Alien Heat (10 page)

Jenks leaned against the table. David got the impression he wanted to sit, but thought standing gave him an advantage.

“Theresa's money is entailed,” Jenks said. “I get a comfortable allowance, but the majority goes to the children.”

David looked up. “Children? Arthur's not an only child?”

“Theresa had another child, another son.” Jenks sagged and eased himself into a chair. “Martin was only four years old when he drowned. She would never take his name out of the will, though he's been dead for years. That's really where this all started.”

David glanced at Mel.

Jenks glared at them. “Didn't that Detective Bruer from Chicago, didn't he bring you up to speed on this?”

“Shsshicago did not mention another pouchling,” String said. “This I would be the remembrance of. But I must ask. It is human tradition to leave the money of the life's accumulation to one already dead?”

David tilted his head to one side. “Forgive me, Dr. Jenks, but you said
Theresa
had another child. Neither of the boys were yours?”

“Martin was mine. After Martin I opted for nonbiological parenting.” He lifted his chin and gave David a hard stare.

Mel rubbed his forehead. “One of those funny deals.”

“I don't consider it—”

“Hey, you mind if I have a drink of water? It's hot outside and the air on our car isn't so good.” Mel headed for the polished, black onyx bar.

Jenks waved a hand, including them all. “Please forgive my manners, Detective. Feel free to help yourself to anything you'd like.”

Mel opened a small cabinet and bent over, voice mildly strained. “So it's one of those things where the kid's hers, but not yours? Kind of like you're not really married or—”

“It has nothing to do with the marriage. That's the whole point, it separates marriage from the aspect of childbearing. So she could have them, but I didn't have to. The children are her responsibility, legally and—”

“Financially,” David said.

Jenks nodded. “Yes.”

“So where'd she get the sperm?” Mel peered up over the edge of the bar.

Jenks frowned at him. “I donated it, of course. She
was
my wife.”

“Hey, look at this. Popsicles.”

Jenks waved a hand, as if swatting a fly. “For the boy.”

Mel crooked a finger. “Come 'ere, String. You mind, Dr. Jenks? Come on, Gumby, this you got to try.”

David sighed. “Dr. Jenks, let's go back a little here. You said it all started with the child who drowned. Martin. Tell me about that.”

Jenks covered his eyes with splayed hands. “I thought she was over it. As over it as any mother heals after the death of a child.” He jammed his fists against his thighs. “I thought I'd lost her then. I think if she could have traded me for the boy … Of course, she never said as much. It was a bad time, a terrible and very stupid accident. Martin fell out of our boat and drowned. The water was deep, it was dark. We never even recovered the body.

“Theresa blamed herself, of course. And me. He should have been in a life vest; we were both at fault. She's been very careful with Arthur. But it was all history, until about a year ago, when Theresa went to a psychic reading with a girlfriend, just a lark, you know? It was interesting, because the psychic was an Elaki, one of these fellas who read scales.” Jenks glanced at String, who held a grape Popsicle on two sticks between both fins. “Is that good, sir?” Jenks's lips were tight, his tone aggressive.

“Is most cold,” String said. “What is this scale reading? I have not heard of these. Psychic Elaki do not be the common.”

Jenks shook his head. “She wasn't serious about it, I don't think, not right at first. Theresa was incredibly practical. She was physical, she kept busy, she wasn't into that kind of fuzzy navel watching.”

String nipped a piece of Popsicle off the end tips. David noticed that a drip of purple juice was inching down the sticks to his fins.

“Go on,” David said, thinking he should have left String and Mel in the car.

“Not long after that, she began talking about him, about Martin. Not just the occasional reference, but obsessively.”

His tone was tainted with jealousy. David felt chilled.

“She said she was dreaming about him. She started spouting off about reincarnation, for God's sake. Saying what if he'd been reborn, would she recognize him, would she know him? She would cry in her sleep. And when I woke her, she would be
disoriented
, then angry.
Furious
. She even struck at me once, said I had ruined it, ruined the dream.” Jenks looked to the window, staring at the heavy gold curtain.

