Alien Heat (18 page)

David wondered why he was getting so much flak from Mel about moodiness. Now Clements,
she
was moody.

“I'll follow your lead,” David said.

“Where have I heard that before?”

David caught his finger in his center desk drawer and winced. “I don't know, Detective, and I don't much care about your love life. But while I've got your attention, consider this an official request to leave your Elaki at the office, since he makes so much trouble with String.”

David set the phone down firmly, but did not slam it.

Della gave him a knowing look.

“You got that list of names?” he asked her.

“If you call two a list.” She ripped a piece off a printout, folded it into a paper airplane, and launched it toward his desk. “Names, addresses, and phone numbers. And don't you
start
with me.”

The plane took a nosedive and landed on David's foot.

David detected a decidedly wary note in the voice on the other line.

“Yes, this is Alice Caspian. Who did you say you were?” The woman sounded intelligent, and busy, and very, very old.

“Ms. Caspian, I'm Alwin Lemm, comptroller for the Mind Institute.”

“Is everything okay with Janet?”

“With who?”

“Is everything all right? Look, I'd like to see her again. I know you said it would be best if I didn't, and I understand that. But I just …”

The woman trailed off. David thought she might be crying.

“I'm calling about another matter,” he said. “I handle the financial end and—”

“She needs more money?”

“We've had an error, Ms. Caspian, in our financial matrices. We think there may have been some overcharges, and in your case they would amount to something. I thought if we could go over the services you've already—”

“Please. Put any credits in the account we set up for Janet. Could I please … I just want to see her. Again, just once?”

David said, “May I call you back?”

“Of course.”

He hung up. The address was in Arizona. He wanted a face-to-face, he wanted to go see this woman and talk to her. He did not like the edge of desperation in her voice. He dialed the other number.

“Ford residence.” The metallic voice gave it away. Phone butler.

“Jefferson Ford, please.”

“Who is calling, please?”

“Alwin Lemm, Mind Institute.”

“Please wait.”

David waited, his mind on Alice Caspian.

“This is Leah Ford. Who's calling?” This woman was younger than the last and her voice trembled, but she spoke in hard tones as if her teeth were clenched.

“Alwin Lemm, Mind Institute.”

“Alwin Lemm? I don't believe I know you, Mr. Lemm. I believe my lawyer instructed you people not to call. I believe we made it clear that we do not intend to pay the settlement from my husband's estate. You are more than welcome to contest the decision, and if you do, we will fight you in court. I have two young children to support, sir. And we can prove my husband was
not
in his right mind at the time of his … of his death.”

“Ma'am—”

“So you can by God hire every lawyer you want and I'll see you—”

“Ma'am. My apologies. Please excuse the call.”

“What?”

“I'm sorry,” David said. He was.

THIRTY-ONE

David heard string's voice in the hallway, louder than usual. Was that a hiss? He looked out the door, saw Warden and String, facing off.

“This van obsession for object that is inanimate and not a personal possession is perhaps a sign that all does not go well in the chemaki,” Warden said.

David winced. String did not have a chemaki. It had seemed at one time that he might put something together with an Elaki emergency room doctor, but that had yet to materialize.

“Eat the corncob,” String said. David grinned. His partner was fighting like a human.

Warden skittered backward and waved a fin. “Clearly you have had too much human consortation.”

David looked at Della, hoping she hadn't heard. She was staring at the door, chest heaving. She stood up and headed for the hallway.

“Della?”

She did not hear. David moved out of her way, wondering if she would have walked through him if he hadn't.

“Excuse me.” Her voice was loud enough to be heard on the next street. “Are you saying that there is something wrong with an Elaki and human friendship? Because I have had just about all the bigoted, racist, narrow-minded—”

David rubbed the back of his neck. What had Rose been telling him? To stay out of things that were not his business, and to quit trying to handle everybody's problems and give them a chance to do it themselves. Being right, she said, was often beside the point.

