Alien Heat (15 page)

“I don't want to put you out.”

Clements looked at David. “Okay by you, David? We can borrow your car, or you can drive us.”

David turned to Teddy.

“We'll get home.”

It was Arthur who said it. Teddy met David's eyes; he wished she would say something. He remembered the feel of her, beside him on the Ferris wheel. He remembered reading her palm.

He wanted to take her home, but there was Clements, giving him that look.

“Okay,” David said.

They ran the air-conditioning and rolled down the windows, but the car was thick with the odor of smoke, fire gel, and human sweat. Cromwell and Warden were in the backseat, crammed miserably close.

Clements put her elbow over the headrest and gave Cromwell a sympathetic look. “Got insurance, I assume? And I hope you didn't go and do like my brother-in-law, because one, he didn't get replacement value, and two, he was underinsured.”

“No, no,” Cromwell said. “We just increased the coverage.”

Yolanda Clements smiled. David began to understand.

“Isss not like the last we did in place near the Little Saigo.” The wind coming in from the windows made Warden's scales ripple violently. He shaded his eye prongs. “Thiss unfortunate human had just put in the order for numerous foodstuffs, and then all goes to ash in the flames.”

Cromwell shifted in his seat. “We had a lot of liquor in stock.”

“Tell you what, Mr. Cromwell, I'm going to make a list here, on the recorder, while it's still fresh in your mind. Worst thing about fires is people got no update on their list of inventory, and they don't remember half the things they ought to put on their claim.”

“No, no, I have a recent listing in the office computer.”

“
Do
you now?”

David watched in the rearview mirror again, noting Cromwell's proud apple-to-the-teacher smile. It was a pleasure to watch Clements work this guy over.

“That's good, Mr. Cromwell, real good. But now, you did tell me some of that was in storage. Or am I misremembering? I got no memory, do I, Detective Warden?”

“Not the smallest.”

Cromwell pursed his lips. “There may have been one or two things, but most of it was in the club.”

“How long you had that storage rental?”

“A long time. Years.”

“How long since you put something in there?”

“Couple months anyway.”

Clements nodded, smiled like a cat.

The storage bunkers were on the outskirts of the downtown area, well past the comingled overlap of residence and commerce. Marginal residential pockets were interspersed with cheap warehouses of corrugated metal and oddly shaped lots hidden behind barbed wire and makeshift plywood.

David drove past a floral shop that did not sell flowers, and pulled into a parking lot next to a sign advertising
STOR-BUNK
. It was dark here, though a pale blue stream of light flickered from the sign.

David saw movement across the street, in front of an empty shack that said
PIZZA-N-B
'
CUE
.

“Alert,” he told the car softly.

The door to the bunkers required a code to get in, or would have if it had not been wedged open with a block of wood. Inside, it was dark. Cromwell called up the lights. A dull yellow haze rose in the darkness, bringing the pitch-blackness up to a nightmarish gloom. David followed Cromwell down the sloping concrete walkway, finding the bunker built oddly like a pyramid. He wrapped his hand firmly on the butt of his gun, waiting for the chip to register his fingerprints. Having the weapon at the ready made him feel better.

Warden skittered ahead, walking close to Clements. David brought up the rear, noticing old scales in the corner. Elaki had been through here, some time ago.

It was hot inside, and humid. The lower they went the cooler it felt. David saw beads of condensation cling together and fall in droplets down the coarse concrete walls. He smelled mildew. His shirt stuck to his back, and the odor of smoke clung to his skin and clothes.

He wondered if Arthur and Teddy were safely home.

Cromwell stopped, squinting. “I think we went too far.”

Warden made a fluting noise that sounded amiable, but that David knew to be derisive. Cromwell backtracked and they followed him, uphill now, the slope rising gently.

“Here, this is it.”

He went to the sliding metal door and punched in a code. The door jerked, emitted a metallic hum that developed into a full-throated rumble, and began sliding up into the wall.

David saw the hint of a complacent smile flicker across Clements's face and a frown settle on Cromwell's.

