The 9th Hour (The Detective Temeke Crime Series Book 1) (5 page)

Kizzy was in heaven where the bluebells are. And that’s all that mattered.

“Darryl,” Temeke said, leaning a little closer. “The man we’ve got is being transported to the Penitentiary of New Mexico. He’s admitted to being there. But not to killing her. I promise you, I’ll find this man. And when I do I’ll squeeze him so hard he’ll be screaming for me to stop. We’ll let ourselves out.”

Darryl watched them go from the living room window, studying their footprints in the snow. Flakes fell in tight clusters now, fast and thick, and he could hardly see the Ford Explorer through the haze.

He didn’t much care that a prisoner would be shackled to the inside of a prison van and on his way to PNM. What bothered him more was the gun on Kizzy’s bed.

There would be a day when that monster would come outside. And when he did, Darryl would be waiting for him.

Temeke shifted his weight in the car seat and adjusted his shoulder holster. The drive-through of the local café was thick with exhaust fumes, most of which was up his nose by the time he tried to order a double espresso. Apart from an occasional gust of wind that blew in under the canvas roof of his jeep, he sensed something in the air, something that made his heart drop into the pit of his belly.

It was the newspaper on the passenger seat. Morgan Eriksen had made front page news, color photograph included. It wasn’t a mugshot. He was sitting on a deckchair by a swimming pool with a beer in one hand a burger in the other. Nobody knew how it got there and if they did, nobody was talking.

He hardly listened to the droning voice of the car radio, a pastor with a message about fathers. The bitter smell of coffee made his throat tighten and he couldn’t drink another cup. Strange memories began to swirl though his mind and he saw himself as a boy, cowering at his father’s raised hand.

Temeke never cried after that, at least not that he could remember. He went through life protected by a thick wall of indifference. It was safer that way.

At forty-three, he was recognized as one of the most persuasive negotiators the police had, a man with whom the prisoner could relate. According to his boss, there was one thing the department disliked and that was his unique quietness, the irrefutable feeling that he was hiding something. No one really knew him. But that’s how Temeke liked it.

They can never build a case against me
,
he thought.

Only they did, of course. They disliked him for being quirky, for his reserve, for his deprecating sense of humor. He was an unusual dog in the fight. All this was before Morgan Eriksen insisted he would talk to no one else. It shook the department up a bit.

It was late afternoon when he turned west on Ellison and north into the station parking lot. He parked the jeep behind the building and clamped a cigarette between his lips, flame flaring and dying with every drag. He sat there for a while, sucking the nicotine into his lungs, wondering why he ever started smoking in the first place.

Looking east, he studied the rugged slopes of the Sandia Mountains rising almost to the clouds. On sultry nights a large full moon could be seen hanging like a happy face in the sky and if he listened, he could often hear the warbling of a Navajo flute in the distance. To the west, adobe houses stretched as far as the eye could see, spilling into a rose-colored desert of piñon and sagebrush. It was a sacred place, a magical place.

He hated it today.

The phone vibrated on the console revealing Luis Alvarez’s number. Temeke could imagine his brother-in-law copping a wide-legged stance, duty belt sagging from the weight of his hardware.

“I called the Journal, bro,” Luis said. “Spoke to Jennifer Danes about that article. She said it was you she spoke to. Said you sent that photograph over last night.”

Temeke began to feel a wave of dizziness. “Me?”

“That’s what she said.”

“I did no such thing. Must have been bloody Fowler with a fake British accent.”

“I doubt he could pull that one off.”

Temeke could hear the laugh in Luis’ voice. He could also hear the doubt. “Sounds like someone’s trying to give DCPD a bad name.”

“Here’s some good news,” Luis continued. “Got a call from one of my buddies at the Press Club, A guy called Midge Toledo. Works behind the bar. Said a guy came in a couple of days ago asking for a driver. Had a ton of money. And an accent. The reason Midge remembered him was because two of his waitresses were giving him the eye. Got a good description.”

“What did he look like.”

“Blond hair in a braid. Foreign.”

“Did he pay with a credit card?”

