Flashpoint

by Lynn Hightower

  Sonora’s back was aching, and the computer-generated song made her grind her teeth. She wondered what sin she had committed to deserve this witness.

  “Brian, Specialist Delarosa and I need to take a look at Mark’s room, go through his things. Any objection? Good. While we’re looking, I’d like you to write down everything you remember that happened the last day you saw Mark. I’m interested in everything, all the routine stuff, and of course, anything unusual.”

  Winthrop nodded.

  Sonora stood up. She had more questions, but not in a chair with a spring coming up, and not with a computer game chanting in the background.

  10

  Sonora looked at Mark Daniels’s bedroom, thinking that she wouldn’t call him neat.

  Likely he’d left for Cincinnati in a hurry, but the signs were there of someone always in a hurry on the way to somewhere else. A large mound in the corner would probably prove to be a chair. Clothes were piled on the floor, and the bed had an ingrained unmade look Sonora recognized. Likely it was pulled together on special occasions only.

  A Gameboy sat on the edge of a cheap metal desk. Sam picked it up, and Sonora took it away from him.

  “Gosh, Mom.”

  They gravitated to their “own” parts of the room, a pattern and rhythm set by countless shared homicide investigations. Sonora gathered a stack of CDs.

  “New Age shit and rap.” Sonora stacked them in a dust-grimed corner. The desk drawers were crammed to the limit, and she had to work to get them open. “Just once, I’d like the DB to be a neat freak. Like those victims you always see on TV? Bank statements neatly filed, a journal with—”

  Sam looked up. “You found a journal?”

  “No, I’m talking about TV.”

  He coughed. “At least on TV they change the sheets.”

  “I hope I never get murdered. I wouldn’t want you and Gruber tossing my house.”

  “Better clean it up, Sonora, you’re just the kind of female who does get murdered. Which reminds me, Chas called me up last night.”

  “Chas called you?” Sonora sorted carefully through the top middle drawer, finding it touchingly similar to her own son’s clutter. A collection of bottle caps—she wondered why guys collected bottle caps—several Superballs of various colors, baseball cards, a half-eaten Butterfinger candy bar that had gone white around the edges. “This chocolate actually tempts me, Sam. I must be further gone than I thought.”

  “I’ve seen you pick M and Ms up off the floor.”

  She started on another drawer, sorting through an eclectic collection of tiny screwdrivers, wrenches, stray nuts and bolts. “What did Chas want? Ah. A bank statement. Looks depressingly like mine.”

  “No money?”

  “When he gets it, he spends it.”

  “Barhopping is expensive.”

  “I vaguely remember, back from the days when my life was fun.”

  Sam looked at her and smiled. “That would be before children?”

  “Like everything else pleasant.” She looked at him covertly, saw the shadow that crossed his face, realized he was wondering if his daughter would get a chance to grow up. Time to quit making stupid parent jokes.

  Sam finished with the mattress and under the bed and was methodically going through the pockets of Daniels’s discarded clothing.

  “Anything?” she asked.

  “Trojans be the brand of choice. At least two in every pocket.”

  “I like Ramses myself. I wonder if Sandra’s on the pill.”

  Sam nodded. “That would let you know if he was looking.”

  “Or if it’s a true like a commitment of a—”

  “Shhh, Winthrop’ll hear you.” Sam moved across the room and closed the door. He picked a shirt up off the floor.

  “You going through the underwear, too?”

  “I’m not that dedicated.”

  Sonora opened another drawer. “Jesus, this guy’s still reading comic books. What a baby.”

  “I read comic books. Hey, the X-Men. And by the way, Chas wanted to know why you weren’t returning his calls. Playing hard to get, girl?”

  Sonora found a packet of pictures. The negatives fell to the floor, and she bent over and picked them up.

  “I never get the reason for these stupid strips of negatives. Nobody ever really uses them. They’re just there to fall out and be irritating.”

  “I use them.”

  “You do not either.” Sonora began sorting. The pictures had been developed on the twofer plan, so she got to see everything twice.

  “I thought you liked Chas,” Sam said.

