Alien Rites (22 page)

She shrugged. “I don't really care about that, anyway.”

“Didn't like him?”

“
Like
him?” She shook her head at David. “No. I didn't like him. Didn't hate him either. Just typical of the breed.”

“Meaning?”

“For starters, look at Annie. Look how she lives. That baby boy was Luke's child too, but I didn't see him looking after Annie much. He cared more about that car than he did about her and little Hank, believe me.”

“I do believe you. What happened that night, the night he disappeared?”

Valentine shrugged. “Just what Annie said. They were talking on the phone. He went down to see who was messing with his precious car. That's all we know.”

“Annie didn't poison her baby,” David said.

“I know.”

“How do you know?”

“I know Annie.”

David fiddled with the top button of his shirt. “Do you know Annie's social worker? Angie Nassif?”

“I don't like her, either.”

“You see much of her?”

“Almost never. Not ever after Hank died. She came to the apartment once or twice, but mostly she liked to have Annie go to her office. Girl has to go through three bus exchanges to get there, but social workers are too important to come to us.”

“You know who called in the complaint on Annie? Who started the ball rolling, investigating the baby's death?”

Valentine looked away. “I figured that was the social worker. Making trouble like they do.”

“Somebody had to make a complaint.”

She thought a minute. Shrugged one silk-clad shoulder. “Hospital, I guess, don't you think?”

David let it go. “You need a ride home?”

“I sing again in about an hour.”

David looked into the field behind them, then back at her. “You want me to wait?”

She laughed at him. “Stay out of trouble, Detective. Go home to your wife.”

It was, he realized, very good advice.

FORTY-FOUR

Thurmon's precinct was on the outskirts of the city, forty minutes in heavy morning traffic. It was mainly residential, down-at-the-heel degenerating middle class. A pasture for cops in their not-so-golden years, and younger screw-ups.

It was far enough out of the city's mainstream action that there was a parking lot beside the building, with empty slots. David gave the car directions and got out at the curb.

He had not slept after he left Valentine, but he'd had a shave, a shower, and a solid dose of Tylenol Twelve. He was sweaty again, and cold when he went through the double glass doors, past an ID scanner that dated back to 2025.

Not exactly top-of-the-line.

The furniture inside the precinct was old, with a cast-off, Salvation Army air. The carpet was grey and threadbare. Everything in the building had a tired, dingy air, and the smell made David think of retirement homes where the residents were reluctant and unhappy.

He clipped his ID to his belt, nodded at the woman who manned the booth.

“Thurmon, Missing Persons,” he said.

She showed him two fingers and buzzed him through. He went to the elevator and waited, too tired to take the stairs to the second floor.

The elevator was slow, like everything else in the building. Thurmon was sitting behind his desk, chair pulled out, talking to two guys at desks across the room. A rubber-band whizzed through the air and landed in Thurmon's coffee cup, causing a small brown splash and an outbreak of laughter.

“Day-um—ten points, Larrimer. Don't drink that coffee, Thurmon.”

“Hey, Stevie, even
I
saw that one. Hell of a shot, I'm buying, come lunch.”

David stopped in front of Thurmon's desk, casting a shadow. “This the workload that kept you from following up that trouble with Annie Trey?”

The disapproval brought the room to immediate, uncomfortable silence. David didn't care. There were cops all over the city pulling double shifts, himself included. What justified keeping these guys on the payroll?”

Thurmon squinted at him, eyes milky, rimmed in red.

David leaned close. “It's Silver. David Silver.”

“Yeah, I recognize you, I have
some
vision left. I was just wondering what makes you think you can walk in here and talk to me with that kind of attitude. I was a cop on the beat when you were still having your first—”

“Wet dream. Got you. Let me know when you're through taking a stand. Because we need to talk.”

Thurmon leaned back in his chair, put his hat on his head, and angled it sideways with a practiced, theatrical motion.

“So talk.”

David drummed his fingers on the edge of Thurmon's desk.

