| |
––––––––
Temeke cleared his throat and turned off the tape recording. “I’d like to smack that smug bastard in the mouth. It’s the work of a sick mind.”
“Sick mind or not, sir, I think Paddy’s mad at Lily.” Malin tapped the cover of Alice Delgado’s investigative file. “Lily told Baca and Baca confiscated the book. She did what she had to do.”
“Right,” Temeke said, swaying slightly. He was already dead on his feet and was in no mind to disagree with her. “Why didn’t Baca hand the book over to the police after Alice died?”
“Probably didn’t think it was important... didn’t want a scandal to taint the school. Loss of funds and all that.”
“Yet she handed it over when Lily went missing.”
“By then it was serious. By then it was evidence.”
Temeke heaved out a loud sigh. “Didn’t Paddy say he was with Adel Martinez on the night Kenzie Voorhees died?”
“His story checks out. The Roadrunner Art Gallery on Central had a reception from seven o’clock to eleven. Paddy and Adel volunteered as sales consultants. At least five people confirmed seeing them, including the owner. Paddy was in a class when Rosa Belmonte died. The lecturer’s a female. She remembered him.”
“So... Mr. Brody is Albuquerque’s answer to The Bachelor. Only, some jealous cow got busy and hired someone to narrow the playing field.”
Temeke could almost see smears of blood in the flatbed of the builder’s truck on Fourth Street. The samples from Cornell Drive had been confirmed to be those of Asha Samadi, elevating the missing report to a possible homicide. It was the worst night of the year.
The composite sketch lay face-up on his desk ‒ Tom Lahaye’s interpretation of the man he saw. Temeke pinned it to the board beside the Charlie Miller sketch and marveled at the similarity. Lahaye had even asked for a first name. Gabe.
“Did you call Admissions at Gibson about the name Gabriel?”
“No listing, sir,” Malin said. “Not in his sister’s class.”
Yet Lahaye thought he saw someone he knew.
Temeke rubbed his eyes and stared at the clock. It said eleven forty-eight at night and every so often it would start wigging out, minute hand shuddering as if the battery was nearly flat. He stifled a yawn, wishing someone would come in and tell him to go home.
“I called Dr. Vasillion about two different hair samples they found,” Malin said, rubbing one eye. “The ones tangled in the hook of the poker belong to Asha Samadi. He also mentioned hair fibers on the carpet which are commonly made from poly-silk mesh. Likely a lace wig. Oh, and the time of death for Rosa Belmonte was Saturday night between six and seven in the evening.”
Temeke let out a long sigh and wondered what Paddy meant when he said Lily was dead to him. Had he killed her for tattling on her sister? Surely, there were better ways to get even?
“When you watched the tapes on Alan Delgado, what did you see?” he asked.
“Saw the interview he had at Laguna Seca when he lost to Claude Chaboud. Struck me as a quiet man, rather humble, actually.”
Despite Delgado’s irrefutable charm and ability to persuade the public to dance to his tune, Temeke wasn’t buying it. How a driver could finish second and display such enthusiasm over his competitor was, in his opinion, suspicious. Nobody in their right mind behaved like that. Least of all him.
Hit him where it hurts the most were the unspoken words in Temeke’s last evaluation. He was grateful to Hackett because it renewed his focus, made him work harder to prove them wrong. But it didn’t stop him from punching the wall out in the bathrooms.
What would coming second have done to Alan Delgado? With all that pent up frustration, how would he have behaved when he got home that night?
Temeke rubbed his temples and every so often he thought he heard a squeaky rendering of a well-known song coming from somewhere down the corridor. “What the hell is that?”
Malin exhaled a loud breath that seemed to have been held for a good minute. “Someone fastened a singing toilet seat to Hackett’s private bathroom.”
“Poor old sod.” Temeke lit a cigarette. “Four plush rolls of his favorite toilet paper went missing last week. Now he’s using standard issue tissue. I bet that wiped the smile off his face.”
