Eyeshot (19 page)

A stall door was just swinging shut, then it opened. Sanders came out.

“They've been here again,” she said.

Sonora went and looked into the stall. The toilet seat was up. “You know, they're each and every one of them detectives. You'd think they'd know better than to leave clues.”

“Are they never going to get the men's room fixed?”

“Last I heard they're still trying to trace the smell. Some kind of backup in the drain somewhere.”

Sanders grimaced. “They can smell it all the way back in Crime Stoppers, and I don't want to be mean, but I am sick of these guys coming in here. They're messy. They're
gross
. I found—”

“Please don't tell me.”

“But what can we do about it?”

Sonora pushed hair out of her eyes. Looked in the mirror. Short hair would not suit her face, and if she got it cut, she couldn't pull it back. She looked over her shoulder at Sanders. Still there. “You prepared to fight dirty, Sanders?”

“Like how dirty?”

Sonora took off her shoe, smashed the tampon dispenser. “Never use your gun for this sort of thing, young Sanders. I knew a guy used his gun to hammer in a nail and shot his thumb almost all the way off.”

“You're
breaking in
to a tampon dispenser?”

“Un petit larceny. Here.” She tossed a cardboard box to Sanders, who actually caught it. “Men are funny creatures, Sanders. Vulgar, crude. But squeamish about the oddest things. Spread these around. It will definitely get rid of the single guys. May work on the married ones too, some of them anyway.”

She glanced at Sanders's feet, looked back again to make sure. High heels again. Sheer black stockings, instead of the usual thick tights. “Lunch with the married guy?”

Sanders blushed, deep dark satisfying red.

Sonora looked away. “Sorry. None of my business.”

“I suppose
you've
never done anything like that in your life.”

“Sure I have.”

Sanders leaned against the stall door. “How'd it turn out?” She teetered back and forth on the balls of her feet, anxious, hopeful. Ready to call 1-900-Psychic to see if all would be well in the name of true love.

Sonora sighed, leaned up against the wall. “I know what you want me to tell you. You want me to say he left his wife and kids, and married me, because we were soulmates and it was meant to be. Please don't let me forget the part where we lived happily, ever after.”

Sanders's voice was very small. “These things do work out sometimes, you know.”

Sonora looked at her kindly. “Yes, they do. I've even known people where it worked out.”

“It did?”

“Yes.”

“But not for you?”

“For me it was like a virus. I got it once, got over it, and am immune to catching it ever again.”

“I wish I knew for sure if he was married.”

“Okay, here's a quick check. How long did you know him before he said he loved you?”

Sanders opened her mouth, but Sonora held up a hand.

“You don't have to tell me. Just remember single guys are impossible to pin down, and married guys tell you they're committed in forty-eight hours—they're in a hurry and they got no freedom to lose.”

Sanders sat down on a toilet seat and put her head in her hands.

Sonora sighed. “How long?”

“The first night.” Sanders's voice had dragged down at least two octaves.

“Look, this isn't like some kind of exact science, Sanders. For all I know, this love of yours is a straight-up soulmate. I've never met him, I can't judge. Come on girl, get up. Decorate.”

Sanders dragged little blue boxes out of the dispenser. “It's the married thing that's driving me crazy. I have to
know.
Would you … Gruber wants to tail him. See where he goes at night.”

“You know, there is a simpler way. You could just ask him, point blank.”

“I did.”

“
And
?”

“He said he didn't know.”

Sonora burst out laughing.

“I don't think it's so very funny,” Sanders said.

“I know, Sanders. I wasn't laughing when it happened to me.”

“What should I do?”

“Ask him this. Ask him, when he turns over in bed at night, is there a woman there with him. If there is, tell him he might be married.”

Sonora took a good long look at Sanders and made up her mind. Hopeless romance wasn't worth a second look. Keaton was hopeless. She decided to have dinner with Smallwood.

36

Sam was at his desk when Sonora went into the bullpen. He looked up as she settled into her chair.

“I already listened to your messages for you.”

“Gee thanks, Sam, how come?”

