“Thanks, Sam. Mind slipping your wrists into these handcuffs?”
He grinned. “The car was wiped, but they got one or two prints, not good ones. Plus they found an X-Acto knife that nobody from the television station claims. The kind of thing a hobbyist might use.”
“I think we know what her hobby is. Did you tell Crick that our girl likes to play with dolls?”
“He thought it was pretty interesting that she made a point of getting a new one hours before she killed Daniels. A boy doll at that. And that it was important enough for her to pay cab fare, like it was part of some little scenario she had cooked up.”
Sam’s radio went off again. He raised one eyebrow; Sonora shrugged. She had a worried feeling, as if something important had slid by.
She rewound the interview tape, put the recorder next to her ear. Hargreaves’s voice was distinct and pleasant—she’d be good on radio.
“… and what I call the miniatures. Dollhouse furniture. She liked that little tea set over there, did you—”
Sonora felt a hand on her shoulder and jumped.
“Girl, you okay?”
“Yeah, sure. What’s up now?”
Sam frowned. “Dumpster fire, at the school where—”
“Keaton?”
He nodded. “Evidently Flash went after one of the teachers.”
Sonora headed for one side of the car, and Sam for the other. She buckled her seat belt. “So what happened?”
“That’s all I know. Daniels called it in himself. Blue Ash PD didn’t want us pulled in.”
“How long ago?”
“Couple hours. She’s long gone, and Crick is pissed.”
“So am I. Thank you, Blue Ash.”
“Cut ’em some slack, Sonora, for them it’s a routine Dumpster fire.”
“There are no routine fires where Keaton Daniels is concerned.”
“Why’s she going to show up at his school, Sonora? Helluva chance she’s taking.”
“You understand the word obsession? Why do ex-husbands shoot their ex-wives at the office? I wish to God Crick would keep somebody with him.”
“Live in the real world, Sonora.”
31
The burned-out Dumpster was at the far end of the Pioneer Elementary School playground. Sonora stood on the hood of a Blue Ash patrol car and peeped inside. The fire had gobbled the top layer of trash. She wished Arson Guy was around. If the fire had burned deeply in one spot, it likely had smoldered, which might mean a cigarette tossed in. If, on the other hand, there was an accelerant—
She heard a recognizable click and turned her head.
“Just leave your hands where they are.” The voice was female and shaking with excitement. Sonora got a quick look out of the corner of her eye.
The Blue Ash patrol officer was black, fine boned and slender, looking more like a teacher than a cop. She wore the uniform with spit and polish.
Sonora made sure her hands stayed put. “Excuse me, Officer. Sorry, can’t read your name tag from here. Bradley?”
“Brady.”
“Officer Brady. What the hell do you think you’re doing, pulling your gun there? If this is your car, I promise, I haven’t scratched the paint.”
“Identify yourself, please.”
It dawned on Sonora that the Blue Ash police would be looking for a short blonde. This was getting irritating.
“The woman you’re looking for is thinner than I am, much as I hate to admit it. And her hair is shorter and lighter blond.”
The uniform was looking around for help. No one was close. She pulled the radio off her belt.
Sonora laughed. “Come on, Brady, please, don’t embarrass me like this. I’m a detective, I work homicide for the city. That’s my partner there in front of the school, talking to the good old boys. You know him? Sam Delarosa?”
“Got some ID?”
“Right here on my belt.”
“Keep your hands up.”
“If I fall on my butt, it’s on your head, so to speak.”
Brady did not smile, and she kept her gun steady. Sonora turned sideways, hands in the air. She hoped Sam wouldn’t notice, she’d never hear the end of this. Brady inched closer, squinting at the ID.
“If you’re satisfied with the little plastic picture, I’d appreciate it if you’d holster your gun, Officer Brady.”
“Sorry.”
“Nah, you never can tell.” Sonora sat on the hood of the car and swung her legs over the side.
Brady nodded glumly. Her hair was trimmed close to her head, and her face showed the uncertainty of extreme youth.