“Whatsa matter, kid? You got something to say, say it.”

“You don't want to talk in private?”

“I got nothing to hide.”

David nodded slowly, readying the bluff. “I checked before I came out here. Looks like six police flak jackets were missing from supply last—”

Thurmon stood up, face tight, eyes squinted into slits. “Maybe we should be private, Silver. Come with me.”

They stood almost nose to nose in the janitorial supply closet. Thurmon clutched the edge of a shelf stacked with individually wrapped rolls of toilet paper. The room smelled like ammonia, soap, and, oddly, oatmeal.

Thurmon looked at him but didn't say a word. He was a smart cop, David realized, for all that he was out of the game. He wasn't going to give anything away for free.

“You wanted to talk, kid, now talk.”

David folded his arms. “The one thing I don't know is what you were looking for when you beat down the door to Annie Trey's apartment, and scared those little girls so bad they don't sleep at night.” It wasn't necessarily a lie. David had no real idea how the kids were doing. With any luck they'd bounced right back, but it sounded good. “Every night the littlest one wakes up crying, and the older one has gone back to sucking her thumb and won't eat. But, hey, Thurmon, they're just project kids, what the hell do you care?”

Thurmon's face went brick-red. “
I
grew up in the projects, Silver. Don't get high and mighty with me.”

“Don't waste my time,” David said. “Everything I ever heard about you said you were an okay guy who got a really bad deal. I never got any hint, before now, that you were dirty.”

It was unexpected, and David was shaky anyway, so when Thurmon came after him with the sucker punch, he went down hard, landing up against a bench cluttered with empty soap boxes and work rags. He tried to get up, but the room was spinning and his legs were wobbly. He stayed down, lap full of dirty, sour rags, empty bucket by his head. He reached up for a handhold, which turned out to be a mop that clattered down across his legs. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Jeez, Silver, I'm sorry. You all right?”

“Been better.”

“Can you get up?”

“Just need … a minute.” He hated it, this breathlessness. It was a shock, the way his legs had gone out from under him. He wasn't sure he could make it to his feet. He was grateful for Thurmon's beefy hand under his elbow.

Thurmon cleared the bench with a swipe of a surprisingly heavily muscled arm, and settled David on the bench. David leaned back against the wall. He shut his eyes, chest tight, trying to catch his breath. He felt Thurmon unbutton the tight collar of his shirt, loosen the tie.

“Can I get you a glass of water, or a soda?”

David covered his mouth. Coughed. “Cup of coffee.”

“You got it. Cream or sugar?”

One minute the man was slamming him into a wall, the next asking how he wanted his coffee. David laughed.

“What?”

“Nothing. Cream would be nice.”

Thurmon was gone awhile, long enough for David's breathing to go back to normal, long enough for him to wipe blood from the corner of his mouth and straighten his tie. He could not remember being this embarrassed in years.

He heard footsteps. Thurmon came through the door, with a folding chair tucked under his right arm, coffee cup in his left hand. He handed David the mug of coffee. Steam shimmered wetly from the top.

“You look better, thank God. Be careful—I made a fresh pot, so it's hot.”

Thurmon put the chair in the tiny space in front of the bench and closed the door. He sat down heavily. Shook his head at David.

“You've got it, don't you?”

“Got what?” David asked.

“The virus, or whatever the hell it is. The thing that killed that little Trey baby.”

David nodded. “I've had a treatment. I'm not contagious.”

“I won't say I'm not glad to hear it. Whatever it is, killed that baby in less than forty-eight hours.”

David scratched his chin. “What about that raid at Annie's apartment? What were you guys after?”

Thurmon crossed his legs, flipped the tassel on top of his shoe. “We went in and got that teddy bear.”

David looked at him. “They're not
that
valuable.”

“No. But they're infected with the virus.”

“How did you get in the middle of this, Thurmon?”

“Angie Nassif.”

“The social worker?”

