Flashpoint

by Lynn Hightower

  “Unobtrusive.” Sonora was aware of the roar of traffic on the interstate, the papery patter of brittle leaves blowing across the broken asphalt.

  Keaton closed the car door, rolled down the window. “Too bad we’re not in one car. We could drive home together.”

  She raised a hand and went to her car, smiling but uneasy. She had been thinking exactly the same.

  19

  Sonora took the elevator up to the fifth floor, where Homicide looked out over downtown Cincinnati. She leaned against the wall, tried not to think about the embarrassment of riches she had consumed at the Dairy Queen.

  The front booth was empty now, after hours, though an extraordinary number of detectives were working late tonight—most of them on her case. She heard sobbing as she walked down the hall.

  Sam steered an elderly woman toward the exit—she was tall, big boned, and her hair was set in an old-fashioned finger wave. She held a lace-trimmed handkerchief to her eyes.

  “Hi, Mrs. Graham.”

  “Detective Blair, how are you, dear?”

  “Surviving. You?”

  “Better, now that I’ve gotten everything off my chest.” She patted Sam on the cheek. “Are you sure I’m not under arrest?”

  “No ma’am, Mrs. Graham. I need you, I know where you’re at.” He took a bill out of his wallet. “Now you take that, and don’t be waiting at the bus stop after dark. Get you some dinner and a cab, you hear me?”

  The woman patted his arm and folded the bill carefully. “Do you think I should set it aside for the legal fees?”

  “No get ma’am, we have legal aid for that.”

  Sonora smiled sweetly and watched Mrs. Graham into the elevator. “What was she confessing to this time?”

  “Daniels, third one today. Must be a full moon tonight.”

  Sonora stopped by her desk, saw the message light on the answering machine said two. She pushed the button. The volume was up, and Heather’s sweet voice filled the squad room.

  “Mama, guess what, I learned to belch the alphabet today.”

  Several detectives looked up from their desks.

  “Help me out here, Sam, I forget how to turn this off.”

  “No way, I want to hear.”

  At Z the squad room erupted in applause. Sonora grimaced, waited for the second message. A detective in the Atlanta police department. She scooted forward in her chair and dialed the number he’d left.

  “Detective Bonheur.” The voice was male, black, pleasant.

  “This is Police Specialist Blair, Cincinnati. I have a message you called?”

  “Yeah. About that NCIC report you put out on the arson murder. You file VICAP with the FBI?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Just curious if you’d talked to them. Said your victim was a white male, age twenty-two, handcuffed to the steering wheel of his car and set on fire?”

  Sonora was guarded. “Yeah, you got something similar?”

  “Pretty distinctive, don’t you think?” He made a groaning noise, and she pictured him settling back in his chair. She wondered if it was sunny in Atlanta. She should move south. Cincinnati was ever overcast, ever gray.

  “Had one a lot like it about seven years ago, almost to the day. That’s what made me wonder. But mine didn’t use handcuffs.”

  “It was a she?”

  “No question. Victim survived.”

  Sonora sat forward in her chair. “Tell me about it.”

  “Man name of James Selby, White male, he’d be about twenty-six or -seven the time it happened. He’d been in a bar drinking. Not a bad place, yuppie hangout. When he left, a woman approached him in the parking lot. Said she had car trouble. He told me at the time that he thought she looked familiar. I think he’d seen her in the bar, nodded at her or something. You know how they do.”

  Sonora wondered who “they” were. Yuppies, she guessed.

  “He offered to look at the car. She said she’d been having transmission trouble, and she was going to ask AAMCO to come out the next day and take care of it.”

  “Pretty smart,” Sonora said. “Nobody’s going to pull out a tool belt and jury-rig a transmission.”

  “Yeah. So he agrees to take her home.”

  “His mama never told him not to pick up strangers?”

  “He said it was kind of the other way around. That she seemed shy and scared to ride with him, but afraid to hang around the parking lot. He even offered her cab fare.”

  “Nice guy.”

