“No chance.”
“I’ll cover, Sam.”
“You’ve covered enough. We don’t be careful, girl, we’ll both be out of a job.”
Sonora chewed her lip. They’d been walking a fine line the last eighteen months.
“Look, Sam, I want to talk to the brother before I go to the bar anyway. Get a picture of Mark, get a line on the girlfriend. You go to the hospital with Annie and get her settled in. She calms down the minute you walk in the room, you know that. Even if you have to leave her later, you go with her through that door.”
“I don’t know.”
He did know, and she resented, just a little, having to do the old familiar nurture talk, but only just a little.
“Come on, Sam, Mark Daniels is dead, he’ll keep. I’ll drop you off at the house, and you can meet me later at Cujo’s.”
“Thanks, Sonora.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Keaton Daniels hadn’t answered his door when Sonora tried the Mount Adams address, which was when she remembered he’d said something about his wife. She flipped through her notes. The other side of town, naturally.
She checked her machine on the way, got a message from Tim that Heather had gotten off to school okay and he was on his way. She worried about him, walking alone so early in the morning. Part of the daily ritual, that worry. In the afternoon, she would worry until the two of them made it home.
The mailbox said Mr. & Mrs. K. Daniels, and there was a For Sale sign out front. Getting serious about the divorce, Sonora thought, if their house was on the block. There was no swing set in the backyard, no toys on the porch, no Halloween decorations in the window. No children. Just as well, if things weren’t working out.
The house was small, a tiny three-bedroom ranch on a postage-stamp yard, much like her own house and not without charm. A lush fern hung in a basket by the front door, and a white wicker rocker sat on the tiny concrete porch. Sonora figured the rocker and the fern had a pre–stolen/vandalized life span of about six weeks.
The living room curtains were a gossamer film of fine white lace—lovely, but giving no privacy at all. The blinds in the bedrooms were tightly closed, and the porch light was on.
Sonora rang the doorbell.
For a lonely moment nothing happened. She was debating ringing it again when she heard the snap of a deadbolt being released. The door made a cracking noise and swung open.
Sonora was surprised more often than not at how little outward change there was in people in trouble. You had to look carefully, sometimes, to see the signs. Keaton Daniels was showing the signs.
His shirttail was out, and he still wore the khakis—wrinkled now, like he’d slept in them. Thick white socks sagged and bunched around his ankles. He hadn’t shaved. The slight childish fullness in his cheeks, which Sonora had found rather sweet, had somehow hollowed and sagged, making him seem older. All of thirty, perhaps.
He ran a hand through thick black hair, the kind of hair that looked good, even messy. Men were often lucky that way.
“I woke you up,” Sonora said.
“No, no.” He rubbed the back of his neck.
Sonora did not envy him the months ahead. She’d been there herself, when Zack died, dealing with the grief of her children. Heather had been just a toddler, and Tim had turned very quiet, asking, from time to time, why she did not cry, and if she really missed his daddy.
Sonora touched Keaton Daniels’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, sleep’s the best thing for you right now, and I hate to disturb you. But it’s pretty urgent that we talk.”
“Come in, please. Sit down.”
He moved a rumpled blanket to one side of the couch and sat while she took the rattan rocking chair. He clasped his hands, letting them hang heavily between his knees. He seemed dulled, somehow. Muted.
“Mr. Daniels, I’m very sorry about the death of your brother.” She always said the words, and they always seemed inadequate. People appreciated it more often than not.
Daniels nodded, and his eyes reddened. Sonora wondered what he was like in real life, regretting, more than usual, that she had to meet him under harsh circumstances. It was the way she always met people.
Once in a while someone kept in touch, cards and such. Usually the parents of murdered children, grateful if they’d been shown tact, more grateful if the killer had been caught.
Daniels rubbed his face. “Look, I bet you could use a cup of coffee.”
Sonora studied him. Not from Ohio, then, but somewhere farther south, though it didn’t show up in his speech patterns. Otherwise he’d have said I need a cup of coffee. She had a sense of time slipping away, but knew from experience it was better not to hurry these interviews.
