Alien Blues (25 page)

Rose was putting away food and picnic supplies, and he felt guilty for not helping her. The girls had fallen asleep in the car on the long drive home, and he had put them in bed, grimy and sun-drenched.

The kitchen lights were bright, lighting the peculiar deep darkness of a sky so far from the city. He wanted to sit on the porch swing with Rose, and look at the stars.

Rose looked at him while she slid the beans into the refrigerator. She looked at him, but did not see him. David thought about the picnic, and the way Halliday had watched Rose. It was a look he was beginning to recognize.

He leaned against the counter and folded his arms. “Tell me, Rose.”

She looked at him over her shoulder. “Tell you what?”

“What did you
do
for the DEA? Assassin?”

“David, I'm tired. We had a good day. Let's don't go into this.”

“No? The mother of my children kills without a second thought, and you say you don't go into it? It's ones like you that scare cops, Rose.”

“Fuck cops. Fuck you.”

“That's redundant, Rose.”

“Fuck redundant.”

“Look at you.” He touched her cheek, the pale white cheek, cold despite the heat. She pulled away. He backed her into the sink and reached for her hand.

“Look at the delicate bones,” he said. “The long, sensitive fingers. What
hands
you have, Rose. All the things you do with these hands. It makes me think, Rose.”

Rose smiled. “Think what?”

“Your reputation in my department is unparalleled. Detective Silver's wife is famous.”

“You're jealous, David.”

“Jealous of what?”

“I killed him, so you couldn't.”

“I
wouldn't
have killed him. He was valuable, Rose. He could have broken the case.”

“You're a cold man, David. He could have murdered our girls.”

“I'm not cold, Rose, my love, I'm a cop.”

“Same thing. I can't do that. Run hot and then cold. I've never been able to do that.” She hugged him, suddenly, and her voice was muffled against his chest. “Did you know that I'm lonely, David?” Her voice was thick now, and he thought she might cry. “You're right, you know. I don't know where I fit in. I blew it with the DEA, but I can't stay out of things. I don't know how to have conversations with normal people. I have weird laundry problems. Who wants to chat about getting death smells out of clothes?”

David held her tightly, picturing her bursting through the window in the girls' room, then twisting Machete Man's neck.

“I don't think you're lonely, Rose. I think you're afraid.”

“Santana,” she said, and shuddered.

He remembered Winston talking about “S.” He would have to research this Santana. Tomorrow, he'd do it, first thing.

He put a hand under Rose's shirt. Her breasts were cooler than the rest of her, and he unsnapped the front of her bra. Her hand went to the inside of his leg, and up. He shivered, and kissed her, and forgot about the swing.

Her knees buckled. He held her and eased her to the floor, resisting the impulse to question her deviation from locked doors and privacy, heated by her capitulation to the fantasies that distracted him on restless afternoons.

They helped each other out of their clothes like polite strangers. He tucked his shirt beneath the small of her back, and cushioned her head with his hands. She arched her back and kissed him, and he sighed, and closed his eyes, and grabbed handfuls of her silky, tangled hair.

So soft, she was, belly warm against his.

“Closer,” she whispered. “Cover me up.”

He pulled her tighter, and buried himself inside her, giving her all of the closeness that he could.

THIRTY-EIGHT

David stood in front of the diagram of Little Saigo. He pictured Rose as he had left her that morning—sitting on the porch swing, one leg hooked over the side. He had cleared the breakfast dishes, made the beds, programmed the laundry to begin. He knew he would return home to dishes on the table, food in the sink, puzzle pieces and plastic animals strewn from one end of the house to the other. It worried him that she was content to sit in the swing, when Santana was somewhere out there.

Would he come home one day and find her hanging from the end of a rope?

“Anything else, David?” Captain Halliday was watching him.

David looked through the glass partition and saw Dawn Weiler. A computer printout hung from her briefcase, and she clutched a thick file in her left hand.

“No.” He looked at their faces—Pete, Della, Mel. String's visage was looking more and more like a face. “Study your map of Little Saigo,” he said. “Memorize it and be ready.”