“She started sleeping alone. Sometimes at night, I'd hear her call out. I knew better then, than to go to her. She became obsessed with the idea that Martin was
somewhere
, and that she had to find him.”

Mel was quiet, finally, listening. David leaned close to Jenks.

“Was she still seeing this psychic?”

Jenks nodded. “He was feeding her, I know it. It's an organization called the Mind Institute—ridiculous! They gave her reading material, all kinds of outrageous theories and crap.”

David thought of the book with the zigzag of lightning across the cover. “What did they get from her?”

Jenks shook his head.

“Sir?”

“I said I do not know. My wife is … was a very wealthy woman. I think she gave them money. She was giving it to someone. Large sums, out of her personal account.”

“Any chance she was being blackmailed?” David asked.

“Theresa? Not a chance.”

“This woman. Teddy Blake.”

Jenks smiled fondly. “Oh yes, Ted. Arthur is very attached to her.”

“Is she connected to the Institute?”

“No, of course not.”

David smiled sadly. “Of course not? Why so?”

“As far as I know, she isn't. Teddy Blake is a straightforward woman. Bruer in Chicago recommended her.”

David heard a noise, looked over his shoulder.

Arthur stood in the bedroom doorway, blinking. He wore a sweatshirt, a pair of red cotton pyjamas that were too small, and one gym sock on his left foot. His right foot was bare.

String swooped sideways. “The pouchling awakes. Popsicle, pouchling?”

“No, thank you, I'm not hungry. Careful, Mr. String, you're dripping.”

Jenks gave the boy a firm look. “Arthur, I don't believe you're properly dressed.”

The boy looked at the floor. “Teddy said I could call her, is that okay?”

Jenks pulled his bottom lip, glancing hard at David. “I'm not so sure that's a good idea.”

Arthur's chest heaved. He was breathing hard. “She said she didn't mind.”

“No, Arthur.”

The boy looked away from Jenks, turned, and went into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him with a careful click. David found the polite control disturbing.

“For his own good,” Jenks muttered. “You find any connection between Ms. Blake and the Mind Institute, I'd like to know right away. I'm obligated to protect the child. He is Theresa's boy.”

Mel looked at him kindly. “And your own little spermatozoan.”

FIFTEEN

David was watching Della when the phone rang, watching her scroll through a computer file while a moist chocolate chip cookie sat on the next desk by a can of Coke. Cold beads of condensation bubbled the sides of the can.

He
was tempted. A man. Della, a female, had not given it a second look, even though it was chocolate. Her computer beeped at her, but she continued scrolling, shoulders slumped, chin to chest. He wasn't sure what she was supposed to be doing. He hoped it wasn't important.

Mel leaned across David's desk and picked up the phone. “What?”

David reached for the cookie.

“Yo, David. It's Dawn Weiler. You consorting with the Feds?”

David picked up the phone. “Always. Dawn, how've you been?”

“Hi, David. I've been working long hours and eating like a pig at my desk. I bet I've gained five pounds in the last three days.”

More like five ounces, David thought. Dawn had always been able to eat anything and stay slender. Much to Della's disgust.

“What is it with women and their weight?” David glanced warily at Della. She paid him no attention. Her computer beeped again, but she kept on scrolling.

“How's Rose and the kids?” Dawn asked.

“Kids are great.”

“And Rose?”

She was pushing. David wondered if the word was out.

“Rose is fine.”

“Good. Listen, David, you up to your ears in the supper club fire? Anything else going on?”

David frowned. “What's up here?”

“Just something funny.”

“Wait for it,” David muttered, under his breath. “Should we meet for lunch maybe?”

“No, I don't have time.”

“Spit it already.”

“You sound like Mel.”

“Sticks and stones.”

She laughed, and David smiled, picturing her in her office. Her hair would be flipped neatly under, white lace collar buttoned up to the top of her neck, pleated skirt swinging neatly over pale trim knees.

