Alien Blues (15 page)

“We do not marry, and we live separately.”

“You be okay?”

“I be okay.”

“We could share a car, but …”

“Most uncomfortable for one of us. I do not wish to ride sideways.”

“And I don't feel like standing up.”

“Good night then, Detective David.”

“Good night, String. Watch yourself on rooftops.”

David tucked a package of pain pills in his pants pocket, and stood beside his car, thinking. He'd gotten rid of String, now he needed to go to the parking lot and get Dyer's disks.

He wished he'd called Rose. His head ached, and he was so tired he swayed where he stood. If Rose were here, she would drive him home and tuck him in bed, hug him and fuss over him. Naturally he would protest. Insult her for babying him.

His head throbbed and he closed his eyes, shutting out the hospital lights. He couldn't face the parking lot tonight—not that near Little Saigo.

But he could drive if he had to. There would be grids to do the work most of the way home. He went back in the hospital to summon a car.

Twenty miles away from the farm, David was wondering if he'd made a mistake. Headlights from other cars stabbed into his eyes, making his vision blur and halo. An oncoming car honked and hugged the shoulder of the road. David realized he was off the grid and drifting toward the middle. He overcorrected, and the car swerved to the right.

David grimaced and cut his speed. He drove with exaggerated care, gritting his teeth against the tedium. Who had rigged the bomb on Puzzle-Sheesha's car? Was it an Elaki sanction? It didn't seem their style. Machete Man? Obviously not his style either, though it was too bad the lab couldn't look for come stains on the door handle.

When he turned, at last, into his own gravel drive, he was proud of himself for remembering to watch for the bullfrog. It wasn't there. The house was dark, except for one lamp burning in the living room. Rose was waiting up.

David stopped the car in front of the house and shut off the engine. He took a few deep breaths, and got out slowly.

“Open,” he said.

The front door swung open. “Good evening, David Silver.”

He nodded, wondering why he could never get out of the habit of nodding at a voice-activated door. His kids didn't, but they'd grown up with them.

He heard a bark and a whimper and Dead Meat ran to him and jumped on his legs, raking his pants with her toenails. She licked his hand with genuine joy.

“Hello, girl. Down, dog, down.”

The living room was neat and empty. David looked for broken crayons, stuffed animals, books open and deserted on the floor. The room was quite clean. He wondered how his girls were doing. Asleep, now. Was Mattie homesick? Did she miss him at suppertime?

The house was quiet.

“Rose?”

A pile of chocolate-smeared candy wrappers were scattered on the floor near the side of the couch where Rose liked to curl up. Dead Meat nosed through the wrappers, picked one up between her teeth, and settled down to give it a good lick. David bent over and picked up the book that lay on the arm of the couch. He set it absently on the side table, then picked it up again. Rose had drawn large black nostrils and blackened the teeth of the man and woman on the cover.

“Rose?”

He headed for the bedroom. The bed was made, the room silent and cool. The clock on the bedside table said four-thirty.

“Rose?”

The girls' room still staggered under a load of toys, but the beds were made. David went in the kitchen and turned on the light. There was a note on the table.

David. I can't settle down worth a damn. Instead of shaping up, I'm eating the girls' candy and watching old movies. Did you know that Elliot Bernal was in
Mountain Gold
? He was so young then, I hardly recognized him!

Anyway, I'm going. If I sit around here I'll get fat and will have to subdue you know who by sitting on them. I
did
try to call you. Did you get any of my messages? Feed the dog, and get the girls on Monday, if I'm not back. And, honey, I'm going to hit savings. Sorry, you know I'm on my own this time. You're going to have to clear out your mom's place. We have to pay her rent this month and our finances are up shits creek.

What does that mean, shits creek?

Love, Rose—P.S. I can't get Mel, either. What are you two up to, anyway?

There was writing on the back of the note, and David flipped it over. Rose had scratched out a budget, divided into liabilities and assets. The assets side was short. The liability column ranged to the end of the page.

