Flashpoint (12 page)

“Four
A.M
. Like in the middle of the night.”

He shook his head at her. “Why are you making cupcakes? Bakeries, dork. You've heard of them?”

“These have to be mommy-baked.”

“Lie.”

“Heather would know. Mine are always misshapen. They plump out.”

“Remember the night I was here and you grilled chicken?”

“Thank God you carry a fire extinguisher in your car.”

“Come on, get moving, I want to see how you charcoal-broil your cupcakes. Can I use your phone?” He picked up the cordless mounted on the kitchen wall, punched in his code, and listened for messages. “By the way, Sonora, you had a pretty strange call right around dinnertime.”

“Leave a message?” Sonora got a mixing bowl from the cabinet and studied the box of cake mix. Duncan Hines. Eggs, water.

“No. It was a woman. I go ‘hello' and she starts singing.”

Sonora looked up from the back of the box of cake mix, trying to keep the oven temperature in her head. Bake 375. “She what?”

“
Sang
. An old Elvis song. ‘Love Me Tender.'”

“That's not an Elvis song.”

“He sang it, he made it his.”

Sonora scratched her cheek. “Wait a minute, I don't get this. She sang ‘Love Me Tender' to you over the phone?”

“Yeah.”

“Sing good?”

“So so.” He hung up. Grimaced.

“What?” Sonora asked.

“Big crowd at the saloon tonight. A lot of people there for line-dancing lessons.”

“That's good.”

“Yeah, but the girl who teaches went home sick and it looks like the flu, which leaves me with problems tomorrow. I can't cover for the kids, unless you want them at the club.”

“Not on a school night.”

“Oh, and Chas called. Wanted to know where you were, didn't believe me when I said you were working, and wants you to call no matter how late you get in.”

“Damn. Fine.”

“So don't call him.”

Sonora picked up the phone, punched in a number, rolled her eyes. Stuart looked at her.

“Not home. At”—she looked at her watch—“four-sixteen
A.M
. He did this on purpose.”

“Had you call and then doesn't answer?”

“If he's there.”

“Not all guys are like Zack,” Stuart said. Sonora looked at him and he grinned. “Some are worse.”

“Boggles the mind, don't it?” Sonora got a large spoon out of the silverware drawer and pretended not to notice that her brother was peeling her stickup note off the refrigerator. He rinsed ice cream out of the bowls and loaded them into the dishwasher. Sonora could not remember ever seeing him do one dish the entire time they were growing up. She started to say something, then closed her mouth. In all the years they had fought over the bathroom, insulted each other, and been rude to one another's friends, she had never pictured her brother baby-sitting her children and cleaning her kitchen.

“Oh, my God,” Stuart said.

“What?”

“Chocolate syrup on my polo shirt.”

“I'm going to an autopsy first thing tomorrow. Guess what kind of stuff I get on my shirt?”

Stuart cringed. “Aren't you going to use a mixer?”

“I can't find it.”

“It's in Tim's room.”

“I'll just use a spoon. The lumps will probably bake out.”

“Do you think you should fill the little cup things so full? That's probably why they stick out like that. Sonora, didn't Mom teach you any of this stuff?”

“Yeah, I'm Donna-fucking-Reed.”

The phone rang as she was finally getting to bed. She picked it up on the third ring.

“What's so important you have to talk now, Chas, or don't you know it's the middle of the night?”

Silence. A giggle. Sonora frowned.

“Don't tell me you'uns got man trouble in the middle of everything else.”

You'uns
. Sonora caught her breath. “Who is this?”

“Don't play games with me, Detective, that kind of crapola is for men friends, not girl friends.”

Sonora sat up in bed, hand sweaty on the receiver. “Girl friends, huh? So how about we get together and have a good talk?”

“Shop till we drop and go get some fancy desert?” The voice had a wistful twinge. “You and I both know we'd wind up in one of your little interrogation rooms.”

“We like to call them interview rooms. Be nice to have someone to talk to, don't you think? I bet you have a lot on your mind.”