  “Too nice. But she said no, just drive her home. She gave him directions, and they wound up way back in a subdivision that was under construction. Some houses finished, most of them frames—a lot of empty lots, earthmovers, broken sidewalks.”

  “They do that in Atlanta too?”

  “Do what in Atlanta?”

  “Build the sidewalks, then tear them up putting in houses.”

  “Ummm.”

  “This victim of yours. How does he describe her?”

  “Small. Long blond hair. Brown eyes, he thinks, maybe green.”

  “That might be my girl. Think he’d be willing to take a look at a sketch?”

  “Probably if he could, but he can’t.”

  “I thought you said he survived.”

  “Blinded in the fire. Vocal cords damaged. Disfiguring facial scars, nerve damage to his hands. He was in and out of hospitals for three years.”

  “See any pictures of this guy before the attack?”

  “Nice looking, as I recall. Big, solid build.”

  “Dark hair, brown eyes?”

  Bonheur seemed surprised. “Sounds close enough.”

  “Did he say if she took pictures, after she tied him up? Use a Polaroid, maybe, or one of those Instamatics?” Sonora heard papers rustling.

  “No, not that I recall, and I think I’d remember that kind of detail. On the other hand, you know how it is when people get hurt like that. He had gaps in his memory. He didn’t remember getting out of the car, didn’t remember the teenage couple who helped him before the ambulance came. He blocked a lot of it, so who knows?”

  “Was that it? I mean afterward, did she bother him anymore? Try to get in touch with his family?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Okay. If I can get my sergeant to approve it, I’d like to come down and talk to you. I’ll show you my case file, if you’ll show me yours.”

  “I’m cool.”

  “Any chance of me talking to the victim?”

  “I could give him a call.”

  She paused. “How’d he get away?”

  “Untied the ropes. She didn’t use handcuffs, but I was thinking maybe by now she’s perfected her technique. If it’s the same one. You ought to talk to a Delores Reese in Charleston, West Virginia. She had something, arson murder, young white male victim. Happened about three years ago.”

  Sonora wrote D. Reese and Charleston on a scratch pad. She heard Sam calling her name, the background shuffle as people headed for the conference room.

  “Anyways,” Bonheur was saying. “My girl used a rope—laced it through the steering wheel. I guess with your guy in handcuffs, he didn’t have a chance.”

  Sonora thought of Mark Daniels under the brilliant lights of the ER. “No. No chance at all.”

  The air was stale, the room thick with the odor of old coffee and tired cops. Sonora tried not to look at the powdered white doughnuts in a grease-spotted Dunkin’ Donuts box. Sam tossed a file on the table, gave Sonora a second glance.

  “Look like you’re going to be sick, girl.”

  “Dairy Queen, and don’t ask details, just get those doughnuts out of my sight.”

  Sam moved the doughnuts, sat down, teetered backward in his chair. He pointed to a short, hefty man who drank coffee like it was a chore.

  “It’s Arson Guy.”

  “My friends call me Mickey, my kids call me Dad, my wife says you jerk. But here”—he peeled something off his tongue and examined it in the light—“
here, I’m not a name or a number. Here I’m Arson Guy.”

  “Somebody toss that man a cape.”

  The door opened and Crick walked in, settled heavily into a chair. “What you got, Mickey?”

  The room went quiet.

  Mickey drummed a thick finger on the table, scattering crumbs. “No wallet, and no keys, except the one that we found on the floor of the car, driver’s side.”

  “Car key?” Sonora asked.

  “No, too small.” Mickey made a space with two fingers. “Might fit a briefcase, security elevator, or a pair of handcuffs. We’re still working on it.”

  Sam scratched his chin. “Why would the key to the handcuffs wind up on the driver’s side, where Daniels was?”

  “Maybe Flash dropped it,” Gruber said. “Or maybe Daniels got it away from her.”

  “No sign of car or house keys?” Sonora said.

  “You asked me that already. Nope.”

  Crick looked grim. “So she’s got the keys and the wallet, the shirt and the shoes.”

  “Trophies,” Sam said. “Hey, Sonora, you tell the brother to change his locks?”