“You been here long?” Sonora asked.
“Since the call came in.”
“So what’s the story?”
Brady leaned against the car and began to talk. Good old girls, Sonora thought, as she listened.
The call had come in a little after two. Brady checked her notes. Two-twelve, to be precise, which Sonora could see she was. It had been physical-activity time, and there were two primary classes on the playground. Sonora looked around the lot. It was a nice school, and judging from the facilities, was run by a fat-cat PTA. A map of all fifty states was painted on the asphalt—educational hopscotch. There was a slide and a swing set and monkey bars, freshly painted in vibrant shades of all the primary colors, with cypress mulch cushioning the dirt beneath.
There had been two groups outside. One of them should have been Daniels’s class, but they had traded time with Vancouver’s primary so they could schedule in a performance by a traveling puppet show. Instead of being outside, Daniels and his kids were indoors, watching Rumpelstiltskin.
Vancouver had noticed a woman hanging around the edge of the playground, and was on her way over to check her out when one of the children fell off the monkey bars. When she got that settled, she saw the woman talking to one of the children. She challenged her. The woman came at her, scratched her face, shoved her to the ground, and ran away.
Sonora frowned. The playground was vulnerable, placed on the other side of the school parking lot, away from the main buildings. The school was surrounded by houses on two sides. A limited-access highway ran along the back, with a small hill and a thin strip of trees and bushes between. The back of the school was fenced with four feet of chain link, but there was no fence on the left side. Easy access, Sonora thought. Wouldn’t even have to climb the fence.
“Any idea what this woman said to the child?”
“She wanted to know who his teacher was. He said Miss Vancouver, and this woman said wasn’t he in Mr. Daniels’s class? Then that’s when the teacher came over.”
“She hurt much?” Sonora didn’t see an ambulance, but it would have come and gone by now.
“No, not really, just shook up.”
Sonora looked for Sam. His shoulders were stiff, and he was waving his arms. The side door of the school swung open, and Keaton Daniels walked out with a man whose rumpled suit and air of authority said police. Trailing behind was a short man who wore his pants hitched below his belly and slicked back his thinning black hair with something sticky. The principal, Sonora guessed. Whoever he was, he did not look happy.
Neither did Keaton. His jaw was set, and he had that wary and guarded air she was beginning to know. Sonora slid off the hood of the car.
The cop in the suit eyed the ID hanging from Sonora’s belt and gave her a hard look. She didn’t know him. She got along with Blue Ash homicide people, but she didn’t sense any rapport with this one.
The cop cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Miss—”
“Specialist Blair.” Sonora held up both hands and pointed at Sam. “I’m just one of the troops, sir. The man you need to argue with is over there. Mr. Daniels, may I have a word?”
The cop gave Keaton a hard look. “We’ll be in touch.”
The principal’s smile was tense. “Think about what I said, Mr. Daniels. We’ll talk again in the morning.”
Keaton jerked his head in an unfriendly nod. Sono
ra fell into step beside him, and they left the others behind.
“They want me to leave, you know that?” He looked at her sideways and kept walking. “Like I would. Like I can’t protect my kids. If I’d been out here I would have had her. God, it would have been so easy.”
Not as easy as you think, Sonora thought. Now probably wasn’t the time to bring it up.
They went across the playground, past the monkey bars and basketball goals. Keaton looked first left, then right.
“What are you looking for?” Sonora asked.
Keaton scratched his head. “One of the kids in my class said she saw a woman out here two days ago, watching us at PA. She said the woman was standing by the water. I’m trying to figure out what the hell she … surely it couldn’t …” He moved off toward the line of trees that ran between the back of the school and the interstate, stopping in front of a deep puddle of mud, two feet by three, shadowed by a clutch of adolescent oak trees. Keaton looked down at the muddy water. “You think this is what she meant?”
Sonora shrugged. Looked for footprints. “Anything is possible, Keaton.”
