Easy Prey: The Detective Temeke Crime Series, #5

EASY PREY

Claire Stibbe

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United States of America

Copyright © Claire Stibbe 2017

Published by Bookpreneur

An imprint of

Noble Lizard Publishing, USA

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing to Noble Lizard Publishing.

Paperback ISBN-13: 978-0-9982027-2-3

Printed in the United States of America

Cover Artwork by Esther Kotecha

ekdesigns.co.uk

Editing by Jeff Gardiner

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www.cmtstibbe.com

Acknowledgements

My thanks to New Mexico for providing the inspiration for the Detective Temeke Series. To my mother for giving me a safe and loving home, and to my father who gave me his love of language and books.

Special thanks to the Albuquerque Citizen’s Police Academy, to all the police officers, deputies and detectives I have worked with, especially for their dedication and sacrifice. For the invaluable services of Twisted Ink Publishing, The 13th Sign and An Tig Beag Press. A huge thank you to editor Jeff Gardiner and the wonderful proofreaders at Kingdom Writing Solutions for molding the clay into something worth reading.

As always I owe the greatest of thanks possible to my husband Jeff for his love and support, and to Jamie for his encouragement and humor.

Claire Stibbe

Albuquerque, New Mexico

December 2017

Table of Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

FORTY-THREE

FORTY-FOUR

FORTY-FIVE

FORTY-SIX

FORTY-SEVEN

FORTY-EIGHT

FORTY-NINE

FIFTY

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ALSO BY CLAIRE STIBBE

ONE

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When she heard the scream, Jessie Bowman assumed it was the fragment of a bad dream echoing from a faraway place. After listening intently for a minute, she was not sure she had heard anything at all.

The only noise was the swish of her sleeping bag as she shifted to one side and above the tent, the soft patter of rain against canvas.

Then a long, agonizing sound that faded into nothing. It wasn’t the shriek of a coyote or a bird’s cry; it was the sound of terror.

Jessie launched forward, listening. Bree... did you hear that?

A fizz of adrenaline shot through her body as the tent flap smacked against the vertical pole.

Impossible. The tent was always zipped shut and now it was open, revealing cool blue shadows growing deeper by the minute.

She groped for her phone to access the flashlight. The beam shot over a blue canvas dome and then down over the empty sleeping bag beside her.

Bree! Bree!

Her shouts were met with silence and questions began running through Jessie’s mind. Where would Bree have gone? What had she been wearing? Black jeans, blue t-shirt. That’s all Jessie could remember.

The breeze had turned into a high wind, which now gusted through the tent shaking the canvas even harder. It occurred to her that Bree would never leave without taking her phone. It was welded to her hand and synced to her camera with every shot she took.

Jessie tried the number.

Pick up, pick up, pick up. Her teeth clenched at the sound of voicemail and she waited for the beep. Bree, where are you?

It suddenly dawned on Jessie that Bree had been hurt by the argument they had had. That she might have run off into the woods in a blind rage and refused to pick up the phone.

I’m sorry, Jessie said, feeling a sudden flush of shame. Please... I didn’t mean all those things I said. Call me, OK?

The truth was, Jessie felt worse, but there was no time to worry about that now. Hanging up, she fumbled for a pair of oversized jeans, heard the jangling of car keys in the pocket as she pulled them on. She stuffed a small backpack with bottled water and looked inside the cooler for food. Two ham and cheese sandwiches and a bar of chocolate, the last of their supplies. She’d take them as a peace offering when she found Bree.

Reaching under her pillow, she tried to find the gun. There was no sign of it there or between the tarpaulin and the rug she had been using as a mattress. Casting her mind back, she remembered taking it out of her truck and bringing it with her.

Would Bree have taken it? Not likely since she hated guns. Never felt comfortable enough to use one.

Where the heck was it? Breathing deeply, she looked under Bree’s sleeping bag and pillow. Nothing.

The digital display on her phone read 4.58, Sunday 3 June. It would be daylight soon. She looked out over a silver glazed woodland where a branch groaned in the wind and something yipped. A coyote, perhaps. There was no sign of it running between the bands of moonlight that petered through the branches and no knowing which direction the sound came from.

The truck was the first place she looked, even though conflicted impulses told her Bree wasn’t there. It was still parked under a row of cottonwoods and empty just as she expected. Like a wild animal, she was roused with the warning of danger and the stench of evil as if something waited in the shadows with hoarse and grating breath.

