Flashpoint (30 page)

“You must be Bonheur.”

They shook hands. He wore a diamond-encrusted wedding ring and his grip was firm. He was built like a football player, hair close-cropped and balding at the top. He opened the passenger door of a pale blue Taurus and motioned Sonora in. She would have thought it was funny he drove the same make of official car she did if her head hadn't been pounding so hard.

“Thought there was going to be two of you.”

“My partner had to stay behind. Little girl is in the hospital.”

“Too bad. Got your suitcase and everything. You all checked out?”

She nodded, slung the suitcase in the back, and settled in the front seat.

“What time you get in?”

“Three
A.M
. Fly back out tonight around six.”

“Running you ragged, aren't they? First name's Ray.”

“Sonora.”

“You like Atlanta, Sonora?”

Sonora took her sunglasses off and looked at him. “Ray, I
love
Atlanta. It is vastly superior to Cincinnati, which when I left it was gloomy and gray.”

“That's the North for you.”

A horn honked, and Ray switched lanes quickly. He drove the car in short jerky spurts, and Sonora put a hand on her stomach.

“You know, talking on the phone and all, I kind of got the impression you were white.”

“Excuse me, Ray?”

“White, you know, not green, like you are now. You feeling bad or something?”

“Having a Maalox moment.”

“Ulcer, huh? You know, my wife has a cure for that.”

“Maybe I should give her a call.”

Bonheur changed lanes again, cutting off a Subaru. The driver flipped a rod and Bonheur shook his head. “You don't want to. My wife's cures are usually worse than the disease.” He gave her a sideways glance. “How about we go downtown and let you get a good look at the case file. Then we can go out and see the crime scene. Maybe grab an early lunch. We have an appointment with James Selby around twelve-thirty, quarter to one.”

“He okay about talking to me?”

“Yeah, but it's been a long time since it happened. He blocked a lot of it, right after.”

“You have him hypnotized?”

“DA nixed it. Said too much chance of planting suggestions that would seem like memories. Didn't want to muddy his credibility as a witness, not that it ever came to court—we didn't get close. But I've talked to this guy since, and he's been filling in the gaps. Hard to know, though, if it's real or not. You can read the transcripts of what he said right after it happened, and decide for yourself.”

“She ever get in touch with you?”

“She? The killer?”

“Yeah.”

He looked at her. “You mean like some woman on the edge of the investigation, trying to help or be involved?”

“Yeah, sort of.”

He shook his head. “We watch for that, with the weird stuff, but I don't think it ever came up. Why, you got somebody?”

“She calls me.”

“The killer does? You sure it's her?”

“I'm sure.”

“What's she say?”

Sonora talked. He listened. Frowning. Then rubbed his chin.

“Sounds like it's got to be her. Sounds like she's losing it, too. Happens sooner or later. Takes more risk, more fantasy, to keep 'em happy.”

“You think she wants to get caught?”

“Hard to tell. That business with her coming to the house, that's creepy. Your kids safe right now?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“She wants to get caught, she can always turn herself in. I think she likes the game.”

“I think she may be … trying to connect. She's angry.”

“They all are.”

“Serial killers?”

He grinned at her. “Women.”

James Selby lived in a brick Cape Cod on the opposite side of town from the crime scene—which in Atlanta during afternoon traffic meant a two-hour drive. Waxy-looking ivy hugged both sides of the house. There was a square plaque in the front yard, announcing the name of the security firm that watched the premises. Sonora had noticed similar plaques in a lot of the yards. Atlanta had a crime rate that thrived with the magnolia blossoms.

Selby's front door was wood plank and horseshoe shaped, with black metal hasps at the top and bottom that made Sonora think of Lutheran churches. The door had been painted dark red sometime in the last month, and a new, freshly polished brass kickplate ran along the bottom. Sonora heard wind chimes.

Bonheur galloped up three red-brick steps to the tiny front porch and rang the doorbell. Sonora followed slowly, hand on the wrought-iron railing. Off in the distance came the burr of a lawn mower.

