Alien Eyes (11 page)

“Too early to know for sure,” David lied.

“Oh, no, oh, God.” She waved a hand in the air. “You
get
them. The bastards.” She sobbed. “
Get them
.”

David nodded. It was always the women who wanted revenge.

“I'll get them,” he told her solidly. He inclined his head toward the hallway, and the bedroom where two little boys huddled with their grandfather, filling their minds with cartoons. “And you look after
them
.”

Wendy McCallum stood up, gritted her teeth, and shook his hand, her own trembling hard. David knew she would take the bargain seriously.

SIXTEEN

From a distance the house looked innocent.

The word stuck in David's mind. It was an odd aspect of this case—the innocence of the victims. This was not a crime where John Q. Public was out where he had no business being. These were Elaki and humans, locked away in their homes, unsafe in the night.

He thought of Rose and his daughters, alone on the farm in the dark.

David told the car to wait in the driveway. The yellow crime scene stamps glowed in the windows of the house, like lighted jack-o'-lanterns on Halloween. The flies were gone—sucked in by the nano machines for analysis of stomach contents. The mailbox had been emptied. David passed his badge across the stamp on the front door. The lock released and let him through.

The bloodstain was gone, recorded, absorbed, and tagged by the nano machines that had swept through the house. The smell of death was officially erased, though David could detect it in the air. Perhaps the odor came from his own clothes.

He went to the kitchen. The garbage can was empty. Daley did a good crime scene, no slop. Cops like Daley were unusual.

The body was gone, but David felt the presence. Memory, he thought. Imagination. Fatigue. All a beautiful dream.

He never had beautiful dreams.

But he was glad the body was gone. For a moment his mind superimposed Charlotte's framed portrait over the ravage of her face. The gaping bloody image won out. It was always that way, and David didn't fight it. The forensic psychiatrist on staff would never give more than a glance to the faces of the victims. David was convinced she immediately forgot them. Certainly she never remembered their names—it interfered with her empathy with the perp.

He would let Charlotte be pretty again after he caught her killer. Killers. He could see them, vague images, Elaki images. He picked up the phone and dialed Miriam's extension.

“Forensics, Miriam Kellog.”

“Miriam? It's Silver.”

“C'mon, David, I just gave it all to String. Can't you guys coordinate? I got work here.”

“The killers were Elaki—weren't they?”

“David. Yes.”

“The same three?”

“Too early, David. I'm just getting started.”

“You sound tired.”

“So do you.”

“When you do get some information—will you hold the release?”

“David, I've got Ogden to deal with.”

“Della will be giving you a call, by the way. She's got some new software to pass along.”

“How nice.”

“Pay
attention
, Miriam. Give the software a chance. No, hush, listen. Let Della show you what she's got. Will you do that? As a favor to me?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“And no details to the press until—”

“David—”

“Until you talk to Mark McCallum's parents. And until Charlotte's father's been notified.”

“Right. Of course.”

“And until you hear what Della has to show you.”

“Ummm.”

“Thank you, Miriam.”

David went to the kitchen. The door of the refrigerator was scoured clean. He went back to the phone. Daley was home.

“Hope I didn't get you up.”

“Nah. Just doing a book tape,” Daley said. “What's up?”

“I need to know if there was any kind of memo chip—you know those ones with magnets on the back? Were there any of those on the refrigerator door?”

“I don't think so. Have to access the list. Can you hold a few minutes?”

“Sure.”

David wondered if Daley was married, if he had kids. Home late at night doing a book tape? No kids, likely. Probably no wife. David tapped his foot. He always seemed to be waiting. He hated waiting.

“Sorry, David.” Daley sounded out of breath. “Baby woke up and I had to stop and pick him up.”

David heard the soft voice of a young baby who has the four A.M. sociables. Daley muttered sweet witticisms that would go unappreciated by anyone over the age of six months, then his voice shifted into a lower register.