Daniels kicked over one of his shoes—tennis shoes, high-tops, white with a gray swoosh. It knocked into a pile of other shoes—one more with a gray swoosh, a pair with red, and an odd one out, solid white. Sonora was reminded that Heather’s shoes were getting tight and that Tim would fight for Nikes, and promptly ruin them on the first muddy day. She saw Daniels watching her.
“Got enough tennies?” she, asked.
He stretched. “You have kids?”
“Two.”
“So you know that even in elementary school, they’re very brand conscious. If Mr. Daniels wears Reeboks, everybody wants Reeboks, and the kid with Nikes feels bad. Last year I taught at a different school, one in the city. A lot of my kids didn’t get breakfast in the morning, their moms couldn’t go out and buy brand-name stuff. One kid in particular was catching hell from the others because his were from Kmart, so I went out and got a pair from Kmart. Next thing you know, half the class has shoes from Kmart. From then on, I started wearing about every brand there is. But I always start with Kmart.”
“I think you’re very kind. And I wish you taught my son.”
Daniels smiled. “Let me get you that coffee.”
Sonora leaned back in the rocking chair and closed her eyes. The bubble of a coffeemaker starting up drifted comfortably in from the kitchen, the warm smell of coffee a comfort. Sonora let her head roll sideways, thinking how peaceful the Daniels household was—no ringing phones, no arguing children, no hair-pulling chorus of video-game theme songs playing over and over again.
She wondered if Tim had helped Heather get the tangles out of her hair, and if her daughter had felt bad about not having Mom there to plait her hair into braids.
She caught herself just before she drifted off to sleep and was properly wide-eyed and alert when Keaton Daniels came back in the room. The flowered porcelain coffee cups looked delicate in his large hands.
“You look tired, Detective.”
“Not at all,” she said. He surprised her. Crime victims rarely noticed much beyond their own pain. She took a sip from her cup and gave him a second look.
He had gathered himself together, there in the kitchen. She was aware of a physical self-confidence, a maleness that made her wish it wasn’t a bad hair day. And he was looking back at her in a steady way that made her nervous. She had the sudden urge to go sit beside him on the couch. She knew certain male cops who would do exactly that if the witness was attractive and female.
Sonora scooted to the edge of the rocking chair. “Mr. Daniels—”
“Keaton.”
“Keaton. Let’s get this over with.”
His voice went dull. “What do you want to know?”
“The last time you saw your brother. He dropped you off at your apartment and headed for Cujo’s Café-Bar.”
“Right.”
“What time was that?”
“About eight-thirty. Quarter to nine.”
“You never saw Mark after he left for Cujo’s? He didn’t call or anything?”
“No. The phone rang once, but whoever it was hung up.”
Sonora frowned. “You hear any background noises?”
“Yeah, there was some noise. People talking, like at a mall or—”
“Or a bar?”
He
frowned. “Could be. But if it had been Mark he would have said something. He wouldn’t just call and listen.”
“You think he got cut off? Think back now, give me the whole thing. What were you doing?”
“I was on the floor in the living room, doing some cutouts and stuff. Catching the tail end of somebody or other on the comedy channel.” He squinted his eyes and looked up at the ceiling. “So the phone rang and I said hello. And got nothing. But there were background noises from the line, so I thought maybe I didn’t hear what they said. I turned the television down and said hello again. Then whoever it was hung up. Not Mark, because he wouldn’t just breathe at me. Besides, I’ve been getting calls like this awhile now, where they listen and hang up.”
“How often?”
“Every few days. Two or three times a month. Depends.”
“How long’s this been going on?”
He glanced toward the bedrooms, where his wife was likely still asleep. “Last few months, mainly at the town house. I’m subletting it from a friend who’s in Germany on business. I figured it was kids or something.”
“Any reason to think your brother might have gone somewhere else after Cujo’s? Pub crawl kind of thing?”