There had been a man, a gray-haired hunter who had stalked them along the ditch banks and the parking lot when they had first arrived. Intense eyes never leaving Bree as if she was a priceless painting he had to have. That’s what scared Jessie then and it scared her even more now.

They had seen the same man yesterday. Only this time he had a shotgun over one shoulder. Not the type to respect a rare bird and its habitat, but someone who hunted for money. No sense in assuming he had taken Bree all because of the bird they had whistled away from a raised gun.

It had been a week since the last day of school and they were enjoying a weekend birdwatching along the Paseo del Bosque Trail, a constructed wetland replicating those that once occupied the floodplain of the Rio Grande River. Bree worked in a bird sanctuary during school vacations, unlike Jessie who always waited tables at Olive Garden and took a second job grooming dogs at the local pet center. The camping trip was Bree’s idea and the closest thing to a vacation she’d had in years.

They had been searching for an unusual falcon, an arctic gyrfalcon that had flown thousands of miles outside of its normal habitat.

But so too had the man and Jessie knew stalking him was a mistake, and trying to hinder a hunter’s livelihood an even bigger one.

The girls had spotted the bird perched on an upper branch two nights ago. A female hugging close into the trunk, feathers ruffled like a portly owl. She cocked her head sideways, seeing everything and missing nothing. She even allowed them to take pictures before rousing herself with a flick of her wings, soaring into the open sky, eyes ranging across the river below.

Jessie knew the hunter would take his shot whether they liked it or not, and blowing whistles in the air to warn the bird was risky. What were they thinking? What had they done?

She shouted Bree’s name as she waded through willow thickets and grass, flashlight bouncing from tree to tree. There was no sign of her by the ditch banks and no other sounds except the wind that coursed through a skimpy shirt, cooling a slick of sweat from her forehead.

Bree hadn’t left on her own. Jessie was sure of that now. Had she been dragged out of the tent and carried off by footsteps Jessie had never heard?

We shouldn’t have... I shouldn’t have...

The words lurched around in her mind as she stumbled toward the river, slumping down on a boulder as the first light appeared on the horizon. Streaks of corn colored yellow that turned into a deep burnished gold. She tried to breathe through the sobs in her chest, acutely aware of how isolated she was.

During the night, rain had ravaged the banks of the Rio Grande River, bringing high winds and hail from the north. The sand was slushy underfoot and looking out across the river at the east bank she saw a gray-slatted cabin with an open door.

Behind her was a young cottonwood set in a clump of taller trees and offering concealment in a thick canopy of leaves. Jessie’s muscles trembled as she hoisted herself onto a thick branch, twisting higher up the trunk to get a better view. She straddled a sturdy fork and looked out across the river at a blue heron standing motionless on a sandbank.

It was a good half hour before she saw him, a solitary figure emerging from the west-facing porch, a single blemish against a brown landscape. Thick gray hair and a handlebar moustache. Every now and then he paused, eyes sweeping along the ranks of cottonwoods as if searching for something among the leaves. It wasn’t hard to distinguish his features, the deep lines etched into his brow and the set to his jaw. The rifle slung over one shoulder.

Jessie tried to clear her head. Tried to burn off the anxiety as she leaned forward, arms around the trunk. Guilt had brought her to the cabin but terror had driven her to the tree, and that’s where she would stay until the man ranged south, glassing the banks and the reeds with those all-seeing binoculars of his. Then she’d make a run for it.

A dull ache began to trickle up her spine and she knew it would be like a clamp against the top of her head if she didn’t do something soon. She wanted to massage her temples until the pain subsided but it would only seep into her skull, growing in intensity until her eyesight started to blur.

Her first instinct was to call the police. She’d never called them before and her hand trembled as she dialed the number.

What’s your emergency? the 911 operator asked.

Ma’am, I’m... I’m sorry I think my friend’s missing.

Is this Jessie Bowman?

Yes, ma’am. This is Jessie.

OK, what happened?

We’re camping in the Bosque and she’s not here... She’s gone. I-I don’t know what to do.

Where are you right now?

Jessie didn’t want to tell the operator she was up a tree watching a man with a gun, but there was something about the man that scared her. Something she needed to communicate.

By the river, ma’am. About a mile from the road.

Which road?

Ala... Al...

Alameda Boulevard? the operator asked.