“Nope. No memo chips on the fridge or anywhere else. What brought this on?”

“Just a thought. Thanks for checking.”

“No problem.” The baby squawked. “Somebody's out of patience here. Better wake Miss Mama up.”

“Good luck,” David said, and meant it. He remembered, with comfortable nostalgia, long wakeful nights with his own daughters.

The phone rang as soon as he hung up.

“Silver,” he said, picking it up.

“Oh. Detective. This is Wendy McCallum.”

“Are you all right, Mrs. McCallum?”

“I just …”

“Is something—” He was about to ask her if something was wrong, but the question seemed monstrous in its stupidity.

“I was calling the answering machine.” Her voice was thick. “I wanted to hear my son's voice.”

David was quiet a long moment. “Of course. I won't be here too much longer if you … if you need to call again.”

“Good night,” she said, barely mouthing the word.

David hung up. He frowned, then punched in one more number.

“Homicide Task Force, Detective Martinas.”

“Della? David. Listen, I need you to get a hold of the department chairman of the Edmund School of Diplomacy. Charlotte McCallum's father, Stephen Arnold, is a full professor there. He's on some kind of business trip-right now, and I need to find him.”

“Sure, David.”

“And, Della, there's more to this than notification and questioning. Wherever he is, you get the local cops in and explain that we have a situation.”

“You think he did it?”

“I think he was the target. I want him protected and brought here.”

“What makes you—”

“Not now, not on the phone. Mel around?”

“Captain's office. You want to talk to him?”

“Ask him to meet me at … say, Cooper's, in half an hour.”

“Sure.”

“One more thing. Call Miriam in forensics—but not until Arnold is squared away. Then get to Miriam and explain our new software to her.”

“Our … you mean what we talked about in that yogurt place?”

“You had time to look into that?”

“Hell no.”

“
Look
into it. Get Pete to help you.”

“In our copious spare time.”

“Do it, Della. We're going to be taking it from all directions starting now.”

“We already take it from all directions.”

“It's going to get worse. Trust me on that.”

“And you're saying the best defense is a good
bureaucracy?”

“Trust me on that, too.”

SEVENTEEN

Cooper's wasn't crowded after the dinner rush on a week night. Most people in now were there for beer and appetizers, or dessert and coffee.

David was eating onion rings, ignoring the cup of pinkish-white sauce they came with and dipping them in catsup. Mel slid into the seat across from him.

“Suppose to use the sauce, David.” Mel looked at the waiter. “Beer. A Gornsby.” He took an onion ring and dipped it in catsup.

The waiter brought a brown bottle and a fluted glass. “Something to eat?” he said. He wore glasses and his hair was cut short, with a trendy divot in back.

“Chili dog,” Mel said. “Onions, cheese, and kraut.”

“More onion rings,” David said.

“Another beer?”

David nodded. He took a bite from his cheese steak sandwich.

Mel closed his eyes and leaned back in the booth. He looked older, David decided. His hair was curly and getting too long.

“When'd you eat today?” David asked.

“Today?” Mel opened his eyes. “Had a sandwich brought in this afternoon. Looked good, too. Ham and … mozzarella.”

“Didn't you eat it?”

“Della. She got the pickle, too.”

David shoved the onion rings in Mel's direction.

“Della says to tell you that Stephen Arnold is in Minneapolis. The cops there got him under lock and key. So what's up?”

A piece of grilled onion fell off David's sandwich. He picked it up and put it in his mouth. A burst of laughter sounded from the booth at the end of the room. Mel glanced over his shoulder, then back to David.

“Stephen Arnold lived with the McCallums. He's Charlotte's father. He's a full professor at Edmund University and he presented a paper a few months ago, some conference in Austria. Care to guess what about?”

Mel chewed an onion ring. “Angel Eyes?”

“The Guardians.”

“Same thing. He pro or con?”

“Not sure. Pro's my guess. But his daughter's mother-in-law says he always left a memo chip with his itinerary on the refrigerator door.”