  “He’s okay for Friday nights, but now he’s talking marriage.”

  “Let me be the first to congratulate you, girl.”

  Sonora scooted backward in her chair. “Marriage, Sam, is for men and sweet young things in their twenties. I’m happy as I go.”

  “You have an ulcer.”

  “I’m happy all around this ulcer.”

  “So live with him.”

  “My washing machine won’t take another person.”

  Sam looked at her over his shoulder. “You know, Sonora, just because your dear departed was a son of a bitch—”

  “I know, I know. Doesn’t mean all men are sons of bitches. I’d marry you, Sam, if you changed your socks more often.”

  Sam tossed a shirt onto a pile and sat on the edge of the bed. “Last year you said you were lonely.”

  “Last year I didn’t know I had it so good.”

  “No, now, something happened. Three months ago you were over the moon about this guy.”

  “Yeah, well. He did a funny thing with the car.”

  “What kind of funny thing?”

  “It … I’m embarrassed, okay?”

  “No it’s not okay. This is me, remember? You got me worried here, girl. What thing?”

  “It just made me realize. I mean, if I didn’t know better, I’d think I was dating my dead husband all over again.”

  “Run, girl,” Sam said, giving her a look.

  Sonora grinned. “Run screaming.”

  A toilet flushed in the apartment next door, and a door slammed in the hallway. Sonora opened another envelope of pictures. “So this is Sandra.”

  “You’re changing the subject on me.”

  “Can’t get anything past you, can I, Sam?”

  He stood by Sonora’s elbow. “She doesn’t look old enough to have a boyfriend.”

  “My six-year-old has a boyfriend.”

  Sandra looked impossibly young, plumpish, brown hair over-permed. She stood next to Mark, giving him a look of intense adoration that could only be mustered by a very young woman.

  Sam took the picture and squinted. “There goes our number one suspect. You can’t tell me she handcuffed him to a steering wheel and set him on fire.”

  “Glued him to a pedestal, maybe.”

  “What?”

  “I’m agreeing with you.”

  Sam turned the picture sideways. “You ever look at Chas like that?”

  “I don’t have to, he does it with mirrors.”

  “Is it police work, Sonora, or were you born mean? I mean, this thing with the car, whatever it was, maybe you’re making too much of it. Maybe Chas was under pressure or something.”

  “Shut up, Sam, before you annoy me.”

  Sonora turned her back on him, flipped through another stack of pictures. Lots of friends, lots, of parties, a few of the same faces again and again. One of Winthrop straining at the barbells. A lot of the three of them—Daniels, Sandra, and Winthrop. Winthrop looked happy in these, Mark, tolerant, Sandra, enduring. If Winthrop had been murdered, Sandra would be up at the top of the list of suspects.

  Sonora selected two or three shots, set them aside, and opened an old cigar-style school box. MARK DANIELS had been printed across the top in purple Magic Marker by a childish, sloppy hand. Inside were more bottle caps, fantasy miniatures, gum-ball-machine playing cards, and more pictures.


  These were older, various sizes and camera types, a collection from the past. Sonora picked them up and thumbed through.

  The brothers had been close—at least when they were younger. Mark was the mug, making faces and devil horns behind his big brother’s head; never serious, but somehow never quite comfortable in the eye of the camera. Keaton self-confident, solid masculine build contrasting with his brother’s gangly boy’s body.

  A number of shots caught Keaton behind a fishing pole, looking relaxed and happy. Mark was always pictured displaying a nice-sized, dripping fish, Keaton ever without a trophy. How was it she knew that Keaton had caught those fish?

  Keaton Daniels was very much on her mind. His footprints were everywhere—natural, perhaps, he was Mark’s brother. Sonora wondered if Keaton would go back to his wife in the midst of his crisis.

  As the thought occurred, she ran across a picture of Keaton Daniels asleep, his back to a tree, muscles slack, fishing pole loose in his hands. The shot was recent, likely taken by Mark. She placed it on top of the pile she had set aside, then changed her mind and slipped it into her jacket pocket.

  Sam stretched, then scratched the back of his neck. “What do you think?”