“It’s possible. Mark was restless and outgoing. He talked to people, made friends.”
“Girlfriends?”
Daniels narrowed his eyes. “You keep going back to that. You really think he picked up some girl?”
“His killer was a woman, Mr. Daniels. She had to come from somewhere.”
“That was why you asked me about prostitutes? Look, Mark wasn’t some kind of sleazy jerk, Specialist Blair. He had a girlfriend in Lexington and they were committed. They were thinking about moving in together. Talking about getting married.”
“Were they engaged?”
“Nothing official. Mark talked about it, but he was only twenty-two. And her parents wanted her to wait till she was out of school.”
“Wise,” Sonora said absently. “Okay, look, I’m going to ask you a question that’s going to seem a little offensive. Get over it fast, think hard, and be very honest.”
Daniels pulled his bottom lip and frowned at her.
“Was your brother into any kind of unusual sexual practices? He have a lot of bruises, you know, more often than would seem average?”
“You have a nasty turn of mind, don’t you?”
“Hazard of the profession, and I do have to ask. Your brother is still the victim here, I haven’t forgotten that.”
He leaned back on the couch. “It’s not like I know everything about my brother’s sex life. You have a brother, you know what I mean. But I never saw any sign of anything … anything like what you’re saying. He didn’t go to tough bars. He didn’t date girls who wore lots of mascara and black leather and a leash around their neck. He read Gentlemen’s Quarterly and Playboy.”
“For the articles.”
“For the foldouts. And he always bought the swimsuit issue of Sports Illustrated. I’d say my brother’s reading material was pretty much normal, for a healthy American male.”
“American as apple pie.”
Daniels smiled at her, just a little one.
“What’s as American as apple pie?”
Sonora hadn’t heard the woman come in—the carpet had muted the sound of her high, spiky heels. She was the kind of female Sonora had always envied—naturally thin, brown eyes, thick, shiny auburn hair. The kind of woman for whom makeup was optional, who got the part in the school play.
Daniels stood up. “Ashley. This is Police Specialist Sonora Blair. She’s investigating Mark’s … Mark’s death.”
Sonora stood up and offered a hand. Ashley Daniels was dressed up—soft rose business suit, white stockings, high heels that Sonora knew she herself wouldn’t last in for more than an hour.
She shook Sonora’s hand firmly, then bent close to Keaton, trailing perfume and kissing him gently on the cheek. “You all right, Keat?”
He patted her shoulder. “Yeah.”
“I need to go down to the booth just a few minutes. I have to pick up a couple of files, make one or two calls, and then I’ll be right back. Will you be okay?”
“I’m headed home anyway.”
“You sure?”
He nodded.
Sonora felt their awkwardness. Sort of married. Sort of not.
Ashley Daniels’s voice turned cool. “There’s that car again. I hope it’s somebody interested in the house.” She walked across the room, shifted the curtains to one side.
Sonora set her coffee cup on the end table and went to the window. “What car?”
Ashley Daniels looked at her over one shoulder. “Gone. Why?”
Sonora looked out at the street. Pavement, new sidewalk, baby grass on vulnerable, emerging lawns. No cars.
Ashley looked at Keaton. “You want the rental car delivered here or at your place?”
“Here, I guess. Can you get it for me this morning?”
“Done. And I’ll have your check in three days. There are some advantages, to having an Allstate agent in the family.” Ashley smiled at Sonora, pulled a business card from her blazer pocket. “I work out of a booth at Tri-County Mall. If you ever want a rate estimate, give me a call. Mostly I handle property and casualty—car insurance, homeowners. Life when I’m lucky.”
Sonora nodded, pocketed the card, watched Ashley Daniels go into the kitchen, heels clacking. She heard a garage door.
“Where were we?” Keaton said.
“You were telling me what kind of magazines your brother read.”
“More interesting than the ones I get. Weekly Reader. Highlights for Children.”
“For the foldout.”
“They have some great ones where you connect the dots.”