“Cash. But get this. Toledo bagged his wine glass.”

Temeke punched the air with one hand. “I owe you one.”

“You stood me up again,” Luis said. “Anyone would think you were seeing someone else.”

“How was Fat Jacks?”

“Heaving.”

Temeke chuckled. Too many kids drank shots of Tequila like juicy juice and then wondered why they spent the next half hour throwing up an entire paycheck.

“I’ll be offline for ten days. Going fishing with the wife at Cochiti Lake,” Luis said.

“Do they have any fish in Cochiti Lake?”

Temeke heard Luis laugh, heard the click and the dial tone. Lucky sod, he thought, flicking his cigarette under Hackett’s car and making for the warmth of the lobby.

Sergeant Moran straightened up wearily from behind the Journal and mumbled a greeting. Becky, his daughter, stood by his side, amber eyes sweeping with eyeliner and lips pursed around a lollipop.

“Are you sure that’s a skirt?” Temeke said, pointing at a garment no bigger than a man’s handkerchief.

“Course it’s a skirt, silly,” she said, rolling that lollipop along her bottom lip. “All the girls are wearing them.”

Not for long, he thought. It would be up round her waist before the day was out, especially with baby-face Jarvis on his hands and knees pretending to hunt for his pencil. He was partial to high school seniors. Dirty old sod.

“I’ve got a new boyfriend,” she said, lips drawn back over white teeth. “Older than the last one.”

“Not too old I hope.” Temeke saw the red bike leaning against the wall. She’d likely pedaled over from Cibola High to see her dad to tell him the good news.

In that skirt.

“Looks like a movie star,” she said, lifting her chin a little higher.

“I hope he’s got the salary to go with it.”

“I need to talk to you,” she said, eyes flicking toward the drinking fountain.

“What about?” He followed her. It wasn’t the first time. He’d begun to dread that drinking fountain. Didn’t like bending over it for too long in case a hand found its way around his buttocks.

Fingers brushed against his arm, and then two flat hands cupped his chest. He found himself backing up against the wall, eyes flicking at the duty desk in case Sarge was looking.

“I’ve got a date,” she whispered, “after work.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“You think that’s OK?”

“Of course it’s OK. Girl like you should have a boyfriend. Your dad’s met him, right?”

“Well that’s the thing.” She sucked in her bottom lip, eyes dreamy, far away. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. He’s older than me. Much older. I like older men. Is it wrong to like older men?”

Temeke looked down at two amber eyes, oddly attractive against olive skin. He felt that unmistakable vibration in his gut, the one that told him she wasn’t telling him everything. “Depends how much older.”

“Thirty or so.”

“What’s a thirty year old man want with a teenage girl?”

“I’m an adult.”

“Only just,” he said. “You might want to find out what his intentions are.”

Temeke saw the pinched lips, saw her hand go up to her neck and rub it distractedly. Saw two breasts straining against her shirt. It reminded him of an inflated sex doll he’d found in Hackett’s murder book closet.

She drew in breath. “That’s such a fatherly question.”

“That’s because I’m old enough to be one.”

“You look younger than my dad,” she said, moving closer. “I thought you were about thirty-five, younger even. I’ve never seen a man as dark as you.”

Temeke checked himself. Had to. Moved three steps away from the scent of her perfume, almost sickened by it. He saw the riot of color on her fresh young face, saw the restless stance. She kept soothing that thin cotton dress, touching it to keep her hands busy. If he could bet on it, she had mixed feelings about this man.

He could still hear Becky’s light-hearted chatter all the way up the stairs, something about a Scandinavian movie she’d seen on TV. When he got to his desk he thought of those finely chiseled cheekbones and the petite frame, similar to the photographs on his cork board.

The victim profiles were laid out across his desk, each smiling back at him like seven exhumed corpses.
Jaelyn Gains, 16 / Lavonne Jackson, 14 / Mikaela May Ortega, 15 / Lyana Durgins, 16 / Elizabeth Moya, 15 / Mandy Guzman, 13 / Kizzy Williams, 9.

