Alien Blues (30 page)

Rose was sitting in the living room, reading to the girls. The house smelled like lemony detergent. The rooms were silent and neat—books put away, papers gone, everything dusted. David wasn't sure, but it looked like Rose had vacuumed the cushions on the couch.

Sunlight blazed through squeaky clean windows.

The girls were wide-eyed, but quiet. Dead Meat put her paws on his waist and whined softly.

“How are my girls?” he wanted to shout. He wished they would run to him, hug him, demand to be picked up. He would lift little Mattie up on his shoulders, swing Kendra off her feet, swoop Lisa up for a piggyback ride. He wanted to touch the baby chubbiness of Mattie's smooth cheeks; but somehow, he could not lift a hand to release that small affection, could not make the gesture that had once been as natural as air.

The girls stared at him. It was odd, how quiet they were. Dead Meat went back to the couch. Her tail hung low, and she put her head on her paws and whined.

Mattie reached down and stroked the dog's back.

David left the bedroom door open while he hung up his jacket. Rose was reading again, answering with unwonted patience when Lisa interrupted and asked questions. Rose spoke to the children with infinite kindness now, as if they would shatter at a raised or angry voice. She had found the time to clean every surface in the house. She had not found time to visit Haas in the hospital.

David sat on the bed. He should be on his way. Halliday would have picked Winston up hours ago.

Even the work—the work that framed his world—even that tasted stale now. Surely, if he kept going through the motions, things would get better.

Could he bear another dinner where he watched Rose sit before an empty plate, smile at the girls, and stare at the walls?

He stretched out on the crisply made bed. He was sleeping alone now. Rose spent her nights on the couch, sitting upright and silent in the darkness. Sometimes he got up and looked at her. She was never asleep. As far as he knew, she had not slept since that night in the tunnels.

And he knew, while he stared at her and she ignored him, that she needed him now more than she ever had. In his dreams he heard her screams, echoing through the tunnels.

David called Halliday from the bedroom phone.

“Silver here.”

“David? How are you?”

“You got him?”

“In custody since eight o'clock this morning.”

David checked his watch. Two P.M.

“I'm coming in,” David said. “Have you fed him?”

“No.”

“Wait, then.”

“You insist. David, are you up to this?”

“I'm fine, Roger.”

“The miracles of modern medicine.”

“Something else, too. At the Ambassador, when Mel and I found Dyer's coat. There was somebody in the storeroom, talking to that Elaki—Slyde. And I think it was Myer.”

“
Myer
? You saw him?”

“I heard him.”

“David—”

“Roger, he said, ‘Not your problem,
Peanut.'
It's the way he said it. Peanut. And when I was down at vice, he was on the phone talking about
peanut
butter. I know it was him, Roger.”

“We'll see, David.”

“Look, Roger, I've got a feeling about this. Get Della to check up on an ex-cop named Nimenz. Works as a bouncer at the Arrongi.”

“The Arrongi, huh? Will do.”

David sighed. “Thanks, Roger. See you.”

His shoes were muddy. David changed into another pair, an old, shabby pair of Eagles. Best to be comfortable. The days just got longer and longer.

FORTY-NINE

“Hey, Silver, how's it going?”

“You come down yet, Silver? Or you still flying?”

“
¿Que pasa
, Davidolo?”

“Bahm bah bahm—the
interrogator
is here. He vill make you talk, und you vill like eet!”

“Did you hear how he spilled the garter belt strangler?”

“That's nothing, man, one of Valeri's gang named him in his will. Talk about establishing rapport.”

David ignored them. He wanted to talk to Della, but she had a civilian at her desk. The man held his head in his hands.

“I mean I was completely, totally dependent on the
kindness
, the
charity
, of a total stranger. No one's going to help me—that's what I thought.” The man's voice was hoarse. He looked to be in his forties, well fed, expensive suit. “My own coworkers—I've worked with these people, off and on, maybe nine years! They won't let me in the door. Said it was
procedure
—I'd have to work it out.”

