| |
––––––––
West Albuquerque was a somber pallet of adobe and sandstone, and the sky was beginning to redden between the houses.
Malin inserted the key into the door of her second floor apartment at Puerta de Corrales. Her head was buzzing with modeling agencies and collaged headshots, all with intense, confident gazes she couldn’t hope to copy. The reflection that stared back at her in the bathroom mirror only came off as sour and defiant, and she gave up pretending.
Pouring herself a shot of wine, she slumped on the couch, glad to put her feet up after the shift had ended. There was nothing on the TV, thumb tapping the remote control until she settled on the Channel 4 news. A spool of old photographs, house fires where the narrator warned of the dangers of smoking in bed and leaving gas burners unattended.
The phone stuttered in her pocket and she instinctively fumbled for it.
“Isaac Estrada from Midas Mutual,” the voice said. “Sorry to call you so late. It’s been one hell of a day.”
Malin cleared her throat and muttered a cool thanks. It must have been the search warrant that added to that hell-of-a-day and she assumed Mr. Estrada had called Northwest Area Command to verify her credentials. But this late?
“As far as I can make out, Ms. Delgado has received all her monthly payments since September 2008. Paid into Wells Fargo,” he said, rattling off a ten digit account number. “They would also know the date of her last withdrawal. I can only tell you the amount the Mutual transfers each month.”
“Which is?”
“This is off the record, isn’t it?”
That’s why he called so late. “Of course.”
“$10,000. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
Ten thousand... Malin nearly choked on that bit of news. “No... no, thank you. I think that’ll do it.”
Listening to the dialing tone for a few seconds, she hung up knowing she would be meeting the manager of Wells Fargo Bank tomorrow morning if she could swing it.
She cracked open the sliding doors to the balcony and breathed in the cool night air. There was a small trickle of water over a palisade of rocks at the front entrance and an owl sitting in the cottonwood, eyes caught in the headlights of a passing car. The road was wet and shiny, reflecting the light from the gas station at the end of the street and Malin could hear the wet hiss of car tires on tarmac. She wondered where Lily was, whether she was missing because she wanted to be, whether she was chained to a wall and crying her eyes out.
The clouds had rolled in during the evening and behind them was a full moon. She refocused on a scatter of rain drops on the glass, closed the sliding door and checked the lock.
Old Man Topper, a neighbor downstairs, had given her the remains of his newspaper. Most of it had been used to dab up an oily mess on his countertop and the salvaged part showed a gutted house on the southeast side of town, leveled in what was originally thought to be a terrorist attack.
Even anchorman, Stan Stockard, pointed to the wreckage on the late night news, saying that no terrorist in his right mind would be interested in a student house off Smith Street, unless he had somehow overshot Kirtland Airforce Base. It was an accidental gas explosion where a young woman had been killed and several residents injured.
A sudden thought gave Malin a jolt. What if Old Man Topper left his gas on? Hopefully, someone would smell it even if he didn’t, because he smoked all kinds of things in his bedroom, some of which were still in his mouth when he woke up in the morning.
The cell phone was pinging again. Wingman, the man she had met in a chatroom a few months ago, had sent her a message. No longer willing to risk using email, he had elected to send text messages instead.
Wingman: According to the weather reports it’s going to be one humdinger of a January. So I’m going away, my little bird. Going south. How will you manage without me?
She shook her head and typed: Better than you think. What in hell’s name did he look like? He had to be an old judge according to his vocabulary. Wouldn’t want to tell me your real name before you leave?
Wingman: No, I wouldn’t. Besides, you’d only despise me and I rather like this anonymity. If you’re smart, you’ll find out all by yourself. That’s the mark of a good detective. Now, if anything should come up, I’ll be checking my messages from time to time.
That was comforting, she thought. He’d be checking them late at night when his wife, if he had one, was out of mind. Malin determined he lived in a large house, definitely had three children and a Mexican cook.
She had already tried two options. To open the command console on the computer and run a who-is check on the emails he’d sent and second, to run an internet lookup, both of which resulted in no data available. A cell phone would be easy to trace. The only person she was willing to confide in was Temeke, only he would chastise her for not telling him sooner.
Malin: Would you like to meet?
Why not? What kind of detective wouldn’t ask to meet a faceless stranger on the internet. One who had been so helpful with their last case.
Wingman: Nice try, Malin. But we are meeting, in a way. Isn’t virtual the thing these days?
Malin: Not very original, is it?
Not very personal either. It was getting boring tapping out texts. So much quicker on the phone. So much more revealing in person. And why not get a court order and get it over with? The back of her neck felt clammy despite the chill and her fingers lingered on the keys.
Wingman: I’ll get straight to the point. The man you’re looking for has an unnatural interest in Temeke.
Malin felt her throat tighten, stretched her fingers and then began to type: Unnatural?
Wingman: I knew you’d hang onto that word. Use your talent, dear heart. It’s all in the details. You’re just starting to get the hang of this caper. Starting to get that fire in your belly. Our perp is in for a treat.
Our was a word they commonly used when a case pulled at the heart strings, Malin thought. Putting it before a name meant only one thing. Wingman was associated with law enforcement.
He was quiet then, waiting for her next move. She decided to change tack. Do you know the perp?
Wingman: I never really know them. It’s always guesswork.
Malin: Name?
Wingman: Tut, tut. We’ve been over this before.
Malin: Height, weight. Why not arrest him yourself?
Wingman: He wasn’t doing anything wrong.
Malin: Then why worry?
Wingman: Because he will, Malin. This one’s a little green-eyed, tipped right over the edge. Dangerous place to be. Would you like to be Unit Commander one day? Supervising Northwest Area Command and representing the police department on various committees and boards.
Malin: No.
Wingman: How about a pay increase? Let’s consider doubling that $58,000 you currently earn.
How the heck did he know that! I’ve done the money thing. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Captain Fowler’s looking for a break. Why not give it to him?
Wingman: You wouldn’t want that. And anyway, there’s no shortage of volunteers, but I need someone with good discernment, intellect. Someone who has a passion for the job. Nice office, leather chair, your own admin.
Malin felt her eyes stinging from the strain of it all and wanted to sign off. I don’t have the experience. Bottom of the food chain.
Wingman: That’s not what I said, Malin.
Malin: So you’d push me in the deep end and expect me to swim?
Wingman: The alternative is pushing paper until you’re sixty-seven and that’s only if you last that long.
She didn’t care for a nice office or a leather chair, or someone to type her reports. She looked around the small apartment and rather enjoyed the fact that the entire complex was run by an office manager and all she had to do was pick up the phone.
To pull all this off, Wingman had to be the Chief of Police, Governor Bendish, the Attorney General, the Mayor... She wasn’t going to beg him for information, because by then it would be too late to rebuild her usual poised image and she was determined to have the last word.
Malin: Guesswork: You’re in your late fifties, early sixties. Wear a suit and a tie, probably earn around $80,000. Can’t be Commander Hackett because he’s got a soft spot for Temeke. But you could be the DA.
She signed off giving him no time to protest. There was something in his manner, the speech pattern, which led her to believe she had met him in court. Not Hackett, since his notoriously bad spelling was bound to emerge in a message.
The DA. Because he disliked Temeke enough to remove him from the state and he was high up enough to swing it.
