“The woman last seen with Daniels is small boned and short. She has brown eyes and wavy blond hair. We have a sketch.” Sonora waited for the cue from the cameraman. He nodded and she went on. “Anybody who has seen this woman, or has any information about this crime, is asked to call the police department immediately, and ask for Specialists Blair or Delarosa.”
“Detective Blair, don’t you consider this a rather grisly crime for a woman to commit?”
“I think it’s a grisly crime for anyone to commit, and I personally intend to see the perpetrator brought to justice.” God, Sonora thought. I sound like Dragnet. But Crick had said to make it personal.
“What kind of a person does this?”
Sonora thought of her key words. Pathetic. Dysfunctional. “We’re obviously talking about a pathetic individual with extremely poor social skills—”
Someone in the back of the room laughed loudly. “I’ll say.”
“A severely dysfunctional individual.” Sonora took a breath. She’d gotten it all in. She looked at them, felt relieved—let them hammer, then wind down. She nodded, did not smile, thanked them for their attention, and walked away.
Someone called her name. Tracy Vandemeer smiled maliciously. “Love the tie, Sonora.”
21
Mark Daniels’s father had been born, raised, and buried in Donner, Kentucky. In death, at least, Mark would follow in his footsteps.
Sonora drove and Sam frowned over a map. He smelled faintly of cologne, his cheeks pink and freshly shaven. He had gotten a haircut the day before, and he looked younger than ever, different in his best suit.
He refolded the map, pulled down the visor, and looked in the mirror, fingering his tie.
“I don’t know, Sonora. Yellow? What do you think?”
“I kind of love it, Sam.”
“I hate any tie I don’t pick out my own self. That a new lipstick?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Too dark.”
Sonora looked in the rearview mirror.
“Watch out.”
She looked up and slammed on the brakes.
“Jeez,” Sam said. “Your lipstick is fine.”
“You’ll be the visible cop,” Sam was saying as they pulled up to the redbrick church. White columns gave the structure a feeling of elegance and grace. “Here, here, park here.”
“I hate to parallel park.”
“Come on, Sonora.”
She pulled to the side of a white Lincoln Continental.
Sam shifted in his seat. “Molliter and Gruber should be here already, looking through the crowd. Flash will be tempted as hell to show up.”
“I’m staying close to Keaton. He’ll signal if someone looks promising, odd in any way. You watch the girls in the pews, see if they’re crying like their hearts will break, or looking smug. Looking hellish at Sandra, or watching Keaton.”
“Yeah.”
“Love that tone, Sam. You don’t think he had anything to do with it?”
“No. It was too nice a car to burn up if it was his own.”
Cars were arriving in a steady stream, circling the church parking lot and cruising up and down the main drag, looking for a place to light. Sonora looked over her shoulder, turned the wheel hard to the right.
Sam pretended to wipe sweat from his brow. “I was sure that Lincoln had bought it, as least as far as the paint job.”
“It’s hard to see in this Taurus, Sam.”
“We need teeny tiny cars for teeny tiny cops.” He unbuckled his seat belt and got on the radio. “I’ll bet Molliter’s been here a half hour. He’s usually early.”
“He’s anal retentive.” Sonora laid her head back on the seat. They hadn’t stopped for lunch, and the ulcer was saying hello. She glanced at Sam, still on the radio, coordinating, and tapped a fingernail on the steering wheel, half expecting Sam to comment on the dark nail polish.
She recognized the navy blue Chrysler LeBaron immediately, watched as it pulled up across the street, stopping in a no-parking zone. The driver’s door opened and Keaton stepped out. He wore the inevitable khakis and a blue striped shirt, dark tie, sport coat. Reeboks this time, and they looked new.
Sonora laughed softly. “So he didn’t get the suit. Good for you, Keaton.”
He opened the passenger door and helped his mother out onto the curb. She leaned heavily on two canes, her steps slow, short, and cautious. Keaton stayed close, looking both ways before they crossed the street, stepping between his mother and oncoming traffic.