He glared at her. “She’s not running me off, not me, babe. I’m not leaving my kids, or quitting my job, or changing my life.”
“Can they make you? Quit?”
Keaton stared off toward the school. “They’d have to go through channels. Offer me something administrative downtown, and even then, I don’t think they could force it. If the principal wants to get nasty, he can start shading my evaluations, but that takes time.” He lifted his chin. “Why, you think I’m wrong? You think I’m risking my kids? I can take care of them, Sonora. If she comes back here, fine with me.”
Sonora nodded at him. “School got smoke alarms?”
“Of course.”
“How about your town house?”
He put his hands in his pockets. “Four as of last night.”
“I’m up to five now, at my house.”
He gave her a second look. “Your house?”
“Just paranoid. I’ve got two kids, remember. You change your locks yet, Mr. Daniels?”
“Mr. Daniels? What happened to Keaton?”
“What happened to the locks?”
“Using the mom-voice on me, Detective?”
“You think she’s not dangerous because she’s female, Keaton?”
“I think I can handle her.”
“Your brother couldn’t.”
32
Sonora drank from a can of Coke as she headed toward her desk. The message light on her phone was blinking. Chas, no doubt. Constant, predictable, and annoying. Twice she’d returned his calls, but he never seemed to be home.
She remembered calling Zack, nights he worked late, returning calls to find he wasn’t there. Guess where I am, Sonora? Let me throw it in your face. Only this time, the nasty tricks didn’t work, because this time, she didn’t care.
Her stomach went from nausea to pain. Ulcer or not? She’d picked up a test at the drugstore yesterday. Sooner or later she would work up the nerve to use it.
Sonora leaned against her desk, pushed the button. Not Chas, amazingly, but her brother, sounding perturbed.
“… something funny with your phone. You got call forwarding to my place now or something? Because that woman who sings is calling over here at the saloon. Normally I wouldn’t mind, but she doesn’t sing all that well, okay, and ‘Love Me Tender’ isn’t one of my favorites.”
Sonora chewed a fingernail. Could this weird caller be Flash? Why would she call and sing? Flash was getting to her, big-time, maybe she was just seeing her everywhere. On the other hand, how many strange women were out there making calls to Sonora, and why now? There were no coincidences in a murder investigation. Just paranoid homicide cops.
Sam wandered in from the direction of the men’s room, adjusting his belt. “Molliter’s got his hooker, you want to go listen up?”
Sonora looked at him, frowned. “I don’t have call forwarding.”
“No kidding? Can we focus here, Sonora? Gruber and Molliter have her in the interrogation room right now.”
“You mean interview room.”
“I mean hot witness. Gruber says she may know the killer.”
“Thank God for the witness fairy.”
“Girl, you are so cynical. Your problem is you just don’t like Molliter. Come on, let’s peek.”
The witness was small and rail thin, and she sat in the chair sideways, her feet curled under her. She smoked with hard, jerky motions, fingers trembling around the cigarette. Her jeans were shredded from stem to stern, and she wore red Lycra bicycle shorts beneath. Her dirty cowboy boots were brown suede with tassels, the heels showing a pyramid-shaped pattern of wear. She wore a red-and-black plaid shirt, eye makeup, and her spiked yellow hair was greasy.
Molliter sat near the tape recorder, a dark green monster that took up the right-hand corner of the table. Gruber said something about coffee and headed out. Sam intercepted him in the hallway.
“So what’s she say?”
Gruber poured coffee in a Styrofoam cup. “She says black, and six packs of sugar.”
Sonora nodded. “That ought to hit her good, she’s already shaking. She needs something, but it’s not sugar.”
Gruber shrugged. “She works the trade, Sonora, and she’s white, so that’s like a given, you know? Course if she’s no better at it than you were when we worked vice—”
“What’s she say about the killer?”
“Hooker friend of hers, named Shonelle, who likes to work with cuffs. She’s telling Molliter all about it right now. I better get back in there before he embarrasses himself.”
“Physical description fit our girl?”
