files, Ole never committed any crimes in Norway. That’s why he wasn’t showing up in the database. Morgan Eriksen wasn’t there in Patti’s case. But he saw what happened to the others. He knows the drill.”

“And Becky’s number nine.” Malin glanced up at the rearview mirror.

The wind whistled, driving sand and snow across the road. Temeke’s nose began to twitch, testing the air. He heard the loud boom and felt the car lurch forward, rushing along the highway at a speed way beyond the Explorer’s capacity.

“It’s the cop car,” Malin shouted over grinding metal, trying to straighten the steering wheel.

Like a bullet rushing past a man’s ear, the car overtook and roared into first place. It hung there for a while and then accelerated over the brow of a hill, leaving a cloud of dust behind.

“You OK?” Temeke said. He saw Malin nod before picking up the handset and calling it in.

It was a Camaro SS Coupe with at least four hundred horsepower and window tints darker than state requirements. There was no license plate. No car number. Nada.

“I’ve heard of undercover. But this is underhand,” he said over a ghastly rattling in the rear. He looked through the wing mirror and saw the bumper dangling by a thread and scraping along the tarmac. “No need to rush. He’ll be waiting over the next hill.”

And he was, hanging by a hard shoulder some seventy feet ahead and revving up a fog.

“Go slow. We don’t want three large hacks to jump out of that tiny trunk with an armful of semi-automatics.”

Temeke’s cell phone rattled on the console beside him. The caller ID flashed with the name Maisie Williams. He tapped the speakerphone icon and an unfamiliar voice claimed the air. “Speak two names, Detective. A raven needs a name.”

“Who is this?” Temeke snapped a look at Malin.

“You tell me.” There was a hint of amusement in that gravelly voice, a hint of an accent.

Temeke took his time to answer.
I mean, why not?
He was still half-dazed from that big old thud and his neck had almost snapped off its stem. “How about
Memory
and
Thought
?”

“Very good,” the voice replied. “The last detective I spoke to was too ignorant to know it. But then you know what I do with ignorant people.”

Temeke remembered what had happened to his predecessor, tried not to think of that dead cat either. They were fifty feet from the Camaro now. Near enough.

“I pulled him from his car, Detective. You should have seen his eyes.”

“Nobody called it in for three days.”

“Nobody knew where he was.”

Temeke pressed the phone to his chest and whispered, “It’s the daft bugger in that Camaro. How’d he get hold of Maisie William’s phone?”

“Are you smart, Detective?” the voice said.

“Smart as any man.” Temeke flapped a hand at Malin and indicated for her to pull over.

“Of course you’re wondering how I got hold of Maisie William’s cell phone. Better take it up with your surveillance team. Looks like they’re not doing their job.”

Temeke had visions of a well-dressed man, late thirties, nicely gelled hair and smelling of aftershave. He let him rant on while he lit a cigarette and then realized Malin was giving him a wide-eyed glare. He opened the window and flicked it at a large clump of melting snow.

“Smart men don’t find themselves in places like this. Smart men aren’t lead investigators of cases they can’t solve. And you won’t solve this case, detective. It’s out of your reach. So call off your dogs, there’s a sport.”

“I’d like to stare you in the eye and ask you why.”

“Maybe you will. Maybe you won’t. And yes, I am the daft old bugger in the Camaro.”

Temeke took a measured breath. He was suddenly sick of all these foreigners. They should all go home, he thought, and then realized that was a bit ripe coming from him.

“What’s your price?” he said, knowing there was one.

“Morgan Eriksen for Becky Moran.”

Temeke listened to the engine humming over the radio, wishing he could haul-ass up the hard shoulder and stuff the muzzle of his gun through the Camaro window.

“You mean her remains,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Her body.”

“I never leave bodies. Just the head. Living heads. Dark heads. In her case, she has both.”

Temeke had a feeling in his gut, a sense Becky was in the car with him. “Put her on.”

He heard the sluggish voice. “Temeke… Temeke…”

“Becky―”

“If you follow me,” the man grunted, “I’ll kill her. And that’s a fact. You’ve got nothing. No evidence. No chance. Winner takes all.”

“If I could tell you how many criminals I’ve met in the last twenty-four years claiming I had no chance, your claws would curl.”

“Sarcasm cuts both ways. And you have so much of it. The blood samples aren’t mine. The DNA doesn’t match any crime stain profile.”

“So we found out. Cleaner ways don’t win wars, Mr… . you never did give me your name.”

“That’s why I asked you if you were smart. You’re a legendary lawman. I’d like to meet you in the flesh.”

“I’m right behind you,” Temeke said with a smile. He could hear a girl whimpering in the background, making his heart race faster than it was meant to.