They were up onto the sidewalk when he saw Sonora. He smiled and she smiled, and they looked at each other for a long steady moment before he turned back to his mother, gave her his arm, and helped her up the concrete stairs.
Sam clicked the radio off. “What was all that about?”
“All what about?”
Sam looked from Sonora to Keaton, then back to Sonora. “You know better.”
Sonora flipped hair over her shoulder. Opened her car door. “Butt out, Sam. There’s nothing here for you to worry about.”
“Tell me another one, girl.”
The cemetery was on the outskirts of town and badly in need of mowing. Trees were few and far between, headstones thick across the gentle roll of hills in this community of the dead.
Sonora saw a headstone for a PFC Ronald Daniels who had died at age nineteen. She looked at the month and year of death. Tet offensive, Vietnam. A tiny American flag speared the ground beside the pinkish marble headstone.
Sonora was aware of intense activity in every direction. Frail elderly men and women being helped into chairs, Keaton Daniels moving from one group to another. His mother, seated up front, wiping her eyes with a neatly folded handkerchief. Molliter, Sam—detectives looking at license plates, faces in the crowd.
The papers had reported that Mark Daniels had lived long enough to describe his killer. Flash would know better than to come.
The temperature dropped as the wind whipped up, sending hats flying. People bowed their heads and shoulders, partly in grief, partly against the wind that tore at their clothes and rippled their hair. Sonora jammed her hands into her jacket pockets, grimacing when the wind carried her tie over her shoulder and made her skirt billow and bare her legs. The crowd shifted and settled as the graveside ceremony began, and Sonora wondered what was left to be said that hadn’t already been covered inside the church.
A car from Channel WKYC-TV-Live-From-Oxton pulled presumptuously onto the lawn, and Sonora groaned, amazed that such a small town had a television station and news team. The Cincinnati Post had sent a photographer, who had taken a few quick shots of mourners in front of the church, then gone.
Sonora wondered if some regional opportunist was stringing for a Cincinnati station. At least if they covered the funeral, they’d show the artist’s rendering of Flash. Maybe someone knew her.
The reporter was shunned as she videotaped the funeral from a discreet distance, disapproval evident in the stiffly turned backs. Only the children watched openly.
One of the funeral directors, face tensely polite, descended upon the camerawoman, smiling, gesturing, explaining the legal range. The woman went rigid, legs braced, thick blue-black hair blowing in the wind. She shrugged, moved a few yards away, and lifted the camera.
Odd for her to be working alone, Sonora thought.
The minister called for a prayer. Every head bowed, except Sonora’s. She watched Keaton Daniels, sport coat whipping in the wind. And realized that she was not the only one watching.
The reporter had the vid-cam focused almost exclusively on Keaton, and Sonora turned and stared.
The woman leaned forward, arms rigid, and even from a distance, Sonora could see that her complexion was fair, despite the perfectly aligned black hair.
Everything fell into place—a strange woman in a black wig, working a camera alone, focusing on Keaton.
Flash.
Sonora started toward her, pacing herself. Keep it slow and easy; don�
��t spook her. The woman was short, maybe five-one, fine boned and disappointingly average looking. Just as Sonora was wondering what she expected—some physical manifestation of bloodlust?—the camera swung reluctantly away from Keaton, capturing his mother and his wife, then moved again, panning the crowd, making a circle and resting at last on Sonora.
Flash let the camera drop, and for a long moment the two of them eyed one another. Sonora paused midstride, and any doubts she’d had dissolved. The wind blew hard against her chest, and her mouth went dry. The woman tucked the camera under her arm and turned away.
Got you, Sonora thought.
Flash went straight for the car, walking quickly but not running. Sonora picked up her pace, slowed by high heels that dug into the spongy ground, all the while thinking about the sensible flats in the bottom of her closet beneath the snow boots, also unused.
“Shit,” she said. “Shit shit.”
Flash was moving faster now, skirting the back of the car. Sonora’s purse slid down her arm, and she kicked off the high heels and ran, aware that some of the mourners were beginning to turn and stare, aware that if she was wrong she was going to disrupt Mark Daniels’s funeral and look like an idiot and maybe get a reprimand from her sergeant. The damp grass was a cold shock through the nylon on her feet, and it crossed her mind that if she was going to make a habit of wearing ten-dollar panty hose to work, she would have to start taking bribes.
