![]() | ![]() |
––––––––
Captain Fowler was having another aneurism at the embarrassing fact the police had lost Flynn McCann somewhere near the Puerco river and the I-40 flyover. The case was becoming a political hot potato and the Journal was screaming about a police cover up.
Vindictive swines, thought Temeke, pouring himself another cup of coffee. Mutterings of I told you so echoed in his head. Fowler looked hard hit. There was something staged about it, especially the raised chin, the hand clawing through a pompadour.
“Since when do we ever let a suspect cross the border?” Fowler shouted, cufflinks blinking from across the room.
“When they’re not a suspect?” Temeke asked, swiveling from side to side in a squeaky chair.
“McCann wakes up in a hospital bed. He’s straight-faced, doesn’t even shed a tear at the fact his wife is being prepared for burial in the morgue because someone bashed her brains out. Then... he decides now would be a good opportunity to take a trip to Arizona.”
Temeke wiped a hand over his bald head and wondered if it was as shiny as those cufflinks. “So, he’s risen up on the radar because he’s buggered off? Or because he was with Tarian McCann the night she died?”
“Both.”
“When people aren’t where they’re supposed to be after a violent crime, sir, they’re definitely worth investigating. It doesn’t make Flynn McCann a killer. Nor does a house full of smoke make him a good witness.”
“But he was at the scene when his wife died and there were cracks in their marriage a mile wide. It makes him a key witness. Qui bono?”
Who benefits? It was the question Temeke had been asking himself for days. As he watched Fowler slumping back into a thick leather chair he had more than a glimmer of an idea. “Tarian McCann had money, sir. Stacks of it. And a hefty-ass life insurance.”
Temeke sensed a spike in Fowler’s interest. “How much?”
“Around one million, sir.”
Fowler grimaced. “Someone might know something—might have heard him talking about his private life. Check his work computer for emails, work colleagues, girlfriends, prostitutes. Incidentally, what was Tarian McCann like?”
“Neighbor made out she was a piece of work. Said they were fighting the night before the fire. Probably about the money she’d taken. She called him names, pushed him up against the wall. Apparently, he never touched her.”
“Maybe McCann lashed out after she’d cleaned out the bank account. Or maybe he’s a complete wuss and hired a hitman.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to invite her to a remote location and send a bullet through her brain, sir?”
“You got a sick mind, or what?” Fowler stared blankly at the floor while trying to fix a crooked tie. “Got anything else, dare I ask?”
Temeke had actually, only he didn’t want to divulge Malin’s phone conversation with McCann. It wasn’t a smart move because Fowler would be all over it, complaining she hadn’t asked the right questions. McCann had likely tossed his old phone by now and bought a new one, and unless the phone was bought with a credit card and a contract, he’d remain off the radar.
“Malin confirmed McCann’s home insurance was with Midas Mutual on Singer Blvd. It covered the usual. Structures, belongings, liability, legal. But get this. When she talked to one of their claims adjusters, a Mr. Daniel Hamsing, he remembers a phone call he had with the homeowner in February of this year. Even went as far as making a note of it in the file. Mr. McCann asked whether his house was insured against fire, but was particularly interested in the part of his policy which mentioned intentional acts. Mr. Hamsing assured him the homeowner wasn’t covered if there was any intent to cause a loss. Apparently McCann sounded nervous and hung up.”
Fowler licked his thumb and flicked through a pile of papers on his desk before patting them into two neat piles. “What about a third party? Unknown, no intent.”
Temeke toyed with two or three possible scenarios in his head. “It’s more restrictive. But then McCann would have to prove he had never worked with a third party.”
Did McCann hate his wife enough to kill her? Or have her killed? The possibility was too great for Temeke’s peace of mind and for a full ten seconds he thought about the previous day’s events including Mrs. Quinn’s statement and the fire investigator’s report. It all pointed to a disgruntled husband with something to hide.
But where would he go? Gallup didn’t seem like the obvious place since his parents lived in Albuquerque and McCann had no other family Temeke was aware of. Except Linda Quinn’s comment about a long-lost father in Sedona.
“Hackett’s already circulated a photograph,” Fowler said.
“Shame. Because if McCann thinks someone’s following him he’ll go underground.”
“Don’t do anything underhand, Temeke. You were damn lucky none of the agencies found out about you running up and down the mountain looking for Eriksen’s leftovers before Christmas. You know as well as I do that’s State Police jurisdiction.”
Always the Eriksen case. It was like a stuck long-playing record. “We were in the foothills, sir, not the mountains.”
“Foothills, anthills, it’s all the same. I don’t want any complaints this time.”
Which was a pity, Temeke thought, since there was a PI he knew in Gallup, an ex-cop called Harry Hammond. It wouldn’t hurt to call him on the sly, send him a few photos of McCann, let him do a little independent surveillance of his own. He wasn’t authorized to apprehend McCann, but he could certainly gauge how close Suzi Cornwell was to finding him. If Hammond could find nine and a half pounds of heroin concealed in a charcoal fuel filter box under a truck, he could certainly find Flynn McCann.
Temeke stared at the coffee pot on Fowler’s credenza and took a lunge for it. “Want a refill?”
“Suzi’s on his tail,” Fowler said, thrusting out his coffee cup. “Wouldn’t surprise me if she’s already found him.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me if she’s frightened him off, sir. Stiff posture, arms crossed and a nice shiny badge. Doesn’t exactly blend in to the surroundings, does she?”
“Killers don’t stay underground for long.” Fowler’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Murder always has a pond effect. The ripples never end.”
“Very Walt Whitman, sir.”
“Someone has to look out for the victim.”
Temeke ignored the lyrical references and poured a cup of black slurry. The poor old sod looked like he needed a pick-me-up and high octane was better than the regular brew his admin made. The good news was Malin was meeting with Rosie Ellis in ten minutes and if Temeke didn’t get on with it he’d miss all the fun.
“Anything else, sir,” he said, giving the swivel chair one more squeaky turn.
“Have there been any comments about...” Fowler searched Temeke’s polo shirt to make sure he wasn’t wearing a lapel cam, “me and Detective Cornwell?”
Bloody right there have been, you dirty old sod. “Should there have been, sir?”
“No... no, not at all. I had to give her a lift to the scene the other night because her car was in the shop. I heard a couple of officers talking about it in the bathroom, like we had something going on. Her and me, that is. In the carnal sense.”
So, that was it. The cheeky bastard wanted to know if anyone had been sniggering behind his back and having a few laughs at his expense. Temeke could have responded with a tinge of sarcasm but decided to give it a break. He pretended to look at Fowler blankly, eyebrows rocketing up as if the penny had dropped.
“Blimey, you don’t mean...? Nah, you’re having me on.”
“I’d appreciate your discretion,” Fowler said.
What did he want? A round of applause? “You have my word, sir.”
“One more thing. I thought it best to move Detective Cornwell into the office next to mine. Thought you could all do with a little more space.”
Temeke glanced at the empty office Fowler alluded to and tried to keep the relief from his face. The last thing they needed was another body squeezed into a two man office and Detective Cornwell wasn’t the type to squeeze. She would have reported back to Fowler with every twitch they made.
“I’ll show her the ropes,” Fowler said, laboring the point. “Make sure she understands the procedures.”
Yeah, that’s the problem. Right there in a nutshell.
Temeke could feel Fowler’s building puzzlement as he made no comment. Instead, he inclined an ear at the sound of static. A summons over the intercom.
He had a visitor.