  “More than once.”

  A woman laughed in the hallway, and Molliter closed the door. Sonora checked her watch. A cop who sounded happy this late in the day was a cop who was going home. Sonora toyed with her coffee mug, finger smearing the lipstick stain on the rim. The smudge gave her pleasure—the mark of a woman in a room full of men. Plus it kept people from borrowing her cup.

  Crick frowned. “Sanders had court and it ran over, but she pulled the phone records from that bar, Cujo’s. It’s a definite that somebody called Keaton Daniels’s Mount Adams town house the night of the killing.”

  “Time?” Sonora said.

  Crick stretched. “Nine-thirty, thereabouts.”

  “So it was her.” Sonora leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, seeing Mark Daniels on the autopsy table. She thought of Keaton, and how she had left the tape recorder off at the Dairy Queen while they talked. She opened her eyes and leaned toward Crick. “We got a problem with the brother. You see the picture Flash sent him?”

  Crick looked up. “Still in the lab, but yeah, I’ve seen it.”

  “Flash has been to see this guy’s mother, too.”

  “Mark Daniels’s mother?”

  “Yeah, asking about Keaton. No question she’s after him, Sergeant. She’s called him, sent him pictures. Snags Mark in the bar that Keaton goes to. Kills Mark in Keaton’s car.”

  “Your instinct again,” Molliter said.

  “For Christ’s sake, Molliter, look at the behavior here.”

  “Hey, don’t jump down my throat, Sonora. Think about it. She did the dirty deed, maybe she’ll move on.”

  “Yeah, and clap three times for Tinker Bell.”

  Sam scratched his chin. “But she’s not moving on, Molliter, that’s the whole point.” He picked up a file, looked at Sonora. “What was it she said on the phone? She wanted to be important?”

  “It’s not just that,” Sonora said. “She said there was something special about Keaton. She said she didn’t want to kill him.”

  “You believe her?” Gruber asked.

  Crick waved a hand over his head. “Sanity check, folks, believe her? This woman is a manipulative sociopath, she’ll say anything to get what she wants.”

  “That’s the point,” Gruber said. “What’s she want?”

  “She wants Keaton,” Sonora said.

  Gruber pointed a finger. “She’s calling you.”

  Crick leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “Let’s put a little extra surveillance around the town house. Get the night man to give Daniels a regular call, check up on things.”

  Sonora realized she’d been holding her breath. Exhaled. Knew what the answer would be, but asked anyway.

  “How about real surveillance? Somebody outside the town house at night, and with Daniels during the day at work, or at least to and from the school.”

  Crick gave her a small smile, rubbed the back of his neck. “Sonora—”

  “She’s after him, Crick, you know she is. Surveil him and we’ll catch her.”

  “Sonora—”

  “You want another one? Up in flames? You seen the Daniels autopsy shots?”

  “Sonora—”

  “I’ll put in extra hours.” She waited.

  “Oh, good. I get to finish a sentence.” He held up a finger. “One, you’re already working extra hours. You going to quit sleeping? Two, something like this, it’s open-ended. She could hit him now, next week, next month. Could even be next year. We don’t have that kind of manpower and you know it.”

  Sonora nodded. She knew the load, the budget, the economy. “This can all be traced back to George Bush.”

  Molliter looked up. “Excuse me?”

  Sonora caught Crick’s eye. “You realize she likes games. She’s playing catch-me-if-you-can. That’s why I’m getting the calls.”

  Crick gave her a cagey smile. “Glad you brought that up. Much as the camera loves my face”—he slapped his left cheek—“Lieutenant Abalone and I have talked it over, and we want you, yes, you, Sonora, to do the press conference. Which, by the way, is scheduled this evening in about one hour.”

  Sonora swallowed. “Very funny, sir.”

  “Couldn’t be more serious. We like the woman-to-woman angle. She does too, obviously. Flash will be watching, and we want her watching you. Maybe she’ll call you again. Have a little girl talk.”

  Sam grimaced. “The things you girls talk about.”

