Flashpoint (10 page)

Sonora rang the doorbell twice. The television noises stopped abruptly, and the front curtain, heavy and blue, twitched at the edge. The front door was pulled open, creating a momentary suction that rattled the storm door.

Sandra Corliss's father was a large man, with broad stooped shoulders. His brown corduroy shirt strained at the belly. His hair was sparse, still fair, blond eyebrows thick. He held the sports section of the newspaper loose by his side. He looked tired.

“Mr. Corliss? I'm Specialist Blair, Cincinnati Police. Excuse me for disturbing you so late. I spoke with Mrs. Corliss yesterday?” She held out her ID.

“Sure, come in.” He took a furtive glance at the identification, as if he felt the inspection was impolite. Sonora saw that he was wearing worn brown slippers.

A collection of shoes, various sizes, was lined neatly on a mat near the front door. The wall-to-wall carpet was pale blue, very thick, and in mint condition.

Sonora wondered if this was one of those households where everyone took off their shoes to preserve the carpet. She was uncomfortably aware that the heel had worn through in her left sock, and she pretended not to notice when Corliss glanced at her feet. Police officers did not take off their shoes on duty. No doubt there was a regulation.

“Sandra's in her room,” Corliss said.

Sonora wondered if he expected her to fetch the child herself.

“Perry, who's this?” A woman in an emerald green sweat suit came in from the kitchen. She was carefully made up with frosty blue eye shadow and heavy eyebrow pencil, and her hair had been securely sprayed in place. The woman's knuckles were coarse and red.

Sonora extended a hand. “I'm Sonora Blair, Cincinnati Police Department. We talked yesterday?”

Mrs. Corliss nodded firmly. “Yes, of course.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Sandra is very upset. She's in her room.”

“Sit down, Detective.” Sandra's father led her to the couch.

Sonora's ears were still ringing from the music in the bar, and she knew she reeked of cigarette smoke. She felt bad suddenly, one of the inexplicable waves of illness she was getting lately. It felt good to sit down.

Corliss settled in a gold velveteen recliner. A picture of a Spanish galleon in storm-tossed seas hung from the wall over his head. An open jar of peanuts sat on a floor lamp that also had a built-in table, imitation marble. The lampshade still wore the plastic slipcover put on at the factory. Corliss sat on the edge of the recliner, tucked the newspaper on the seat behind him, and let his heavy, coarse hands hang between his knees. Sonora wondered what he did for a living.

“Sandra's been real upset,” he told her. “We all have.”

Sonora nodded. “How long had your daughter been dating Mark Daniels?”

“Two … no, three years. We were expecting them to get engaged sometime down the road.” He noted the look on her face. “Me and Sandra made an agreement when I took on extra time to pay for her college. She's not even supposed to think about getting married till after she graduates. Sandra's real smart. Her mama and I agreed she's got to finish school, not quit and put somebody else's boy through.”

“I think you are very wise, Mr. Corliss.”

He nodded. He agreed.

“What's her major?”

“Computer science, though her mom's got her taking secretarial courses. That way she'll always have something to fall back on.”

“You could get her a couch,” Sonora muttered.

Corliss frowned. “A couch?”

To fall back on, Sonora thought. A door opened and closed, and she heard the soft tread of slippered feet on thick carpet.

The girl was heavy hipped and fleshy in blue jeans and a pink sweatshirt with kittens on the front. Her hair was neatly flipped under, and she wore no makeup. Sonora had seen junior high school girls with a more worldly air. Sandra was like Mark, who had baseball cards and bottle caps in his desk drawer. She probably had stuffed animals on her bed and would live at home till she graduated.

Sandra kept her eyes downcast, her mother a force at her back. She took soft tiny steps and came all the way to the couch to shake Sonora's hand.

Mrs. Corliss stood at the edge of the kitchen. “Unless you need us, her daddy and I will be in here.”

Mr. Corliss looked startled to find himself relegated to the kitchen, but obediently stood up.

“That will be fine,” Sonora said, well aware they would be listening in. She took out her notebook and inserted a blank tape in the recorder. She could see that Sandra had been doing a lot of crying and was likely on the verge again. True love, she told her cynical self.

