Flashpoint

by Lynn Hightower

  Mr. Corliss looked startled to find himself relegated to the kitchen, but obediently stood up.

  “That will be fine,” Sonora said, well aware they would be listening in. She took out her notebook and inserted a blank tape in the recorder. She could see that Sandra had been doing a lot of crying and was likely on the verge again. True love, she told her cynical self.

  “How long have you and Mark been dating?” Sonora asked. Always start with something easy.

  “Two years and two months.”

  “Two years and two months,” Sonora repeated softly. She had the feeling that Sandra would be able to reel off hours, days, and minutes.

  Sandra swallowed heavily and tucked her chin to her chest, reminding Sonora of her own little girl. Remember the cupcakes, she thought.

  Sandra lifted her head and gave Sonora a look of pain-laced eagerness she often got from victims. Still new with their grief, still in denial, they looked to her to bring order to the chaotic abyss of violent crime.

  What I bring, Sonora thought, is more pain. She looked at Sandra steadily, knowing the question would bring tears. She was used to tears.

  “Talk to me about Mark, Sandra. Tell me all about him.” She hit the button on her recorder. Sandra would be inhibited at first, but in a few minutes she would forget it was there.

  Sandra cleared her throat. “Mark was smart. He was nice. He was fun.”

  Sonora liked the look of intelligence in the girl’s eyes. She leaned sideways against the couch and braced herself for a sanitized description of a boy Sandra would mold into the kind of sainthood engendered by sudden, bitter death.

  “He liked animals, and basketball, and walking in the rain.”

  Sonora’s smile was friendly. “He liked walking in the rain?”

  Sandra squinched her eyes together. “Sort of.” She twisted the ends of her sweatshirt. “Mainly, I guess he didn’t like fooling with umbrellas.”

  Here we go, Sonora thought. The terrible truth.

  “What else can you tell me about him?”

  “Well, I guess Mark thought Keat hung the moon. Their dad died when Mark was in high school. He had a heart attack. And Mark is very … he really looked up to Keaton. Keaton’s the kind of brother you look up to. Not like mine.” She grimaced.

  “Were Mark and Keaton competitive?”

  Sandra pulled her bottom lip. “Only a little. Keaton always tried to build Mark up, you know? Make him look good, talk guy stuff, go to basketball games. But Keaton is always good at everything, and people just like him. Women like him.” She seemed puzzled by women who would prefer Keaton over Mark. “So sometimes I think Mark was a little … oh, I don’t know.”

  “Out to prove himself?”

  “Yeah, like that. But it wasn’t tense or anything. Not like they were rivals.”

  “Mark have a lot of friends?”

  “Gosh, yes. He liked goofing. Like he liked going out, and playing jokes on his friends. He’d talk to just anybody.”

  Talked to one body too many, Sonora thought.

  “Was he in a fraternity?” she asked.

  Sandra shook her head. “He really had a thing against them. See, he’s got this friend, this roommate, they’ve known each other from junior high school. And the roommate is one of those, you know, he—”

  “Brian Winthrop? I’ve met him.”

  “Oh, so you know. They both went out for rush, but nobody wanted Brian, so Mark said the heck with the whole thing. Keaton hadn’t been in a fraternity either, because he worked all the time, to make sure there would be money for Mark top. I mean, Mark’s the kind of guy you imagine in a frat house, he fits in with the guys and likes all the company and goings on. But he wouldn’t, because of Brian.”

  It showed character, Sonora thought. Mark was taking shape. Keaton’s admiring little brother, Sandra’s courteous fun-loving boyfriend, Brian’s staunch friend.

  He was brave, the mystery woman had said over the phone. Had Keaton been talking to the killer?

  Sandra’s mother leaned into the room, feet still in the kitchen, not officially interrupting, but ever mindful of being the hostess.

  “Can I get you something to drink, Detective Blair? Some coffee, or maybe a pop? I got Diet Sprite, Diet Orange, and Coke Classic.”

  “A Coke sounds really nice,” Sonora said.

  Mrs. Corliss looked at her daughter. “Sandra, you want a Diet Sprite?”

