Flashpoint (22 page)

Sanders looked at Sonora. “You were talking about going back to her early years. If she went to college, there might have been some unexplained fires. We could talk to the campus police.”

Crick started stacking papers. “Good idea, Sanders. Get on it today.”

“Out of the mouths of babes,” Gruber said.

Sonora looked at Sanders, saw the woman's red face, waited. Sanders picked up her papers, eyes downcast.

“Okay,” Crick said. “Gruber. Stay with the taxi and the transport. See if you can pick Flash up after the antique store. Sonora, you and Sam take the store itself. Molliter—”

Molliter checked his watch. “I have a possible suspect due in. Late, already.”

“This early and he's late?” Sam asked.

Gruber grinned. “She. Hooker, on her way home from work.”

Molliter blushed, “She may pan out, as an informant. It's always possible our killer is a prostitute.”

“Go to it.” Crick rubbed the back of his neck. “Any more phone calls, Sonora? Hang-ups, anything?”

Sonora glanced at the floor. Did she really want to tell Crick and everyone else what Flash had said about her mother? She wondered how Flash had gotten the number to her phone, how she'd found out the things she had no business knowing.

“No sir.”

It was the first lie, a gentle lie, to protect a part of herself that needed to stay private.

28

Sonora listened to her daughter sob on the other end of the phone.

“It's my tea set that Santa Claus brought me. The one I use for the ponies.”

Sam walked by, mouthed “antique store,” and pointed at his watch. Sonora nodded at him. Okay already. The side of her neck was aching. Too much time on the phone.

“When's the last time you had it, Heather? Maybe it's just in the closet, in all the mess.” If it was, Sonora thought, it might never be seen again.

“I had it out on the back porch. Somebody's tooken it.”

Taken it, Sonora thought. “That's what happens when you leave your stuff outside, Heather.” She glanced up to see Sam shaking his head at her. Mean mommy. Sonora closed her eyes and swallowed nausea. Too early for the ulcer, but here it was anyway. Lack of sleep. Unless it was something else, like … no, no. It couldn't be that. Sonora glanced at the calendar on her desk and realized her period was late.

“Mommy?”

“Look, Heather, I'm sorry you feel bad. Mommy's at work right now, but we can talk about this some more when I come home. Look under your bed and in your closet. Maybe you didn't leave it outside.”

Tim's voice echoed in the background. “I bet it's under your bed. Come on, you dork, I'll help you look.”

Sam settled on the corner of Sonora's desk as she hung up. “Now can we go?”

“I'm ready if … excuse me, Sam. There's Sanders by the coffeemaker. Time out for baby training.”

“Baby training?”

“Be right back.”

Sonora leaned against the bathroom wall and folded her arms. Sanders gave her a nervous look, then turned to the mirror, digging in her purse for a brush, lipstick. It gave Sonora a pang to realize that she made the other woman nervous. She thought of Flash, and girl conversations over the phone Sonora grimaced.
Not the same
. Sanders looked at her, and she folded her arms.

“I'd say sit down, but for obvious reasons, I don't think either of us would be comfortable that way.”

Sanders laughed and bit her bottom lip.

“I know this sounds offensive, Sanders, but you don't have a penis, do you?”

“
What?
”

“Now, you could buy yourself a penis in the back of one of those magazines they pore over down in vice, but it wouldn't be the same, would it? So save yourself some confusion and hurt feelings. You're not going to be one of the boys. This isn't woman-to-woman stuff. I'm telling you the same thing my sergeant told me eight years ago, okay? Don't let guys like Gruber interrupt you every two seconds. They're not going to take you seriously, you put up with that.”

“I don't want to be rude.”

“
They're
being rude.”

“So you're saying I should file a complaint?”

“You want to file a complaint because you got interrupted?”

Sanders folded her arms. “Then what do I do?”

“You handle it, and you better do it now, because it's going to get worse if you don't. Draw a line and don't let anybody step over it, and don't hold a grudge. Oh, and Sanders, when you do take a stand out there, try not to smile.”

“Smile?”

“My observation is that women always smile no matter what. I bet Bundy's victims smiled before he killed them. You're a cop. Don't smile when people are giving you grief.”