“Another time perhaps. I’m guessing you’ll go back to the drawing board. You never know. You might have missed something.”

The death rattle of the dial tone was drowned by the surge of tires over gravel. The Camaro surged off like a missile and was lost behind the next rise.

Temeke called it in, shouted at Fowler to alert all units. He put a restraining hand on Malin’s arm, told her to slow down. “He was using Maisie William’s cell phone. If he didn’t take it from her purse, he must have taken it from the house. Either way, he’s getting too close.”

“You mean he broke in?”

Temeke felt himself nod, felt himself shiver. Darryl was in danger and so were his girls.

“He said there were other heads out there, sir. Living heads. Dark heads. He told us to call off the dogs, sir. There’s something out there in the woods. Something we missed.”

“He doesn’t mean a row of severed heads singing nursery rhymes in a freezer. He means young girls he’s been stalking.”

“
Dark
, sir. A girl he should have taken in the first place.”

Temeke watched her, read the expression in her eyes, heard the tremor in her voice. He knew what she was thinking.

It was a gray day. One of those days when the clouds were pale overhead and the streets were slick with rain. Ole felt wired. He had been feeling it for days. When there was a change in the weather, a change in the light, it was like a stirring in the blood that wouldn’t go away.

Sometimes he sensed Odin in the wind. But for the last five days, he hadn’t sensed him at all. Something was different. He needed to go back to the woods. He needed to see Loki.

He had to get out. Couldn’t stand the smell of the house, the darkness behind the blinds where only one light burned in the kitchen. He felt like he was floating under the surface of water, hands pushing up against a thick wall of ice.

Swiping the screen of his new cellphone, he hit the contacts button. There was a number for
Temeke
. Just as he expected.

“Remember me? We spoke yesterday,” Ole said with a smile in his voice. “I hadn’t heard from you. Thought I should follow up.”

“I’m glad you did,” detective Temeke said, “because I was beginning to wonder if you’d acquired another phone. It’s a bugger trying to trace someone without a phone. Or a valid number.”

Ole wondered at the sarcasm, wondered if it should cost Becky a finger. He’d already tightened those shackles with a screwdriver, only the right one was full of dried blood and needed to be scraped clean. They were different to the ones Patti had. These were screw shackles instead of a twist pin. There was no way she could get out of these. “There are three cabins near the Shelby ranch. One is still standing. Make sure you leave Morgan by the fire.”

“Does he want a cup of tea? Or shall I make it a beer?”

Ole felt a wave of heat, mind racing to understand the response. “Just you and Morgan, Detective. Or Becky dies. Capitch?”

“No, it’s
capiche
, son. That’s how they pronounce it over here. Italian, you know. Anyway, nip along to the cabin and bring Morgan alone. I got it.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Well, that’s the thing, see. Tomorrow’s Sunday. The Sabbath. Nobody works on Sunday.”

“Are you Jewish, Detective?”

“No, but quite suddenly I wish I was.”

“Then you know the Sabbath begins on Friday and ends on Saturday night.”

“Since you put a dent in the Explorer,” the detective said, “the car’s in the shop. Like I say, mechanics don’t work on Sunday. I could go on foot, only it might take a week or two.”

Ole wondered if the detective was hard of hearing or just plain stupid. The warning buzzer was going off in his brain and it was beginning to give him a headache. He’d been on the phone for a minute and a half. Time to ring off.

He put the screwdriver on the window sill and stretched his aching fingers. The girl lay on the bed, cheek swollen and bruised. It happened when she cracked her head against the window yesterday. When he rammed the Camaro into the Explorer. Should have seen her face when she heard the detective’s voice. Should have heard her scream when he pulled away.

That was over seventeen hours ago. She was sleeping now. And he was hungry.

“Becky,” he murmured, sitting on the bed. He touched her arm, felt no response. “Looks like your
Temeke
wants to wait. He doesn’t love you. He doesn’t even care.”

He leaned down to kiss her cheek, flicked a wisp of hair from her mouth. She was chained to the bedhead, wrists clamped tightly together and resting on the pillow. He couldn’t remember the dosage this time, probably no more than two hundred milligrams.

He looked about for a needle, something to poke that skinny arm with just to see if she was faking. He picked up the flat-blade screwdriver and he let it hover over her skin. She’d feel the change in air current just like a common house fly if she knew how close he was. He pressed it against her shoulder, saw the flesh crater under the pressure. Not a shiver. Not a sound.

She was out cold.

“I’m not your enemy,” he whispered. “Never was. I would have loved you if you had loved me. But you didn’t. I am good, you know. Much better than you think. I was perfect once. When my mother loved me. I don’t know why she left my dad, my kind, smart, goodhearted, dad. I don’t know why things have to change. But they do. When did you change, Becky? When did you really know?”