David took a pain pill with a glass of tepid tap water. He headed for the bedroom. Dead Meat followed him down the hall. The dog paused in front of the girls' room and whimpered.

David stripped to his briefs and crawled into bed. He reached for the phone and turned it off. The last thing he remembered was a thud at the end of the bed and the smell of dog hair. Then he was asleep.

TWENTY-TWO

A thick wet tongue rasped across the back of David's hand. He opened one eye. Dead Meat stood beside the bed and wagged her tail. She barked, bouncing upward, and licked his face.

“Want to go out?”

The dog whined.

David scratched his cheek, grimacing at the heavy growth of black beard. The sun was setting. He had slept all day—no wonder he was hungry. But he felt better—almost no headache and amazingly refreshed. He checked his watch. Seven-thirty.
Friday
, not Thursday. He'd been asleep thirty-six hours.

Dead Meat whimpered.

David jumped out of bed. “You bet.”

It took him an hour to feed the dog, clean up the business she'd done in the corner of the hall, and get something to eat. There were leftover enchiladas in the refrigerator, and he ate quickly. His head ached faintly, so he bypassed the beer and drank Coke. He showered, shaved, and called the hospital. Mel answered the phone in his room.

“What?”

“Mel? It's David. How you feeling?”

“How am I feeling? How are
you
feeling? People been calling me all day, trying to get to you. Where the hell you been?”

“You don't sound too good.”

“I feel like shit.”

“Rest, then.”

“Be
glad
to, but I've had people calling and dropping in, looking for you.”

“Who?”

“A Sergeant Biller, for one. She sounds sexy.”

“She thought you were pretty cute, too, lying like a hero on the stretcher.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“She took charge of the scene,” David said. “She got anything?”

“Puzzle's BMW was rigged with shytin 4.”

“What's shytin 4?”

“Relieving you of your BMW.”

“Huh?”

“Kind of stuff the drug lords use.”

“So it wasn't an Elaki sanction?”

“Hardly. Oh, hell. Listen, David, somebody wants to haul me off for tests.”

“I'll be in to see you tomorrow.”

“I want out of here tomorrow.”

“What's your doctor say?”

“Something like fat chance. Screw her. First thing in the morning, I'm out of here.”

It was full dark by the time David made the outskirts of town. A large drop of rain smacked the windshield of the car. It took another twenty minutes to get to Fiori Avenue. The wind blew, rocking the car, but the rain did not come. David pulled over and studied the map Judith Rawley had drawn. The disks were hidden in a traffic control box on the third floor of the parking structure. David paid the auto box and drove to level C.

He pulled to the far right of the south side. Thunder echoed and rain splashed down. David got out of the car, hunching his shoulders against the splatter of droplets that blew in through the open sides of the structure. Runnels of water snaked across the concrete. He took a flashlight from his car and glanced over his shoulder. Level C was empty except for a Jeep parked at the far end. He walked along the south wall, shining the light.

Someone had been there ahead of him. The control box hung open—lock smashed, digitals hacked apart. And the only other person who knew about the box was Judith Rawley.

David ran back to the car. He jerked the door open and grabbed the radio. His hand shook.

“Lieutenant. It's Silver.”

“Yeah, Silver. Where the hell you been?”

“I need a patrol car sent to the Lindale Building on Grant. It's an old tobacco warehouse.” He got in the car, started the engine, and accelerated, going too quickly around the curve. He pushed the priority button. “No sirens … quiet approach. She lives on the third floor. Tell the officers to approach with extreme caution, we have a possible alpha bravo four. I'll be there in twenty minutes.”

“Acknowledge, Silver. I'll get dispatch.”

David bypassed the computer control and smashed the accelerator to the floor. The engine strained and the car spurted forward.

TWENTY-THREE

David made grant Boulevard in thirteen minutes. The rain was still coming down hard. His stomach sank when he saw the patrol car pulled up in front of the warehouse. The car's emergency lights made blue and red streaks on the shiny wet pavement.

Idiots.