  “No, Mama.”

  The sound of ice being dropped into glasses was distracting. The small rapport between Sonora and Sandra faded.

  The drinks came on a tray with a plate of cookies—homemade and high in fat. Sonora took a sip of Coke. It did not sit well.

  Sandra ignored the cookies and took a tiny sip of the Sprite that had been delivered with the attitude that Mama knows best. She grimaced and set her glass down with a gesture that dripped rejection.

  Grief indeed, Sonora thought.

  “Everything tastes like sawdust. Mama’s been on me to eat since it happened, but food makes me choke.”

  Sonora had been much the same when Zack was killed—food like ashes in her mouth. She’d also wanted to make passionate love to all of the men that she liked. She decided not to share this with Sandra.

  “She’s just worried about you. Mothers look after their children by feeding them.”

  Sandra nodded, eyes glazing over.

  “What did your mother think of Mark?” Sonora asked.

  “She was crazy about him, she was always inviting him to dinner. He ate like a field hand, and she liked that. He could eat and eat and not gain an ounce.”

  “How irritating.” Sonora picked up a cookie.

  Sandra nodded vigorously. She picked up a cookie. A tear spilled down her cheek. Sonora could not help but think of her own daughter, of Heather’s steady intelligent eyes behind round lenses, the way she would blink if you looked her eye to eye and push the glasses back on her nose. She hoped never to have to talk a child of hers through something like this. Mr. and Mrs. Corliss were not going to have an easy year.

  Mark had been a practical joker, never cruel, but constant, always up for a laugh. And never at the expense of Brian, who made an easy target. Sonora listened closely, head bent, hearing the edge that hardened Sandra’s voice whenever Winthrop’s name came up.

  Sonora probed gently but got no hint of jealousy, other than of Winthrop. If Mark had been looking past her, Sandra hadn’t known. Sonora wondered what kind of story Sam was getting from the brunette at the bar.

  “Sandra, did Mark say anything about strange phone calls? Or maybe someone he met who was … peculiar?”

  Sandra frowned. “No, not that I know of. And he would have told me, I’m sure.”

  “Did he seem worried or subdued?”

  “He was upset about losing his job. He thought they were unfair, and it hurt his feelings.”

  Sonora nodded.

  “But he was pretty much over it. I think Keaton gave him some money to kind of tide him over, and he had some saved. He was doing okay. He has … he had a real heavy load this semester, so Keaton told him to wait on another job till after finals, then put in a lot of hours as Christmas help. So he was okay. He had more time even, and it took a lot off him. That was why he was up seeing Keaton. ’Cause Keat was kind of down, and Mark wasn’t tied to work, so he could go.”

  Sonora leaned back against the couch. “What was his brother down about?”

  “Him and his wife are having problems. They’ve been separated for a while, and Keaton was trying to make up his mind if he should go back to her.”

  “What did Mark think he should do?”

  “There was some kind of problem about the schools where Keaton taught. He took the inner-city ones, by request, and she pushed him into going to a nice one in the suburbs, and he wasn’t happy. But he didn’t seem so happy without her. He was lonely, going to bars a lot. I know Mark was worried. He’d have to be to cut class to go up there.”

  �
��Do you know Keaton’s wife?”

  “Ashley? I’ve met her a few times. She works a lot.”

  “Mark make any new friends lately? Say in the last month or two?”

  “A couple new guys he was playing basketball with. Mainly pickup games.”

  Sonora reached into her briefcase. “I want you to look at this sketch, and tell me if this woman looks at all familiar.”

  Sandra took the sketch, turned it to one side, studied it carefully. Sonora watched her and felt disappointed. The blank look on the girl’s face seemed genuine.

  “It’s just a sketch, it’s not dead-on,” Sonora said. “Does it remind you of anyone at all?”

  Sandra shook her head. “Nope. Who is she?”

  Sonora was aware of irony. “Could be a witness. We just want to talk to her.”

  13

  The parking lot at Lynagh’s had emptied by the time Sonora got back to pick up Sam. She noticed a Minimart next door, remembered she needed mix for Heather’s cupcakes. Her ears were still ringing from earlier in the bar, so she didn’t hear the pickup truck pull up.

