Flashpoint (36 page)

The crisper was empty. No fruit. No vegetables. Sonora checked the freezer. Popsicles and freezer pops. Fudgsicles. Dixie cups with ice cream—vanilla with swirls of fudge, vanilla with swirls of strawberry. Jell-O pops. Pudding pops. Ice cream sandwiches from Sealtest. The kind of treats a child would pick. No Breyers, no Häagen-Dazs, no Chunky Monkey from Ben & Jerry's.

The laundry room was a revelation—empty Coke cans lined neatly on the shelves, three fresh new bundles of clothesline, looped and held together by a sticky paper wrapper.

“It really is her,” Sam said. He went to the back door and waved at Sanders.

Sonora headed up the bare wood stairs. They were warped, impossible to climb quietly. She paused in the narrow, dark hallway, smelled dust, heard the tick of a clock. Heard Sam, coming up the stairs behind her.

“Bathroom,” Sam said, pointing.

The room was tiny and smelled of mildew. The woodwork had been stripped from the wall, showing a dark grungy gap between the warped end of the brown-stained linoleum and the water-spotted plaster wall. The medicine cabinet hung open, empty shelves orange with rust and dirt.

Selma Yorke had left a handful of cosmetics. A fat pink tube of Maybelline mascara, black-smudged, lay sideways by the sink. Sonora spotted the stubby end of an eyeliner pencil, no cap, and a tube of brownish red lipstick. Talcum powder spotted the dry sink, caked in the lumps of aqua toothpaste that dotted the basin. Sonora looked in the trash can.

“What you got?” Sam stood in the doorway, one eyebrow raised.

Sonora looked at him over her shoulder. “I hate it when you do that.”

“Sneak up on you?”

“Raise one eyebrow.”

“That's 'cause you can't do it.”

Sonora tilted the trash can forward. Wads of pink bubble gum. A Fudgsicle wrapper, streaked with dried chocolate. And a sprinkling of baby-fine blond hair.

“She cut her hair. Looks like she just snipped the bangs. Old patterns, Sam.”

“Old patterns and new trouble.”

A soiled towel showed smears of brown, orange, and blue. Sonora sniffed and smelled turpentine. Black mildew spotted the caulking along the sides of the tub.

Sam flicked a finger. “Reckon there's pubic hair down there in the drain?”

“Yeah, yeah, have your fun.”

They split up. Sonora walked into the bedroom on the left, finding an unmade, wrought-iron single that brought jailhouse bunks to mind. The sheets had pulled from the foot of the bed, exposing a yellow-stained blue-striped mattress. The pillow was flat, trailing feathers from an open seam. There were no blankets.

The walls were plaster, dirt over old avocado green paint. The carpet was thin, green, sculptured.

The dresser was cheap, the top drawer empty. The other three drawers were stuffed with wadded clothing, so full they did not close. Bits and pieces swelled over the edges—jeans, underwear, nylon shorts. Sonora went to the closet.

The double metal doors were shut tight.

Sonora put a hand on a loose plastic knob and yanked. The door stuck, squeaked, then gave way to a rumbling avalanche that tumbled to her feet.

Dolls. Old, new, modern, antique. Barbie, Chatty Cathy, Thumbelina. China, plastic, and bisque faces. Stray arms, legs, heads, little dresses, little shoes, marble and painted eyes, wide-open, unseeing.

Sonora heard footsteps, Sam calling her name. She stirred the mass. Nothing real. Just dolls and doll parts.

“Sonora?” Sam stood in the doorway, gun at the ready. “You okay? I heard you squeal.”

“Did not.”

“Looks like Annie's room in here.” He jerked his thumb toward the other bedroom. “You better come see.”

It was the better of the two bedrooms, and ran along the entire back of the house. It had originally been two rooms, but the separation wall had been knocked out. There were two windows along the back, ragged curtains thrust to one side to let light in through grimy panes.

On the left-hand side was a workshop—hammer, nails, scraps of wood in one corner, a portable Black & Decker table saw. A sturdy easel had pride of place in the center of the room, and a wood shelf held paints, brushes, turpentine. Stacks of canvases were propped against the wall and stuffed in the closet.

Sonora studied the work, unfinished but long dry, on the easel.