“Hey, girlfriend, wait up!”
Flash faltered, then slid into the front seat of the car and slammed the door. Sonora thought of her gun, buried amid the rubble in her purse, which she had dropped along with the shoes. She was a homicide cop. Out of the gun habit. DBs didn’t shoot back.
Loose gravel bit into Sonora’s feet as she hit the pavement. The car engine caught just as she reached the side door. She snatched the handle. Locked.
Sonora made eye contact, saw Flash set her lips in a thin line. Flash jerked the car into reverse in a spurt of acceleration that ripped the metal handle out of Sonora’s hand, twisting her wrist with a bruising wrench. Sonora stumbled forward and fell, skidding on her knees. She heard the shift of gears and the growl of the engine being revved, and she tried to scramble to her feet. No time.
Sonora threw herself sideways, vaguely aware that someone—Sam?—was shouting her name. She saw the left bumper of the car veer toward her, saw spots of rust on the metal. She shut her eyes, bracing for the blow.
Sonora felt a rush of air. The tires passed inches from her head. She lay still, feeling the wet ground seep through her jacket and skirt.
Too close, she thought, thinking the unthinkable—Tim and Heather, orphans in the world. She wondered if she had enough life insurance.
It was getting damn personal, this case.
22
The world was suddenly full of legs and voices, people calling her name. Someone shouted “officer down,” and Sonora looked up to see Sam crouching beside her. She sat up, aware that her knees were stinging and sore.
“You hit?”
“It was Flash, Sam, get on the—”
“Done, girl, you think you’re the only one around here with a brain? Called it soon as I saw you running. You okay?”
Sonora looked at her legs. Balls of nylon hung from a large hole in her panty hose, and her knees showed tiny pinpricks of blood across abraded flesh. Her kids often came inside with worse, and she’d stick a Band-Aid on them and send them right back out.
She felt mildly disappointed.
A new voice interjected. Gruber. “What’d you chase her for, Blair? She wouldn’t have spooked if you’d just called it in. We could have—”
“Can the Monday-morning quarterbacking, will you?” Sam said. “You going to sit on your butt all day?”
Sonora took his hand, felt hot pain in hers. Gruber went behind her, putting his hands on her ribs, and lifted her to her feet.
They were thick around her—Sam, Gruber, Molliter. She looked over Sam’s shoulder, saw Keaton Daniels three feet away, watching. He waved. She waved back with the hand that didn’t hurt.
Off in the distance, there were sirens.
Sonora sat sideways on the passenger’s side of the Taurus, trying to fill out a report with her left hand. The door was open, and her feet dangled over the side of the seat. She shivered. Her skirt was wet. It was getting cold out.
The radio crackled, the voice of the local dispatcher providing a comforting cop background. Sam sat on the hood of a Kentucky State Police car, talking amiably with a tall man in a Smokey hat.
“It was her, wasn’t it?” Keaton Daniels rested an elbow on the car door, a pair of black high heels dangling from his fingers. He handed the shoes to Sonora. “It was her.” Sonora turned the shoes over, studying the heels.
“Filming it. Filming my brother’s funeral.” Keaton spoke through clenched teeth.
“Filming you at your brother’s funeral. There’s a difference, and I don’t much like it.”
“I thought you were right-handed,” he said, focusing on the pen in her left hand.
She showed him the wrist that was swelling and taking on a bluish cast.
“I thought she’d hit you. With the car.”
“She gave it her best.”
“But you’re okay.”
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
He handed her a slip of yellow notebook paper. “I’m going back to the house. My great-aunt’s house. This is the address and phone number.”
“I’m sorry about all this, Keaton. As soon as I hear something, I’ll be in touch.”
Her mud-stained blazer was draped over the headrest of the seat. He ran a gentle finger down the torn lapel.
“Be careful, Detective.”
