Alien Blues (13 page)

“More? What could be more than that?” Dawn asked. She gnawed at the edge of her taco and David got the feeling her mind was elsewhere.

“That Elaki kid's going to fall over,” Mel muttered under his breath.

“You're the expert on serial whacks,” David said. “And you said before things didn't feel right. Maybe we're not looking at a head case after all.”

She shrugged. “Maybe.”

“I also want to know about the Elaki, Puzzle Solver. What's his interest? How is he connected to String?”

“That's funny, David,” Mel said. “Connected to String.”

Dawn started eating quickly. She took a large bite of taco and, before it was chewed, crammed another into her mouth. She swallowed heavily.

“Why are you asking me?”

“Because his access code had an 08 digit at the end,” Mel said. “That's FBI.”

Dawn winced. “You guys trying to tell me the Elaki is an FBI agent? Don't make me laugh.” She ate the rest of her taco in one bite. “I want another one. You guys want another one?”

David grabbed Dawn's wrist. “Dawn. Did you know Vernon Dyer?”

“No.”

“He was a good cop. Now he's a dead cop. I am asking as a friend here. Officially, I am imposing on our friendship.”

Dawn chewed her lip. “Heck-fire.”

An Elaki turned a vid in their direction. Dawn glared at the Elaki, and it backed away.

Mel opened his mouth and David kicked him.

“Please,” David said.

Dawn ran her finger up and down her paper cup, making lines in the cool water condensed on the side. “I don't know a lot,” she said.

David didn't believe her.

“Three Elaki have died—unexpectedly. We don't interfere when Elaki carry out a sanction. But this time they
asked
for our help.”

“Two of them were poisoned at the Ambassador restaurant,” Mel said.

Dawn put her hands in her lap. “How did you know?”

“The other?” David said.

“Fell off the top of the museum.”

“Not an accident?”

Dawn grimaced. “Elaki don't hang out on the top of buildings. They hate being up high. They can blow over the side if the wind is right. An Elaki on top of a building is about as likely as a human sleeping in the middle of the road.”

“Anything else?”

“We're assisting, not running the investigation.”

David smiled. “Thank you, Dawn.”

“Don't leave,” she said.

“Why?”

“David, what is Rose up to?”

“Rose? She's home. Probably in the garage fixing the grass machine, it's screwy again.”

“Naw, she's sitting in the swing sulking,” Mel said.

Dawn leaned back and folded her arms. “Of course, of course. Rose, the simple farmer. Has an unofficial repair business and”—she nodded at David—“pays taxes on the proceeds.”

“You checked?”

“Not me,” Dawn said. “But somebody's looking into things. Anything at all to do with Rose.”

David leaned across the table. “Quit playing the line, Dawn. Who's checking up on Rose?”

Dawn held up her hands. “Remember, David, I told
you
. I don't know what's up. Company man named Ellwood. Somebody told him Rose and I worked together with DEA, years ago. He wanted to know what she was up to lately.”

“
Company
man? Inquiring about my
sister
?” Mel laughed. “You can't mean charlie inza alpha.”

“Use whatever euphemism you want, just so the A stands for asshole.”

David chewed his thumb. “What does the CIA want with Rose?”

“No, David, that's
my
question.”

“What did you tell Ellwood?” Mel said.

Dawn shrugged. “I gave him her recipe for Kelsey Lemon Cake and highly recommended her small engine repair service. He wanted to know if she hired out, and I said as far as I knew, she didn't take in laundry or look after anybody's kids but her own.” Dawn sighed. “He wanted to know why she left the business.”

David bit the cuticle on his left thumb. “And you said?”

Dawn stared at the table. “I said she was borderline manic depressive, and quick-tempered, and no longer suited for field work.”

Mel folded his arms. “In other words, the truth.”

The small Elaki teetered too far and fell over. It let out a squawky trumpet. Mel picked the Elaki up and dusted her off.

David felt his face getting warm.

“What's going on, David?” Dawn said. “What's Rose up to?”

“What exactly would Ellwood like to know?”

Two spots of red appeared on Dawn's smooth cheeks, like tiny perfect apples.