His fingers tapped out a staccato rhythm on the desk. It had taken the police months to find Morgan Eriksen and the bloodstained shirt. Kizzy’s blood. The poor boy had been beside himself, all trembling and muttering as Luis had told it.

Temeke had used up most of his lunch hour wading through records and listening to a phone message from Andrew Knife Wing at the Romero Street post office. It was a lead he couldn’t pass up.

A psychic lead.

Stu Anderson poked his head around the door. “Are you ready?”

“Ready for what?”

“Round two.”

“You mean, Eriksen hasn’t left yet?”

“He wanted a word before he left. Something on his mind. I thought we were keeping his face out of the papers for now.”

“So did I, Stu. So did I.”

“Another thing. He’s been receiving postcards from an Aunt Hedda. They’re written in some kind of code, map coordinates, cell phone numbers, that kind of thing.”

“What’s the zip code?”

“Albuquerque.” Stu handed Temeke a scrunched up piece of paper that smelled like soap. “He must have known the phones were tapped when he was in the detention center. Passed this to another inmate in the toilets. Midge Collins. In for rape.”

“I hope he didn’t bend over.” Temeke studied the letter, blue ink bleeding between the lines and a partial address.

He sighed all the way to the interview room.

“You wanted to say goodbye?” Temeke asked, sitting at the table.

Morgan craned his neck at the mirror on the opposite wall. “I had hoped my attorney was coming today.”

“I had hoped you’d had a nasty accident with a carving knife, but we can’t all have what we want.”

Morgan gave Temeke a scowl. “Have you heard from Patti?”

That was the problem. Temeke had and he wasn’t about to endanger her life by admitting to it. “Do you think she’s still alive?”

Eriksen cocked his head to one side. “You’d tell me if you heard from her.”

“So you can continue passing love letters to Collins?” Temeke scooted the scrap of paper toward Morgan, watched the sudden twitch of his eyebrows. “Collins is a bit forgetful. Fried his brain before he came here. It was all those pills he took, uppers, downers, twisters, benders. Forgot you’d given it to him. Alerted the warden because he thought he’d found the toy in the cereal packet.”

Morgan lowered his voice. “I gave it to Collins to give to his wife. I didn’t think he’d screech like a little girl.”

“Collins doesn’t have an ounce of intellect, son. Not a vestige. You’re not planning an escape, are you? It’s a good lunch today. Ravioli.”

Morgan wiped his nose on his fist, chains rattling between his wrists. “I wanted to know if Patti was OK.”

“The address is a bit smeared, son. You might want to elaborate on the number so I can find out.”

Morgan held up both hands, cuffs rattling. “7034… something like that.” He was quiet for a moment, dragging out the silence, and then, “What part of Africa are you from?”

“Dar es Salaam. On my father’s side.” What that had to do with a bar of soap, Temeke couldn’t imagine.

“Tanzania,” Morgan said, giving a superior sneer. “You’ve never been there have you?”

“No, I have never been there.”

“What kind of African are you if you haven’t been to your country?”

“My country is the US,” Temeke corrected. “Same as you.”

“Norway is beautiful. So many trees…”

Temeke wondered if Morgan had been consummately evil since childhood. That’s when the weird stuff usually happened, like hurting cats and throwing lighted clods of dung into the next-door neighbor’s open window. There was nothing in the database on Morgan. It was like he had never existed.

Temeke adjusted his ear-piece and glanced at the two-way mirror. It was the third time Morgan had spoken to anyone, once to the judge and twice to Temeke. Now he sat in an interview room where three agents and a doctor in psychology listened behind a sheet of glass. And none of them could make head or tail of it.

“So what made you decide to come to America?” Temeke said, feeling like he was looking down the barrel of a shotgun.

“It’s where everyone goes. Everyone that doesn’t belong, that is. Like me. Like you.”

Temeke couldn’t resist a smile. “You’re from Westwood Village. Went to Ralph Waldo Emerson Middle School and Alexander Hamilton High. Sounds like you belong. Where did you go to college? Don’t tell me. UCLA.”

Morgan splayed his fingers out on the desk and gave Temeke a sideways glower. “Fiat Lux.”