  A young guy with longish hair and a sun-bronzed neck leaned out the window and grinned. Sonora did not catch what he said, but the sexual hostility was thick, and the three men in the front seat laughed.

  Sonora went into the grocery. Instinct led her to the aisle where chocolate was sold brazenly out on a shelf like any other uncontrolled and unregulated substance. She heard a masculine snicker and saw, from the corner of her eye, that the three guys from the pickup had followed her in. She was aware of pain in her stomach—the ulcer was dependable, if nothing else. Her face felt hot. She was tired and not in a good frame of mind for this kind of stuff.

  The one who had shouted at her, Bronze Neck, ripped into a carton of cigarettes and extracted two cellophane-wrapped packets. His fingers were thick, oil-stained. He nudged the guy next to him—overalls and a red neckerchief tied around the top of his head.

  The third one had a crew cut and a space between his front teeth. He stuck the tip of his tongue through the gap. “My, oh, my.”

  Sonora moved away, thinking she would not be sorry to see these three handcuffed to their pickup and set on fire. She found an aisle that looked promising, passed Apple Jacks, pancake syrup—Aunt Jemima, juice boxes. She heard laughter, saw the men huddled at the end of the aisle. They headed toward her, balancing potato chips, snack cakes, beer, and cigarettes.

  The diet alone would kill them, Sonora thought. Just not soon enough.

  Neckerchief walked close, jeans almost but not quite grazing her legs.

  Sonora stayed put. Wondered what they’d do next. Her heart was pounding, which annoyed her. She did not give ground. They turned and went by again, shark passes.

  Boys will be boys. Sonora paid for the cake mix, hands unsteady while she dug for change.

  They were out front when Sonora left the store—short attention spans focused on a fresh victim.

  She supposed that to certain Neanderthal-thinking juries, the girl could be dismissed as looking for trouble. She was anywhere from fourteen to twenty-four. Makeup was like that.

  Hers had been put on with a heavy hand, black eyeliner making the face look pale and harsh. The line of blemishes across the forehead and clustered on the chin were caked with foundation and pressed powder. Her hips were slim, jeans tiny, fashionably torn at the knee. The hair was carefully volumized with scoops of gel, and the small pointed breasts were loose under the T-shirt.

  The girl was smiling, but it was an embarrassed smile, ingratiating, please-just-leave-me-alone.

  One of the men had her arm.

  “Come on, jailbait.”

  Sonora winced. It was a term that always put a bad taste in her mouth.

  “… not safe for a girl looks like you do.” It was Neckerchief talking. “Hop on in the truck, honey, and we’ll take you home.” The girl pulled away. “No thanks. My mom’s coming.”

  “Your mom?” Crew Cut swished a toothpick to the other side of his mouth with a tobacco-stained tongue. “Let’s ride around a while ’fore she gets here. How ’bout that? That sound good?”

  “Please,” the girl said. Neckerchief still had her arm, and she tried to pull away. Her laugh was nervous but polite. “Really, don’t.”

  “Don’t, stop, don’t, stop.” Bronze Neck talking. The men laughed, circled in closer.

  “I got to go now,” the girl said softly.

  Sonora wondered if her mom was really coming, if there was a mom, what this kid was doing out so late on a school night, how old she really was.

  Neckerchief’s grip tightened, and the girl winced. “Where you want to go, now, honey? We’ll see you get home right and tight.”

  This last brought the laughter out from all of them, and Neckerchief pulled the girl toward the truck.

  Sonora unzipped her purse, hand resting on the Baretta with a light but joyous touch. The threat was tangible, and she gave herself permission to get involved.

  “I really don’t like you guys.” It was the first thing that came to mind. The girl looked up, startled, still smiling. Sonora was not smiling.

  Bronze Neck laughed, but Crew Cut was frowning. Something about her seemed to disturb him. One mark for intelligence.

  “I think I want an apology.” Sounded good, Sonora thought, wondering what she should do with these guys. Arresting them would be incredibly time-consuming, and on what charge? Menacing? They’d be back on the streets before the paperwork was done. And this wasn’t her town.