“You find one?”

David shook his head.

“You thinking the killers took it?”

“Could be.”

“So in one pocket they got Charlotte's finger, and in the other her Dad's itinerary.”

David set his sandwich back on the plate. “Something like that.”

An alarm bell went off and the conversational roar quelled. The man behind the bar made a hand motion to the waiter, who nodded and disappeared down the hall toward the men's room.

David and Mel turned around to watch the hallway. A man, potbelly swelling over cheap blue cotton pants that were belted below the waist, came loping from the hallway, wiping grey foam off his neck, forehead, and arms with a wad of paper towels. The waiter followed, towel roll in hand.

Mel frowned. “That's new. When did they get the smoker's friend installed?”

“Had it since last summer,” David said.

“I didn't know that.”

“City ordinance. Everybody had to have them by spring.”

There were hoots of laughter, but the man with the paper towels ignored them. He tossed towel wads in the center of the floor and left, disgust etched into his ruddy face.

Mel's hot dog arrived. He opened the bun.

“There's no mustard on this. No catsup, either.”

The waiter consulted his order form. He ran a fingernail across the bottom of the pad, and Mel's voice could be heard, sounding grainy.

“
Chili dog. Onions, cheese, and kraut
.”

Mel grimaced. “Anybody orders kraut, onions, and cheese, kid, it's a given they're going to want mustard and catsup.”

“I thought so.” The waiter pulled a jar of mustard and a bottle of catsup from his apron pocket.

David grinned.

Mel picked up the jar and gave it a sour look. “What's this Dijon shit?”

The waiter, expressionless, took a jar of yellow mustard from another pocket.

Mel shook his head, a reluctant half smile on his face. “You new here, kid? 'Cause you're born to the business.”

The waiter permitted a small smile and left.

Mel doctored the hot dog and took a bite. “No question, is there, David?”

David shook his head. “Political hits. Teams of two or three. We let it out—FBI will take the case.”

“Then they'll bury it, like cats in a litter box.”

“We keep it quiet and the press finds out.” David shook his head. “If
Ogden
finds out—”

“Same difference.”

“
We
get buried. Same analogy.”

Mel took another bite of his hot dog. It was two-thirds gone. Clumps of kraut and chili dotted with cheese and onion fell to the plate in mounds. Mel picked them up with his fingers and shoveled them into his mouth.

David frowned. “Where did String go this afternoon?”

Mel cocked his head sideways. He chewed heavily.

“You said he went ahead of us—to the murder scene in his van. But we were there a long time before he was.”

Mel frowned. “So where did he go? Not right, is it? Go somewhere else first.”

David nodded slowly.

“Van's in the lot,” Mel said. “You want we should take a look?”

“Soon as you're done.” David handed him a napkin.

EIGHTEEN

David slid his id into the elevator slot and the door jerked, hesitated, then opened partway. Mel started to squeeze through.

David shook his head. “Take the stairs.”

“Claustrophobia getting worse?”

“I'm not getting in any cranky elevator.”

“Claustrophobia,” Mel said.

They headed left, to the stairwell. The overhead light was harsh bright fluorescence. The concrete steps were slick, worn, and grey—treacherous when wet. Small cracks ran like veins of old age. The walls were cinder block, musty-smelling.

The underground lot was cavernous, well lit in the center, with dark corners. Here their footsteps echoed. Oil stains had dried like black velvet mold. The air was soiled with the smell of exhaust.

“
When you love the love you've loved so long
—” Mel sang loudly.

“Give it all you've got,” David said. “There might be somebody out there doesn't know we're here.”

“
And wake to find that love is GONE
…”

David looked for the blue Chevy van with the rusty bumper—String's favorite. It was easy to find—parked at an odd angle. The rest of the PD vehicles were lined up with mechanical uniformity, though there were no guiding parking stripes. The vehicles knew where they should be berthed. The van had skewed the lineup.