  “I think he was a typical kid, young for his age, and on the verge of getting engaged before he had any business being married. I don’t see him inspiring a killing like this. I don’t see him stirring that mature kind of rage.”

  “Just one of those random, drive-by, handcuff-’em-and-douse-’em-with-gasoline killings.”

  “No, Sam, this killer stalked her victim. She just took advantage of a small and unexpected opportunity.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as Mark. The little brother.”

  “The little brother? So you’re saying—”

  “Yeah. Of her intended victim. Keaton Daniels.”

  11

  It was late when Sonora and Sam made it into Lynagh’s to ask about Mark Daniels and a mysterious blonde. The Metropolitan Blues Allstars were playing, and the air was thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of beer. The music was dark and bluesy—beautifully executed and way too loud for conversation.

  Sam staked out a tiny table for two in the back left corner, the only empty seats left in the house. The Allstars packed ’em in, even on weeknights.

  Sonora watched the crowd—a mix, spanning the college and thirty-something generation. A noisy group of men and women in chinos and plaid shirts sat at a long table in the middle of the room, generating enormous activity at the bar. The women watched the dance floor wistfully; the men pretended not to notice.

  “… no, she said put on your clothes and go home.”

  “… burned the canoe, instead of the …”

  “… pounding him till he pays …”

  “… oh, no, the judge is a total nutcase.”

  Lawyers, Sonora decided.

  “Sonora, you want a Coke or something?” Sam was shouting in her ear.

  She shook her head, then focused on the kids at the tables in front, wondering if any of them knew Mark. One of the girls looked familiar—long brown hair past her waist. Sonora pulled the snapshots she’d taken from Mark Daniels’s desk. This girl was in one.

  Sonora tracked her, watching to see who she talked to, eyeing the kids she hung out with. Mark was supposedly a regular—maybe this was his crowd. She nudged Sam, and he saluted her with his Dr. Pepper. She took the glass out of his hands, drank deeply, and winced. Her children drank Dr. Pepper too. She wondered why.

  Sonora showed Sam the picture, then nodded her head toward the girl on the dance floor. Sam nodded and stuck a wad of tobacco in his cheek. Sonora suddenly remembered that she was supposed to deliver thirty cupcakes to her daughter’s primary class the next morning.

  She crooked her finger and Sam leaned close. She pointed to her watch. “Time. I’ll go talk to the girlfriend. You stay here and see what you can get with that bunch up front, particularly the girl. I’ll pick you up on my way back.”

  “Which girl again? The redhead?”

  “In your dreams. That one over there. Hair to her feet and fingernails.”

  “Figures.”

  Sonora stopped in the ladies’ room—cramped, dark, and overheated; gouged linoleum and paper towels lining the floor. There was a pay phone, and she checked on the kids—safe at Grandma’s—and the machine at the office.

  Two messages—one from Chas and one odd one. Sonora frowned, dialed the work number again, fast-forwarded through Chas, and listened hard.

  “Hello there, girlfriend, recognize my voice? I bet not. You’uns get around, don’t you? Don’t worry, I’ll call back.”

  Sonora ran a thumb up and down the coin slot. You’uns. The woman who had called Keaton had said you’uns. This was no blast from the past, no playful old college buddy blowing through town. No threats, no challenges, a friendly woman in a good mood.

  This was the killer calling in.

  12

  Sandra Corliss lived with her parents on Trevillian Street in a small trilevel house that would have been new about the year Mark Daniels was born. Trees were few and far between, and the street had an unadorned look of bitter age. The cars parked in the driveways were old V-8s that had good pickup, touched-up paint jobs, and the solid build of tanks. Good safe family cars. There was the usual sprinkling of pickups, par for Kentucky.

  The hazy glow from the streetlights showed the Corliss house backed up to a park, the backyard sloping toward a wide expanse of open meadow. A large, above-ground pool squatted at the end of the driveway. The front porch light was on.

  Sonora parked the Taurus in front of the house, locked the doors, and walked up the asphalt drive. She cut sideways across the lawn and bumped a ceramic “yard boy.” The paint was peeling away from the statue’s right eye, giving him an aura that was both shabby and grotesque.