“If you're tracing this call, Detective, won't do you no good. I'm at a pay phone, and it ain't my usual place.”

Sonora listened for bar noises. Nothing.

“He's cute, isn't he?”

Sonora frowned. “Who?”

“Keaton Daniels. Don't pretend, I can tell you like him.”

“You going to kill him?”

Dead silence. “You take the direct approach, don't you? Acting like a three here.”

Sonora frowned. A three?

“How about this? I stay off him, if you'uns do the same. You won't believe me, I know, but I don't want to kill this one. He reminds me of somebody.”

“Who?”

“Just … a guy I used to know.”

Keep her talking, Sonora thought. “Look alike?”

“It's more than that, Detective. It's a certain kind of thing, an energy, a feel about him. Like he really sees me. It's the way he makes me feel. He puts me in the place I want to be.”

“You know him, then?”

“I know him. He don't know me.”

Sonora cocked her head. “What do you want from him? Why do you want to hurt him?”

“I don't want to
hurt
him. I want to be important. In his life.”

You got that, Sonora thought. “You telling me you kill men to be important?”

Laughter. “You got to admit, it's a surefire way to get their attention.”

“Surefire? Cute.”

“And they deserve what they get. You be honest, Ms. Detective girl, you'uns would see my point. These men deserve it. This can't be a whole new concept, or you always been good?”

“Always,” Sonora said, thinking of the men in the pickup.

“One of those good girls who do what they're told. Don't you see how that sets you up? Be miserable for the sake of everybody else. Never get what you want, 'cause that's bad. Build your life around some man, or you're nothing.”

Sonora took a breath, wondered if she was out of her mind. “What makes you think I'm so good? I shot at three men in a pickup tonight.”

Silence. Keeping her off balance a little, Sonora thought. Hoped.

“You did not. Not a good girl like you.”

Sonora frowned. Was that a train in the background? “Believe it or not, suit yourself.”

Silence. Then, “Why would you do that? Police work?”

“I had my reasons, like you have yours. You do have reasons, right?”

“Nice try. It's funny, I didn't expect to like you.”

A click, and the connection went. Sonora grabbed a pencil and wrote on the back of a box of Kleenex, trying to get the conversation down verbatim, wondering in the back of her mind if she'd stirred the pot a little too hard.

15

The blade would hit the skin at 9:00
A.M
. Sonora made it to the coffeepot in the lounge by 8:40. She poured herself a cup and wandered down the brightly lit hallway in search of the pathologist.

A sign taped to the green tile wall said
BODIES MUST BE TAGGED AND BAGGED
. At the bottom was a handwritten scrawl that said,
Please don't tie the pull tags on the bag together!

“Sonora.”

She turned. “Eversley, yo. I was looking for you.”

“You wandered right past like a zombie. These early-morning chop sessions must be hell on a girl with a social life.”

“I don't have a social life, I have children.”

“You must have had one sometime or other.” Eversley sat on the edge of the desk, smiling smugly. His eyes were gray, his face round and ravaged by old acne scars. His hair was dark and wiry, and if he carried a bit more weight than would be advised by the American Heart Association, it made him look cuddly in a sweater. Something in his attitude suggested perpetual exasperation.

He glanced at a clipboard on the desk. “You would be here for the crispy critter?”

“I would.”

“At least it's recognizably human. We got one in last week that would fit in your microwave.”

“Homicide?”

“Down girl. Somebody smoking in bed in their mobile home—otherwise known as an invitation to Infernoland.”

“Who's up this morning?”

“Dr. Bellair.”

“Ah, well,” Sonora said. It meant everything by the book—goggles, apron, shoe covers, and gloves.

“This one did not go gently into that good night. Talk about your date from hell.”

Sonora leaned against the edge of the desk, close enough to Eversley to smell his shaving lotion. She wished he wouldn't wear scent in the autopsy room, where one more smell, in the cacophony of other odors, was nothing short of an assault on the senses.

She yawned. “This guy wasn't a date, he was a victim.”

“I heard about this one, Sonora. He was handcuffed, right? S and M.”