“
Let there be light.
That’s quite a résumé. So what did you study… acting?”

Morgan looked down at his hands and wrapped his fingers together in a tight grip. “Psychology.”

“Ah, the study of the human mind. Tell me something, you’ve started getting a few phone calls. Seems someone’s got you twisted right round their little pinky. I’m surprised you fell for it. Trouble is, it’s not safe in here, Morgan. Maybe in your cell, but not in the showers. Who is this new friend?”

Temeke saw the slackened mouth and then the frown. He knew Morgan would close down if he didn’t change tack. “So let’s talk about Patti’s state of mind. Not like she comes here, is it? Not like anyone comes here. What would your psychology degree tell you about that then?”

“We’re separated.”

“By a barbed wire fence and a very thick wall. Did you love her?”

“Yes, only she tried to sell me off. Left me for someone else.”

“Didn’t get very far now, did she? By all accounts she’s banging your best friend if that last tremor was anything to go by. Registered 7.0 on the Richter scale.”

“I spy with my little eye… someone trying to provoke me.” Morgan drummed his fist on the table and pointed a finger. “Did you know your wife gets it somewhere else?”

“Blimey, Morgan, that’s the oldest trick in the book. Get a copper jealous and jumpy and out of his gourd. Let’s get back to Patti, shall we?”

Temeke visualized Patti Lucero’s smooth white face and pale blue eyes. Her picture stared down at him from the cork board by his desk. She was happy back then.

“Patti wanted him,” Morgan said. “I could see it in her eyes. The way she watched him, the way she listened to every word.”

“Who?”

“She had no idea what he was. It was all a game. A poker game. I lost. She was the stake.”

“That was a bit rash wasn’t it?”

“He threatened to kill her if I called the cops.”

“It was your blood and prints all over the shop. Not his.”

“He took samples when I was asleep.”

“When you were
drugged
you mean. Don’t want us thinking you took part in all of this.”

“Patti knew what he was. That night she went down to the barn and untied the kid. Took her into the woods, to the hunter’s cabin. They nearly reached the road before the first shot.”

“Who was shot?”

“Patti. In her leg. She shouted to the kid, told her run. But the kid didn’t get far enough. He shot her down like a dog. I couldn’t stop him.” Morgan’s eyes were flat but Temeke knew he was scared.

“Let’s talk about Kizzy. Is that OK with you?”

Morgan looked straight at Temeke and merely nodded.

“Did she die then?”

“No, I carried her back to the barn.” Morgan took a deep breath and held it in for a moment. “I gave her some Nembutal to take away the pain.”

“There’s no heating in the barn, is there?”

“No.”

“Did she have a blanket? Pillow? Anything?”

“She had me. She always had me.”

“You stayed with her all night.”

“Until dawn. She was a little scared, I think.”

“So what did you and Kizzy talk about in the barn since you spent so much time together?”

“Her dad. How he was going to come and find her.”

“There is something about her dad you might want to know, Morgan. He keeps a loaded gun under his pillow and he’s not afraid to use it. Seems like he’s training for something. I should have taken it from him when I had the chance. But I didn’t.”

Temeke watched the smile, the kind of smile that crept under the back of his shirt and made him sweat. Morgan wasn’t buying any of it. “The pathology report said Kizzy Williams died at three o’clock in the afternoon. Did you know more people die at that time than any other time of day?” Temeke knew more people actually died at four o’clock in the morning but Morgan wasn’t to know.

“Odin’s hour.”

“Who’s Odin?”

“He’s ruler of Asgard and the guider of souls.”

Temeke couldn’t help thinking he had overstepped something important. He remembered the god Odin in a school report he had done in tenth grade, a man with a long beard riding a horse with eight legs. According to the field investigator, a man with a long beard had been carved and painted on several tree trunks in the woods. A man with the word
Wodin
etched on his gnarly forehead.

“I want to be tried in Norway.” Morgan rested his elbows on the table, fingers stretched briefly before forming a steeple in front of his mouth.

