Flashpoint (24 page)

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 john 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?”

“You want to tell me about it, I'll listen.”

“Lot of things I could tell you about.”

Sonora wondered how old Sheree was. Impossible to tell, with hookers, the streets aged them quickly. This one looked forty and acted fourteen.

The girl seemed bored suddenly, glanced again at Molliter, then took a deep drag of her cigarette. “He was kind of on the tall side, nothing major. Five-eleven maybe, six feet. Sort of skinny, you know, stringy kind of build. Hair was reddish brown, and I think his eyes were green.”

“Anything else you notice about this guy?” Gruber said.

She shrugged.

“You told us all kinds of stuff on Shonelle. Do the same for me on the guy.”

“I told you. Tall and skinny.”

“So what kind of nose he have? Big nose?”

“Just a … just a regular nose.”

“Tattoos? Dark eyelashes?”

“Sure. No. I guess his eyelashes were light.”

Sonora blew air between her teeth.

“What?” Sam said.

“She's describing Molliter. There is no Superdude.”

“Looks like Molliter's eating it up.”

“Molliter would. They should see if she'll take a lie detector. Right now. See if she will.”

“We can't do one today, anyway.”

“I know that, but she doesn't. I'll be right back.” Sonora went into the bullpen and veered left, sticking her head into officers' quarters. Crick was in front of the terminal, his sausage-thick fingers working the keyboard over with swift, heavy jabs.

“Sergeant?”

“Yeah, what is it, Blair?”

“Gruber and Molliter tell you anything about this witness they got?”

“So, what about it?”

“I been watching, Sergeant, and I'm telling you she's pulling their chain.”

“What makes you psychic?”

“Come on. She says this missing guy is named Superdude, and when they asked her for a description she gives them Molliter. Let's just say I got a feeling. Looks to me like she's got it in for this Shonelle she's trying to pin.”

“Oh, well, Blair, if you got a feeling say no more.” Crick leaned back in his chair. “She give much detail on the description?”

“Precious little. Broad and vague, and when Gruber led she was happy to follow. The only thing that does strike me is the girl herself. She kind of fits the general description. Short and blond. Bent.”

Crick pulled at his bottom lip. “How about we offer the lady a lie detector?”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“Okay.” He went back to the keyboard. Sonora stayed in the doorway. “What now?”

“That Dumpster fire makes it pretty clear. Flash is sticking close to Daniels.”

“No, Blair. We do not have the manpower to surveil him round the clock.”

Sonora leaned against the doorjamb. “What about that trip to Atlanta? That cop, Bonheur, has no problem with me going down there, looking at the case file, talking to the victim.”

“How you going to do that? They using mediums, or making do with Ouija boards?”

“I told you, sir, the victim survived on this one. Untied his ropes and got away.”

“No handcuffs?”

“No, but a lot of other similar elements.”

“I'll think about it.”

“Are you inclined to say yes?”

“Maybe. Are you inclined to go away? Listen, Blair, you talked to Sanders?”

“No, why?”

“She's onto something. Run along now, and bother her.”

33

Sonora stood with her back to the bathroom door, bolt digging into her ribcage, thinking she might need to be sick again. The back of the toilet was littered with wadded cellophane packets, an empty box, a wrinkled instruction sheet.

She held the white wand limply, tears rolling down her cheeks. Both windows pink. Why pink, she wondered, why not black? This could not be happening, not to her, not now. Men like Chas should not be spreading genetic material.

Sonora picked up the instruction sheet, hand shaking. She studied the succession of little pictures in the directions, vision blurred by tears. The outside door opened, and she heard footsteps.

“Sonora? Sonora, you in here?” Sanders. Sounding chirpy and excited. “Sonora?”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm here.”

Sonora reread the instructions. Took a breath. Both windows were supposed to start out pink. For negative results, wait five minutes and pray the window on the left turns white.

There was still hope. She looked at her watch, wondering how long it had been.

Sanders's voice was melodious. “Crick said to talk to you and let you know, because I think I may have found her.”

“Who?” Sonora leaned against the wall. Breathed in and out. Listened to the beat of her heart. Time to look, time to check that little window, or wait another minute?

“Who? Oh, you're kidding. I was checking community colleges in those parts of Kentucky that Detective Delarosa—”

“
Sam
.”

“Sam was talking about.”

Sonora's grip tightened on the wand.

“And I've got a possible that looks really good—fires
and
a suspicious death, and there's a picture, a yearbook picture. They faxed it, and it came through pretty good. Could you come out and look at it, please?”

Now. It was time. Sonora swallowed, felt her stomach flip-flop, and raised the wand in a shaking hand.

Left window white.

Sonora closed her eyes and leaned into the metal door. “Thank God, it's an ulcer.”

“What?”

“Just one second, Sanders.” Sonora took a deep breath. Nah. She was done being sick. She pushed hair out of her eyes, came out of the stall.

Sanders held up a thin white slip of fax paper. “You think this might be her?”

“Give me one minute.” Sonora bent over the white porcelain sink, grimaced at the familiar rust stain that circled the drain. Her knees were weak. She cupped her hands under the faucet and rinsed her mouth.

A small idea came to mind. She could make those calls and visits from Chas disappear with one message left on his machine—just tell him her period was late. Sonora looked at her reflection. Was she that much of a bitch? She thought maybe she was.

Sanders tapped a toe in a soft, annoying staccato. Sonora looked in the mirror.

“Okay, Sanders, what's her name? This girl in the picture?”

“Selma Yorke.”

Sonora decided that Sanders was holding her breath. She wiped her hands on a brown paper towel.