  “What you give me if I do?”

  Sonora looked over her shoulder. It was late. That was always the way—nobody around.

  “Looking for help, honey?”

  Sonora took the gun out of her purse, took careful aim.

  Crew Cut took a step backward. “Aw, shit. We were just fooling around.”

  “Say you’re sorry,” Sonora said.

  “No way.”

  “Okay, fine. But get in your truck, and get out of my face. You too, Neckerchief Head.”

  “Bitch.”

  Later, when she went over the incident in her mind, she could not remember making the conscious decision to shoot. But the gun went off in her hand, and the man’s face went dead white, and Sonora was sure for a minute that she’d hit him.

  The bar door opened and closed. Sam. His look of bewilderment hardened as he turned from her to the men.

  They were already scrambling into the truck. Sonora saw no blood, no sign anybody was hurt. Her luck had held, she was still a terrible shot.

  The pickup’s engine caught on the second crank. Tires screeched as the truck pulled away.

  “We’ll be back, bitch.”

  “Yeah, and this time there’ll be two of us,” Sam yelled.

  Sonora looked for the girl, saw she was gone. Ten points for brains, if not manners.

  Sam opened the passenger door of the Taurus. Gave Sonora a look. “Accidental discharge tomorrow morning while you’re getting ready for work. Get in.”

  She got in. He started the car, slammed the gears into reverse, pulled out of the parking lot.

  “When the hell did you decide you were Clint-fucking-Eastwood?”

  Sonora looked at her feet. “Why don’t you calm down and hear my side of it?”

  He wasn’t listening. “Those are probably the only three rednecks in Kentucky without a gun in their truck. You’re lucky one of them didn’t come up shooting. What would you have done then?”

  Sonora shrugged.

  “What is it with you these days, girl?”

  “What is it with me? What is it with them? I got no patience for this stuff anymore, Sam.”

  “No patience for what, Sonora, real life?”

  “Hey, it was a rape in progress. Didn’t you see the kid? They were trying to force her into the pickup.”

  “Oh, well, then just blow their heads off, you got cause.”

  “I think so, and you would’ve too, if you’d been there.”
>
  “Maybe. And maybe we’re feeling a little bit pissy these days, how about that?”

  “Sam, you know me—”

  “Your point?”

  “I’ve seen you do worse.”

  “You have not.”

  “Fine, just shut up about it.”

  “Sonora—”

  “Drop it, okay?”

  “What you going to do if I don’t? Shoot me? What’s so funny, girl, nothing here funny.”

  Sonora closed her eyes and folded her arms. “Interesting, isn’t it, Sam? Women live with the implied threat of violence from men, and that’s all right. Turn the tables and you don’t like it much.”

  “That’s got nothing to do with this, Sonora. Don’t put me in that pig category just because I’m male. You’re a police officer and you’re on duty, and you’ve got procedures.”

  “It felt good, Sam. For a minute or so, it felt really good.”

  “Let me know when you get fantasies about handcuffing men and setting them on fire.”

  “If you think you’re funny, you’re not.”

  14

  It was 3:30 A.M. when Sonora and Sam parted company in the parking lot on Broadway. The downtown streetlights cast a blurred yellow glow on the rain-slick pavement. Some of the office buildings were lit, all of them empty.

  Sonora got into her car and rolled the window down.

  Sam leaned an elbow on the open sill. “Going home, Sonora? Not strapping on a six-shooter and ridding the city of vermin?”

  “Home to bake, how’s that for innocent?”

  “I’m going to grab a few hours’ sleep, then go in early. You don’t make it in on time, I’ll give out the informant story.”

  “Thanks, Sam.”

  It was usually the other way around. His daughter’s illness did not always coordinate with the murder rate. Sonora worked double time and lied liberally to cover for him when Annie was having a bad spell.

  Sonora grabbed Sam’s sleeve before he could get away.

  He looked at her. “What?”

  “I didn’t tell you this ’cause I was mad. I had a weird message on my answering machine. The office machine.”

  “I get weird messages all the time, Sonora. Usually it’s my wife.”