Yes, yes.

So you’re saying your friend’s gone missing?

Yes.

How long has she been missing, Jessie?

I don’t know. I woke up this morning and she was gone. I tried calling her and she won’t pick up. Oh God!

It’s OK, Jessie. I just need to ask a few more questions. How old is your friend?

Seventeen.

Can you give me her name and a description?

Jessie swallowed hard. Yes, ma’am. Brianna Ortiz. She’s seventeen... About five-eight. Long hair, dark h-hair... Oh God, we... There’s this man with a gun―

Jessie, Jessie, listen to me.

He’s looking at me... Oh God, I can’t... please you have to come.

Jessie, stay with me, OK? I want you to breath real deep and real slow.

No, no... he’s watching.

Jessie hung up and cowered in that tree. The man was looking right at her, but could he see her? Not if she lowered her face so the light didn’t bounce off her cheeks.

She raised her eyes just enough to see him scanning the skies and then the river. It was possible he hadn’t seen her and she began to breathe again.

In... slowly. Out... slowly.

She had to text Bree’s dad. He’d be worried, of course, fretting and carrying on. That was the difference between them. While Bree’s dad had been encouraging his daughter, Jessie’s dad—a dictatorial, coldhearted man with a limp—had been teaching her how to shoot cans in the desert. He often preached the line: there’s always another soldier and he was determined to make her one for good.

She would show him. Despite her stature, despite her weight, despite the fact that she was a girl, she would prove what a good student she was.

Jessie tapped out a brief text. It was the right thing to do. There was no sign Bree’s dad had received the text or that it had been delivered, and there was no knowing when an attorney flying to Los Angeles would have access to his messages in the first place.

A cold, thin rain settled on her cheeks and she focused on the cabin. It made her restless and started a new churning in her gut. What if the man was holding Bree captive? What if... There were so many what ifs, she didn’t care to wallow in guesswork.

The sun slid behind a cloud, plunging the landscape into gray. Jessie stretched one leg toward a lower branch and decided to drop to the ground. Her boot scraped against wood as she slid down the trunk, dropping into the mulch below. The sound echoed in the crisp morning air and it was then she heard the rustle of a bough and felt the pulse of air on her head. If she wasn’t mistaken it was the white falcon, primaries spread as it rose on silent wings.

Jessie brushed away a droplet of rain from her eyelashes and watched the man through a screen of grass. He lifted the rifle, scoped his target and waited for the moment to make a clean shot.

In that moment Jessie gave a whistle and the bird returned a high-pitched mewing sound, banked sharp south and dropped behind a tree. The man lifted his cheek only a fraction from the stock, scanning the place where it had first taken to the air as if he could pick off the offender as easily as swatting a fly.

Just then the sun burst through the clouds and the river was awash with light. It must have thrown shadows across the mudflats all the way down to the water’s edge. The woods had fallen silent and there wasn’t a breath of wind, eerie enough for Jessie to feel she was the only person alive.

She braced herself against the dazzle of sunlight and waited, half expecting the man to see her through his sights. It wouldn’t be hard. She was wearing a white t-shirt, easy to spot between a layer of amber grasses and woody debris.

The muzzle of the gun seemed to follow his body as he swung around to where Jessie crouched. She tried to calm the frantic racing of her heart, sensing a wave of hostility in those narrow eyes.

In those few seconds she froze.

TWO

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Detective Malin Santiago needed the rush to start her day and jogging cleared her head. Living so close to the river never warranted taking her car and on her day off she was tempted to switch off her phone. But with the uptrend of recent homicides and burglaries, she was on call today and her car and kit was never far away.

Wearing leggings and an olive colored t-shirt, she headed for a dirt road along the ditch bank behind Corrales Café. At five-fifteen on a Sunday morning, the sun had barely cleared the gray spine of the mountains. It was a sobering reminder that no one was about.

Running was something she enjoyed, settling into a languid stride to get her blood flowing. The idea of pushing herself to greater limits played a part, but there was something more. Running helped to go through facts and figures that suffused her mind, each refusing to unravel in the gray prison she called her office. She loved her job, focusing entirely on every atom of detail because it fed a part of her a man never could.

Her cell phone began dancing a few jigs and she stopped and unclipped it from her waistband. It was a text from Wingman. Instead of bringing a sense of dread to her otherwise peaceful day, it brought a certain level of excitement. Although she had been conversing with him on line and by text for several months, she was no closer to finding out his true identity. Somehow it didn’t matter anymore. He had become a solid support and someone she could trust.