“I didn't have any. And also, because somebody else was listening to them.”

Sonora stopped. Looked at him. “Somebody was listening to my messages?”

Sam nodded.

“Who?” Her voice was quiet but hard.

Sam gave her a wary look. “Molliter.”

“He say why?”

“Said it was an accident.”

“How could that be an accident?”

Sam shrugged. “And by the way, Visa says your payment is overdue.”

“Tell me something I don't know.” Sonora flipped through the large stack of bills. She'd brought them to the office thinking she'd get to them sooner. Another fantasy gone to hell. Why was Molliter listening to her messages?

“Oh, and your son called. He wants to know if you could take off work early and drop him at some kind of all-age show in what I warn you is a sleazy part of town. And you'd need to pick up three of his buddies.”

“Hey, Blair. Your little girl still belching the alphabet?” Gruber. He looked tired and depressed, tie hanging to one side.

“She's got refinement now, Gruber. She's quit with the alphabet and moved on to
Figaro
.”

Sam looked up. “Really? The whole score?”

“No, just the first few measures.”

“That's still pretty damn amazing.” Gruber settled into his chair. Sighed. “This dieting shit is not for me. You ever heard of this fat burning diet?”

Sonora shuddered. “There are about a million of them. How's the clown thing going?”

“Guy uses deer slugs. So even if we get a weapon, which so far no luck, not like he leaves it behind, but even if we get the weapon, they won't have rifling to ID it with. He could wrap the damn thing and send it Fed Ex with roses, we couldn't nail him with it.”

“The guys getting hit have any connection?”

“Well, gee, Sonora, you mean besides being clowns in dunking booths who insult one guy too many?”

Sonora looked at the sludge in her coffee cup. Thought of going to the bathroom to rinse it out. Sanders was probably still in there, crying or decorating. “So what are you saying, Gruber? These guys are getting killed because they're obnoxious?”

“You got any better ideas?”

“They
are
obnoxious,” Sam said.

“Best lead we got is stuff from the guy's shoe, just don't ask me yet where it's gotten us.”

“What shoe?”

“You didn't hear? Cinderella dropped a tennie. Wal-Mart's own version of a Nike. We been thinking about going door to door with every deer hunter we know and inviting them to try on the golden slipper. We're just awaiting authorization to go out and buy us a velvet cushion to carry it on.”

Sonora dumped the sludge into Molliter's coffee mug and filled her cup. Put in a double portion of cream to turn things light brown, instead of tobacco brown. Time to branch out. No sense getting into a rut.

“So what was it?” Sam said.

Gruber scratched his chin. “What?”

Sonora looked up. “The stuff on the bottom of his shoe. Bubble gum? Name, rank, and serial number?”

“Creosote,” Gruber said.

Sonora leaned against Sam. “Creosote. Where do you find creosote?”

“Places,” Gruber said.

Sam stuck his tongue in his cheek, thinking. “Telephone poles. Maybe this guy's a pole climber for the phone company.”

“Ought to be easy to find if he uses a deer rifle to reach out and touch someone,” Sonora said.

Sam nodded. “Poor son of a bitch is probably just trying to find his own true voice.”

Gruber looked at them. “You guys through? I mean, I don't want to interrupt if you got more of this shit to get out of your system. And don't think just because I already heard all these bad jokes at least twice is any reason not to carry on there.”

Sam grabbed Sonora's coffee cup out of her hand, took a sip. “I don't think our humor is appreciated.” He picked a scrap of pink paper off his desk. “Before I forget, you also had a message from Money-Wise Rent-a-Car.”

Sonora took the scrap of paper Sam was holding. “That's Julia Winchell's rental company, Sam. You're just sitting on this?”

“They said personal.”

“I told them to ask for me personally.” Sonora frowned. Now Molliter knew they'd found Julia Winchell's car. She didn't feel good about that.

“Think her car's turned up?” Sam said.

“It's got to be somewhere. We could call the psychic hotline, or we can call the guys from Money-Wise. What would you do, Sam?”