He liked the feel of her skin, the smell of it. And he liked those dark eyelashes that would have been stained with five-day old make-up if he hadn’t taken a glob of Vaseline and wiped the residue away.

“You will be going home, babe. I’ll make sure of that.” He lowered his lips to her ear and whispered, “In tiny little pieces.”

Two minutes later he was driving north on Osuna to the Gridiron Café. He parked in his usual spot, almost directly across from the front door. There were cops sipping shots of dark espresso in one corner and a group of businessmen in the other. If he was lucky, he might see Alvarez and follow him home.

He liked being out in the open where everyone could see him. Only no one even gave him the time of day. That was the best part. He was anonymous in a town where all the worst nightmares were all his fault.

By ten o’clock he was having a light breakfast and scanning the crime pages of the Journal. He couldn’t help feeling the flutter in his belly as he read the headlines, a warning sign. It wasn’t a feeling he could interpret right away and he put it down to the dark clouds and the sweep of rain against the window he sat next to.

Albuquerque’s Murder Count Reaches Eight.
Morgan Eriksen, charged with seven counts of murder and kidnapping, and two counts of first-degree assault against a law enforcement officer, has pleaded guilty to kidnapping, but not to murder. Are Police hiding the identity of a second killer?

Ole pulled the phone out of his pocket and tried Jennifer Danes at the Journal. Her line was busy. He left her a message, only this time in his best British accent.

Jen, it’s me. And don’t go telling anyone I called. But we’ve been looking in all the wrong places.

Sounded likely enough.

Looks like Morgan Eriksen had nothing to do with it.

Well, that wasn’t quite true. Morgan stalked the girls, quite enjoyed the money until he found out Ole wasn’t about date rape.

Just doesn’t fit the profile.

Too damned stupid to fit the profile.

Off the record, Jen, we’re looking at one of the victims’ fathers, Darryl Williams. Seems he may have had something to do with his wife’s death.

There. Seed sown. Ole didn’t leave a name. Didn’t have to. He’d be visiting the Williams man as soon as he’d had his breakfast.

He hung up and sipped a frothy cup of coffee, eyeing a couple of girls behind the counter. One was fat and blond, thighs begging to be set free from a pair of tight black pants. The other was a redhead with a face full of freckles. She reminded him of someone. He stared at her a little too long, caught her attention, made her smile.

It didn’t come as a surprise.

He cut the burger in half and took a bite, savoring the sharp taste of cheese, paying no attention to the waitress at his elbow offering him a refill.

A refill?

They don’t do refills on cappuccinos. It was the redhead beaming down at him, bill in one hand and pot poised over his cup. “I thought you’d like it. On the house.”

He wondered what else was on the house and spread the newspaper out on the table as if both pages were a pair of white thighs.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Fawn,” she said, screwing up her nose as if she hated the name.

“Bringing a bill this early makes a guest feel unwelcome. Like you want me to leave.”

“Oh no, sir. I’m sorry. I can bring it back later if you want.”

“Olafr,” he said, tapping his chest. “It means
ancestor’s descendent
.”

“Are you German?”

“Norwegian.”

“I love your accent.”

Of course she did. They all did. He stared her down, flicking a hand in front of his nose as if to get rid of a bad smell. Her eyes widened, hip no longer hiking up and down as she backed away.

There was no sign of the cop and that bothered him. The music bothered him too. A Germanic hum that reminded him of the secret tongue he once shared with his mother.

A hymn.

Something about taking the veil from our faces, the vile from our heart.

His heart wasn’t vile, was it?

He mouthed the words as he remembered them, words that ran too fast for others to understand. They were kind words, special words. But sometimes they were words that hurt papa and made the whole world tremble, words that drove poor little Morgan to the pantry cupboard because they were quarrelling again.

It was an hour later when Fawn left the bill on the table. He saw her phone number written on the corner and he wrote
no thanks
underneath. He paid in cash and studied the pen. At least it wasn’t one of those pink furry things or worse – a huge sunflower with a smiley face. This one had a silver shaft with a blunt end as if it would fit into a countersunk hole. A screwdriver.

Becky…

He couldn’t remember leaving the restaurant. All he did remember was the sound of tires screeching through a red light on Wyoming and speeding down Osuna to the house.

He went in through the kitchen, saw the sliding doors to the patio smeared with blood and rain.

On the outside.

He opened the door and stepped down onto the flagstones, shoes crunching on broken glass. Craning his neck up to the shattered bedroom window, he saw shards trickling down from the angled roof and trapped in a clump of cattails below. A six foot chain and shackles lay abandoned by the pool where lights once shimmered blue beneath the surface of the water. He followed the footprints through the back gate toward the road and there, by a storm drain was the screwdriver.

That’s when he howled.