Bonheur touched her shoulder. “Brace yourself. He's been through a lot of operations. Spent the better part of three years in the hospital, and if you think he looks bad now, you should have seen him then.”

The door opened and swung inward, and a man appeared in the shadowed hallway.

“James. My man.”

“Ray. Good to see you, come on in.” The voice was the low rasp of severely damaged vocal cords.

Sonora followed Bonheur up the front stoop into the dim, tiled hallway.

Even in the thin light, James Selby was startling. Sonora felt her stomach sink as she took in the elongated, scarred features, one sightless eye lower than the other. His hair grew in a patch on the back of his scalp, blending with a bad toupee. His face looked like it had melted, smeared, then frozen. The neck was thickly scarred, one hand misshapen, the forearm curled forward.

Bonheur touched Selby on the shoulder. “Standing beside me here is Detective Blair. I told you about her.”

Selby's thin, slash lips stretched into a smile. “Good to meet you, Detective. Forgive me, do you use Pond's moisturizing cream?”

“Yes.”

“I like the way it smells. Very fresh, better than perfume. My sense of smell is fantastic since I lost my sight.”

“Please don't tell me what I ate for lunch.”

Selby laughed, a raspy bark. “Come in, we'll sit for a while.”

He led them into a dark living room and switched on a lamp. Late-afternoon sun slanted in from French doors that opened onto a brick patio. A golden retriever lay like a sphinx next to a shabby green easy chair. The dog wore a thick leather harness on her back and watched James Selby's every move, tail thumping the floor.

“That's Daffney, by the way. She'll play cute and show you her tummy, but I'll have to ask you not to pet her. She's a working dog and she's on duty.”

Daffney immediately rolled to her back, front paws paddling the air. Sonora thought of Clampett and hoped the kid next door was being diligent about letting him out.

“I think that bulb's burned out, on your lamp there,” Bonheur said.

Selby looked up. “Is it? Let me get another one.”

“Don't bother, James. We got enough light from the window.”

“If you're sure.” He held up a plastic board. “Look at this, Ray, this is something new.” He turned his head toward Sonora. “It's a Braille writer—works so that you can write and read left to right, instead of backward. I'm testing it. They have this great questionnaire for feedback. Not in Braille, though.” He laughed again, hoarsely.

Sonora glanced around the room. There were no knickknacks and precious little furniture. A grand piano sat in one corner, black, highly polished. Sonora and Bonheur sat at either end of a floral patterned couch that had the look of a valuable antique. There were food stains on the upholstery.

The fireplace was choked with charred lumps of wood and thick gray ashes. A green rag rug in front of the hearth was thickly coated in dog hair. Sonora pictured the man and the dog, sitting in this room on chilly nights, the only light from the glow of the fire.

Shelving along the wall held stacks of CDs and one picture in a wood frame. Sonora crossed the room for a closer look.

Selby cocked his head to one side, and the dog watched, eyes alert. “You're interested in the picture, Detective Blair? I'm afraid that's my vanity showing, leaving it out. I like people to know what the man inside looks like.”

Sonora picked up the frame. The print was eight-by-ten, black-and-white. The focus was slightly off.

“That was taken a few months before it happened.”

They all knew what “it” was.

The photograph showed James Selby sitting at the piano. A girl sat beside him, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist, her heart-shaped face porcelain pretty. A fire flickered in the fireplace, and the photographer had caught the reflection of the flames in the surface of the polished piano.

Sonora felt a twinge of dread. This could be Keaton, she thought, looking back at James Selby. They had been so very alike—brown eyes, dark curly hair, that solid presence.

Sonora stared through the French doors to the algae-scummed birdbath, the snarled cluster of rosebushes, the weeping willow tree—James Selby's backyard that she could see and he could not. She took a breath and sat back down on the couch.

He looked different to her now. He was the man in the picture.

“Tell me your story,” she said.

Selby waved a hand self-consciously, as if she had not come cross-country to hear him. “Ray's heard all this before.”

Sonora wondered what his voice had been like. Low and sexy? Had he sung in the shower? She opened her purse and set out the recorder.