“I'd get more sleep so I wouldn't be such a …” He looked at her. “Irritable person.”

37

It drizzled on the way to the airport. Sam drove, air conditioner on high, windows steaming as cold air mixed with hot humidity and tiny slips of rainwater. The roads were slick in spots, drizzle mixed with baked grime and oil spills.

“Turn the wipers up a notch,” Sonora said.

“Who's driving, girl, you or me?”

The windshield wipers were on the low, occasional setting. In between swipes the drizzle piled up into what Sonora considered to be intolerable levels.

“I thought Money-Wise didn't have an office at the airport. Sonora?”

“I'm not telling you a thing till you turn the wipers up.”

“Why do you have to see? I'm the one driving.” He turned the wipers up a notch.

Sonora glanced in the rearview mirror. It was just on five and traffic was getting slow and thick.

“No, Money-Wise doesn't have offices at airports, ever. But for some reason, this car's in the B lot with all the other rentals.”

“How'd they find it?”

“Their guys cruise the airport lots on a regular basis. Most people don't realize Money-Wise doesn't have offices at airports—cars get left there all the time.”

“So how come it took two weeks to find it?”

“That's what I asked. Guy I talked to said there were two possibilities. One, it just got there. Two, it's the busy season. Nobody's had time to cruise for cars. Sam, the rain's stopped and that squeak is driving me nuts.”

“You want the wipers off now?”

The representative from Money-Wise Rent-a-Car was young, hair trimmed short, neatly dressed in a suit in spite of the heat. He stood with an air of possessiveness next to a red Ford Escort. The first thing Sonora noticed about the car was the windshield, which was cracked.

“John Curtis.”

The kid smiled at Sonora, shook her hand gravely, and called her ma'am. She wondered what the possibility was that her son would turn out this way. She wondered if she wanted him to.

The asphalt parking lot was spotted with damp, from the rain. The air had gone steamy, and Sonora's hair was curling on her shoulders. She lifted it off her neck, thought about cutting it very short.

Sonora give Curtis a second look. His skin was white and sweaty, eyes red-rimmed. Out late drinking, she knew the signs.

Typical All-American boy.

Sonora heard Sam muttering into a radio. “Got a key?” she asked the boy.

“Yes, ma'am. But I'm not supposed to—”

“We're impounding the vehicle, which is now evidence in a murder investigation. You know how long it's been parked here?”

“Not exactly, no ma'am. We found it after lunch, a couple of hours ago. It was on our hot list, so I called Mr. Douglas as soon as we found it.”

“And this is normal procedure? Cruising airport lots for your rentals?”

“Oh, yeah. People leave them here all the time. Most rental places have airport offices and they assume we do too. But we don't have one-way rental. You can't, like, rent a car in Cleveland and leave it in Cincinnati.”

“Have to take it back where you picked it up?”

He nodded. “Which means we have to be careful when we do cruise the lots. Sometimes people leave them in the airport lot and want it there when they get back. They're not too happy if it isn't there waiting for them.”

Sonora nodded. Curtis had the air of someone who faced the firing squad when a customer got unhappy.

Sonora touched Curtis's arm. “Look, it's hot out, and you'll excuse me for being blunt, but you look like you're going to vomit in my crime scene, so—”

“We were out late, entertaining clients. Is this a crime scene?”

“Yeah, and you look like you entertained real well last night. Why don't you go on inside where it's air-conditioned, find yourself a men's room, and throw up. We'll talk some more when you're done.”

He gave her a grateful look, headed for the terminal, moving fast.

“Did I hear you tell that kid to go throw up?” Sam. At her elbow, cheek full of tobacco. He was wearing some kind of shaving lotion that made her want to get closer. She didn't.

“Yeah, so?”

Sam got closer to the car. Sniffed, tentatively. “No body.”

Sonora dug in her purse for gloves. “No flies, anyway.” She checked her recorder to make sure it held a fresh tape.

“Kid get in the car?” Sam asked.

“Says not. We'll get his prints just in case.” She pointed to the crack in the windshield. “What do you think of this?”