“Hackett wants a face and a name on a Wanted List by the end of the week, and bulletins sent out to all US agencies. We’re gonna have to use those sketches, sir.”
“Nothing like tipping our hand.” Temeke rubbed his forehead, feeling dark clouds pressing in a second time. “We could give Hackett a sketch of a man in a gray hoodie. Can you draw?”
Malin grinned. “As long as its confined to law enforcement agencies and not the public.”
“Keep on at those stolen car reports. You never know what might turn up.”
“I bet this perp’s got a pack of fake IDs,” she said. “Might have plenty of money if he’s been chipping away at Lily Delgado’s savings. He’s safe. He’s hiding.”
“Where’s he hiding?”
“New houses, old houses, warehouses. No one keeps track of those. And as far away from his hunting grounds as he can get.”
“What is it with these villains? They’re getting too sodding good these days.” Temeke let his eyes wander over the office which smelled of stale cigarettes and coffee, and then huffed out another cloud of smoke to add to the flavor. “Might not be a he? Could be a they. Maybe it’s a hierarchical group like Chicago’s Temple of Set.”
“Doesn’t feel like it,” Malin muttered. “Feels more like an individual, self-styled, or a pseudo-Satanist. Someone who rebelled against a controlling parent and then became seduced by a satanic cult. Someone who used the knowledge they gained from a rule book to justify a fantasy.”
Temeke recalled what a criminal profiler at the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit once said. That elements of the occult were present in the psyche of many serial killers. Illegal drugs such as crank, speed, meth, crystal and psilocybin, an hallucinogenic drug similar to LSD, were often part of their modus operandi. This individual could be a youth sub-culture Satanist, belonging to a group that had a leader, a goal and a set of rules. But what if the individual had latterly become disillusioned and broken off by themselves?
He thought of that Persian carpet laid out on a table in Matt Black’s lab, rusted with gouts of dried blood and a light powdering of human bone. He’d already called Asha Samadi’s father, listened to him sob and howl like a baby. It was the nightmare he didn’t need at nearly ten minutes before midnight.
“My head’s buzzing, Marl. There’s too much work. I wonder if we can handle it all.”
“I’ve already interviewed the bank manager about Lily’s accounts. Looks like she drew out ten thousand in cash on Thursday, January 17. I thought we could tie her to something with her bank records, but no plastic, no paper trail since then. And Minerd’s sold a van to a Gabriel Mann. Number’s no longer in service and the address is invalid. The report’s on your desk.”
She pointed at a stack of typewritten pages in his in-tray and then looked sourly at his cigarette. “I’ve applied for a search warrant for Paddy Brody’s residence.”
“If he has one―”
“Actually, sir, I asked Maggie Watts to drive behind me this afternoon. She followed Mr. Brody home and I confirmed the address with Adel Martinez.”
Thoughts ricocheted around Temeke’s head and he felt the adrenalin pumping. Malin was good at creeping about in the shadows, rather like a reporter he knew at the Journal. “What was Paddy’s state of mind?”
“Stressed. Jumpy. Kept looking around like he was expecting someone. He’s dabbling in things he shouldn’t be dabbling in. The occult’s dangerous. It can get you all weirded out and start playing with your mind. He seems normal on the outside, it’s the inside that bothers me. Like a bunch of wires that have got all tangled up and don’t work right. I’m guessing he was too far in, had a thing for Alice. There’s always jealousy if the girls liked the same guy. Isn’t that what the principal of Los Poblanos told you...”
Temeke listened to the words, hardly able to take it all in. He chewed it over and stared through the window at a gray-clouded sky. Cult leaders had a way of manipulating their members with emotion-laden tactics and mind control. But who would have coerced an intelligent young woman to take her own life?
Over Malin’s voice he thought he heard Fowler thudding up the stairs to Hackett’s office, took a final drag of his cigarette and flicked it in the trash can.
