Night Eyes (The Detective Temeke Crime Series Book 2) (18 page)

The ground stank to high heaven in the pouring rain all moldy and full of ancient rot, and Temeke cursed his luck for venturing out on such a lousy morning. There was a smear of excrement on the hood of Hackett’s car. It was a sod of a day.

“Since when,” he said to Sarge, as he walked through the front doors, “did Fergus the Flasher start using that as a bloody toilet?”

Sarge shook his head and looked down at the slop bucket, suds seeping over the rim. “It all started when Hackett caught him under that tree. Said big trees like that didn’t need watering. Told him he should have gone before he came. Fergus doesn’t own a toilet. Doesn’t have a home.”

Temeke could see how that would handicap the poor old bastard, but what he couldn’t understand was Sarge’s endless sympathy. He was glad he didn’t have to scrub
pooh
as Malin called it. “It’s flaming whiffy in here. I’d give him the bleeding scrubbing brush and tell him to do it himself!”

“What’s that racket down there?” Hackett shouted over the banister.

“Just a little situation, sir. But we’re handling it.” Temeke craned his neck up to a big silhouette whose shoulders were slumped with the weight of an unsolved case.

“Handling it!”

The words were followed by a barrage of cursing, most of which Temeke had hardened to over the months. He kept saying how sorry he was the press had hacked the Northwest Area Command to pieces and how embarrassing it was that he was being blamed for the incompetence of the entire police force. There would be layoffs in the morning.    

“That’s a bit unfair, sir. I mean, it’s hardly your fault. It can take months, years to solve a case―”

“You’ll be going with Fowler to the Mayor’s mansion. I want to know about that call she got.”

“What call, sir?”

“Two of our boys were with Mrs. Oliver this morning. Listened to a call from Adam. Apparently, the boy told his mom they were fine. And who’s
they
? I want to know what special ops he thinks he’s doing, cos eating squirrels and birds sounds like a frigging camping trip to me.”

“Well that’s a stroke of luck. We can all go home.”

“Not so fast, Temeke. The boy’s disappeared again. And what’s more, the number’s registered under a Mr. Jim Trader. Ring any bells.”

It did. “Anyone called it?”

“Of course someone’s called it. Several times if you must know. Either it’s on silence or someone’s screening the calls.”

“Let me get this straight. On the caller ID, do we come up as Duke City Police Department? Cause if we do, that might be the reason why he’s not picking up.”

“I’ve noticed a change in you, Temeke. Even the admins are offended by that brash cockney attitude. Any more dirty jokes and you’ll be suspended, you understand? And the parking lot’s full of half smoked cigarettes. It’s a fire hazard.”

“If it’s not too much to ask, sir, could I have that number. Might speed things up a bit.”

“Captain Fowler’s got it. Ask him.” Hackett raised his chin a little and narrowed his eyes. “He’ll be picking you up in ten minutes. What’s that on your lip?”

“Lip, sir?” Temeke picked at the scab where a cigarette had burned dangerously close after he’d fallen asleep in the bath. “It’s a burn.”

“You smoke too much. Your lungs will catch on fire and so will your house.”

Hackett began to slide dangerously towards the elevator door and Temeke hoped Sarge had enough time to scrub that car since the odor out there was worse than a turkey farm.

“When you talk to Mrs. Oliver.” Hackett’s big thumb was squished against the down button. “Make sure you don’t interrupt. Better results if you don’t interrupt.”

Temeke had never ridden in Captain Fowler’s car. It was cleaner than a doctor’s office and reeked of freshly laundered linen. There was a Hawaiian doll stuck to the dash, another peculiarity that separated Fowler from the boys. Temeke pressed down on her shoulders and a squirt of air freshener shot out of an orifice he couldn’t see.

“Women love that,” Fowler said, spinning the wheel for an illegal U-turn and bumping down a puddled lane. “Like the piggybank in your desk drawer.”

“Bloody marvelous!” Temeke said, wondering if they were going the right way. “The police can’t find a kidnapper but they’ve got the resources to find a piggybank. Are you going to give me Adam’s number or do I have to hold you at gunpoint?”

