Alien Eyes (12 page)

Likely, David thought, String had parked it himself. He was a tearaway driver, tending to leave the van in odd places, leaping out the instant the urge hit him. He had none of the driving habits instilled by the rules of the game during pre-grid days.

David absently felt the hood of the engine. Cool.

Mel ran his ID past the door handle, releasing the lock. The door hinges, large, unwieldy, and shedding rust, creaked loudly. David looked back over his shoulder, but the garage was empty.

Mel sat on the floor of the car, and leaned sideways to fiddle with the navigator. David rested his arm on the open windowsill of the van door.

“Hello, Detective Burnett,” the navigator said suddenly. “Navigator operational. Need something?”

“I got a query,” Mel said. “Give me a list of locations. Anywhere you went today after twelve noon.” Mel took a notebook from his jacket pocket.

The navigator's light glowed green. “First location after twelve noon—left parking garage, Saigo City Police Department. One-fifteen
P
.
M
. stopped at Clarissa Sarkey Building that serves as the political science hub of Edmund University. I then went to the overflow visitors' parking, twelve miles away on Hudson Avenue. At two-thirty I was again summoned to Akers Drive, which circles the Sarkey Building, and went from there to the Taco Stand on Mill.”

Mel glanced at David. “Maybe he was hungry.”

“I idled my engine at the corner of Mill and North Upper until three-fifteen.”

David raised an eyebrow. “Picked somebody up,” he said softly.

“Proceeded to the Museum of Human Behavior. Idled ten minutes on Sidley Alley. Proceeded from Sidley Alley to Napier Street, on priority one, arriving at four-eighteen
P
.
M
.”

“The McCallum house,” Mel said.

“I was sent to wait on Ridge Road, a nearby side street, by uniformed officer Berkson, until—”

David caught movement from the corner of his eye. The elevator door was opening.

“Elaki coming,” he said. People would take the stairs, quirky as the elevator was. But stairs were hard on Elaki.

“String?” Mel asked.

The door slid open.

David shook his head. “Not String. One of the Elaki-Three.”

Mel bent toward the navigator. “Emergency computation—figure the best route between Deerfield, Ohio, and Madison, Wisconsin, including as many Polish vegetarian restaurants in the route as possible.”

The navigator made an odd hiccup. “This will require all memory, possibly resulting in the loss of—”

“Shut up and do it,” Mel said. “Priority speed.”

David watched the Elaki. Walker, he decided. The female.

“What you do here?” Walker's voice was rough and overly loud.

David's first inclination was to bring her to heel. He heard Mel take a deep breath, and decided to sit back and watch.

Mel poked his head out of the van. “Hey, there, sweetheart. You been looking for me?” He untangled his legs from the van and shut the door. The slam echoed.

She was very dark, this Elaki. Dark and thin.

“If I look for types of you, Detective, I go look in alcoholic serving houses.”

Mel glanced at David. “I think I'm in love.” He studied his fingernails, and stopped to scrape dirt from under the rims. “So what you doing down here, then?”

She was still for a long moment, stiff beneath the scales, in the way of distressed Elaki.

“Took wrong floor on elevator. And you here why?”

“We're here to meet String,” David said.

Mel winked. “This is String's van.”

The Elaki's eye prongs swiveled to the van.

“How did the interviews turn out?” David said. The Elaki faced him, but stayed quiet. “In the hospital waiting room? Any leads?”

“Leads? You mean the clue?”

“Yes. I mean the clue.”

“No one is to see Izicho who take Dahmi.”

“If it was Izicho,” David said.

“It is you that needs convincing.”

“And you that needs evidence.”

“Interesting thing come up.”

David leaned against the van. “Tell me.”

Walker canted to one side. “This overflow of the waiting room. It is most unusual. This I got from the … the
acid
mouth.”

“The blonde.” Mel nodded. “Would have liked to been a fly on the wall for that encounter.”

“So I talk with Elaki patients. And learn they have been misinformed to be there.”

David folded his arms. “How so?”

“Call in to one health care farm for the problem—told to come here instead.”