  “I like it,” Gruber said.

  Molliter looked her over. “She’s got a spot on her tie.”

  “Look, Sergeant, I don’t see what this has to do with giving Keaton protection, and I’m not feeling too good, and I’m really bad at any kind of thing where I have to get up in front of people and—”

  Sam shook his head. “She’ll get nervous and throw up. She’s scared to death to stand up and talk in front of people. Won’t even raise her hand at a PTA meeting.”

  Gruber shrugged. “Just make sure she throws up before they start the cameras.”

  Crick raised his voice. “Just look confident, Sonora. Say you’re closing in, that you’re going to make an arrest anytime now. Be patronizing. Make it clear that you know Flash isn’t half as smart as you are.”

  “Gonna take some acting to pull that off.” A voice from the back.

  “You want her to show the sketch?” Sam asked.

  “We sent it over to the television stations this morning when we set this up.”

  Sonora looked down at her tie, then over at Sam’s. “Yours is clean. Too bad it’s ugly.”

  He pulled the knot loose and tossed the tie across the table.

  Sonora looked at Crick. “Anything else?”

  “Withhold the business with the handcuffs. Hold the keys—the small one and the ones that are missing.” He stood up, stretched, looked her up and down absently. “And comb your hair.”

  20

  Sonora took a count of reporters, camera people, pretty faces with microphones. She looked down at Sam’s tie. Ugly.

  Mokie Barnes, Cincinnati PD’s public information officer, gave her a worried look, saw she was watching, and smiled encouragingly. Sonora was not without sympathy. If she were a PR person, she would not consider herself good material either.

  Barnes stepped in front of the lights and cameras, said a few words Sonora was too nervous and preoccupied to make sense of, then motioned Sonora to come forward.

  The lights from the cameras warmed the room. Sonora had everyone’s complete attention. She didn’t want it.

  She swallowed, throat dry, knees shaky, thinking of the Monday-morning quarterbacks at the department who would be watching with critical eyes. She cleared her throat, then remembered Mokie had told her not to. Strike one. She lifted her chin and began to speak.

  “Sometime late last Tuesday night, Mark Daniels, age twenty-two, left a loc
al bar with an unknown woman. Mr. Daniels was later rescued from a burning automobile in Mount Airy Forest, by Patrol Officers Kyle Minner and Gerald Finch. Mr. Daniels sustained severe burns and died early Wednesday morning at University Hospital. Officer Minner was critically injured while freeing Mr. Daniels from his car—”

  “Did Daniels live long enough to identify his killer?” Tracy Vandemeer. Right on cue, cooperating, as asked.

  Sonora looked sternly into the camera. “Mr. Daniels was able to give us detailed information on his assailant before he died. We expect to make an arrest very soon.”

  “Was the killer the woman he left with from the bar?”

  “Do you have her name?”

  “Can you describe her?”

  “Is the killer a woman?”

  Sonora nodded. “We believe so.”

  “How did she kill him?”

  Sonora looked grave. “Mr. Daniels was tied up, doused with accelerant, then set on fire.”

  “Was he conscious?”

  “Yes.”

  “Had he had sexual relations with this killer?”

  “We don’t believe so.”

  “Was this woman a prostitute?”

  “How long was he in the car before the officer pulled him out?”

  Sonora made a grudging show of reluctance. “We do not think the killer was a prostitute, but we do not rule that out.”

  “Can you describe her?”

  “Was she working with a partner?”

  “Was Daniels robbed?”

  “Did Daniels know his killer?”

  “We believe Mr. Daniels met the woman in a bar Tuesday night, a few hours before his death.”

  Intense faces. Furious scribbling from the print media.

  “Had they known each other long?”

  Sonora shook her head. “We’re still working on that.”

  “Do you have her name?”

  “We can’t release that information at this time.”

  “Wasn’t Daniels from Texas?”

  “He was from Kentucky, wasn’t he?”

  “Mark Daniels was a student at the University of Kentucky, and was working on a bachelor’s degree in social work.”

  “What do you know about the killer?”