Just inside the door were cases of liquor, and plastic tubs of smokes that looked like the pencil boxes David had carried to school as a child. He saw framed family pictures, stacked on top of the liquor, and large bundles of food packages.

Behind was a hodgepodge jumble David could not imagine anyone wanting to keep. A broken wooden chair, cardboard boxes layered in dust, plastic bags, neatly tied. Clements ran a finger across the top of one of the liquor boxes.

“No dust,” she said cheerfully.

“I don't get this.” Cromwell scratched his head, frowned, took a step inside.

Clements crooked a finger at Warden. “You got the camera, baby?”

TWENTY-SIX

It was early when David walked into the lobby of the Rialto Hotel. A different desk clerk—Sam again—gave him a key to the security floor. His back ached. He had strained something, pulling those people out of the fire. He'd taken Tylenol Twelve caplets before leaving the house, and they were only just now beginning to take effect.

Early as it was, Jenks and Arthur were wide-awake, their raised voices coming through the thick hotel room door.

David's knock was greeted by silence. He waited, knocked again. Someone activated the peephole.

“Please state your business,” came the metallic voice from the door.

David held up his ID for scanning. “Detective Silver, homicide, Saigo City PD.”

He waited. The door opened.

Jenks wore a shabby plaid bathrobe that was likely older than Arthur. His feet were bare, toenails thick and yellowish, in need of a trim. He looked gaunt, and David wondered if he had been eating.

“Detective Silver?” Jenks was hesitating. “I'm sorry—”

“We need to talk,” David said.

Jenks stepped away from the door.

Arthur was dressed, freshly showered, hair wet but neatly combed. He seemed different, more confident.

David winked. “You think you could go downstairs for a while and get some breakfast?”

Arthur nodded. “Sure.”

Jenks rocked forward on the balls of his feet. “I've already ordered room service, Arthur.”

“I'm eating downstairs.”

The door shut softly. Well-trained, David thought. He'd have expected a slam.

“I'm not happy about Arthur's little adventure last night,” Jenks said.

“That's not what I came to discuss. Sit down, Dr. Jenks.”

Jenks hesitated, did not seem to know what to do with his face or hands. He settled on the edge of the small yellow love seat and his robe split open, revealing blue silk boxer shorts. David looked away, considered telling Jenks to take a moment to get dressed, then decided he wanted the man vulnerable.

David sat in a gold brocade armchair—a grandmother chair, his daughters would call it.

“You and your wife were having serious difficulties when she left.” David looked Jenks in the eye, stayed quiet.

Jenks sounded almost bored. “I know it's normal to suspect the husband when a woman is murdered, but I didn't kill my wife.”

David said nothing.

Jenks crossed his legs. “Call Bruer in Chicago. He knows how concerned I was when Theresa disappeared. I loved Theresa. I did, you know.”

David nodded.

“Just what is it you want, Detective?”

“You admit you were having problems. I need to know how much of it was between the two of you, and how much of it was … other things. I need to understand why she left, and never so much as called. If she loved Arthur as much as you say, it's hard to understand. I need to know what was going on in her mind, in her life, those last weeks before she disappeared.”

Jenks slid forward on the couch. “Did you quiz Arthur on this last night?”

“Dr. Jenks.” Something in David's tone made him sit straighter. “I've seen your little room, off the master bedroom. I've seen the couch you've been sleeping on and the easy chair where you sit up at night and read. The two of you were sleeping apart; your wife was having nightmares. I've seen her books on reincarnation. I know she withdrew large sums of money from her personal bank account.

“You implied, when we talked before, that the problems started up after she went to the Mind Institute, after she had a reading. I'm trying to understand how that one experience could be the catalyst for so much … harm.”

Jenks shook his head back and forth. “You don't understand, Detective.”

“Then explain it to me, Dr. Jenks.”

