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Every bloody graveyard was like a junkyard, Temeke thought, discarded scrap spreading out toward the boundaries as if it would soon take over the city. He stared out of the mortuary window at a row of granite tiles sparkling under a harsh sun.
“Peaceful, isn’t it?” said a voice.
Temeke turned to see a pasty-faced funeral assistant dressed in a black jacket and a bow tie. He extended his hand and his badge, knowing the elusive peace the assistant hoped for was short-lived.
“I’m looking for Poonam Kapoor,” Temeke said. “Recently deceased?”
The assistant held up a finger and bounced into an office behind the reception desk. He pulled open the drawer of a filing cabinet, finger tapping row after row of plastic labels until he found the one he wanted.
“The deceased’s full name is Poonam Eva Kapoor. Burial February 12th. Row five at the west end of the plot.”
“So, she wasn’t cremated?” Temeke felt his spirits lift.
“Oddly enough, no. Her mother wasn’t Hindu.”
Temeke walked alone to the site, counting seven people gathered by the columbarium niches in the center of the gardens and a lone man praying over a stone cross in the far northwest corner. The city seemed to stretch languidly around the cemetery, houses a pale gold in the distance and further out there was downtown Albuquerque tingling with life.
Poonam Kapoor’s headstone stood in a secluded place beneath a large cottonwood tree where the wind keened softly through the upper branches, scattering the last of the winter leaves on the ground. He gazed at a patch of raw dirt about six feet long where a lizard scurried between the rocks.
“It may be nothing,” Temeke muttered, standing about five feet from the grave, “but it’s all we’ve got.”
He lowered himself to a crouch, not knowing what to expect. Twelve roses slouched in a green memorial vase, petals scattered over the base of the headstone.
He looked up between the branches of the tree at a clear blue sky. Could Poonam hear the rustling leaves? Could she even see the sky? If Malin had been there she would have said no. The dead are dead. They can neither see nor hear.
It was a bit terminal in his opinion, a bit harsh. How come our forefathers said they’d watch over us from the sky if it was a load of cobblers?
Temeke had an uncomfortable relationship with religion, having been raised by a mother who was confirmed Church of England, a woman who spent her last days wittering on about Revelation and the beast, and how important it was to know where you were going after death. And then there was his dad who never gave a toss about where he was headed after death. As long as it wasn’t Key West. Too bloody hot.
Temeke looked out at a row of headstones that ran toward the southern boundaries to gauge the shadows until a cloud blocked out the sun for a moment. He looked up again, unaware of any clouds in the sky on his last examination. There was always one that snuck up behind you and it took a few seconds to work out where it had come from.
He began a soft-footed prowl of the periphery, winding his way cautiously inward, sometimes crouching with his head to one side. From certain angles, you could discern things by a freshly mown lawn, especially one where each blade of grass held a single droplet of water. It was strangely hypnotic. He could see no recent footprints, just the wide cutting path left by a four-wheeled mower.
The other two deceased names were listed at Calvary Cemetery on Southern. It was about a fifteen minute drive and Temeke knew he had barely enough time to make it before his meeting with Malin.
He felt vulnerable standing there on his own, as if someone was sighting him from forty yards. He could almost feel the heat of a bead on the back of his neck and turned a half circle, giving the parking lot a cursory glance. His eyes then swung to his right where a row of gravestones gave off short shadows at that time of day.
He didn’t like the silence, wondering if there was something he had overlooked and he didn’t want his titanic reputation as a badass detective thrown to the wind. The whole unit would be in a turmoil, especially if he couldn’t close this case.
Voices were muffled near the columbarium niches, branches groaned, things scuttled. Temeke looked around, visualizing the place at night... seeing a young woman struggling at the edge of the gravesite until she hung motionless in the arms of her attacker.
Long, dark hair and brown pleading eyes. Temeke couldn’t get past the violence, the cruelty, the terrible thing he knew he would find. So much talent wasted in a single, vicious moment.
He felt a dry wind against his scalp, heard the gentle pulse of crickets and closed his eyes. Held his breath.
Oh, God, Asha... I hope you were already dead.
Sealed in the earth unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to shout for help. Seeing only black and asking yourself... is this a dream I’ll wake from in a few seconds?
Temeke opened his eyes. His head was already invaded by dark images, leafy shadows and silence, and yet here was a neat landscape with spurting sprinklers that threatened to give him an enema if he didn’t get moving.
Get a grip. Forget the emotion. There’s no time for it.
His eyes took in two burgeoning roots at the base of the tree and between them a flake of bark and a pile of wood shavings. A chipmunk or a squirrel perhaps. His eyes raced up the trunk to where a name had been scored in the smooth undercoat. His pulse spiked.
Mahtab.
Slipping the phone out of his pocket he got Luis on the first ring, told him what he’d found, careful not to betray the excitement in his voice.
“She’s here, Luis. I can feel it.”
He was lightheaded, felt a prickling in the back of his neck, wanted to kneel down and scoop all the topsoil off the grave right down to the casket itself. He didn’t care how dark that place was or what he might see. He just wanted Asha.
Luis didn’t comment for a long time and then he finally spoke. “We’ll need a court order, Temeke. It won’t be today.”