“Doesn’t Norway have the largest plateau in Europe?” Temeke asked, wanting Eriksen to know he was on the ball, knew a thing or two. The accent didn’t fool him either.

Morgan nodded, eyes glazing over as if haring off into the darkness for one last memory. “Hardangervidda. So many trees.”

“We found a passport in the barn,” Temeke said, flashing it under Morgan’s nose. “In a black lockbox behind the fridge. Is this the man who shot Kizzy Williams?”

Morgan rolled his lips and gave a glossy stare.

“And this?” Temeke slid a photocopy of the passport across the table. It was a picture of a blond man alright, same smile, same slant of the head. Same last name. It could have been a relative at a squint. “A Mr. Ole Eriksen. Your best friend.”

Silence.

“And where’s your passport? Don’t have one, do you? And as for your driving license, I hope it didn’t get into the wrong hands.”

More silence.

“You’re no reindeer roast. Lived on the beach for most of your life, shacking up with women old enough to be your mother. Come to think of it, you were shacked up with Patti’s mother when you moved to Albuquerque. That’s how it all started, wasn’t it? Only you fancied a bit of calf after you’d had the cow.”

Morgan chewed his lower lip, as if a nagging doubt rose to the surface.

“It was all about money,” Temeke continued. “Or was it the sex? Could have been both, I suppose.” He watched the pursed lips, the slow skankish smile. The type of smile that stroked the pit of his stomach. “Before you answer that, Hardangervidda has no trees. It’s about as sterile as your lunch pack.”

Temeke saw Morgan’s puzzled look and beamed at him, he also felt the earpiece vibrate with angry static. It wasn’t quite true about the trees, but why was Morgan the only one allowed to lie?

“You liked Kizzy, didn’t you, Morgan?”

“She was brave.”

Kizzy was a great talker according to her dad. It had kept her alive longer than the others, two days longer if Temeke had calculated right. The others were all dead within nine hours of their kidnapping, although Morgan never admitted to killing them. He likely just stood there and watched.

There were body parts in that commercial fridge. Fingers, hair clippings, souvenirs of those he killed. The defense psychologist ruled that Morgan had acute distress disorder and PTSD, both of which would be thrown out by any jury since he’d never been in the military or suffered trauma of any kind. He was a liar. A very good one.

“She was worried her father would miss her,” Morgan said, eyes burning with a rekindled fire.

Temeke studied Morgan a little more closely. He wasn’t dirty-looking like a vagrant, not even when they picked him up. He had been freshly shaved with a pressed white shirt covered in Kizzy’s blood. There was a smell of soap about him and if it wasn’t for an armful of tattoos peeking beneath his sleeves, you would have thought he was a
resting
actor.

“She wanted me to believe she wasn’t afraid.”

“Wasn’t afraid of what, Morgan?”

“Me.”

The last word was chilling. Kizzy had to have been terrified of Morgan because he was her abductor. The one thing she’d been warned against. Talking to strangers.

“Did you believe her?” Temeke asked.

“Yes, until Wednesday morning.”

Three days after the kidnap, Temeke thought.

“You think I killed her, don’t you?”

“I’d like to rule you out.”

Morgan nodded slowly. “Heads speak wisdom. That’s what Odin says. So here I am accused of this crime.”

“First degree murder and kidnap to mention a few.”

“What if I didn’t do it?”

“Then you’ll stay here until we find out who did.”

Morgan caught his breath and his eyes widened as if a thought had suddenly come to him. “You’ll find your man of interest. Two priors for solicitation, breaking and entering, and a restraining order. Not much. But it’s the restraining order you need to focus on.”

“I’d like to point out there are a few class felonies in that list.” Temeke grimaced.

“Yeah,
real
class.”

Temeke wanted to reach over and grab Morgan by the collar. What was the point of having laws when they were blatantly ignored? “Well, that shouldn’t be too hard to find amongst the several million we have on file. Better get to it.”

Temeke scraped his chair back against the vinyl floor, snatched up the file and left the room. He almost hurled the earpiece into Stu’s outstretched hand. “We’re wasting our time. He’s not our man.”