David stopped by Mel's desk. He inclined his head.

“Stolen identity?”

Mel nodded.

“What's he doing here?”

Mel shrugged. “Ought to be down on Minton, spraying his spit at the Hacker patrol.”

The man threw up his hands. “I couldn't even get back in my house! My kids will let me in, but they're not home from school yet. And this man, this perfect stranger, comes shuffling up while I'm digging in my pockets—for
what
I don't know, I got no credit now and who the hell carries cash? And he says, ‘Man, can I help you?' This … this
fellow
is unshaven and I had taken him for some kind of Little Saigo derelict.” Expensive suit leaned back in his chair. “I said I got to get somewhere and I got no credit. He says where you need to go? I mean, he
knows
just by looking I'm desperate. So I say, the police, I need the cops. And he tells the car the cops, and the car says
which
cops, and starts reeling off—city cop? County cop? Missing persons, homicide? And it hits me.” The man leaned close suddenly and Della flinched. “They killed me. Some computer just as good as
killed
me.”

“Sir, this is stolen identity, covered by CCP—”

“Who?”

“CCP. They have jurisdiction on all computer crimes. They're on Minton Avenue. I can—”

“No! I want homicide! I want—”

“Come on, David,” Mel said. “Roger's waving.”

David followed Mel into the office. Halliday was on the phone, but he motioned them in. Mel sat on the table, swinging his legs.

“Look, I'll get back to you.” Halliday put the phone down and gave David a wary smile.

“How's the shoulder, David?” Roger said.

“Okay. Where is he?”

“We put him in two.”

Mel grinned. “You're a mean bastard, David. Guy didn't even get breakfast. I feed
my
prisoners.”

“Not two,” David said. “I don't want the mirror. Even the dumb ones know it's two-way. This guy is smart and self-conscious. And I want his undivided attention.”

“Okay. I'll have—”

“No, I'll move him. Just get three set up to record.”

“Going to tell him he's in the movies?”

“No. We're after other fish. That okay with you, Roger?”

Halliday nodded. “You'll need this.” He handed David a file folder. “See what you can get on that business in the tunnels. We got Santana for the assault, torture, and attempted murder of a police officer. You.” Halliday stretched backward over his chair. “Can we make it stick?
Probably
. Didn't get the usual crime-scene evidence, but Christ, the city was downed by a tornado. May be your word against his. Jury will go with you.”

“Got to find him first.”

“Matter of time.” Halliday looked thoughtful. “I want him for Dyer. See if you can get Winston to help you there.”

Mel scratched his thigh. “I don't know about connecting him to Dyer. So far we got nothing to connect Santana with Machete Man. Nothing since prison. No prints in Clinton's apartment, no testimony from appliances. In fact, nothing at all in there. Somebody ran nano machines over the whole thing. We didn't get a loose DNA molecule.” Mel shook his head. “Hell, that alone should do it. Convict him on obvious lack of evidence. Admission of guilt.”

“Yeah,” Halliday said. “And vice can make a morals charge stick when somebody blushes.”

“We got nothing from the street either.” Mel tipped his chair back. “Nobody admits seeing Santana and Clinton together, which is shit. Thing is, nobody wants to cross Santana, for which I can't blame them. Even if they did, these losers never go down good with a jury.”

David nodded and looked at Halliday. “Lab ever get any more testimony from Dyer's car?”

Halliday shook his head. “Just complaints about maintenance. It was a '29, they were bad about that. Nothing from the appliances in Judith Rawley's apartment either, about anybody but the guys you saw. And they're dead.” Halliday scratched his cheek. “So Winston's our best bet. Did some checking on that guy, Nimenz—bouncer at the Arrongi? Used to work the Organized Crime Task Force, back in '31. Along with another hotshot who came in off the robbery unit.”

“
Myer
.”

“Yeah. Good hunch, David. You going to use Winston to get to Myer?”

“It's the only thing we've got that might hold up.”

Roger nodded. “Try to keep everything admissible. You never know.”