Wingman: It went something like this. There was a little girl who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good, she was very, very good. But when she was bad she was horrid.

Malin: So?

Wingman: Malin, please try to appreciate the finer things in life. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Ever heard of him?

Malin: Let me guess. He invented fluoride.

Wingman: Now you’re being facetious. He was an American poet. Wrote ‘The Song of Hiawatha’. I’ve noticed there have been a few homicides and break-ins in the news recently. There’s money to be had in rare things.

Malin: Why are you telling me this?

Wingman: Because there’s always someone on the take. Did I hear you’ve got a new boyfriend?

Malin: Who told you that?

Wingman: A trusted friend. I’ll give you a clue. He’s away this week.

Malin had no idea who he was talking about, unless it referred to someone in her unit. Captain Fowler was at the top of the list and lucky for her, the son of a gun was over three thousand miles away in Hawaii. A vision of roasting buns on a beach brought a smile to her face, as did the wild possibility he might get kidnapped and sold as a sex slave. A girl can dream can’t she?

Wingman: I know you’re thinking that through. But I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. You’re a beautiful young woman. Don’t waste yourself on trifles.

Malin: Trifles?

Wingman: Yes, trifles. Fripperies. Men with no intention of getting married. You have a fantastic career. You should be taking things seriously.

Malin had had two dates with one of the crime scene specialists, a guy she was hoping to meet on her run. It bugged her that Wingman seemed to know all about it and it bugged her she was no closer to knowing who he was. She was reluctant to elicit the help of the social media compliance officer in her unit, who could easily tear through cell phone blockers and activity trackers just to find a name. All because Wingman, whoever the hell he was, had improved her solve stats.

Malin: You’re being intrusive.

Wingman: Cautious is the word. Listen, a good detective like you knows the difference between a primary and a secondary crime scene. I’ll put my cards on the latter this time. Something to do with angle and location. Anyway, I’ve taken up enough of your time, little bird. Who was it who said all good things must come to an end?

She wanted to type Don’t you dare sign off without telling me who you are, but he would do it anyway. The dots were no longer dancing and the screen was as blank as her mind. Clipping the phone back in her waistband, she took off again. This time refusing to be tormented by thoughts of top brass, or Hiawatha for that matter.

She looked up at a clear blue sky, thankful she lived in New Mexico. Bright rest ristras—red chile pepper pods—that hung from Southwestern porches and where you could smell burning cedar in the winter. The occasional honk of geese reminded her the river was less than a quarter of a mile away and she headed north with nothing but the wind in her ears.

If she actually thought about her career, she should have been proud. The battery of tests inflicted on a cadet at the police academy were brutal and left no margin for error. Any outstanding arrest warrants, spousal abuse, delinquency in child support, even down to lying and cheating were all reasons for failure. The pressure to perform with perfect scores had been stressful but more importantly the stark realization she might not make it to retirement alive. In hindsight, she was damn lucky to have been given a uniform and a date to report for work.

She hadn’t raised her right hand to swear an oath to serve her state and country without feeling proud. It was the greatest day of her life. Couldn’t wait to hook that shiny gold badge on her belt and get ready for her first case.

Running hard and heart pounding, she heard a gunshot. A high velocity round, a crack as a bullet broke the sound barrier. Her training had taught her that the further away the round was fired, the greater the time distance between the crack and the thump, and she pinpointed the direction about a quarter of a mile to the east and close to the river.

She was already crouching as the skies teemed with geese and she unhooked her phone to call dispatch. Told them she’d heard shots fired around Alameda and Paseo del Bosque Trail, a well-used path by horse riders and cyclists. Gave her location and said she was on her way.

She heard the gentle buzzing of a fly and the far off wail of a police siren. Scanning the path for any movement, both behind and in front, she saw a gray mass of birds in the sky. She was close to Alameda Boulevard—one of the main arteries that joined the west side of Albuquerque to the east—and thoughts of a motorbike with a blocked muffler became an impossibility.

Turning back, she lengthened her stride to a steady jog. It was only ten minutes to the parking lot and her car. Nearly there, nearly there, she kept intoning as her joints began unraveling, legs straining and tongue tasting the redolent scents of groundwater from the rains the night before. All she’d had was a jigger of orange juice before she left the house and her stomach was crying out for a refill.