Sonora tilted her head to one side. “Mr. Daniels, one thing I want to bring up. Our arson investigator couldn’t find your brother’s keys.”
“The car keys?”
“Yeah. What keys were on the ring?”
“Keys to this house. Keys to my apartment. My car and Ashley’s car, and my desk at school. They must have burned up.”
“Even so, he should have been able to find them. Melted, carbonized, they’d still be there.”
“And he’d be able to tell?”
“Reads fires scenes like you read Highlights for Children. It’s possible the killer kept them.”
“You think it’s something to worry about?”
She opened her arms. “I’m not saying go overboard, but I don’t like the killer having keys to your house. Just to be on the safe side, why don’t you change your locks?”
“She won’t know where I live, anyway.”
“Was there a registration in your car?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“There you go.”
“You really think—”
“I think it’s a good precaution. Do it, why don’t you? Getting robbed is no fun.”
“You think she’d rob my apartment?”
She thought robbery might be the least of his worries, but she didn’t point it out. “It’s best to take precautions. Change your locks, Mr. Daniels.”
7
The only picture of Mark that Keaton Daniels had handy was a wedding picture he’d removed from a gilt-edged frame. Sonora had been reluctant to take it. The pose showed Keaton, sturdy and serious, with Mark on one side and Ashley, radiant and beautiful, on the other. Mark looked young and smug, his elbow on Keaton’s shoulder.
They did not look particularly alike, these brothers. Mark had light brown hair, fine and straight. His face was thin, chin pointed. He build was wiry in contrast to his brother’s more solid mass. His eyes were blue.
Not a case of mistaken identity.
A Closed sign hung in the window of Cujo’s Café-Bar, but the front door was unlocked. Sonora saw no sign of Sam, and didn’t feel like waiting on the doorstep. She thought of Annie, tiny in a hospital bed. She would try to take Heather over for a
visit.
The café was warm inside, divided into two main sections. The first was a bar, the second a small dining room with a Nonsmoking sign over the frame.
The bar itself was beautiful but battered, the rich teakwood scuffed and gouged. The brass plate along the bottom needed polishing. The barstools were high, but they had backs and armrests. Comfortable, Sonora thought, settling in. She studied the array of bottles grouped under the mirror that ran along the back.
The sight of so much alcohol so early in the morning offended the ulcer, and Sonora checked her jacket pocket for a Mylanta tablet. She was frowning at an empty foil packet when she heard soft footsteps and looked up to see a woman, short and stout like a fireplug, walk in from the dining room.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry, we don’t open till noon.”
“Yeah, I figured there might be a reason the chairs were stacked up on the tables. Plus the Closed sign was kind of a tip-off.” Sonora opened the leather case that housed her ID, waited patiently while the woman looked the badge over carefully. The days when you could flash ID and not break stride were long gone.
“Detective Bear?”
“Blair,” Sonora said.
“Sorry, I don’t have my reading glasses. What can I help you with?” The woman moved behind the counter, heading for a coffeepot. She’d have to stand on a stool to tend bar. “Get you a cup?”
The ulcer had segued neatly from ache to nausea, and Sonora grimaced. “No, thanks.” She heard a car engine and spotted a pickup pulling up by the curb out front. Sam. She took the recorder out of her purse and laid it on the bartop.
“You work here, Ms.…?”
“Anders. Celia Anders. I’m day manager.”
The bell over the front door jingled, and Sam came into the bar. Sonora waved.
“Ms. Anders, this is my partner, Detective Delarosa.”
He nodded. Celia Anders smiled at him. She liked him, Sonora could tell, though all he’d done was walk through the door. Sonora looked at Sam in mild irritation.
“Ms. Anders, did you work last night?” Sonora asked.
Celia Anders looked at the recorder. “No, I’m day manager. I go home at seven.”
“Who was here?”
“Let’s see. Usually Ronnie seats people in the restaurant part. And Chita tends bar. They own the place. Ronnie Knapp and Chita Childers.”
Flashpoint Page 4