The colors were angry. Dirty reds, orange, and brown. The paint was thick and full of chunks—plastic buttons, shoelaces, little bits of clothes glued on. A patch of cold ice blue was incongruous on the left-hand side, oddly unrelated to the rest of the picture.

“Look at this, Sam. Look at this stuff.

He turned the stacks of canvases facing the wall. “Jesus H. Christ, Sonora, this is weird-looking shit.”

“Now we know why she takes the clothes.”

“Take a look over here.”

Wood boxes were stacked four high and three across, most of them two feet by two square, joined together in a huge and bizarre dollhouse.

Each box was a still life, and all the dolls were male, dressed in clothes that had been rudely cut and stitched from men's blue jeans, cotton shirts, khakis. Some of the dolls sat at desks, some played baseball. The first one stood behind a roughly constructed counter in a crude facsimile of the lobby of a bank.

James Selby, Sonora thought.

She stretched out a hand, but did not touch the brown-eyed doll that stared blankly from behind the counter.

There was a gap in the dollhouse. The next-to-last wood box was missing—had that been Mark Daniels? The last box was empty, the wood raw and newly sawn. Sonora wondered who had been slated to go inside. Stuart? Keaton? A shoe box sat in the windowsill over the empty wood box. Sonora peeped inside.

The tea set was tiny and made of porcelain, perfect for the fingers of a very little girl. It was too fragile for a young child; it would not be a practical gift. But it was sweetly painted with blue forget-me-nots and had a tiny teapot with a lid, six round plates, and four cups and saucers. When Heather found it beneath the Christmas tree last year, she had left her other gifts in a pile of colored paper and ribbon, lined up all her tiny horses, and become lost in a child's fantasy where ponies drank out of teacups, wore ribbons in their tails, and conversed with little girls in nightgowns.

Sonora clutched the edge of the windowsill and sat down on the floor. In her mind's eye she saw Selma Yorke drifting through the lawn around her house, where Tim and Heather slept and played and took their baths. She saw Selma's greedy fingers on Heather's little tea set and wondered if one of the Barbies in the closet full of dolls had been abandoned outside by her forgetful daughter, then snatched up by a woman who handcuffed innocent men to steering wheels and burned them alive in their cars.

“Sonora? You just get tired all of a sudden?” Sam crouched beside her, looking unhappy.

“It's not like I didn't already know she was hanging around the house, right? I just need to sit down for a minute.”

“Honey, you are sitting down.”

58

Sam and Sonora sat in the parking lot of a Taco Bell, engine idling.

Sam patted her shoulder. “You cold, Sonora? Want my jacket?”

She did, but shook her head no. Watched raindrops trickle down the car window. “It's more comfortable to think people like Selma don't have feelings. But they do.”

“I know. But, Sonora.” He touched her knee. “Lots of kids are abused. Only a rare few turn into killers. If you could be there when she does what she does, if you could see her face when she kills. You wouldn't have sympathy for her at all.”

“I know.” She squeezed his hand. Sam winked and eased the car toward the drive-in window.

“Come on, girl. Eat something, you'll feel better.”

“Get me some rice.” Sonora dug the cellular phone out of her purse.

“What you doing?”

“Checking messages.”

“Why don't you take it easy for ten seconds while we get something to eat?”

Sonora sat with the phone in her hand. Punched in numbers and listened. Sam took a plastic bag of food from the window.

Sonora looked at Sam. “Shelby Hargreaves.”

He parked the car next to a handicapped spot. “Woman at the antique store?”

Sonora nodded. “Wants me to call. Give me your pen, let me write this number down.”

“Here.” Sam handed her a Coke.

She unwrapped a straw and stuffed it through the slot. Liquid bubbled up over the plastic lid and spilled on her pants. She took a drink, then propped the cup against the back of the seat.

“You're going to spill that,” Sam said.

Sonora put the phone to her ear. “Ms. Hargreaves, this is Specialist Blair, Cincinnati PD.”

“Detective Blair. Good.”

Sonora watched Sam bite into a bean burrito. He ate them bland, no salsa.

“Look, it's that doll I told you about—the German bisque boy that this woman looked at, but didn't buy? It's missing. It's got to have been stolen.”

Sonora rubbed her forehead. “You're sure?”