He pulled his gun, gave the fingerprints time to register. The light on the barrel glowed green. The only time a cop got shot with his own weapon was when he did it himself. Which meant about ten officers shot themselves in the foot each year, and four or five stuck a barrel in their mouth.

There were lights on in Judith Rawley's apartment. With any luck, she'd be making lemonade for the uniforms.

David got out of his car, leaving the door ajar. Rain pelted him and ran in rivulets down his face and neck. He glanced once over his shoulder and scuttled across the sidewalk, trying to keep watch in all directions. He wished Mel were there to cover his back.

The bottom of the stairwell was tracked with muddy footprints. He heard a shot, and the sound of someone running. He backed into the corner of the landing, gun ready. Silence.

He looked for the smoke detector, spotting the telltale grid on the side of the wall. It would be good to know how many people were up there, and the detector should have kept track. What was that access code? Seven J something …

Someone shouted, a woman screamed, and gunfire echoed in the stairwell. David ran up the stairs. Two weapons, he decided. Maybe three. He heard a clatter and thump and stepped back.

A man rolled down the stairs, head first. He had curly black hair, a grimacing, beard-shadowed face, and a blood-spattered uniform. His left foot caught between the posts of the rail and he stopped falling. A runnel of dark blood dripped down to the next step.

David bent over him and saw the eyes glaze into a death stare. David went up quietly, stopping when he heard voices.

“You listen to
me
, bitch.”

The door to Judith Rawley's apartment was ajar.

“We got no time no more. Your Silver is dead, he got blown up, and those disks weren't where you said.”

David heard the sound of flesh hitting flesh, and a low animal wail. The skin on his back tightened and chilled.

Slow or fast?

“Nothing in the safe deposit box, and nothing on Fiori Avenue. So what? Vern move them again? Could be you hid them somewhere. Thought you might make a little money, babe? C'mon, sweetie.” The man's voice was low, almost caressing. “I don't want to cut up your face.”

David kicked the door open.

The couch had been slit—the foam cushions pulled out and slashed. The cabinets had been emptied, and the kitchen was strewn with broken dishes. The work station was a ruin of torn paper, splintered wood, pens, pencils, splattered paint. A uniformed cop, her blond braid dark with blood, lay tangled with another body.

Judith Rawley was tied to a chair.

A large man in slacks and a red sport shirt hunched over her. He straightened when he saw David, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“Police!” David steadied his aim. Point-blank range. Why was the guy smiling?

“Get away from her!” David kept moving, looking around. “Move it,
now
, away from her!”

Judith's eyes were dark and vacant, no flicker of recognition or relief. Her mouth was slack, and the jagged edge of a broken tooth trailed blood and saliva that dribbled down her chin.

“I said get away from her!”

David glanced around the apartment. Was it just the two men—the body on the floor, tangled with the cop, and the guy smiling at him? He resisted the incredible urge to look over his shoulder.

The man's hand was moving. David pulled the trigger.

It took a second for David to comprehend that the gun had
not
gone off, a hole had
not
opened in the man's chest, the man had
not
fallen over dead. He clicked the trigger three more times while the man smiled.

It was an engaging smile. The man was not bad-looking—blond-haired, blue-eyed. There were dark splatters on his shirt and pants—bloodstains. He had a straight razor in his right hand. He unfolded it slowly and stood behind Judith Rawley.

In his mind, David knew exactly what to do, how fast he would have to move. He lunged forward, knowing that the body did not respond with the speed of thought, but hoping he would be fast enough anyway.

Judith Rawley didn't flinch when the blond man tilted her head back and put the razor to her throat.

“
No
!”

The man's wrist snapped sideways and a red zigzag arced across the white flesh. Judith's eyes widened and she made a choking gurgle.

David rammed his fist and his gun at the killer's belly. The man arced and turned like a dancer, out of range before David could connect. He crouched, balancing on the balls of his feet, the bloodstained razor ready in his right hand.

David backed away, circling. The man made a tentative swipe. David jumped backward, feet crunching broken glass. He picked a chunk of foam cushion off the floor.