  Sonora rang the doorbell twice. The television noises stopped abruptly, and the front curtain, heavy and blue, twitched at the edge. The front door was pulled open, creating a momentary suction that rattled the storm door.

  Sandra Corliss’s father was a large man, with broad stooped shoulders. His brown corduroy shirt strained at the belly. His hair was sparse, still fair, blond eyebrows thick. He held the sports section of the newspaper loose by his side. He looked tired.

  “Mr. Corliss? I’m Specialist Blair, Cincinnati Police. Excuse me for disturbing you so late. I spoke with Mrs. Corliss yesterday?” She held out her ID.

  “Sure, come in.” He took a furtive glance at the identification, as if he felt the inspection was impolite. Sonora saw that he was wearing worn brown slippers.

  A collection of shoes, various sizes, was lined neatly on a mat near the front door. The wall-to-wall carpet was pale blue, very thick, and in mint condition.

  Sonora wondered if this was one of those households where everyone took off their shoes to preserve the carpet. She was uncomfortably aware that the heel had worn through in her left sock, and she pretended not to notice when Corliss glanced at her feet. Police officers did not take off their shoes on duty. No doubt there was a regulation.

  “Sandra’s in her room,” Corliss said.

  Sonora wondered if he expected her to fetch the child herself.

  “Perry, who’s this?” A woman in an emerald green sweat suit came in from the kitchen. She was carefully made up with frosty blue eye shadow and heavy eyebrow pencil, and her hair had been securely sprayed in place. The woman’s knuckles were coarse and red.

  Sonora extended a hand. “I’m Sonora Blair, Cincinnati Police Department. We talked yesterday?”

  Mrs. Corliss nodded firmly. “Yes, of course.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Sandra is very upset. She’s in her room.”

  “Sit down, Detective.” Sandra’s father led her to the couch.

  Sonora’s ears were still ringing from the music in the bar, and she knew she reeked of cigarette smoke. She felt bad suddenly, one of the inexplicable waves of illness she was getti
ng lately. It felt good to sit down.

  Corliss settled in a gold velveteen recliner. A picture of a Spanish galleon in storm-tossed seas hung from the wall over his head. An open jar of peanuts sat on a floor lamp that also had a built-in table, imitation marble. The lampshade still wore the plastic slipcover put on at the factory. Corliss sat on the edge of the recliner, tucked the newspaper on the seat behind him, and let his heavy, coarse hands hang between his knees. Sonora wondered what he did for a living.

  “Sandra’s been real upset,” he told her. “We all have.”

  Sonora nodded. “How long had your daughter been dating Mark Daniels?”

  “Two … no, three years. We were expecting them to get engaged sometime down the road.” He noted the look on her face. “Me and Sandra made an agreement when I took on extra time to pay for her college. She’s not even supposed to think about getting married till after she graduates. Sandra’s real smart. Her mama and I agreed she’s got to finish school, not quit and put somebody else’s boy through.”

  “I think you are very wise, Mr. Corliss.”

  He nodded. He agreed.

  “What’s her major?”

  “Computer science, though her mom’s got her taking secretarial courses. That way she’ll always have something to fall back on.”

  “You could get her a couch,” Sonora muttered.

  Corliss frowned. “A couch?”

  To fall back on, Sonora thought. A door opened and closed, and she heard the soft tread of slippered feet on thick carpet.

  The girl was heavy hipped and fleshy in blue jeans and a pink sweatshirt with kittens on the front. Her hair was neatly flipped under, and she wore no makeup. Sonora had seen junior high school girls with a more worldly air. Sandra was like Mark, who had baseball cards and bottle caps in his desk drawer. She probably had stuffed animals on her bed and would live at home till she graduated.

  Sandra kept her eyes downcast, her mother a force at her back. She took soft tiny steps and came all the way to the couch to shake Sonora’s hand.

  Mrs. Corliss stood at the edge of the kitchen. “Unless you need us, her daddy and I will be in here.”