“You've given me a lot to think about.”

“Good. It's one reason I like working with women. They think.”

29

A wooden carousel horse sat in the display window of Shelby's Antiques. The white enamel was chipped and worn, the red and blue roses painted round its neck drab and faded. For the first time in her life, Sonora had the urge to buy an antique.

A cluster of bells at the top of the front door jangled as she and Sam walked in. Sonora went directly to the horse and checked the price tag that hung around its neck. Her urge to buy an antique went away.

It was a large store, crammed full of furniture and shelves that held displays of dolls and bins of odds and ends—flea-market stuff, which Sonora always thought of as junk. She found the thick odor of old things unpleasant. There were tin trays that said Coca-Cola, Betty Boop postcards, tiny, colored-glass bottles, playing cards from New York City. Coke bottles, moldering books, World War II medals, china dolls, plastic dolls, a teeny little tea set. Much of the small stuff hailed from the forties and fifties, with an old-fashioned aura of tackiness Sonora found depressing.

She passed a rack of white gauze dresses that swayed when she walked too close. She fingered the smallest, touching the delicate cotton, the yellowed satin ribbon, the row of tiny pearl buttons.

“Blue Willow plates!” Sam moved to a table by a pile of books. “Shelly's got one her grandmother gave her. You've seen it, it's on the wall in the kitchen. Shelly would love this place. She would eat this up with a spoon.”

Sonora walked deeper into the store, warped tile beneath her feet. She passed a Victrola and a stack of LPs in worn jackets. The one on top was
Carmen
.

A woman stood behind the counter, manning a polished-brass cash register. Her hair was very dark, parted in the middle, flipped under. Her figure would have been considered wholesome and fine in the fifties. She wore dark lipstick and had heavy brown eyebrows. A pair of glasses hung from a chain around her neck. She was studying a stack of papers, making notations in ink. Sonora would have guessed her to be a Ph.D., teaching anthropology or medieval literature at an Ivy League university.

The woman looked up and smiled, and Sonora reached for her ID.

“Morning. I'm Specialist Blair, Cincinnati Police Department, and the man over there admiring the Blue Willow plates is Specialist Delarosa. I'd like to ask you a few questions.”

The woman put her glasses on, took her time studying Sonora's ID, cocked her head sideways to get a good look at Sam.

Sonora fumbled with her recorder, peeling cellophane from a fresh tape. “I'm a homicide detective. I'm investigating a murder.”

“A murder?”

Sonora nodded. “I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name?”

“Shelby Hargreaves. I'm part owner.”

“
H-A-R-G-R-E-A-V-E-S?
”

“Yes.”

“Were you here last Tuesday? I was wondering if you waited on a woman that afternoon—I have a sketch. It would have been around …” Sonora glanced at her notes. “Sometime after lunch. Two, maybe three. You were here then?”

“I was here all day. I was in early, around seven, and didn't leave till after nine.”

“This lady is blond, between twenty-five and thirty-five. Small boned. I've got the sketch here, but it's not one hundred percent accurate, you understand?”

“You could be describing yourself, Detective.”

Sonora grimaced.

Shelby Hargreaves frowned over the drawing, then tapped her cheek with a short fingernail that shone with clear polish. “I think so. Yes, if this is the one I'm thinking of, I helped her myself. She came in a taxi.”

Sonora kept her face noncommittal. “You noticed that?”

“It's unusual, don't you think? Most people drive their own car, or walk, or maybe take a bus. They don't take a taxi to go shopping.”

“How about when she left?”

“I don't think I noticed. She didn't ask to use the phone, so she could call a ride. She just went out. Headed toward town, I'm pretty sure.”

“Toward town,” Sonora echoed. They could check bus schedules and cab companies. “How long was she here?”

“An hour and a half, maybe two hours. She was a browser. I think she'd been in before, because she had certain areas she went to—like she knew where we kept the things she liked.”

Shelby Hargreaves slipped the glasses off her nose and rubbed her eyes. “She was very much in her own little world, that one. Came walking in all business, then wandered slowly down the aisles, like an enchanted princess. Antique magic.”

Sam walked toward them down the aisleway, turning his head now and then as something caught his eye. “You watch all your customers that close?” he asked.