David looked at Mel. “Do me a favor. Give me some time with him, then walk by with some sandwiches—roast beef, with onions, pickles, and fries. The works. Make sure you get us something to drink, too.”

“Done.”

David rubbed his shoulder. “Wish me luck.”

He tried to clear his mind and relax as he went down the hallway. No hostility, he told himself. Forget that this guy's been working with Santana, that he left you in the tunnels, that he's a cowardly sniveling little shit.

Great, David thought. I'm sounding like Mel. Real detached.

He took deep even breaths.

He stared through the two-way mirror. Winston's arms were folded and he was slumped in his seat, muscles rigid. He's pissed, David thought.

David tucked the file under his arm and pushed the door just a little too hard. Winston jumped.

“Hello, Dennis,” David said. He glanced around the tight little room. “Where's your paralegal?”

“I … they just said questions. Aid in the investigation.”

“Dennis, you have the right to legal representation during questioning that might incriminate you. And you don't
have
to talk to me. You know that?”

“Yeah, I … I know. Look, maybe we can do this some other time, okay? I should go home now. Alex needs to be fed.”

“You can't go home.”

“But you said—”

“I said you can have a paralegal. You're in custody, Dennis.”

“But when … when can I go home?” Winston glanced at the mirror.

David opened the door and looked down the hallway. “Let's go,” he said.

“Go where?”

“Come on.”

Dennis was handcuffed. Good touch, Mel, David thought. He took hold of Winston's arm and led him into the hallway.

Winston ducked his head, avoiding the eyes of the cops behind their desks. Shame, David thought, would work well on Dennis Winston. It was worth changing interrogation rooms just to parade the man up and down the precinct.

“Dennis, you need to make a pit stop? Men's room?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Here.” He let go of Winston's arm and stuck his head through the doorway of the men's room. One of the stalls was occupied. Somebody was spinning a roll of toilet paper.

David lowered his voice. “I wish I could take the handcuffs off you. But there's a rule.”

Winston nodded and stumbled in. He stopped in front of a urinal and fumbled with his zipper. A toilet flushed and the stall door swung open.

Vic Junn came out and headed for the sinks. David folded his arms. Junn was a looker, the prick. A stroke of luck.

Junn chose the towel dispenser next to Winston. He dried his hands and peered over Winston's shoulder. Winston hung his head, shoulders hunched forward.

“'Lo, Silver.”

David nodded.

“Ought to at least take the poor bastard's cuffs off,” Junn muttered on his way out the door.

Winston stayed in front of the urinal, but nothing happened. He zipped his pants and looked at David in the mirror.

“Look, this is silly,” David said. He put his thumb on the release button of the handcuffs. The print registered, and the cuffs sprang open.

“There. I'll be right outside, okay?”

Winston nodded.

David stood in front of the scarred metal door. Definitely against the rules, this time.

A few minutes later Winston tapped on the door. David took his elbow.

“This way.”

The interrogation room was small, cell-like, the green tile floor battered and dirty. The only furniture was a scarred wood table and two metal chairs, side by side. Mel had set it up just the way David liked. The ashtray was gone, and a pitcher of water and a glass were in the center of the table. A new Miranda-Pro sat to one side.

“Have a seat,” David said.

He pulled the Miranda-Pro close to his end of the table. Then he turned his chair so he faced Winston, almost knee to knee. For the average white middle-class American male, twenty-seven inches was the limit of comfortable proximity. David made sure he was closer.

“Your full name is Dennis Jacob Winston. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

The Miranda-Pro clicked, recording the voices, as well as printing a written copy.

David checked the voice registers. Fine.

“Can you speak up?” he said.

Winston leaned forward. “My name is Dennis Jacob Winston.”

“You are thirty-eight years old, and were born in Greenspier, Ohio. Is this correct?”

“Correct.”

“Your social security number is 2-770-999-321.”

“Yes.”

“Your address is 32 Cliffdale Road, Rainbow Townhomes, zip code 43226-99345-89.”

“Yes.”

“And you live alone?”

“Well, I … have Alex.”