“Rose and I were friends long before you came along, David. You have no right to say that to me.”

David stood up. “Rose can take care of herself. And she'll be a hell of a lot better off if the two of you butt out.”

“Pardon me, David.” Dawn stood up and gathered the trash. “I thought you might
appreciate
knowing the CIA was interested in your wife. I thought I was helping you out.”

“If you want to help me,” David said. “Do your job. Check out this Machete Man thing. Give me the Elaki case files so I've got a chance to figure what the hell is going on. And leave Rose the hell out of things.” He glared down at Dawn and Mel. “And I'll tell both of you this. Nobody messes with my wife. I
pity
the operative that messes with my wife.”

Mel folded his arms. “He's got a point. Rose is like eternal PMS.”

Dawn shook her head. “I don't think that's what he meant.”

NINETEEN

The Lindale Building was an old Tobacco warehouse that had been converted. The bottom floor housed fruit and vegetable wholesalers, the second floor was a warehouse for the Bermuda Shoe Company, and the third floor a “penthouse” apartment for Judith Rawley.

The musky molasses smell of cut tobacco still hung in the air, along with the smell of overripe fruit and car exhaust. David sweated while he climbed the stairs. He was still angry at Mel and Dawn Weiler. And ashamed of losing his temper.

Damn Rose, anyway. What was going on? Hell, she didn't know, did she? Would she tell him? He pictured her at home, running down the gravel driveway in white cotton shorts, shaping up. He thought of Rose in her DEA fatigues, wielding an Uzi. He grinned. It was totally unfair to laugh at the notion. But Rose?

David realized that the door to Judith Rawley's apartment was open, and that a large woman was glaring at him from the inside. Had he knocked?

“What's so damn funny, buddy?”

The door swung shut and he stopped it with his elbow.

“I'm Detective Silver, Homicide Task Force.” He flashed his ID. “I'm looking for Judith Rawley.”

The woman quit shoving the door against his arm. “
You're
Silver?” She looked surprised. “I'm Judith Rawley.”

She was large, maybe two hundred forty pounds. Her hair was brunette with reddish highlights—long, soft, and silky. David had the urge to touch it. Her eyes were green and intelligent. She wore faded jeans, a blue denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up, no shoes. Her toenails were painted frosty pink.

David tucked his ID back in his pocket. “Yeah, I'm Silver.”

“Come in, please. You're here about Vern?”

“He listed you as his next of kin.”

The apartment was huge, cavernous. Dark wood floors, polished and gleaming, creaked under his feet. The whole north wall was a bank of windows, and there was a skylight in the ceiling. Sunlight flooded the room, but it was cool inside, and David felt the sweat dry on his back. A winding staircase led to a loft bedroom. One side of the great room held a drafting table, track lighting, a wood file cabinet, and art supplies. A wooden chair sat in front of a computer terminal. In the center of the room were two beige love seats on a thick Indian rug, and a bar separated a small kitchen. David felt at home.

“Have a seat,” Judith Rawley said. “You look hot. How about a glass of lemonade?”

“No thanks.”

“I'm having one.” Judith Rawley set two fresh lemons on the counter. David wished he'd said yes.

“I'm making it fresh,” she said. “Why don't you have some?”

“Okay.”

David sat down. The couch was comfortable, and deep enough so that he didn't feel like his butt was going to slide off the edge. He was glad Dyer had been lucky enough to have Judith Rawley to come home to.

“Ms. Rawley?”

“Judith.”

“Judith. I'm very sorry about what happened to Vern.”

She halved the lemons and placed them on the squeezer. “Thank you, David Silver.”

He studied the pictures on the wall. They were cartoons, some of them framed. He got up and roamed the room, studying them. The humor was gentle, with an undertone of sadness, the drawings deceptively simple. Thurber, without the sting. The signature on the bottom was a black scribble—J. Rawley.

“These are yours,” David said.

“I know.”

“But they're good!”

“Thank you for saying so.”

David had the uneasy feeling he sounded foolish, but Judith Rawley didn't seem to mind.