Teddy Blake was tan. Long-legged in cutoff shorts. David put her out of his mind.

“David, your name has come up in an investigation that has no connection to the fire.”

“Dawn, are you on your office phone?”

“No, pay phone, and I don't have long.”

David rubbed his finger on a coffee ring. “If it's not the fire, then what investigation is it?”

“I don't know.”

“Who's sniffing around?”

“Can't say.”

“Won't say, you mean.”

“Right, David, that's what I mean.”

“So why are you calling?”

“Because when our paths cross the paths of local cops, local cops get screwed. And I like you, David, I like you a lot.”

Something there he hadn't heard before. There were advantages, sort of, to marriage rumors.

“Tell me what the investigation's about. Just a hint, Dawn.”

“No can do. Honest, I don't know. Just a blip I ran across trawling through the system. And somebody stopped by the office, oh so casually, wanting to know what kind of cop you were. Routine hacker or bulldog.”

“What'd you tell them?”

“I told them you were in a class by yourself. Tenacious, perceptive, relentless, broad-shouldered, brown-eyed, and obsessive.”

“Spare my blushes.”

“Take me to lunch one of these days.”

“Is that all you're going to tell me?”

“That's all.”

She hung up. David looked at the phone, wondering why all the magazines said women put personal relationships before everything else, including work. Evidently the women he knew didn't read these articles.

He wondered why the FBI was interested in him. Something to do with Theresa Jenks?

The phone rang again. He picked it up. It would be Dawn, with more information. The articles were right.

“I knew you couldn't resist me,” David said.

“Baby, you been too much in the sun?”

David felt his face get red. “Detective Clements?”

“Um-hmm. Look, you got kids, don't you, Silver? Six or seven or more? Wife always bringing them home?”

“I have three daughters. It's animals my wife brings home.”

“Animals, yeah, that was it. She run a pet store?”

“Animal rights activist. Militant.”

“Good for her. Anyway, you know kids, right, you got three. So leave your Elaki and your Neanderthal at the office and meet me down by the supper club. Got somebody I want you to meet.”

“Is she cute?”

“You married, Silver, or what?”

Or what, he thought. “Married,” he said.

“Shame on you.”

SIXTEEN

The neighborhood was deserted in the heat of high noon. A man in oversized shoes and a long black coat mumbled to himself and crossed the street, rather than walk in front of the burned-out supper club.

David thought of the people and Elaki who had perished there in hot narrow rooms. He did not blame the man for crossing over.

He looked around, wondering if Clements was going to be late. The sun was hot, the oil stains on the paved street dark and tarry. Good iguana weather, David thought, wondering if Elliot was still alive. Likely, he was sunning happily somewhere, belly fat, complacent to have escaped the attentions of the girls. He was not an affectionate lizard.

Water dripped from a compressor, and David heard the whine of a ball bearing that would soon go. These were old units, in need of replacing.

The crime rate had dropped dramatically thirty years ago when the Federal government passed a law requiring all housing projects to be air-conditioned. Now they were all going bad, and there was no money for replacement.

A car horn honked; David heard an engine running rough. A battered Subaru pulled up next to the curb in front of the supper club—the curb that had been crushed to jagged chunks by emergency vehicles, angry residents, fire fighters in a hurry.

The Subaru showed traces of two very bad paint jobs—one dull brown, the other tasteless orange. The windows were rolled down. Inside, the beige upholstery was torn in places, showing dull gold padding and a layer of the kind of grime generated by long careless use and children.

Detective Yolanda Free Clements lifted a hand and grinned for one second, then stopped the car and opened the door, bending over the backseat for a canvas briefcase and a bright red plastic bag with a
JEEPERS SNEAKERS
logo.

David heard the metallic murmur of the car.

“In addition to the oil pan, the engine block continues to accumulate rust, and the leak makes it illegal to allow the cooling system—”

“Just fuck off, baby.” Clements put a hand to the small of her back and winced. “Cut off
my
air-conditioning on a day like this? Don't be expecting no oil change any time soon, and you can forget the paint job.”