Flashpoint (20 page)

Time for a dramatic pause, Sonora thought, waiting it out.

Chas frowned, leaned back against the couch, closed his eyes. “I've had a long day. Hell, I've had a long week. I'm dead tired and mega-stressed.”

“Aw, gee.”

He opened his eyes, folded his arms. “Okay, so you're mad. I've talked to Sam and your dad. Even your mother-in-law.”

“You talked to my dad?”

“I know you don't get along, Sonora, but I wanted to let him know my intentions.”

“Which are?”

He rummaged in his bag, pulled out a Dove bar, and smiled.

No, Sonora decided, a smirk, not a smile.

“Chocolate. And better than chocolate. Diamonds.” Chas held a black velvet box up in the air, just out of reach. “Make me happy, Sonora.”

“I'm supposed to jump for it?”

His lips tightened, and he leaned close. “Stop playing games, Sonora, and tell me what's on your mind.”

She took a breath. “You remind me of my dead husband.”

His mouth opened, then closed, and he swallowed. The smirk came back. He had decided to be amused. “Is that all?”

“Let's just say it's not a compliment, and I don't want to make the same mistake twice.”

“Maybe he's better off dead,” Chas muttered.

“Maybe I'm better off.”

He shook his head slowly. “I thought you'd be happy to get married, I
know
you would. There's got to be more to this. Something's going on you're not telling me.”

“Maybe I don't like the feather in your hat. Or that you whistle
Carmen
all the time. Maybe I don't like it that you play competition Frisbee.”

“What's wrong with Frisbee?”

“Nothing, unless you call it
ultimate
Frisbee and get intense.”

“It's that incident with the car, am I right?”

Sonora cocked her head to one side. “Reason enough, don't you think?”

“I promise, I
promise
you. Nothing like that will ever happen again.”

“You're right about that, Chas.”

“It wasn't that big a deal, Sonora.”

She leaned forward, into his face. “It
was
a big deal. You went off. For no reason, out of the blue, you go nuts behind the wheel. You hit that Volvo on
purpose
and had the unmitigated gall to get out and tell the driver it was
my
fault for making you mad. You used the car like a weapon—”

“Oh, I can't believe I'm hearing this. So now you're abused?”

“Go home, Chas. You make me tired.”

“Just like that, huh?” He stood up, walked three steps, then turned around, smoothing the thick black hair, his pride and joy. “You've got someone else, don't you?”

“This discussion is over.”

He tossed the velvet box on the floor by her feet. “Don't you even want to look at it?”

“No.”

“I have champagne in the bag. You want to keep it to celebrate your aloneness tonight?”

“Take it and go.”

He grabbed the bag and the box, but did not notice the Dove bar wedged between the center couch cushions. Sonora followed him to the door.

He looked back at her over his shoulder. “I take back my marriage proposal, Sonora. But we could have been a dynamite couple.”

She inclined her head in the direction of the den and the kids. “I'm past the couple stage, Chas. I'm a family.”

“Be picky if you want, Sonora. But it's not going to be easy to find someone willing to put up with a pissy dog and two kids.”

“What's difficult is finding somebody worthy of the privilege.”

She closed the door in his face. Heard applause. Tim stood on the staircase next to Heather, who ran and put her arms around Sonora's waist.

Tim shook his head. “Good going, Mom. You'll never get married at this rate.”

Sonora was aware of thunder, and a tiny tap on her shoulder. Lightning cracked and lit the room. Heather stood beside the couch, eyes wide, thumb in her mouth. She was neatly belted into a white bathrobe with pink, rosebuds and wearing her favorite kitty slippers—two sizes too small. She had likely been roaming the house for a while, trailing her favorite blanket.

The room went dark again, dimly lit by the glow of the television and the tiny green lights on the VCR. Harrison Ford was on screen, fixing a broken birdhouse.

Sonora moved Clampett off her feet, shoved the half-eaten Dove bar out of her lap, and raised the end of the quilt to let her daughter under.

“Scared of the storm?”

Heather nodded, crawled onto the couch, and laid her head on Sonora's shoulder.