“You really think this Winston will work with us?” Della asked.

“It's all we've got,” Halliday said. “So do your homework and when the call comes we'll be ready. We can't afford any sloppy backup.”

Dawn hesitated outside the door, and Mel opened it for her.

“You're late, kitten.”

She smiled nervously and sat down.

“So what you got on this guy?”

Dawn pulled out a stack of papers and passed them around. “Not a guy, exactly.”

“Got to be one or the other,” Mel said. “Want I should show you the difference?”

She handed David a mug shot. “This is Santana. Your hunch was right, he did time with Vernon Ray Clinton.”

“Machete Man,” Della said.

“The same.”

David studied the picture. Santana looked sleepy. He had thin sideburns and long black hair pulled into a ponytail. The skin of the face looked silky and smooth, even in a bad photo under harsh light. David concentrated on the eyes—brown, dark underneath, bedroom eyes. He noted the smirk at the edges of the drooping bottom lip.

Dawn leaned back in her chair, tapping a pencil softly on the table. Small chips of graphite fell off the end of the pencil and gathered, like ashes, next to her briefcase. She smoothed her collar.

“Santana is what you would term a hermaphrodite.”

“Not what I would call it,” Mel said.

David passed the picture to Della.

“Please explain terminology.”

“He has the sexual organs of a man and a woman.”

“This guy's done time?”

“Probably voted most popular in his cell block.”

Dawn shook her head. “According to the records, Santana was suspected of several assaults and two deaths, and this was in the first three months of incarceration. Nobody talked about it—nobody in the can ever sees anything, and they couldn't pin anything on him. But unofficially, Santana was a major power base the eighteen months he was there.”

“Don't look the type,” Mel said.

“The man is walking death. And he's connected. He's a freelance dirty chore man. Worked for the O'Banions—”

“Irish mob?” Ridel asked.

“Yes. And Mickey Sifuente, among others.” She glanced at David. “The DEA has been after this boy for a long time. Interpol wants him, the Sûreté. He's killed a lot of good people.”

David stared at his hands. “Background. Where was he born?”

“New Orleans. Left on the doorstep of a birthing center.”

“I wonder why?” Mel said. “I mean, mother's got to want a boy or girl. Either way, Santana's got it covered.”

“This does seem sensible, Detective Mel. But mothers are known to abandon pouchlings. Possibly, she knew he was mind-diseased.”

“Elaki mothers abandon their babies?” Mel asked.

“But yes, when, they are incorrectly formed or they come at difficult moments.”

“But—”

“What about Clinton?” David asked.

Dawn passed him a sheet of paper. “Assault. Armed robbery. Assault again. Manslaughter. PFO.”

David scratched his chin under the beard. “He and Santana met in prison?”

Dawn nodded. “One of those synergy things. Guys like this get together …”

David nodded.

“Santana is a sexual sadist,” Dawn said. “As is, obviously, Machete Man.”

“Ain't that nice,” Mel said. “They shared a hobby.”

“I've got Clinton's juvie record.”

“That's sealed,” Halliday said.

“You want it or not?”

David spoke softly. “Arson, first-degree cruelty to animals, assault.”

Dawn nodded. “You know your sociopath.”

Mel leaned back and put his feet on the desk. “So how you figure it, David? The Elaki get hold of Santana. Bankroll him to distribute this Diamond, pick up victims for study, and put the pressure on anybody on Project Horizon who don't like the way things go.”

David laid his hands flat on the table and looked at Halliday. “We can get him a lot of ways. Dealing, kidnapping, conspiracy to commit murder.”

“Or all of the above,” Halliday said. “See what you can get out of Winston. Maybe the worm will turn.” He tapped the desk absently. “We need to connect him with Machete Man. Ridel, you and Della work on Clinton's apartment. And see if you can get somewhere with one of the victims on the project. Maybe somebody saw them together.”

