Alien Heat

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PRAISE FOR THE WRITING OF LYNN HIGHTOWER

“Lynn Hightower is a major talent.” —Jonathan Kellerman,
New York Times
–bestselling author

“Hightower is a writer of tremendous quality.” —
Library Journal

PRAISE FOR THE ELAKI NOVELS

“The crimes are out of
The Silence of the Lambs
, the cops out of
Lethal Weapon
, and the grimy future out of
Blade Runner
… Vivid and convincing.” —
Lexington Herald-Leader

“One of the best new series in the genre!” —
Science Fiction Chronicle

Alien Blues

“Hightower takes the setup and delivers a grittily realistic and down-and-dirty serial killer novel.… Impressive … A very promising first novel.” —
Locus

“Brilliantly entertaining. I recommend it highly. A crackerjack novel of police detection and an evocative glimpse of a possible future.” —Nancy Pickard, bestselling author of
I.O.U.

“[The] cast of characters is interesting and diverse, the setting credible, and the pacing rapid-fire and gripping.” —
Science Fiction Chronicle

“An exciting, science-fictional police procedural with truly alien aliens … An absorbing, well-written book.” —
Aboriginal Science Fiction

“Truly special … Original characters, plot twists galore, in a book that can be enjoyed for its mystery aspects as well as its SF … A real treat.” —Arlene Garcia

“Hightower shows both humans and Elaki as individuals with foibles and problems.
Alien Blues
provides plenty of fast-paced action.… An effective police drama.” —
SF Commentary

“Hightower tells her story with the cool efficiency of a Mafia hit man.… With its lean, matter-of-fact style, cliff-hanger chapter endings and plentiful (and often comic) dialogue,
Alien Blues
moves forward at warp speed!” —
Lexington Herald-Leader

“A great story … Fast and violent … Difficult to put down!” —
Kliatt

“An intriguing world!” —Analog Science Fiction and Fact

Alien Eyes

“
Alien Eyes
is a page-turner.… Fun, fast-moving … A police procedural in a day-after-tomorrow world.” —
Lexington Herald-Leader

“Hightower takes elements of cyberpunk and novels about a benevolent alien invasion and combines them with a gritty realism of a police procedural to make stories that are completely her own.… A believable future with a believable alien culture … Interesting settings, intriguing ideas, fascinating characters [and] a high level of suspense!” —
Turret

“Complex … Snappy … Original.” —
Asimov's Science Fiction

“The sequel to the excellent
Alien Blues
[is] a very fine SF novel.… I'm looking forward to the next installment!” —
Science Fiction Chronicle

PRAISE FOR THE SONORA BLAIR MYSTERIES

Flashpoint

“Diabolically intriguing from start to finish.” —
Publishers Weekly

“Miraculously fresh and harrowing.” —
Kirkus Reviews

“Rings with gritty authenticity. You won't be able to put it down and you won't want to sleep again. Riveting.” —Lisa Scottoline,
New York Times
–bestselling author

Eyeshot

“Hightower has invented a heroine who is both flawed and likeable, and she knows how to keep the psychological pressure turned up high.” —
The
Sunday Telegraph

“What gives [
Eyeshot
] depth and resonance is the way Hightower counterpoints the murder plot with the details of Sonora's daily life in homicide.” —
Publishers Weekly

No Good Deed

“Powerful, crisply paced.”
—
Publishers Weekly

“Refreshingly different … A cracking tale told at a stunning pace.” —Frances Fyfield

The Debt Collector

“Hightower builds the suspense to an almost unbearable pitch.” —
Publishers Weekly

“Well-written and satisfyingly plotted. Best of all is Sonora herself—a feisty babe who packs a red lipstick along with her gun.” —
The Times
(London)

Alien Heat

Lynn Hightower

This book is dedicated to my parents, Joyce and Clyde Simmons, who were right not to let me hop a freight train the summer I was fourteen. I still haven't figured out how you knew what I was up to. Psychic, I guess.

ONE

The quiet was odd—the hushed silence of a house without utilities, a home without life. The windows were shattered and full of darkness. David flashed his light, saw the clean outline on the soot-blackened floor where they'd found the family dog.