“You're losing me,” Mel said. “Health care farm?”

“For animals.”

“Hospital?” David said.

“Procedures for
animals
. Human influence.” The Elaki skittered sideways. “Is
farm
.”

Mel looked at David. “She been talking to Rose? How'd we get farm animals in here?”

David leaned forward. “What you're saying is they called their problems in to one hospital, but got told to go to Bellmini General?”

“
Yesss
.”

“It's like playing charades,” Mel said. “Figuring out what she says. Next thing you know she'll be wanting to throw us all into trees.”

“And
you
will want to say that the London Bridge is falling. And it is not here London. And bridges falling on children is funny?”

“About as funny as throwing pouchlings into trees.”

“What hospital?” David said. “What hospitals did they call when they got directed to Bellmini General?”

“Is just one. Edmund University Health Center.”

“Hot damn,” Mel said. “She
does
got a lead.”

“This is clue?”

“This is clue,” David said.

“Then we find Izicho at Edmund?”

“Izicho didn't take her,” David said.

“
Gabilla
.” Walker turned her back on them, but her voice was loud. “I think that you only wish to hide their rectums.”

Mel looked at David and grinned. “Translate
that
one, I dare you.”

The elevator groaned and the door slid partway open. Walker hissed and David looked up.

String sidled through and stopped. “Is department meeting?”

NINETEEN

String faced David and Mel with the acute stillness only an Elaki could achieve. Unconsciously, David and Mel moved closer together.

“Ah,” said String.

An engine started, and one of the parked cars inched forward. It emitted a warning beep. The car tires crackled against the concrete, and the car made a sharp right, then trundled toward the exit. String skittered sideways out of the way. David grimaced at the sulfurous exhaust.

“Miriam has sent me to find you Detectives. There is news from the morgue.”

“What's up?” David was aware of the blinking nav light, inside the van.

“The object in Mark McCallum's fist hand.”

Mel leaned forward. “What?”

“Is a memo chip,” String told them. “Itinerary for the business voyage of Stephen Arnold. The in-law father of Mark McCallum.”

Mel headed for the elevator.

“Meet you upstairs,” David said.

String swiveled an eye prong toward David. “You do not accompany?”

“He's got claustrophobia,” Mel said.

“I do
not
.”

TWENTY

David stood by the downstairs exit on the empty buckled sidewalk and looked out at a world that did not sleep. It was humid. Haze burned in the bright lights; the smog was heavy, even at night.

The old Elaki female was gone from her post by the back door. David wondered where she went at night.

There'd been a message waiting for him at the morgue. Stephen Arnold had landed at Saigo International and was coming directly to PD headquarters to give a statement. It was understood that he wanted to talk to the detective in charge.

At home the girls would be sleeping, the night sky black and infinite and full of stars. So unlike the hazy, light-fogged sky of the city. He had not seen his daughters in forty-eight hours. He had the sudden nagging feeling that there was something he had forgotten, some school program he had missed.

There were noises from the garage. The voices had serious overtones—none of the jokey relief of men and women coming off shift. David leaned up against the side of the building.

Stephen Arnold, flanked by two large, uniformed officers, made his way across the sidewalk that led from the garage to the side door. Arnold moved steadily but slowly, like a man walking on the bottom of the ocean. Drugged or in shock, David thought. Possibly both.

One of the uniforms looked up and down the street, but neither noticed David, camouflaged by the shadows. If the cho invaders wanted this Arnold, they would get him. David thought of safe houses and witness seclusion.

Arnold disappeared under the overhang. David heard the side door open and close. He waited and watched, but there was no sign that Arnold had been followed. David went inside through the back door, going slowly up the stairs to the bullpen of task force desks.

Arnold was crying when David opened the door of the interrogation room. It was a small room, stark, furnished with a green slate table and two folding chairs. There was a pitcher of water and two glasses on the table, next to an old model Miranda-Pro.

Arnold was a tall man, thin. Younger and better-looking than David had imagined. He seemed too young to have a grown daughter and grandchildren.