Fowler made a left turn in the Mayor’s neighborhood and then a right, and then stopped in the middle of the road. “Where are we?”

“Buggered if I know.”

“I made a wrong turn.”

“You mean the first turn, the second or the third?”

Fowler refused to comment, shot through a gap in someone’s nicely clipped hedge, fender dipping into a concrete arroyo. They bounced through a narrow stream of water and up the other side. 

The lane was recognizable by a border of honeysuckle draped over an adobe wall. After a few terse ripples of that siren, the gates swung open to the Mayor’s mansion and Fowler released the gear stick in a triumphant flourish.

“What about that hedge and the tire tracks in the neighbor’s lawn,” Temeke said.

“Keeping secrets is part of our civic duties.” Fowler put the car in park and turned off the ignition. “Let’s make one thing clear. If Hackett won’t remove you from this case, I will. If you say anything,
anything
about that hedge, I’ll even kill you with my bare hands, and that’s a promise. And don’t go complaining to Hackett about death threats, Temeke. He won’t believe a word. Trust me, they’re real.”

“Real? You’ll feel a nasty pain in your groin in a minute,” Temeke snapped, “and that’ll be real.”

Fowler pressed a fist against his mouth and puffed out his cheeks. “Here’s the number for what it’s worth. I’ve tried several times, no answer.”

Temeke stayed where he was. “You know what your problem is? You’re scared I’m going to solve this case just like I did the last one. You’re scared I might get a pat on the back from the Unit Commander, two Watch Commanders, Homicide and the Chief of Police. You’re scared Gloria’s pregnant. Since her husband’s a high court judge he’s bound to find out. And just one small detail. He’s black. For someone so good at keeping secrets, you made a right ass of that one.”

“Gloria?” Fowler’s Adam’s apple clunked up and down as he swallowed.

“Yes Gloria.”

There was a long period silence when nobody said anything. Temeke fumbled for his cigarettes, wrapped his fingers around the pack and sighed. “Let’s listen to that tape again shall we?”

They listened to the short tape of Adam’s voice. There was nothing in the inflection to say he was under duress and nothing to say he wasn’t out enjoying a few days hiking with his troop.

They were interrupted by a belch of static from the radio and Hackett’s voice tuning into Westside Dispatch. Fowler gave their position and listened to a short report. Apparently, Mrs. Oliver had been prescribed a course of anti-depressants by her loyal and very dependable physician. She wasn’t in the best of spirits and Fowler was to do all the talking.

Temeke shook a cigarette from the packet straight into his mouth and leapt out of the car. He walked towards the front door and scraped a match down the stucco. He watched Fowler pulling out the best of a box hedge from the front bumper, footsteps clacking on the driveway towards him.

“You always seem to screw things up in ways nobody’s ever heard off.” Fowler said, walking through a puff of smoke, face deadly white like a corpse. “Why do you have to tell everyone about Gloria?”

“Tell everyone? What do you mean tell everyone? Everyone told me. It’s like Chinese whispers in the sodding toilets.” Temeke pointed two fingers wrapped around a cigarette. “Calm down. It’s all part of the learning process and you know what a dim old sod Hackett is. He thinks the light shines out of your ass.”

Fowler seemed preoccupied with his shiny shoes, probably admiring his face in them. “Put that out and let’s get on with this. I’ll do the talking. You see what you can find.”

Temeke wheezed in a long drag and squeezed out a little smile. “My pleasure.”

They rang the bell and listened to the first few bars of a well-known theme. Mrs. Oliver was dressed in black satin pants and the cobweb of a gauzy sweater. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting you.”

“That’s OK, Mrs. Oliver,” Fowler said, and there was no doubting the sincerity in his voice. “Can we come in?”

“Please,” she swept a hand towards the kitchen, closing the front door after them.

Temeke could hear her slow ambling gate behind him and the click of heels against the tile. “Nice place.”

“We’ve lived here for nearly four years,” she said. “The house is older of course. About ten, fifteen, I think.”