“Mommy?”

Sonora yawned, closed her eyes. “Hmmm?”

“Will you be home when I wake up in the morning?”

The phone rang, and Clampett opened his red-rimmed brown eyes. Sonora pulled her arm out of the cocoon she'd made with the heating pad and reached for the cordless, realized her hands were shaking. Flash calling? Who else, this time of night. Phone taps were in place. She swallowed.

“Sonora Blair.”

“Sonora. I'm sorry, I know it's late, I've been on the road all night.”

She recognized his voice immediately, as well as the cadences of panic. “Keaton? What's wrong?” She glanced at her watch, squinting. One-thirty
A.M
.

“I just got home, to the town house. And there's another one of those envelopes. Like the other one, you know?”

“I know, Keaton.” Use his name. Keep him calm. She pulled Heather close.

“It feels like there's two pictures in there this time.”

“You haven't opened it?”

“No.”

“Don't open it, okay? Keaton?”

“Okay.”

“Look, I'm coming over, just sit tight. I'll be there as soon as I can.” She rang off.

Heather sucked her thumb, blue eyes stoic. “You got to go again, Mommy?”

“Yeah. But I'll get Uncle Stuart to come keep you safe in the storm.”

“Mom?”

Sonora looked up. Saw Tim in the stairwell, still in blue jeans. She looked at her watch. “Why aren't you in bed?”

Clampett padded up the stairs, licked the boy's bare toes.

Tim scratched the dog's ears.

“You got to go to work, Mom?”

“Afraid so.”

“Don't forget your gun.”

“I won't. I'll get Stuart to come.”

“I can take care of things.”

“I know. But he's still coming.”

Tim nodded. Seemed glad. He was young, Sonora thought. And it was the middle of the night. And Flash was out there, somewhere.

24

The town house was dark, though a light glowed from the back. Sonora parked at the curb and shut the car door softly. The street was still, the houses dark and silent. In the background came the roar of the highway.

Sonora's boot heels were noisy on the sidewalk. The front door was open, the storm door shut. She rang the bell and waited—tried the handle, found it unlatched, and went inside.

Keaton Daniels had left a trail. A canvas briefcase had been dropped in the foyer, a tie unknotted and hung over the banister that curved into the living room. The kitchen light was on. Sonora could see a stack of mail on the table, a curling newspaper.

A bottle of gin was open, next to a half-filled glass.

The mail was scattered.
Men's Health, Gentlemen's Quarterly, Highlights for Children
. A MasterCard bill, good news from Ed McMahon, pizza coupons, something official from the legal firm of James D. Lyon. A bill from Hallock Construction. A cheap white envelope next to the one from the legal firm, torn across the top.

He hadn't been able to wait. Sonora glanced at her watch and saw that it was 2:40. She had left him alone too long.

The pictures were Polaroids, one sitting crooked. Sonora resisted the urge to straighten it up. She focused on the pictures, shivered, sat down slowly, and put her head in her hands. Then looked again.

In the picture on the left, Mark Daniels struggled with the handcuffs. Sonora could see the sweat rolling down his temples. She looked closely. Something odd, something in his fingers.

The second picture was the bad one, taken just as the fire licked the top of the car window and Mark Daniels faced death. His mouth was closed. He was not screaming.

Sonora went to the back door and looked out at the tiny, sloped yard that was enclosed by an eight-foot privacy fence. She flipped the porch light on. Keaton Daniels had his back to her, hands jammed in his pockets. He was looking over the fence to the city lights below.

The rain had not come, but there was thunder crowding close. Sonora walked across the yard, grass curling around her boots.

“Keaton?” she said softly.

He didn't seem to hear. She touched his shoulder with her left hand, and he laid his hand on top of hers and squeezed.

“Don't say anything.” His voice was thick, as if he'd been crying.

Sonora moved in front of him.

He had changed in some subtle way that troubled her, as if once he was
there
, and now he was
here
. The funeral, just that afternoon, seemed miles and years away. She squeezed his hand, took a step toward him, her shirt just a hair's breadth from his. He did not back away. She took his face between her hands and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him.