“Really now. Why haven't I seen your work? Why aren't you in the T.W. Communications fold? Too much a maverick?”

Judith handed him a frosted glass of lemonade. He took a sip. It was cold and tart. He sat down and Judith sat across from him, cross-legged. The pads of her feet were callused. She went barefoot a lot.

“I wish. T.W. Communications is a good old boy network. It's hard as hell to break in. But believe me, I'd do almost anything to get syndicated with them.”

“You must be published somewhere.”

“Here and there. Ain't nobody told me to quit my day job.”

“Which is?”

“Traffic coordinator.” She pointed to the computer. “Midnight to six A.M., six nights a week. I keep your car on track from Lombard to Elkin Street.”

“Big area.”

She shrugged. “Doesn't pay much, but it doesn't require much. Computer doesn't need my input all that often.”

Judith quit talking, suddenly. She stared at the floor, but David had seen the sudden glint of tears before she turned away.

“Your apartment is very nice.”

She looked up. “It's not usually this clean. I don't like the domestibot, so I do all the scut work.”

“Yeah? We have an old bot, but it's schitzy. Two months ago it stripped the blankets and sheets off the beds and tried to stuff them in the trash recycler. Then it tried to cook the kids' pet monkey. We turned it off till my wife gets around to fixing it.”

Judith smiled. “When my work is going bad, I clean. Vern could judge my productivity by walking in the door.”

David glanced around involuntarily. The rooms were spotless.

“I know,” she said. There were deep circles under her eyes. “Maybe I won't work anymore. Maybe it's gone.”

She reminded him of Rose.

“You'll work again.”

“Vern wanted to get married and have kids. I didn't want to. Nothing tangling my feet. I thought we had the perfect setup.”

“Judith. Did Vern keep notes—unofficially?”

She nodded. “He didn't trust Coltrane, or anybody else. He'd been burned before. The job was getting to him, but he was hanging in. The plan was, he would stay in vice until my career took off. Then we'd get married and have a bunch of kids and he'd quit to look after them. Vern wanted a baby so bad.
My
baby, is what he said.

“I didn't want the mess and bother of kids and a family. So I said someday. Someday's easy.” She pushed hair out of her eyes. “You go upstairs—you'll see neat closets and clean drawers. A place for everything, everything in its place.”

“My mother would have loved you, Judith.”

Her eyes filled. “It's
empty
, David Silver. Maybe that's what my work lacks. The muss and fuss.”

“Did Vern talk to you about
his
work lately?”

She put her head in her hands. “I've been thinking about that. I'm afraid … it's been me doing the talking lately. I've had some disappointments.” She stood up and ran a hand through the silk of her hair. “It's almost funny. The business end, God, it's been so bad. Just when I thought I was going somewhere, made a few small-time sales. I had a syndicate interested, requested my work. I can't tell you what it's like—to have someone
want
to see your work. But they turned me down. And they weren't too nice.

“But the work, it's going well, so damn well. I can't decide whether to throw a party or slit my wrists. So Vern's been doing a lot of listening while I've been doing a lot of talking.”

“Did he seem worried?”

“Yes. But he did a lot. Worried. And worked incredible hours. And he said … not really said, but he was excited and tense. He gave me a key to a safe deposit box. His disks are in there, with all the work notes on them. He said give the key to anybody who shows up asking.”

“Even Coltrane?”

“Especially Coltrane. I know, I know! He hated Coltrane. But see, Vern was always scared somebody might come after me through him. So he said just hand that key over and don't give anybody any trouble.”

“Has anybody come for it?”

“Nope.” She went to the drafting table. “Taped under here. Vern told me not to make it too easy.” She peered under the table. “Here it is. From Arnon Financial Services on DeLing.”

David took the key and put it in his pocket. “If anybody comes looking for it, tell them I've got it. Then call me.”

“I will.” She sat back down on the couch. “Vern mentioned you, before he died.”

“He did?”

“He was taken with your little girls. He seemed … I think he was envious, a little. Of your family. He told me that you looked straight to him. That's a big compliment from Vern, let me tell you. And he kind of hinted that you two might be working together sometime, on a case.”