“Right. I've done things for her before. You know the drill. Get some off-duty cops, go to somebody's house, ask 'em to let us in. Nine people out of ten figure they have to; they don't know the law. That gets Angie in the door sometimes, when there's no other way it gets done.”

David had heard of this before, social workers with pet cops, who did off-duty favors.

“Hey, Silver, don't look like that. Angie does a lot of good, that girl. Helped a lot of kids.”

“Angie plays God,” David said.

Thurmon shrugged.

“But why the big break-in? Why not just explain things to Annie, and tell her to give up the bear?”

“Hell, Angie tried. The kid didn't believe her. Said that the forensic lady, the Kellog woman, told her the bear couldn't be the source of infection. Annie thought Angie wanted the bear because it was valuable. Can't blame Annie, all the hell she's been through. She's not going to trust anybody. Especially not Angie.”

“So you went to all that trouble to get a teddy bear. You knew Annie wouldn't complain, and if she did, nobody would give a damn.”

“Miscalculated on that. There you sit.”

“Where did Annie get the bear in the first place?”

“Cochran. He got it from an antique dealer he worked for. She never would take money from him, not Annie. So it tickled him, made him feel like he put one over on everybody, to give her a bear worth that much.”

“How did you figure that out?”

“Angie told me. She knew Cochran. Look, Silver, I'm sorry about that raid. If I could go back and undo it, I would. Those little kids—” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I'm not proud of myself, okay? But Angie was pretty convincing about the bear being a danger.”

“Where's the bear now?”

“Angie has it.”

FORTY-FIVE

The precinct was flooded with the aroma of micro-meals, and the spicy odor of takeout. Pizza, David decided, and Chinese. The smells made him queasy. He had no appetite.

String breezed past him in the hallway. “Am to bring the lunch, Detective David. Come soon for first choice.”

David followed him into the bullpen. “Thanks, String, I don't feel like tacos.”

Della looked up and waved a hand. “Now what makes you so sure he brought back tacos?”

Mel looked up from his computer. “Della, honey, String always brings back tacos.”

She looked at String. “What you got in the bag today?”

“The tacos, Della.”

David went to his desk. Booted up his computer terminal and checked for messages.

“Have heard from the Aslanti/Caper work team,” String said.

David looked up. “Is Aslanti working for the department now?”

“Outside consultation, yes. And have done the bear to bear analysis.”

“What'd they find?” Mel said, without looking up.

“Bears most covered with the viral bacterium, but most of them dead. Most hard to get infected this way, but possible. Aslanti feels there is a presence live host. You remembers the night of finding car in Elaki-Town?” String unwrapped a taco and took a small bite off the edge. David grimaced at the smell of spicy meat and cinnamon. “Remembers the noise I hear? Am sure I hear the predator animal from home planet. Is called—”

“Trillopy,” David said.

“Yesss.”

“Aslanti told me trillopys are carriers.”

String chewed another bite of taco. “Isss true this. Am checking to find if any have been smuggled in. Difficult this.”

“And pointless,” Mel said. “Assume it's here. Work from there.”

David looked at Della. “You got that list I asked for?”

“In your reader, Silver. Why don't you look before you ask?”

“It's easier to ask.” David rummaged in his center desk drawer for his reading glasses. His phone rang.

“Silver, Homicide.”

“Hi, this is Tina Cochran, Luke's mother? Is this a bad time for you?”

David frowned. She sounded excited, upset. “Not at all, Mrs. Cochran. Is something the matter?”

“
No
. Yes. I … I don't know.”

“What is? Tell me.”

“I just got my mail. And I got … I got something in the mail from Luke.”

David sat forward. “Are you sure it's from him? Do you recognize the handwriting?”

“Absolutely, it's his handwriting. And he had to have written it that Tuesday, the Tuesday he disappeared. That's the postmark. Plus it says ‘when I saw you yesterday,' and I seen him that Monday before.” Her voice went thick and David knew she was holding back tears. “I honestly don't know—I mean I'd like to think it shows he's alive. But I guess—I guess it really doesn't.”