“It’s a sod about your cameras. Just when you think you’re safe and some jackass comes along and covers them with duct tape.”

Fowler gave him a testy look, if you could call one raised eyebrow and a half-snarl, testy. His flashy good looks didn’t allow the expression to last and he gave Mrs. Oliver and that sweater a generous smile.

She showed them into the kitchen, a large room which was surprisingly warm from a morning of baking. Two white fans whirred on a large granite countertop, turning in unison like the telescopes of the VLA.

“We’d like to talk about the call you received from Adam,” Fowler said, nodding at two officers who were sitting at the kitchen table, yawning and staring at the landline phone. “Can you tell us exactly what he said?”

She pulled the sleeves of her sweater down over her hands, exposing only the tips of her red painted nails. “Aren’t you monitoring all my calls?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Fowler moved in a little closer, looked down at her with a brittle smile. “I just wanted to know if you found anything odd. Anything at all.”

Found anything odd? It’s all bloody odd, Temeke thought, watching her face and those delicate hands reaching for a tea towel. She was keeping busy all right, probably trying hard not to think about it all.

“I… I don’t know exactly.”   

Fowler wiped the palms of his hands down his trousers and rephrased the question. “How did you feel when you heard Adam’s voice?”

“Relieved.”

“So, he didn’t sound upset to you?”

“No… not at all. But I wanted to ask‒”

“Wanted to ask what?” Temeke butted in. He wanted to understand why she kept frowning and looking at the floor every time he did. He wanted to know why his foot didn’t clunk against a china dog bowl.

“I wanted to ask him where he was.”

“But you asked him something else?”

Mrs. Oliver merely nodded. “I asked him what he was eating.”

“You asked him when he was coming home.” Temeke watched those eyes flicking from Fowler to him, watched a small intake of breath. “When you said you felt relieved, was there anything particular that made you feel that way?”

“Hearing his voice.” Her hands were worrying at that tea towel, twisting it into a tight ball. Her eyes kept flicking to a small red cell phone on the kitchen counter.

“Does the name Jim Trader mean anything to you?”

“No.”

Her fragile smile was on the verge of crumbling and Fowler moved in with the stealth of an alligator.

“I don’t know what to do… I’m so confused,” she said, voice hitching.

Fowler gave a few encouraging murmurs, patted her on the back like he was burping a baby. She just stood there, head against his chest, arms reaching around his back.

Temeke studied Fowler’s belly and wondered if the slimy bastard had put on weight. The once ripped abs had turned into a slush from too many good dinners and he was beginning to look like a retired lifeguard from Baywatch.

Fine time to start blubbing, Temeke thought, edging his way towards that cell phone. He clicked his way through four calls received since Tuesday afternoon and found one registered under the name, Ron King. He made a mental note and put the phone back on the counter. It didn’t feel right. Two big losses in her life right now and not one mention of the dog. Not one flyer down her street either.

Temeke made his way to the library, stared at the shelves, the embroidered chair and the reading lamp on the table beside it. Third shelf down, between Huckleberry Finn and The Last of the Mohicans. Just as he thought.

The journals were gone.

Interview room 4 stank of stale milk and heave from an arrest the night before. The table was clean, tape recorder stacked on a phone book and flushed against the wall.

Malin dropped the file labeled
William Stanton Oliver
on the table. All she could see was the blur of his son’s face, eyes bright beneath a fringe of hair. She hoped Adam was still alive, hoped he wasn’t defeated into thinking no one cared enough to find him.

Taking a deep breath, she rubbed her forehead with the heels of both hands. WingMan had been on her mind for the last twenty-four hours, only she hadn’t opened her laptop, hadn’t bothered to see if there was an email. He was probably out-there, you know, a psycho. She wasn’t going to let him off that easily, not after signing off without saying goodbye. She’d make him wait.

“Hot chocolate?” Temeke asked, hooking his jacket on the back of a chair and grabbing a handful of change.

“I’m OK.”

“You don’t look OK.” He reached into the cupboard and pulled out a jar of lollipops. Slapped a couple on the table in front of her. “Here, gnaw on one of these.”