He turned his back and walked away, and she watched him until the sound of heels on pavement caught her attention. Sam came toward the Taurus, gave Daniels a look that was not exactly friendly.
He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Word just came in over the radio.”
“They got her?”
“No, she got them. Body of a security guard, over at WKYC-TV in Oxton, multiple gunshot wounds in the back. DB was found near a Dumpster that’d been set on fire. And the station car is missing.”
“Flash, then.”
He took a handkerchief out of his pocket, spit on it, wiped mud off her chin.
“Gross, Sam. Oxton people mind if we come take a look?”
“Said to come along. What about your hand? You want to get it looked at?”
“No. You drive, let’s hit the road. Know how to get there?”
“Nah.”
“God forbid you should ask directions.”
The road passed through farmland in a succession of hairpin turns. Sonora admired the locals who could regularly drive the posted speed of fifty-five miles per hour and live to tell about it.
Her wrist throbbed, and she shifted to a more comfortable position, watched the By-Bee Mobile Home Park go by. The playground out front was abandoned and bedraggled—swings missing from the rusted metal A-frame, a merry-go-round listing dangerously to one side. There was only one board intact on the seesaws, red paint peeling away.
The mobile homes were old, rusting, the parking lot full of pickups, Trans Ams, and Camaros. One of the houses had window boxes, but no flowers. A yellow dog trotted under the swings, nose to the ground.
The speed limit went from fifty-five to twenty-five miles per hour. Oxton was tiny—a feed store, Farmers Food Co-op, Bruwer’s Bakery, Super America. A small grocery store advertised Marlboro Lights and videos. They passed a Church of God’s Disciples for the Lord. Sunlight glinted on Pabst Blue Ribbon beer cans stacked by a yellow sign warning of hazardous curves. Sam pulled over and studied the map.
“It’s a small town, Sam.”
“Yeah?”
“So I see flashing lights, as in emergency vehicles. Over the hill there, see? How many emergencies you think they have in one afternoon?”
“
No more than one or two.”
WKYC-TV was housed in a squat concrete cube, the back parking lot fenced off with twelve feet of chain link topped by barbed wire. Sonora and Sam parked alongside the street in front of an H&R Block and a Yen Yens Quick Chinese.
“I want an egg roll,” Sonora said.
“Let’s look at the DB first. If you seriously want to risk Chinese in a town this size.”
Sam got out of the car and headed for the deputy. Sonora hung back to watch, waiting for Sam to work his good-ole-boy magic.
She put her high heels on, smoothed her skirt, which had wrinkles and mud enough to be attention getting. She straightened her tie and put on more of the dark lipstick Sam didn’t like.
Sam wiggled his fingers at her. Go to work, she told herself. Dead body time.
“Deputy Clemson, this is my partner, Specialist Blair.”
Sonora moved stiffly, offered her right hand without thinking. Clemson had a firm grip, and she winced, bit her lip, pulled her hand away.
“Sonora came a little too close to whoever it was stole that car out of the lot and killed your security guard.”
Clemson looked her up and down and touched the brim of his hat. “That so? I’d kind of like to get close to that guy myself. Come on around back.” He motioned to the orderly knot of people who stood talking by the curb. “Y’all move on back, come on now.”
Another deputy appeared and made kindly shooing motions, and people backed politely away.
At least things were friendly, Sonora thought. Saw things were not so friendly around back.
The hearse was open, and the DB had already been loaded. A fire engine, OXTON VOLUNTEER FIRE DEPT stenciled on the side, sat next to a burned-out Dumpster that dripped water and foam. Sonora peered at the asphalt near the Dumpster, noting the thick oily bloodstain. She went to the hearse, glancing over her shoulder at Deputy Clemson.
“May I?”
He nodded.
She fished rubber gloves out of her purse and peeled the bloody sheet away.
The man looked like somebody’s grandfather, pale blue eyes wide and vacant. Sonora ran her fingers through the thick white hair, noticed that the full mustache was yellow with tobacco stains. She probed the scalp, found an indentation on the left temple. Probably hit his head when he fell.
Flashpoint Page 14