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Temeke forced himself to stop pacing and to sit down in Hackett’s office. It never felt good to be summoned for an audience and to cap it all, the bastard was always late. Made his victims wait forty minutes at a trot and stare out of that big rectangular window.
At night it was like a motherboard of sparkling circuitry, something Hackett thought was pleasing and reminded him of his responsibility to the city of Albuquerque. He was proud of his substation, proud of his officers. When thirteen of his best were out paddling in the Rio Grande searching for guns tossed out of a car after a crime had been committed, he stood on the Alameda bridge and cheered them on. Became the Commander the police department deemed their best role model.
Temeke had spent his afternoon searching public records nationwide for current and past addresses for Adel Martinez, including any bankruptcy listings and liens. He was surprised to find she had been pulled over in the University campus a month ago for DUI.
Dozy cow.
Hackett’s assistant, Cat Spears brought in a large tray of coffee and biscottis and set them down on the desk. Before she could offer Temeke a cup Hackett breezed in, sweeping the coat from his shoulders like Zorro.
“I’ve put officer Watts in charge of the Delgado house tonight.”
“Why’s that, sir?”
“Because I need you to look into something. I got your report,” he said, collapsing in his chair and pulling off his glasses. “Names on door posts... the killer’s possible MO. But the trouble is, we still haven’t found Asha Samadi. Time’s running out.”
Good job Hackett didn’t need reminding most cases take years to solve, Temeke thought. He would have yelled his bloody lungs off then. “I’m afraid so, sir.”
“Have you seen the headlines?” There was a threatening note in his voice.
“I haven’t had that privilege, sir.”
“It says, All The Officers And All Hackett’s Men, Couldn’t Put Samadi Together Again. Who’s leaking all this classified and humiliating information to the Press!”
Temeke tensed at the sound of a fist on the desk and a filing tray jumped in response. “Jennifer Danes. It’s about time someone filed an injunction.”
“Listen,” Hackett said, blowing his nose loudly and dabbing the corners of his eyes with the same handkerchief. “Asha Samadi’s father wants her found before he returns to Riyadh ‒” the lip quivered, “‒ or he’ll sue.”
“Bit unrealistic, isn’t it? We’ve got no idea where she is!”
“I know that. But he’s sick of all the I’ll keep you updated nonsense.”
“I’m being as creative as I can, sir.”
“The only thing creative about you is your version of the truth. If I wasn’t so busy with my health and other important matters, I’d go out and look for her myself.”
“Relax, sir. Have a cookie.”
Cat poured two steaming cups of coffee and balanced a caramel drizzled biscotti on each saucer before busying herself with the filing cabinet.
“All this stress,” Hackett said. “Julie says I’m twitching in my sleep.”
“Quite normal, sir. All dogs do that.”
“I want the girl found, do you hear?” Hackett’s finger sawed away at an itch under his nose. “Every bit of her.”
“I hope she hasn’t been packed into three difference suitcases and tossed into the river, sir. You know how strong those currents are. Part of her could be in Mexico by Christmas.”
Hackett looked shaken rigid and had to grip onto the edge of the desk. “It must be awful to be a father. Of course, you wouldn’t know a thing about that. You... with your sick jokes and disgusting sense of humor.”
“Just trying to take the edge off, sir.”
“My blood pressure’s up in the two hundreds, Temeke. Can’t have Julie knowing. She can be very protective.”
“Wouldn’t tell a soul.”
“I hope it’s not cancer.”
“You don’t have cancer, not with all that great food you keep eating. Where was it last week? The Rancher’s Club?”
Hackett’s eye’s flicked up. “You watching me?”
“Listen. Officer Dempsey ‒ you must remember her ‒ got a pair like two Christmas puddings.”
The culinary allusion gave Hackett the necessary mental picture and he appeared to brightened up.
“Well, she was told she had breast cancer three years ago, sir. Refused chemo, wasn’t going to pump more poison into her bloodstream. Decided to drink vegetables instead. Not a trace of cancer left in that tight little body. All went down the toilet.”
Hackett seemed to nod in appreciation. He was the type of man who cost a fortune, running up restaurant bills and cholesterol levels and trawling The Mayo Clinic for a particularly elusive type of disease he thought he had. Retirement wasn’t far in the future, but Temeke knew if Hackett could swing it earlier and at full pay he’d be a very happy man.
“Sandra asked me to give this to you.” Hackett fished two pieces of paper from a landfill on his desk. “Recent burials. And what’s all this witchcraft stuff Alvarez keeps alluding to? Says he’s been studying it in a book.”
“I heard he was a bit eccentric, sir, but I didn’t know in which direction.”
“I used to make fun of all that spiritual stuff in the old days, but now...”
“It’s quite the thing these days. And now we have information that implies Asha might have been buried in a cemetery. Yeah, go on, sir, have a good laugh.”
“It’s not a laughing matter, Temeke. And what makes you think she’s buried in a cemetery?”
“Because no one would think of looking there.” Temeke hoped his theory wasn’t about to be booted up the ass. “A name on a headstone, an object... anything might be significant in locating her. Just a feeling.”
“Been smoking in the elevator?”
Temeke raised his rear off the seat and shook his head. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
He slipped out into the corridor, smelling fresh air for the first time in twenty minutes. His office was more sanitary than walking through a wall of sneeze and he settled in his chair.
The pages he had been given showed a list of names, church affiliation and places of burial, all in date order. On the fourth page there were two names that intrigued him and the burial dates were within three days of each other.
Roger Lightfoot and Marie-Claire Santos, both recent burials at Calvary Cemetery on Southern.
Apart from the reference to light in the first name, the second was a closer bet. The eighteenth century French folk song, Au Clair de la Lune was translated as ‘By the Light of the Moon’. The name itself meant clear or bright and Temeke wondered if it was close enough.
There was a third option listed at Vista Bella Memory Gardens on Sara Road. Poonam Kapoor. Burial date, February 12.
Hunching forward he tapped the keys, clicking through several links that gave the same mind-numbing meaning.
Poonam, a Hindu/Sanskrit name meaning, full moon.