Either that, David thought, or I'm getting older.

Arnold had brown hair, parted on the side. His face was long and narrow. He had blue eyes, with wrinkles at the corners, and his face was brown and weathered—wet now, with tear tracks. He spent a lot of time outdoors for an academic. Another surprise. Arnold wore a blue cotton dress shirt, collar open, khaki pants, and work boots. The odor of cigarettes clung to him.

“Dr. Arnold?” David said.

Arnold fished a crumpled plaid handkerchief from his pants pocket, dislodging a handful of quarters that spilled onto the floor. David bent down and picked them up, pretending not to see the one that rolled out of reach beneath the chair.

Arnold blew his nose and stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket. David offered the quarters. Arnold took them absently, clutched them in his fist, then opened his fingers. He looked at the quarters and frowned, then looked at David. He put the quarters into his other palm and extended a hand.

Arnold's grip was firm, his palm cold and dry.

“I'm Detective Silver,” David said. “You a coffee drinker? I've got some going, should be ready in a minute.” David smiled. “We use the coffee to make prisoners confess. Talk or drink.”

“Coffee would be good,” Arnold said.

“Please,” David said gently. “Go ahead and sit down.”

Arnold looked behind his legs at the chair, as if he needed to get his bearings. He sat down and crossed his legs.

“Dr. Arnold, let me start by saying how sorry I am about your daughter. And your son-in-law.”

Arnold nodded. “But the boys. They're okay.”

“Yes,” David said.

“I talked to them.”

“Yes.”

“On the phone.” Arnold paused. “They cried.”

“Dr. Arnold, we can cut this short here tonight. Would you like to go to a friend's house or a hotel? Somewhere you can get some rest?”

Arnold's voice was soft. A country boy, David decided, though the accents were faint. A country boy a long time ago. David would not have figured him for the School of Diplomacy.

“I want to see my little girl,” Arnold said. He opened and closed his left fist, clutching the quarters.

“Of course.” David had called Miriam. Clean her up, he had said. Give me time, she had said. “I'll take you down in a few minutes. Dr. Arnold, what exactly did the Minneapolis police tell you?”

Arnold leaned back in the chair. “Said somebody broke in the house.” His fingers stroked the package of cigarettes in his shirt pocket, then moved away.

“It's okay,” David said. “You can smoke in here.”

Arnold smiled suddenly. “You sure? I got no desire to be covered in foam by a smoker's
friend
.”

“Neutral territory,” David said. “Go on ahead.”

Arnold took a cigarette from the almost-new package. His finger scraped the top foil, activating the memory chip.

“
The Surgeon General
…”

“Shit,” Arnold muttered.

“…
wants you to know that smoking not only gives you lung and heart disease, but can also cause cancer and respiratory illness in those around you
—
especially children. Think about it. If you're pregnant, please don't smoke. It's the law
.”

Arnold put the pack carefully back in his pocket. “I talked to Sergeant Montvilier in Minneapolis. You know him?”

“Talked to him on the phone a few times.”

Arnold nodded. He picked a shred of tobacco from his tongue. “He told me it was a burglary. And whoever broke in killed Charlotte and Mark.” Arnold's eyes looked glazed behind the smoke. “Montvilier didn't know details.” His voice sounded flat, matter-of-fact. “Did they rape her?”

“No. Your daughter wasn't sexually molested.”

Arnold's shoulder jerked and he looked at David. He dropped the burning cigarette to the floor, seemed unaware that he'd lost it. He took a deep breath. Then another.

“Dr. Arnold? Are you all right?”

Arnold nodded. “What …” His voice was thick. He cleared his throat.

David leaned down and picked up the cigarette. He looked around the room for an ashtray.

“Let me get you that coffee,” David said. “Cream? Sugar?”

“Black, please.”

David took the burning cigarette out of the room. He took his time with the coffee, filling cups absently, giving Arnold a moment. Arnold thought she'd been raped. He seemed to have no understanding of the crime. Coffee slopped over one of the cups, burning David's thumb.