Mel scratched under his arm. “Hey, Dawn, you heard the sociopath theme song? Sung to the tune of ‘Home On De-Range.' Goes like …”

Dawn walked out and Mel followed her.

David waited until the room was clear, the door closed. Halliday stared at him.

“I want Myer,” David said.

“Myer's another issue. I'm giving it to IAD.”

“Roger, Coltrane's been in business a long time, and IAD hasn't come close. People are covering. If they cover Coltrane, they'll cover Myer.”

Roger eyed him coldly. “You are awfully sure.”

“Nobody knew about Judith Rawley but me and Myer. He suggested I go to her.”

“What did he need you for? Why not go himself? Or send his people?”

“Why? When the easiest thing would be to let me do the legwork and lead them to it. Then I got caught in the explosion, so they had to do it the hard way.”

“I'd like to know what happened to Dyer's notes.”

David leaned across the table. “Two cops got killed. Judith Rawley was beaten,
tortured
, and her throat was cut. You
saw
her, Captain.”

Halliday turned his face away. “It's not our case.”

“It
is
our case. If you want it done right, it's our case.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“We find Dyer's disks.”

“They could be anywhere. Even Judith Rawley didn't know, and she died for it.”

“Maybe Dyer moved them.”

“Della and Pete have been over and over his stuff. Nothing.”

“All we have to do is convince Myer I've got them. Judith got killed for them, they've got to hurt. We'll set him up to buy them back.”

“He's an old hand. He'd never go for it.”

“Not if
I
offer them. But he might go for Winston.”

“What makes you think Winston will work with us?”

“Blackmail. If he won't go along, I'll blow his Elaki project to the press—make accusations that'll have the animal rights people all over them. They'll lose credibility. The project might even get pulled. Hell, they're
using people
, Roger. The public will tear them apart.”

“You can't prove that.”

“Reporters don't have to. They imply.”

“He care that much about it?”

“I think he does.”

“Will he believe you? That you'd do it?”

“Not
me
,” David said. “Mel.”

THIRTY-NINE

David guided the Ford into a parking grid across from Winston's townhouse.

“I can't believe I'm missing Gumby.”

“String? Where is he?”

“Don't know. Said he'd be out of town. He's a sneaky little sucker, I'd like to know … head's up, there he is.”

Winston was on the porch, locking the front door.

“Jesus,” Mel said. “Taking his cat for a walk.”

“At least he's home.”

“Come
on
, Alex.” Winston tugged the leash. The cat lowered his head and tried to work the leather over his ear.

Mel stepped up on the curb. “Dennis, you got that cat registered with the local kennel club?”

Winston stroked Alex's head. “Walking is good exercise and he needs to lose weight. He won't do anything, you know, but sleep and eat. Lick on a catnip mouse. And he hates those health pebbles they sell at the vet.”

David put his hands in his pockets. “How've you been, Winston?”

Winston's grip tightened on Alex's leash. “It doesn't help me much for you guys to keep showing up here.”

“We were wondering if you'd had any more trouble,” Mel said. “I take it you're still cooperating?”

“Nobody's bothering me.”

He did look better, David thought. Like he was sleeping again. His jeans were black, clean, snug-fitting. The white shirt was coated with cat hair, but otherwise pristine.

“Look, thanks for stopping by. Everything's okay, now.” Winston tugged the leash. “
Alex
. Come on, boy.”

Alex collapsed on his side and purred. Winston nudged the cat's rump with his toe. Alex lolled backward, exposing the soft white fur on his belly.

“That cat ain't going nowhere,” Mel said. “Come on, Dennis. Let's go in. We got to talk.”

“I really don't think we have anything else to cover.”

“Maybe we'll just tag along with you.”

The wind blew a dry leaf behind a bush. Alex sprang forward and disappeared.

“
Alex
!” Winston dragged the cat from behind the bushes and tucked him under his arm. Alex purred, striped tail twitching.

“Thing is,” Mel said. “We need your help.”

“
My
help? Oh, please.”

“Just information, Winston. You know a guy named Santana?”