As the path began to curve slightly to the south, she saw a man jogging from the opposite direction. Only he wasn’t jogging, he was racing at a heart-attack pace, dark hair slicked back off his forehead which was noticeably glistening with sweat.

Instead of smiling at the sight of him, she frowned. Matt Black, resident crime scene specialist, tall and rawboned, one you’d notice in a crowd. In the short span of time she’d known him, her feelings had turned from indifference to fascination. How that happened she had no idea.

Matt pointed to his right. Did you hear that gunshot?

I called it in.

They jogged back along the footpath, Matt in high spirits and her in a sudden funk, which raised questions about a double homicide they had both worked on last week.

Might have been a hunter, he said.

In a nature reserve?

Yeah, well there’s always some nut out there killing things, Matt said, his strides longer than hers and hard to keep up with. Parks, churches. There’s nowhere safe.

Having completed her semiannual in-service training, Malin felt a sense of satisfaction at being able to stay abreast of the crooks with their cutting-edge equipment and methods. It wasn’t only the police that carried handguns, shotguns, night-vision scopes and submachine guns, regularly training and shooting with an average score of eighty percent. This was New Mexico, she kept reminding herself. Everyone has access to a gun.

The sirens were getting louder and Malin turned her ear to a distant thump, thump, thump high up in the sky. She approached her unit and opened the tailgate with her remote. Snatching her radio, she relayed her call sign and location. She wouldn’t be the first officer on scene but dispatch confirmed a witness had called in a homicide. Snapping on her duty belt, she realized leisure wear would have to be the uniform of the day.

Another dirtbag, Matt said, peering through the trees. I’m sick and tired of it, if you must know. Clearing through someone else’s mess and hoping, just hoping, we catch the bastards before someone else gets hurt. Don’t you get fed up with it?

It’s been assigned to Temeke, she said, studying a text on her phone. And no. I don’t get fed up with it. What I do get fed up with is it’s never my crime scene.

What do they do? Toss a coin?

No. I’ll tell you what they do. They assign cases to the detectives who have the highest solve stats. The ones who are proven in the field. The press is happy. The citizens are happy. Case solved. Time I started a pissing contest.

I’m in.

A smile teased at Malin’s lips but she held it back. I’ll see you out there.

Drawing in breath and releasing it slowly, she slammed the tailgate and opened the driver’s door. Turning the key in the ignition, she watched Matt run to his car. He was growing on her.

As she pulled out onto Corrales Road, veering into the left-hand lane, she replayed every large case, every visceral scene in her mind. She couldn’t help obsessing over why certain cases had not been assigned to her lead. Observing suspect activity, fact gathering, conducting interrogations, yes, but there was little beyond participating in raids and arrests, and she was becoming restless.

Making headway toward Alameda Bridge, she could already imagine bloody limbs sticking out like massacred soldiers on a battlefield. That’s why she loved her job—every time she rubbed shoulders with grieving humanity she sensed their inner ache.

Today, Matt would rush to the mobile crime unit to perform field and screening tests for this case, while she gathered evidence and tried to look beyond the carnage for things that might be missing.

She was good at that.

THREE

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Detective Temeke didn’t believe in random. He never had.

When his sergeant called at five thirty-two that Sunday morning about an unidentified female found dead on the east banks of the Rio Grande, Temeke knew the chances were high this victim belonged to a lone killer. There had been a series of fatal shootings his colleague Suzi Cornwell had been assigned to. But the characteristics of this case were markedly different. This girl had been strangled and stabbed.

Someone had been watching her, waiting for the desire to escalate to tipping point before snatching her in plain sight. Victims were often found within a three mile radius of their homes and if they could identify their abductor they were likely killed within the first three hours.

He found a young officer at the scene with the log book. Detective Temeke. Homicide. Scene processing, he said, presenting his badge. What have we got?

One vic, sir, lying under that tree there. No chest rise.

Any ID?

Nope. And no sign of a murder weapon. I did a little sketch.

Very nice, Temeke said.

It was clear the lad had done art at school. Not only had he drawn a diagram of the scene, but he had sectioned and numbered the area in a spiral search pattern.

Who’s the on call M.E.? Temeke asked.

"Doctor V, only he’s stuck in traffic. Said he’d be here in about ten minutes. I took some photos. Got a new