Now seemed a good time to turn over a new leaf. David took the back door out of the bull pen. Likely Clements was here, if Warden was. Which meant she'd be headed for the interrogation room, if she wasn't already there. That's where he'd go, but he'd get there the back way.

He smelled fresh coffee as he went and considered going back to his desk for his favorite mug. Probably not safe yet.

“There you are.”

David turned, saw Detective Clements standing outside the interview room, left hand on her hip. Her hair was sweat-damp at the temples and hairline, and hung thick and hot over her shoulders. She lifted it with one hand and wiped the back of her neck.

“Good Lord, Silver, what happened to you?”

He had cleaned up when they'd come back from the retriever's, but there was only so much he could do. “The usual garbage.”

“I was rude on the phone, David, and I apologize. Now what have you done with my Elaki?”

“Want coffee, Yolanda?”

“Baby, it's ninety-eight degrees outside and my air-conditioning doesn't work. Correction, won't work. I want a cold beer, two of them, one for each hand, but I can't while I'm working and these days I'm always working.”

David found a clean blue mug by the coffeepot and decided not to worry about who it belonged to. “I didn't ask what you wanted, I offered you coffee. Yes or no.”

“No. I see
you
need a cup. Drink it down fast, dude, and let's see if it improves your disposition.”

He added cream. “Warden is in the hallway with String, and they're arguing over the van.”

“Good thing we're above that sort of nonsense.” She rested her back against the wall. Her smile faded. “David, these supper club fires are the biggest mess I've seen in my life. Nothing is typing. The patterns don't fit.”

David nodded. A sign of Elaki involvement.

“We're busting our butts—used more CPU time than we got budgeted for the rest of the whole year, and we're still going under. I tell you, baby, I'm tearing out my hair.”

David leaned close and tugged a swatch of her hair. “You got plenty left to go.”

She rubbed her temples.

“Want something for the headache?” he asked.

“What you got?”

“Tylenol Twelve.”

“Shit,
that
ought to do it.”

David stood in the vid room, watching the interrogation on camera while Clements swallowed Tylenol caplets. The Elaki questioning Cromwell was moving in too tight. The district attorney in Saigo City insisted no Elaki get closer than three feet—there would be no intimidation pleas in her jurisdiction. Juries didn't much like Elaki law enforcement, and an Elaki towering over a seated suspect was a mental image the DA liked to avoid.

“That Warden?” David asked. He looked closer, knew better. This Elaki was narrow in width, with the usual thickness, which gave—David checked the side pouches—
her
more of a pencil shape than was average. The cameras took the images in black and white, so he couldn't read her coloring.

“Who's this Elaki?” he asked.

“Smokar.”

“Smokar?”

“You know how they make jokes with the names. God knows what her Elaki name is. She's with Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms.”

“She's a cowboy? I didn't know they used Elaki.”

“Baby, everybody that's anybody uses Elaki these days. They're the latest status symbol in law enforcement. You're considered a pioneer.”

“What's ATF want with Cromwell?”

“That little balloon trick—sulfuric acid and fire fudge. That tripped their computer wire. They've seen it before, and they think they got an arson ring by the tail.”

David raised an eyebrow. “What do you think?”

“Don't make me talk about this before the Tylenol kicks in.”

David sat on the edge of a desk, gave her his patient look. Waited.

She looked back at the video image. Closed her eyes, then opened them. “I tell you what it is, it's screwy, that's what it is. Let's say somebody's hired a torch, okay? You accept that?”

“Makes sense. Bomb scare, sophisticated incendiary device, multiple points of origin.”

“Right. So first thing we look at is who holds the mortgage. We look to see if it's changed hands several times. Sniff around for creative financing, you know, selling it back and forth, higher price each time, inflate the property values.”

David nodded. “And?”

“No go. First one hasn't changed hands in six years. Second one in three. So we put the owners through the CLUE program. Looking for priors, arson priors—claims and losses. Nothing. We got two fires, same exact MO, got to be the same guy, right? So we look for links.”