“Not even close. Taller, different complexion, and hails from ‘Nawth Carolina.’”
“So how’s this Shonelle wind up hooking in Cincinnati?” Sam asked.
Sonora pushed hair out of her eyes. “Maybe she’s a Bengals fan.”
Gruber folded his arms and gave her a lopsided smile. “Something to do with an arson thing. No conviction—no surprise, you know their hit ratio. Supposedly this Shonelle was getting hassled and brought in every time a fire broke out, so she decided she needed a change of pace. Came to Cincinnati.”
Sam looked at Sonora, then back to Gruber. “How’d you get on to this? She just waltz in the door?”
“I told you, Molliter knows her, from vice. She says she and Shonelle used to be buddies. But I don’t hear friendship when she talks, you hearing me?”
Sonora nodded.
“Says when Shonelle talks about the johns, she says she’s going to set their pants on fire.”
Sonora grimaced. “Oh, sure. Tailor-made. Lock ’em up, and I’m out of here.”
Gruber waved a hand. “Don’t sneer at me, that’s what she says. Says she’s been suspicious because Shonelle stole one of her regular customers, and this guy, who used to come around every couple of weeks, hasn’t been back. And when Sheree—her name is Sheree La Fontaine—”
“Of course it is,” Sonora said.
“It’s on her driver’s license. Anyway, when Sheree asks Shonelle about this john, Shonelle just gets a funny look, and kind of laughs, and says she took care of him for good. Roasted him.”
“She actually used those words? Roasted him?”
Gruber nodded.
“She give you a description of this Shonelle?”
“To the wire, babe, right on down to the fuchsia orchid tattooed on her left shoulder blade.”
“What’s she like?”
“Black, redheaded, tall and curvy. Big bazooms—Sheree swears they’re fake. Oh, and a trick knee.”
“Say that again,” Sam said.
“That’s how, she put it. They both work the other side of the river. Shonelle used to dance in a club called Sapphire, but can’t anymore ’cause of the knee.”
“No disability on that, huh?” Sam said.
“So did she give you a name on the joh
n who got roasted?” Sonora asked.
“Said he called himself Superdude.”
“Superdude?”
“Yeah, well. More imaginative than John Smith.”
Sonora cocked her head sideways. “Smells worse than the morgue. She given you a description of Superdude?”
“Not yet, but hang around, and I’ll ask.”
He headed for the interview room, and Sam filled two coffee cups. Sonora didn’t want it, but took it anyway so she would not have to field queries about the ulcer. The doughnuts were wearing off, and the pain was going from background irritant to foreground agony.
They headed for the two-way.
Molliter was still hunched over the recorder, and Gruber had pulled a chair close and was leaning forward, face friendly. Sheree glanced at the two-way now and then. Once she waved.
“They think we don’t know that they know,” Sam said.
Sonora grinned. Anybody who watched TV knew, little children knew. But the two-ways were useful because you could baby-sit a suspect a lot easier if you could peep in from the hallway—just to check on the little things, like whether they were climbing the walls or punching holes in the ceiling. They’d had one guy try to get out that way. Sonora always figured he’d have had a better chance with the front door. Or just by waiting it out. You couldn’t keep a suspect forever without the DA nailing you to the wall. Not in real life.
Sheree took tiny sips of the coffee. Gruber was smiling and patient, and Molliter, as usual, looked sour.
“You sure you don’t know any name other than Superdude?” Gruber said.
“He didn’t use American Express, okay, he left home without it.” Sheree pulled a cigarette from a new package of Camels that Gruber had given her along with the coffee.
Gruber lit a match. “How about what he looked like? He was a regular, so—”
“So yeah, I saw more than his face. No more than five inches. I’d say average.”
Molliter coughed, and Gruber nodded seriously. “That’s good, but we need something to tell him apart from all those other average guys. How about the rest of him? Like his face, build. Hair and eyes.”
Sheree gave him a playful smile. “Pubic hair?”
Flashpoint Page 18