She could hear him thumping the vending machine in the corridor, tipping it forward and back until a rubber seal popped out from the bottom right-hand foot and bounced across the floor. He left the machine tipped forwards slightly like one of those statues on Easter Island.

“Who have we got today?” he asked, tearing into a bag of M&M’s.

“There’s only one name left,” Malin said. “Art Ingram, Press Secretary.”

“And here he is,” Temeke said, peering through the blinds. “Six foot four. Looks like a professional footballer. Bet that’s an Armani suit.”

Malin thought Art Ingram smelled even better close up. Probably a cologne worth several hundred dollars a squirt. Handsome wasn’t really the word. Charismatic, charming, funny. Well educated.

“So, how long have you been working for Mayor Oliver,” Temeke began.

“Four years. Has it been that long? Wooo! Seems like ten years. He saw me on TV when I was playing for the Oakland Raiders. Got my number from the coach, called me up and was like, it’s me, uncle Bill. Nah… just kidding.”

Art had a laugh that came from the back of his throat and a soft hissing sound when he spoke. He was nervous, hands tapping on the table, chair creaking underneath. His mouth was like a steam train, never drew breath, always cracking jokes. How Temeke kept up with it all Malin couldn’t imagine. All she could think about was lunch and that heavy cologne was making her hungry. She peeled the wrapper off a lollipop and stuck it in her mouth.

“I look at the jobs I’ve done,” Art said, “the places I’ve worked… I mean, you have to be the stereotype. The suit, the Gucci shoes. It gets you paid, it gets you laid. It gets you in the business.”

Temeke was just nodding, taking the odd note in that yellow college lined pad. He looked engaged but somewhere deep in that head he was thinking things, sizing Art up, deciding who he was.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love my job. But we’ve had our ups and downs. Especially the downs. He tried to get me fired last year. Happened faster than a knife fight in a phone booth. Wooo, this isn’t going to be easy, I thought. If it wasn’t for my pilot’s license and several additional ratings, I wouldn’t be here. I flew Governor Bendish’s Bell 430 five years back. Black it was with a gold stripe down the side and the commonwealth seal on the doors. Hell―you could roll that bird like an F-sixteen.”

The thought of being upside down in a helicopter gave Malin a brief jolt. She bit into that lollipop with a loud crack.

“I only did it once,” Art was quick to add. “Flight simulator at the training academy. That’s how I met Mayor Oliver. If you ask me whether I like him, I’d say not really. He can be right asshole when he wants to be.”

“That’s no way to speak of His Honor.”

“I do everything. I mean
everything.
Yes, sir, no sir, absofrickinglutely, sir.”

“Isn’t that what Press Secretaries do?” Temeke said.

“Yeah, only Brady did everything for Ronald Reagan and look what happened to him.”

“Do you like Mrs. Oliver?”

“Not many people do. I think she’s a doll. She’s been through a lot. Not so as you would know. Hides it all behind a brave smile. But you can sense it, feel it. And I never touched her if that’s what you’re thinking. We just talk sometimes.”

Temeke crossed his arms and raised his chin. “But you touched a woman four years ago. Rape she claimed. An administrative assistant to the Mayor’s Chief Executive Officer. Course, she’s not working there anymore. Got the old heave-ho.”

It was like a slap in the face for Malin as she took another bite of that lollipop. Here was a hulking one hundred and ninety pound African American playing the heavy, the funny guy who couldn’t sit still, looked like he had a permanent itch in his rear. But nothing would have prepared her for ‘rapist’. She should have done the research and, as usual, Temeke had beaten her to it.

“She touched me,” Art said, tapping his tie pin. “Kept groping me at meetings, in the corridors, at the courthouse. It was like, hands round my meat stick whenever she had the chance. I can’t believe she did it under the table at the Annual Gala Charity.”

“April was it?”

“Barbara I think.”

“No, the Gala. April. The month.”