“... what’s the betting someone did something and forgot they’d done it? It could have happened if they were high.”
Temeke felt himself stiffen. “How can anyone forget committing a murder?”
“Paddy said he dabbled in this and that. Probably did more than weed if he could get it. And don’t forget the amphetamines and partially digested belladonna the lab found in Alice’s stomach. Dr. Vasillion’s report mentioned an empty shampoo bottle with traces of vodka. It was on the floor when they found her. Toxicology said her blood alcohol level was twice the legal limit. What if they all had a little stab at it, sir... kind of like what happened to Julius Caesar?”
“Then she wouldn’t be covered in self-inflicted wounds, would she?”
“What if they weren’t self-inflicted?”
“Listen, I’ve had it up to here.” Temeke indicated a point well above his head. “Haven’t had a sodding wink of sleep since this whole thing started. You know what I think? I think Paddy Brody hasn’t got anything better to do but waste police time.”
“Two dead bodies isn’t a waste of time,” Malin said, tapping the headline section of the Journal on her desk. “They’re claiming Ms. Voorhees and Ms. Belmonte are the victims of a serial killer. And there’s another article underneath titled, Asha Samadi puts distinct stamp on Chopin. Will the pieces of this cryptic puzzle ever be found?”
Temeke began pacing around the office, blowing out a chain of deep sighs and wondering why it was so bleeding difficult to keep anything from the Press. “Who’s been talking to them?”
“The articles are all written by staff writer Jennifer Danes. She must have spoken to the faculty heads, students... parents. Clues are pouring in thick and fast.”
Temeke could only see the top of Malin’s ponytail over the newspaper, head turning from left to right as she scanned the articles.
“Tried to call Paddy Brody this morning. Never picks up.” She turned a few more pages. “Looks like those electronic cigarettes are becoming popular. It’s called vaping.”
“Put that damn paper away.” Temeke had no intention of swapping nicotine for steam and it was the second time she’d suggested it.
“Let’s talk about appearance, Marl, because it’s important. These victims had no physical characteristics in common. The first was a redhead, well-toned, physically fit.” He wanted to say beautiful but the word stuck in his mouth. “The second was Arabic, dark and slender, and the third was tall and blonde. Different academic fields and disciplines, and apart from Alice they lived within five miles of each other.”
“They all went to Los Poblanos Academy and Gibson Uni, sir. Oh, and I checked in with Zarah Thai. Everything’s good.”
Something had changed in Malin, Temeke thought. It wasn’t like he was indulging a novice, a simpering girl too wet behind the ears to deal with the horrors of Violent Crimes. By ignoring her emotions, she found a rotting corpse stinking like old vomit in the undergrowth more manageable. No, she’d done some growing up since then. Gone out on a limb and made her own decisions. And they were good decisions.
Temeke almost jumped when the phone on the desk gave a piercing squeal.
Malin hooked the receiver onto her shoulder and for a brief few seconds she just listened. “5025 Watercress Drive. Off Jefferson, you say? Yes... I’m on my way. Thanks, Maggie.”
Malin tapped something into the computer and gave him a wide-eyed look. “Paddy Brody’s car is registered to that address, a white Honda Accord with a damaged passenger wing mirror and out of date tags. I’d like to follow him.”
“I need to pack it in, love. Get a few hours’ kip. You ladies be careful.” He looked at her a beat too long, saw her eyes drop.
Temeke walked out into the parking lot, felt a stab of fresh air in his lungs as he blinked the moisture out of his eyes. He half walked, half ran toward his jeep, breath drifting like clouds as he unlocked the door.
He was half way up Guadalupe Trail and about to turn into his driveway when he saw the figure. A young man standing in the middle of the road, dark hair gusting across his face and jutting cheekbones that made you think he needed a good meal. It was what he was holding that made Temeke screech to a halt.
A gray cat with a little red coat.