“It was here last night, but when I came in this afternoon, it was gone. I've looked all over for it, and nobody remembers selling it. And it's not in the inventory receipts.”

Sonora felt nervous flutters in her chest, the panicky hot and cold feeling. “It was good of you to call, Ms. Hargreaves.”

“I just—”

“No, I appreciate it. You've been a big help.” Sonora hung up, saw Sam was looking at her. There were bean smears on the edge of his mouth. She handed him a napkin. “Selma went to the antique store and took the other doll. It's now, Sam, she's gearing up for another hit. She's going after him.”

“She took the other doll?”

“
Somebody
did, and we both know who.”

“Okay, stay calm, girl, we got Daniels covered. Just need to get hold of Blue Ash and let them know.”

“I'm calling the school.” Sonora made the call, went through the rigmarole of identifying herself, asking for Keaton.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Daniels is in class. I can take a message.”

“This is an emergency. Call him to the phone, please.”

“Just a moment, then.”

Sonora rubbed a fist on her left knee. Took a sip of Coke. Sam ate another bite of burrito, chewing slowly.

The voice came back to the phone, sounding breathless. “I'm sorry, he doesn't answer his intercom. The Chapter One reading teacher is in the room and says he'll be right back. I'll have him call you then.”

“I'll wait.”

“But … I think he's in the little boy's room!”

“For God's sake,” Sonora muttered.

“Pardon?”

“No, pardon me. I need you to give him a message just as soon as he comes out. No, wait, let me talk to your principal.”

“He's at Central Office.”

“Okay. You're aware of Mr. Daniels's situation?”

“We all are.”

“Good. You can understand, then, that it is important for him to get this message. Tell him not to leave the school under any circumstances. Not until he hears from me, by phone or in person. My name is Blair. Detective Sonora Blair.”

“Detective Blair. Got it. I'll deliver the message myself.”

“Do me a favor, will you? Go stand outside the men's room, and see he gets it as soon as he comes out.”

The woman promised she would in a very small high-pitched voice. Sonora hung up and chewed her lip. “I got a bad feeling, Sam.”

“He's okay, don't panic here. We got him surveilled.”

“I want to go to the school.”

“Crick wants you out of the way, you know that.”

“Sam, Blue Ash? This is their territory and they're doing the surveillance at the school, right? Our people don't pick him up till he's on the way home. I want to go over there. I want to see him, I want to warn him. I got—”

“A bad feeling, I know.” Sam wadded the burrito wrapper and tossed it into the backseat. “Okay, we're going. Eat your rice on the way.”

59

The parking lot of the Blue Ash Pioneer Elementary School was a gridlock of buses and parents picking children up in the rain. Two Blue Ash patrol cars blocked the circle drive, blue lights flashing.

“For God's sake, girl, quit chewing the strap of your purse.”

“
Something's happened
, Sam.”

“Wait till I stop the car, Sonora!”

She left the door hanging open. The concrete walk was wet. Small children with backpacks and lunch boxes huddled beneath the overhang. Sonora forced herself to slow down.

A uniformed officer stood in the front entrance, hand on her hip. Officer Brady. She recognized Sonora and waved her on.

“They're in the office.”

Sonora nodded, didn't break stride. She turned the corner and went through the doorway.

“It's
her
.”

Sonora heard the gun being drawn and put up her hands. “Hey, I'm a
cop
.” She had their attention, anyway, a knot of uniforms, two men in plain clothes, several women in suits.

Sam ran in behind her, waved his ID. “
Damn
good way to get yourself shot, Sonora.”

“Leave me alone.”

“Or hit by a car. What you doing jumping out like that? You—”

Sonora felt someone tap her shoulder. The man was short and round, had a thin wedge of white hair and a red face that probably meant high blood pressure.

“Excuse me for interrupting your argument. I'm Detective Burton, Blue Ash.” He looked at Sam. “You guys partners, married, or what?”

“Same difference,” Sam said. “Is Daniels okay?”

Burton touched the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie. “Daniels is gone.”

Sonora sagged against Sam. “I knew it. I told you I had—”

“A bad feeling. I know.”

Burton motioned to a black plastic couch. “Why don't the two of you sit down, and let's see if we can't get to the bottom of this.”