“How long have you and Mark been dating?” Sonora asked. Always start with something easy.

“Two years and two months.”

“Two years and two months,” Sonora repeated softly. She had the feeling that Sandra would be able to reel off hours, days, and minutes.

Sandra swallowed heavily and tucked her chin to her chest, reminding Sonora of her own little girl. Remember the cupcakes, she thought.

Sandra lifted her head and gave Sonora a look of pain-laced eagerness she often got from victims. Still new with their grief, still in denial, they looked to her to bring order to the chaotic abyss of violent crime.

What I bring, Sonora thought, is more pain. She looked at Sandra steadily, knowing the question would bring tears. She was used to tears.

“Talk to me about Mark, Sandra. Tell me all about him.” She hit the button on her recorder. Sandra would be inhibited at first, but in a few minutes she would forget it was there.

Sandra cleared her throat. “Mark was smart. He was nice. He was fun.”

Sonora liked the look of intelligence in the girl's eyes. She leaned sideways against the couch and braced herself for a sanitized description of a boy Sandra would mold into the kind of sainthood engendered by sudden, bitter death.

“He liked animals, and basketball, and walking in the rain.”

Sonora's smile was friendly. “He
liked
walking in the rain?”

Sandra squinched her eyes together. “Sort of.” She twisted the ends of her sweatshirt. “Mainly, I guess he didn't like fooling with umbrellas.”

Here we go, Sonora thought. The terrible truth.

“What else can you tell me about him?”

“Well, I guess Mark thought Keat hung the moon. Their dad died when Mark was in high school. He had a heart attack. And Mark is very … he really looked up to Keaton. Keaton's the kind of brother you look up to. Not like mine.” She grimaced.

“Were Mark and Keaton competitive?”

Sandra pulled her bottom lip. “Only a little. Keaton always tried to build Mark up, you know? Make him look good, talk guy stuff, go to basketball games. But Keaton is always good at everything, and people just like him. Women like him.” She seemed puzzled by women who would prefer Keaton over Mark. “So sometimes I think Mark was a little … oh, I don't know.”

“Out to prove himself?”

“Yeah, like that. But it wasn't tense or anything. Not like they were rivals.”

“Mark have a lot of friends?”

“Gosh, yes. He liked goofing. Like he liked going out, and playing jokes on his friends. He'd talk to just anybody.”

Talked to one body too many, Sonora thought.

“Was he in a fraternity?” she asked.

Sandra shook her head. “He really had a thing against them. See, he's got this friend, this roommate, they've known each other from junior high school. And the roommate is one of those, you know, he—”

“Brian Winthrop? I've met him.”

“Oh, so you know. They both went out for rush, but nobody wanted Brian, so Mark said the heck with the whole thing. Keaton hadn't been in a fraternity either, because he worked all the time, to make sure there would be money for Mark top. I mean, Mark's the kind of guy you imagine in a frat house, he fits in with the guys and likes all the company and goings on. But he wouldn't, because of Brian.”

It showed character, Sonora thought. Mark was taking shape. Keaton's admiring little brother, Sandra's courteous fun-loving boyfriend, Brian's staunch friend.

He was brave, the mystery woman had said over the phone. Had Keaton been talking to the killer?

Sandra's mother leaned into the room, feet still in the kitchen, not
officially
interrupting, but ever mindful of being the hostess.

“Can I get you something to drink, Detective Blair? Some coffee, or maybe a pop? I got Diet Sprite, Diet Orange, and Coke Classic.”

“A Coke sounds really nice,” Sonora said.

Mrs. Corliss looked at her daughter. “Sandra, you want a Diet Sprite?”

“No, Mama.”

The sound of ice being dropped into glasses was distracting. The small rapport between Sonora and Sandra faded.

The drinks came on a tray with a plate of cookies—homemade and high in fat. Sonora took a sip of Coke. It did not sit well.

Sandra ignored the cookies and took a tiny sip of the Sprite that had been delivered with the attitude that Mama knows best. She grimaced and set her glass down with a gesture that dripped rejection.

Grief indeed, Sonora thought.