Art nodded. “Anyway, I went to the bathrooms and when I came out, there she was, all naked and splayed out on a chair. What’s a man supposed to do?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”  

“I told her to get lost, that’s what I did. She just laughed. Said I wasn’t the man she thought I was. Didn’t have the balls. She wasn’t much of a looker and I have taste.” Art looked at Malin and winked. “Now if it was you, darlin’―”

“If it was me,” Malin snapped, “you’d have nothing left to rape with.”

Art held up both hands. “I didn’t touch her. Promise. I just showed her the biggest rack she’d ever seen and she screamed. Called the cops after that. And bang! There goes my ratings.”

Malin felt her jaw drop. Wondered if he was joking. But he wasn’t. Just went on talking like it was nothing.

“The Mayor and Mrs. Oliver were fighting in the library the other day. I thought it was on account of the Darjeeling cause they’d run out and he’s addicted to the stuff. Only it gives him the runs. That downstairs bathroom … Wooo! Stinks like rotten eggs. Mind you, he was doing all the talking at first because he didn’t want to listen to something he didn’t want to hear. She said nothing had happened and how would he feel if she put him on the bricks for a month. He said she wasn’t fit to be first lady.”

“When did all this happen?”

Art looked up at the ceiling, took a deep breath. “Three days before my birthday.”

“Thursday?”

“Around two thirty. I remember because it was when the security man came to check the monitors. The Mayor said if she didn’t give him up, he’d pack her off to California and tell the Press.”

“What did he mean when he said ‘if she didn’t give him up’?”

Art formed a steeple with his hands and shook his head. “There’s someone she talks to on the phone. He’s got to be someone important. Cause one minute she’s all soft on him, the next she’s telling him where to go.” Art gave a resigned shrug. “Listen, I don’t know diddly-squat about the guy. All I know is he reacted badly to something she said. Said he was on his way to Albuquerque. It all went tense after that.”

“Do you usually listen in to her conversations?”

“I am the Press Secretary, that means keeping as much from the Press as possible. Mrs. Oliver’s a little hard of hearing. Volume’s turned up all the way.”

“What do you do in your spare time?”

“Running women and watching TV.”

“You do chat sites, blogs, Pinterest?”

“I have no idea what that is but that's never stopped me before. I'm in.”

Malin could read Temeke like a book, lip curling, playing that pen in his hand. She knew the signs when he felt threatened, envy had a way of creeping into his tone and very soon he’d be putting Art down.

“Think a lot of yourself don’t you?”

“Hell no. It just goes with the turf. I used to do acting at school. Loved it. My dad wanted me to work in his solvent factory. But I joined the army instead, learned to fly helicopters and earned a bachelors in criminal justice. Sent my dad an autographed picture of the Governor and me in that helicopter just to rub it in. Nah, I’m no pool shark. Just like to party.”

“On Sunday you were partying with the Mayor.” Malin wiped a wisp of hair from her forehead. “How was it?”

“No one would have guessed they had such a messed-up life. She was sitting at one end of the table staring into space. The Mayor was in a mood because he was missing the football. I was cantering one of those silver horse salt cellars all over my dinner plate and Megan was having a smashing time in the kitchen from the sound of it. Wooo, I thought. Something’s up. Then the Mayor took a phone call, went into the library and shut the door. Mrs. Oliver beckoned me into the kitchen. Said she needed extra security. I told her I’d look into it. To be honest, that house has more security than the National History Museum.”

“So you let it go,” Temeke said.

“I checked with surveillance. All the cameras were working fine.”

“What time did security come to do the monitors on Thursday?”

“Around two thirty.”

“Anyone reposition the cameras in front of the house, dab a little Windex on the lenses?”

“Not as far as I know. I was in my office.”

“Correction, your office is behind kitchen. You had your big fat ear pressed to the library door, remember? What time did you leave on Sunday?”

“About four o’clock.”

“How would you rate Mrs. Oliver’s state of mind?”

“I would say she’s been very stressed.”

“Do you ever call her Raine?”

“Wooo―no. It’s always Mrs. Oliver. To the house staff that is.”

Temeke gave that slow nod he always did at the end of every interview. “You’ve been very helpful Mr. Ingram.”