Jenks looked at David, then studied the backs of his hands. “When Martin drowned, he was four years old, and the brightest, sunniest child. We were so very devastated. Guilt-ridden. There is no comfort in this world, when you've lost a child.” Jenks's voice went gravelly. “You have children?”

“Three.”

Jenks nodded. “We did not handle it well. We never
talked
about it all that much. It's only dawned on me in the last year or two, how really strange that is. Theresa was raised in the South, and when unpleasant things came up, she didn't deal with them. And really, I was no better. We both fell apart. I finally got to the point where all I wanted was to return to some kind of normal life. I put together a routine, and I followed that routine to the letter every day. It saved me. I didn't have to think, you see.

“Theresa wasn't like that. She was intelligent, impulsive. Passionate.” He raised a heavy eyebrow. “Our relationship was the classic case of opposites attracting. And my wife was a very controlling person, Detective Silver, as am I. So much of what went on between us, even the way we dealt with our grief, was a matter of one of us struggling to control the other. No matter what we
thought
we were fighting about, it all boiled down to control.”

David thought of Rose, so very strong-willed; himself, a perfectionist. He was getting a glimmer of this marriage, between Bernard and Theresa Jenks.

Jenks clasped his large hands and let them hang between his legs.

“Theresa became unbelievably, painfully depressed. Then she got restless. Anxious. It's hard to explain. Three years after Martin died—” Jenks's voice broke. After all these years, he could not say the child's name casually. “Theresa decided she wanted to have another child, she
had
to have one. I could not bear the thought, the worry—my God, I would never sleep another night. The thing is, Detective, you go through life, and against all evidence to the contrary, you never really believe that bad things can happen to you. You go on every day feeling immune, for no logical reason. And then your son drowns, just by accident, and your innocence goes, you're marked now. You don't believe bad things
won't
happen. I knew if I had another child, I would be afraid for the rest of my life.”

David looked at Jenks and began to understand. “So you didn't. And she did.”

Jenks nodded. “I don't begin to care or understand why other people make these arrangements. I suppose for the woman it means never fighting for child custody. And for the man, it's complete freedom from child support.”

David knew of other reasons. Darker reasons. Child molesters who grew their own victims, but did not want to risk the new death penalty for incest.

“At the time, I thought we both won. She got her child, and I was able to keep my distance. Arthur was
hers
, legally. I donated the sperm, but Theresa was artificially inseminated. Legally, it's not required to do it that way, but she insisted, and I wanted the same. It was not our baby, it was hers.

“Theresa and Arthur started having problems when Arthur turned twelve. She wanted me to intervene, to be a father, and I wouldn't do it. There you have the source of trouble, Detective. Just that simple.”

And that complicated, David thought. “So what happened?”

There was a knock at the door, and the sensor said room service.

“Come in,” Jenks said.

The locks unbolted. David tensed. Jenks was far too careless. Sensors could be tripped up, even in expensive hotels—especially in expensive hotels.

The door opened wide and a cart rolled in. “Please enjoy the breakfast you ordered, Mr. Jenks of Room 3017. If you require anything further, please dial extension twenty-three on your telephone, and we will be pleased to serve you.”

“Join me, Detective?” Jenks dragged the cart closer, setting the voice chip off again.

“Please enjoy the breakfast you ordered, Mr.—”

“Damn it,” Jenks said. “Coffee, sir?”

“Please.”

Jenks's hands were shaking. David took the pot and poured. Jenks took his small china cup and sat back on the couch. David poured himself a cup, added cream. He took the cover off the food.

Hash browns, a basket of croissants, bacon, and a saucer of caramel candy. David shook his head. Elaki were very partial to caramels. They probably came with every meal.

He looked at Jenks. “You should eat.”

“I order meals three times a day, then I can't eat them. Arthur eats for both of us. I think he's grown four inches since we got here.”

David took the basket of croissants to the table near the couch, helped himself, and sat down. Jenks took a pastry and set it on his knee. The croissants were small and shedding flakes like Elaki lost scales. They tasted of buttered dough and cinnamon. Not surprising; Elaki liked cinnamon in everything.