“It's not a sex thing, Eversley. If it was a sex thing, it's going to be like this, don't you think?” Sonora raised her arms in the air, holding them out to the sides. “Or this.” She moved her hands over her head. “He'd be cuffed to the headrest, or the door handles.”

“He'd have to have a hell of a wingspan to catch both door handles.”

Sonora pulled her hands forward, wrists together, waist level. “Instead, he's cuffed to the steering wheel, like this. You could call it the prisoner position.”

“You could, but I wouldn't.”

The soft tread of rubber-soled shoes caught their attention.

Even in dark blue scrubs, Stella Bellair had an air of dignity and elegance that managed to be distancing. Her posture was erect, her air of professionalism and courtesy rarely breached. She wore her hair in a chignon, tiny coral earrings adorned her ears, and her ebony skin, perfectly made up, glowed with health and well-being.

Sonora wondered how she managed. Bellair's schedule was as demanding as her own, and she was the mother of three. Why did Sonora know the woman's home was immaculate? Why didn't she wonder such things about men?

Eversley bowed. “Good morning, Stella.”

“Morning, all. Is the DB out of X ray?”

Eversley nodded. “I saw Marty wheeling him out about fifteen minutes ago.”

“Coffee,” Bellair said, heading back down the hall to the lounge.

Eversley slid forward on the desk. “Okay, picture this. Guy meets Girl. Guy gives Girl a ride. Guy gets the wrong idea. Girl—”

Sonora felt the vibration of the pager that hung from an empty belt loop at her waist. “Hang on, Eversley.” She pulled the beige phone across the desk. “Dial nine to get out?”

“What a good guesser. Nine is exactly the number you want. How'd you hit on it, are you some kind of psychic genius?”

“Can't deal with the living, so they handle the dead.”

“That is
so
offensive.”

Sonora chewed her bottom lip as she dialed. “Tell me this.
Why
is it always nine? And why is it nine-one-one for emergency? What is this nine thing? Why … yeah, hello, Blair here.”

Sam's voice was thick with exhaustion. “The brother called.”

“Keaton Daniels called in?”

“Yeah, that's what I said, he called in.”

“So what's up?”

“Thing is, Sonora, he wouldn't tell
me
. Said he wants to see you right away, and it's got to be you.”

Dr. Bellair walked by, heading for the autopsy room. Sonora realized that Eversley was gone. They'd be starting any minute.

“Will he keep?”

“I told him you'd be a couple hours. He said he was at his apartment. Number is—”

“The Mount Adams address? I got that.”

“Wait. Your son's algebra teacher called too.”

“Who?”

“A Miss Cole. She said you should call her. Want the number?”

Sonora swiped a coupon for a buy-one-get-one-free chicken dinner off the desk and flipped it over. The price of a two-piece dinner had gone up again. “Yeah, Sam. Oh-two-six. Okay. Jesus. Anything else?”

“You hear back from your new buddy? Sonora?”

“Yeah, I did, and it's not so funny, Sam.”

“What'd she say?”

“We'll talk later, gotta go.” She hung up, listening to sputters.

Sonora headed down the hallway, nodding once to a surgical resident working off his bout of indentured servitude.

She went past the viewing window, where families could look through meshed glass to identify their loved ones, provided features were intact. She passed a sign warning of biohazard, wondered what was up in algebra, and paused outside the green swing doors by a metal cart that held, among other odds and ends, goggles, shoe covers, and plastic aprons. She skipped the apron but took time for shoe covers and goggles. The gloves, coated with something powdery to make them go on smoothly, were way too big, leaving an inch of latex hanging loose from her fingers. She double-checked her camera awkwardly through the gloves, made sure it did, indeed, have film and working batteries, then went through the double swing doors.

There were several autopsies in progress, the sound of running water, large gray trash cans overflowing with waste. The smell of blood was strong but overpowered by the cloying scent of Calgon Vestal Lotion soap.

Dr. Bellair, hands on her hips, was studying a set of X rays illuminated on the wall. Eversley was looking over her shoulder. Bellair pointed.

“Right there.”

Eversley nodded.