“Tatewood?” David said.

“Give the Elaki a taco. Of course, it makes sense. Not just anybody is going to deal in properties where humans and Elaki mix—too many bigots in real estate. Now Tatewood, he holds the mortgages. Not his own money, but he puts the investors together, handles the loan, manages the property.”

“Tatewood's got to be our guy, Yolanda. Tell me he's increased the insurance coverage sometime in the last two months.”

“That's where you're wrong. Tatewood handles the escrow, and he's got cash flow trouble. Both policies had lapsed. According to Tatewood, that's because both the Bernitski brothers and Cromwell are behind in payments, and the books bear it out. So do both of the owners, but they also say they didn't know that the insurance policies had lapsed.
Insurance
companies show notarized E-mail notification for all of them, Tatewood and the owners.”

David ran a hand over his chin, thinking he needed a shave already. He shook his head. “I hate to admit it, but I think you're losing me.”

She stuck a strand of hair in her mouth and chewed. “Join the club, baby. The upshot is, nobody's making any money off the deal.”

“This insurance thing can't possibly be coincidence, Yolanda. We just have to figure the angle.”

“Only one I can think of.”

“Which is?”

“They don't want the insurance companies on their back. I mean, face it, David. Having insurance investigators in your face—might as well screw with the Organization. Those people never let up.” She glanced up at the vid. “Uh-oh, Smokar's coming in too close, this girl don't know the local rule. We better get in there.”

David followed her down the hall and into the room. Cromwell did not look good. He was white around the mouth and there were circles under his eyes—circles of illness, not fatigue.

David settled into the corner. This one he'd watch. “How are you, Mr. Cromwell?”

Cromwell nodded. “Detective Silver. I guess my fire's classed as a homicide, all those people inside. It's murder by my book too. It's a wonder most of them got out. A miracle.”

The word murder made Clements look up. She dropped the don't-mess-with-me attitude, smiled, and shook Cromwell's hand.

“You know, we really appreciate you coming down here like this. You okay, Mr. Cromwell? You don't look too well.”

“I have stomach problems, my esophagus. Well. You don't want details on that, I'm sure.”

“We'll give you a break, you want to take your meds,” Clements said.

“My medication was in my desk drawer at the club, so now it's soaked in fire gel. I'm on the waiting list for more.”

Clements made sympathetic noises.

Smokar swept close to Cromwell. “Any tally yet on personal damages?”

Clements froze, then turned her head slowly, facing the ATF Elaki. Smokar was brown—black on the outside, like the hard outer shell of a roach, and orangy-red in the midsection. Her eye prongs were tight, small, close to the head. Her side pouches sagged loose.

A Mother-One, David realized. A Mother-One who was about to get blindsided by an arson detective.

But Clements smiled sweetly. “I meant to tell you, Smokar, that you have an urgent message from your office. If you'd check with my associate, Detective Warden, he'll pass it along.”

“I will see to thisss at the later moment.”

“I said urgent, does the Elaki understand that?”

Smokar skittered backward. Left the room.

David tried not to smile, and Cromwell shoved a paper toward Clements.

“We had a contents tally in the computer,” he said. “But, as usual, it wasn't up to date.”

She studied the list, then handed it to David. “Are you sure this is all there was?”

Cromwell frowned, shrugged. “It's hard to remember everything.”

Clements smiled. “No food in the kitchen?”

David thought about the cans and packages he'd found in the Euclid garbage hoard. He'd forgotten to mention it to Clements.

“Oh, yeah,” Cromwell said. “I didn't think about that.”

David decided on a change of tactics. Cromwell had a past. “Mr. Cromwell, have you ever been arrested on a felony charge?”

“Why, uh … no, I've never been convicted of anything.”

David glanced at Clements, wondering why cons, who grew up with computers, thought they could use weasel words to get out of admitting they'd been up for something on the felony level. They had to know their records would come through on the instant.