He hesitated, and her stomach tensed and fluttered. Then he bent close. He grabbed her hard, his tongue in her mouth, and she felt the sandpaper bristles of his unshaven cheeks, the soft chill wetness of his tears.

When she pulled back he caught her shoulders. She closed her eyes. Tonight he was vulnerable. Tonight would be taking advantage.

“You shouldn't be alone, Keaton, can I drop you somewhere?”

“No,” he said.

“You're sure?”

“Sure.”

“I'm going back in the kitchen for a minute. Stay here.”

She went through the house to her car, got a paper grocery bag from the kit of stuff in the trunk, put the pictures and envelope in. She stacked his mail, glanced out in the yard. He had his back to her. She was halfway to him when he turned.

“You're leaving?”

She nodded. She could think of no words of comfort, no words to take the pain away. “I'll call you.”

“Sure.”

She paused at the gate, hand on the latch, and turned to see he was watching. “I'll get her,” she told him.

25

Sonora carried the paper bag up to the fifth floor of the Board of Elections building to Homicide. She saw a shaft of light beneath Crick's door, waved at Sanders, who'd pulled the 8
P.M
. to 4
A.M
. shift. Her favorite.

“Something up?” Sanders asked.

“More pictures.”

Sanders scooted back in her chair, pushed hair out of her eyes with a hand that shook. “From Flash?”

Sonora nodded.

“Bad?” Sanders said.

“Bad. Anybody in the lab?”

Sanders shook her head.

Sonora headed for the swing door that joined Homicide and CSU. “Better here than in the trunk of my car. Let Crick know, will you?”

She left the Polaroids on Terry's desk with a note. Was leaving just as Crick and Sanders came in.

“Sonora?” Crick said.

“Over there, Sergeant.” She pushed past him. She wasn't up for another look at Mark Daniels, brave, agonized. She checked her watch. After three;
A.M
. at that. Her message light was blinking.

One from Delores what's her name, returning her call. Another from a cop in Memphis, unsolved arson/homicide. Sonora made a note of his name and number.

“Sonora?”

She jumped, though the tone of voice was gentle. Crick looked angry, as usual. Sonora did not have the urge to tell him to loosen his tie, because he'd already taken it off. She rested her elbow on the desk, propping her chin.

“You still here?” he said.

“Such a detective. You see the pictures?”

He answered with a grimace. “Wonder how many more like that she's got.”

Sonora shrugged. “Not sure Daniels can take too many more.”

Crick rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Not sure I can. Maybe Terry will get a print this time. And Blair, go home, you look like hell.”

“Sir, I got a message here from a homicide cop in Memphis. Three years ago they had a murder pretty similar to the Mark Daniels killing.”

“Think it's Flash again, huh?”

“Even better than Atlanta, except the victim didn't survive. Killer was a woman, and she used handcuffs.”

“So now you want to go to Memphis.”

“I'm also playing telephone tag with a Delores something or other in West Virginia.”

“
Another
one?”

“Yes sir.”

He rested a hand on the back of her chair, making it creak. “You file VICAP with the FBI?”

“Not yet. You think we could get some kind of voice analysis?”

“To tell us what? She's a homicidal maniac? That she's dangerous? That she's going off big time?”

Sonora bit her lip. “Point taken.”

“Sorry, didn't mean to blow off on you, Sonora. Hang on.” He went to his office, left the door gaping. She heard a file drawer open, a curse, the file sliding closed. Didn't quite catch, from the sound of it. Which bugged her. She got up and went to the doorway.

Crick waved a thick booklet of papers. “Here we go.”

“The drawer didn't catch.”

“What?”

“File drawer.” Sonora crossed the room, pushed the drawer, second from the bottom, with the toe of her shoe. Heard the click. Felt better.

“You happy now?” Crick said.

She pointed to the booklet. “You know and I know the FBI won't come in on this till we have a name, address, and signed murder warrant. Why are you giving me this at three o'clock in the morning?”