“Forget Bonheur, he can always take a nap. Take your time, Mr. Selby. Tell me everything you remember, and I'll bring you her head on a stick.”

Selby looked up sharply. “Ray, I like this woman.”

“No doubt she earns her ulcer.”

Selby tucked a small cushion under the curled arm, then draped his good right arm on the side of the chair.

“In the beginning, Detective Blair, there were phone calls.”

He had practiced this, Sonora thought. He had everything thought out and worked through.

“The calls began after Easter, lots of them, calling and hanging up. Sometimes she would talk. She'd say, hello there, James. Nothing else.”

Sonora put a fist under her chin.

He had met her at a bar, his usual place. He'd had the vague feeling he'd seen her before.

He had moved away fairly quickly. He was pretty good-looking, and it wasn't unusual for a woman to strike up a conversation. But that night he was there with the guys, and he wanted nothing more than the traditional beers after Wednesday-night softball.

Sonora heard pain in his voice. And pride. She wondered about the girl in the picture.

He left the bar around ten. It was a weeknight, and he had to be at work by eight.

Where did he work?

A bank. He was a teller, on his way up. He'd liked the job a lot.

She'd approached him in the parking lot, hands nervously twisting the strap of a large leather bag slung over her shoulder. It was an old mailbag, scuffed and worn, and he'd asked her about it. She said she'd gotten it at a flea market.

“Flea markets and antiques,” Sonora muttered.

Selby shifted the crippled arm.

She had car trouble. She'd had her transmission replaced and now the engine wouldn't start. He'd offered to take a look—a skiffy transmission shouldn't keep the engine from catching—but she'd said no. It was under warranty. She'd have somebody come out and take a look at it in the morning, could he just give her a quick ride home?

She had looked over her shoulder when she asked him, and had seemed small and scared. Selby laughed here, saying he'd thought she was nervous of him. He was a big guy, six feet and solid, and he'd offered to lend her cab fare.

That had seemed to reassure her. She'd nodded shyly, not smiling, and opted for the ride. That was why he was so sure she was nervous of him, because she never smiled. He thought she was afraid.

“James, did you see her car, at the bar?” Sonora asked.

“Uh … I didn't check under the hood or anything. She said it was a transmission thing. I didn't get the feeling she wanted me to take a look or anything. She seemed resigned, you know?”

“So you never actually saw the car?”

Selby was quiet. “Guess not. I don't really remember.”

Bonheur shifted sideways in his chair. “We followed up on the car angle. Checked the lot at the bar the next morning. Went to repair shops. Never got anywhere.”

“Her car was in the subdivision, dropped off ahead of time,” Sonora said. “Don't you think?”

Bonheur scratched his chin. “Could've had two.”

“Maybe. We place her using cabs, maybe buses.”

“You saying she stood outside that bar crying car trouble but no car?”

Ballsy, Sonora thought. “Takes your breath away, doesn't it?” She looked at Selby. “So she's got you feeling protective, and you offer to take her home. Then what?”

Selby settled deeper into his chair. “She gives me the address, but I couldn't place it. She told me the subdivision was new, no way I'd know it. Actually, she said you'uns. No way you'uns would know it.” He swallowed. “The way she said it. Made her seem … smalltown, kind of. Vulnerable.”

Sonora nodded here. This was Flash.

They wound up on the outskirts of the city, in a remote area where they were just starting to build houses. Only a smattering of new homes in the front of the subdivision were occupied. He had protested, thinking they'd gone the wrong way. He began to wonder if this woman was some kind of mental case, or if he was being set up for a robbery. He was getting worried, and very sorry he'd picked her up.

Pull up here, she'd told him. And suddenly she had a gun, a twenty-two derringer, small even in her delicate little hand. This is a robbery, she'd explained, unsmiling, voice soft. She wanted his wallet, that was all. He'd handed it over without a word, annoyed with himself for picking her up, thinking this would be too embarrassing to report to the police. Wait till he told the guys at the next softball game.