Hargreaves shook her head. “Not usually. But she had an acquisitive look. She wanted things, touched them, like a spoiled little girl at a candy counter. I call it greedy fingers.”

Sam grinned, and Hargreaves gave him a particular smile.

“What kind of things did she look at?” Sam said.

Hargreaves leaned both elbows on the counter. “Dolls were the main fascination, and what I call the miniatures. Dollhouse furniture. She liked that little tea set over there, did you see that?”

Hargreaves moved from behind the counter and led them to a small child's tea set.

Sonora frowned. Something here that bothered her.

“This set is too small, really, for the size doll she wanted, but she wouldn't look at anything bigger.” Hargreaves led them down the aisle. “She looked at these for a long time.”

They were displayed on a mahogany sideboard—china dolls, exquisitely dressed, blue marble eyes fringed by thick dark lashes, lids that opened and shut. Some of the dolls wore earrings, and one had a parasol, trimmed in lace, and delicate bisque rouged cheeks.

“My daughter would love these,” Sonora said.

Hargreaves nodded and grimaced. “It's only adults, collectors, who have these kinds of dolls nowadays. It's hard to remember sometimes that they were made for children.” She pointed to a boy doll dressed in brown velveteen pants and jacket, ivory lace at the sleeves and throat. “She looked at this one quite a while. Too expensive, I guess. He's a German bisque boy. A character doll, see the painted eyes? It's a Simon and Halbig. But she didn't go for it. She didn't like the hair. It's blond, you see, and she wanted dark hair. I wound up getting her one I had downstairs. It wasn't in mint condition—it was missing an arm, and the cheek was scuffed. And it's not marked, so I can't be one hundred percent sure who made it, which decreases the value.” She leaned close to Sam. “Most people, they don't like the missing limbs, and they use that as a major arguing point to bring the price down. Unless they work on dolls themselves, they won't buy. But this girl hardly seemed to notice.”

“I wish I could see it,” Sonora said.

“I've got another like it, a girl. Come with me, I'll show you that.”

She led them into the next room, which was filled with larger pieces—furniture, spinning wheels, cabinets. A wide staircase led from the center of the floor to the basement. Sam motioned Sonora ahead and followed close at her heels.

It was musty smelling downstairs, and cold. The merchandise wasn't as choice. There were a lot of books—old, blue-jacketed Nancy Drew books, Hardy Boys adventures, military paraphernalia. Hargreaves moved purposefully past a dusty, vintage sewing machine, her heels noisy on the yellowed tile. She stopped in front of an open cupboard that was teeming with dolls—many of them missing limbs, some of them nude or headless, all of them battered and worn. The misfits.

“It's a very unusual doll, the one she selected.” Hargreaves reached for a girl doll, about seventeen inches tall. It wore a blue plaid dress; a satin ribbon had somehow been attached to the painted-on hair. “This one is actually marked. It was made in Brooklyn by Modern Toy Company, sometime between 1914 and 1926. My guess is it's an early one, so I'd say 1915 or 16.” She handed the doll to Sonora.

There was a brown stain on the front bib of the dress, but the white kneesocks were surprisingly clean, the yellow shoes unmarked. The arms of the doll were oddly muscular, like drumsticks, and the striated hair and porky little face were painted on. The doll had an oily look that Sonora did not like.

Sam took the doll and waved its little arm. “Sawdust.”

“Right. The body and head are shaped with cork, but the limbs are stuffed with sawdust. They're jointed.” Shelby Hargreaves pulled up the doll's dress. “See here? Disks at the shoulders and hips.”

“How did she pay?” Sonora asked.

“Cash,” Hargreaves said.

“Did she buy anything else?”

“Odds and ends for doll making. I have a box of stuff out in the back.” She inclined her head toward two heavy swing doors. “I let her poke through that, and she picked up a few things. Come on, I'll show you.”

Sonora took the doll away from Sam, smoothed its dress back over its knees.

The back room had a rough cement floor and was dark and drafty. Slits of sunlight shone through cracks in an accordion-style delivery door, which was shut tight and padlocked. A naked bulb hung from the ceiling, providing a cone of dim light and an abundance of dark and shadow.