“Everything tastes like sawdust. Mama's been on me to eat since it happened, but food makes me choke.”

Sonora had been much the same when Zack was killed—food like ashes in her mouth. She'd also wanted to make passionate love to all of the men that she liked. She decided not to share this with Sandra.

“She's just worried about you. Mothers look after their children by feeding them.”

Sandra nodded, eyes glazing over.

“What did your mother think of Mark?” Sonora asked.

“She was crazy about him, she was always inviting him to dinner. He ate like a field hand, and she liked that. He could eat and eat and not gain an ounce.”

“How irritating.” Sonora picked up a cookie.

Sandra nodded vigorously. She picked up a cookie. A tear spilled down her cheek. Sonora could not help but think of her own daughter, of Heather's steady intelligent eyes behind round lenses, the way she would blink if you looked her eye to eye and push the glasses back on her nose. She hoped never to have to talk a child of hers through something like this. Mr. and Mrs. Corliss were not going to have an easy year.

Mark had been a practical joker, never cruel, but constant, always up for a laugh. And never at the expense of Brian, who made an easy target. Sonora listened closely, head bent, hearing the edge that hardened Sandra's voice whenever Winthrop's name came up.

Sonora probed gently but got no hint of jealousy, other than of Winthrop. If Mark had been looking past her, Sandra hadn't known. Sonora wondered what kind of story Sam was getting from the brunette at the bar.

“Sandra, did Mark say anything about strange phone calls? Or maybe someone he met who was … peculiar?”

Sandra frowned. “No, not that I know of. And he would have told me, I'm sure.”

“Did he seem worried or subdued?”

“He was upset about losing his job. He thought they were unfair, and it hurt his feelings.”

Sonora nodded.

“But he was pretty much over it. I think Keaton gave him some money to kind of tide him over, and he had some saved. He was doing okay. He has … he had a real heavy load this semester, so Keaton told him to wait on another job till after finals, then put in a lot of hours as Christmas help. So he was okay. He had more time even, and it took a lot off him. That was why he was up seeing Keaton. 'Cause Keat was kind of down, and Mark wasn't tied to work, so he could go.”

Sonora leaned back against the couch. “What was his brother down about?”

“Him and his wife are having problems. They've been separated for a while, and Keaton was trying to make up his mind if he should go back to her.”

“What did Mark think he should do?”

“There was some kind of problem about the schools where Keaton taught. He took the inner-city ones, by request, and she pushed him into going to a nice one in the suburbs, and he wasn't happy. But he didn't seem so happy
without
her. He was lonely, going to bars a lot. I know Mark was worried. He'd have to be to cut class to go up there.”

“Do you know Keaton's wife?”

“Ashley? I've met her a few times. She works a lot.”

“Mark make any new friends lately? Say in the last month or two?”

“A couple new guys he was playing basketball with. Mainly pickup games.”

Sonora reached into her briefcase. “I want you to look at this sketch, and tell me if this woman looks at all familiar.”

Sandra took the sketch, turned it to one side, studied it carefully. Sonora watched her and felt disappointed. The blank look on the girl's face seemed genuine.

“It's just a sketch, it's not dead-on,” Sonora said. “Does it remind you of anyone at all?”

Sandra shook her head. “Nope. Who is she?”

Sonora was aware of irony. “Could be a witness. We just want to talk to her.”

13

The parking lot at Lynagh's had emptied by the time Sonora got back to pick up Sam. She noticed a Minimart next door, remembered she needed mix for Heather's cupcakes. Her ears were still ringing from earlier in the bar, so she didn't hear the pickup truck pull up.

A young guy with longish hair and a sun-bronzed neck leaned out the window and grinned. Sonora did not catch what he said, but the sexual hostility was thick, and the three men in the front seat laughed.

Sonora went into the grocery. Instinct led her to the aisle where chocolate was sold brazenly out on a shelf like any other uncontrolled and unregulated substance. She heard a masculine snicker and saw, from the corner of her eye, that the three guys from the pickup had followed her in. She was aware of pain in her stomach—the ulcer was dependable, if nothing else. Her face felt hot. She was tired and not in a good frame of mind for this kind of stuff.