Water dripped somewhere down the hallway. David skirted a pile of blackened rubbish that was still smoking, and walked up the stairs, hoping they'd hold. Wood creaked underfoot.

A soft intermittent chirp made the hair stir on the back of his neck. He flashed his light along the charred walls, saw the red glow of an overloaded detector. He stood on tiptoe to disconnect the chip.

“Seven occupants in the house,” came a raspy metallic voice.

David jumped back.

“Two adults, four children. One adult visitor present.”

David reached up to loosen the connection.

“Occupants are Celia, age thirty-two—”

He yanked and the voice stopped. Sweat filmed the back of his neck. Wrong, of course, to tamper with the alarm system, but he did not want this litany of the dead. Not when four of them were children.

David heard the wail of sirens—more fire jeeps, late arrivals, too many and too late. A bomb threat had been called in just as the fire started and the square block of tenements had been sealed off, while the bomb squad looked for explosives that had not been there.

The order for grid release had come a good fifteen minutes after the fire was called in—an eternity under the hot lick of flame. The death toll from the supper club would be astronomical, and three houses had burned along with it.

The families had escaped from the other two. This one had ignited early.

David headed down the hallway, shining his light in the master bedroom.

The fire had burned hot and heavy here, lit from below by a burning ember from the supper club next door. David's light caught the charred remains of the bed, where one of the women had been found, her body covering two children, all blackened beyond recognition, fused to a mattress that was nothing more than ashes and springs.

David moved back down the hallway to the baby's room, where another female, Caucasian, adult, had been found outside the door.

Very little damage here. Soot smeared the sheet in the battered old crib where a fire fighter had found the baby. David had seen her tiny nightgowned body laid on a sheet on the pavement next to the charred remains of her mother, her aunt, and her two siblings. She had died of smoke inhalation; there had not been a mark on her. The fireman who had carried her out had crouched at her tiny feet, his eyes red with smoke and tears.

One child and one adult unaccounted for.

David heard shouts, a scream, a muted voice on a bullhorn. He went to the window, careful of broken glass.

The scene below was going from very bad to worse. People pressed against men and women in riot gear, moving in a mass toward the carnage of the supper club.

“Where's Harry?” A woman's voice, hysterical. “I got to know if he's okay. Harry? Where's Harry?”

A man's voice cut her off. “I don't believe there was no fucking bomb.”

Anguish and rage were palpable in the heat of the night.

A bottle flew, caught a woman on the lip. Her face blossomed in blood. Someone screamed and the press of bodies surged forward. David heard a crash, saw an ambulance go over in a splatter of broken glass and crumpled metal. The riot was born.

He headed down the hallway at a dead run, thundering toward the stairs.

When the third step broke beneath his feet, his momentum pitched him headfirst. His ankle twisted and he grabbed the bannister. It held, just for a moment, then the staircase collapsed, and the bannister tore away from the wall. David's stomach lurched as he swung sideways.

“
Shit
,” he said, and fell.

It was a quick drop, eight feet and two eternal seconds, and then he was on his back, trying to breathe, the wind knocked out of his lungs.

He lay still in the close, sweltering darkness, the smell of smoke like a hand on his chest. He wondered where his light had landed. He sat up, tried to catch his breath. His chest ached and he rubbed the scar where he'd taken a bullet in the lung, a good six months ago.

Everywhere he turned he felt or sensed a conglomeration of shapes, things, pressing close all around. It was hot here, incredibly hot, and he wondered if there were live embers close by.

He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the old sick claustrophobia.

And then miraculously, he heard voices. He checked the urge to call out—if there were locals wandering in, he wasn't sure he wanted to be found. A homicide detective would make a prime target.

“The human is a law officer, Yo Free. He would hear the trouble and join in.”

“Shut up, will you? I heard something.” A woman's voice, sounding exasperated. “Now look at that, will you? Some shithead's disconnected the alarm. These guys go charging around a fire scene with their thumbs up their ass, don't think twice about messing up the scene, and no idea how dangerous it is. First the fire fighters, tramping through with their big boots and gel grenades, then all of a sudden now we got these prima donnas from
homicide
who … See that, Wart? I see a light. Hello?”