Flashpoint (31 page)

She kept reassuring him over and over that she wasn't going to hurt him—that she was afraid of him, and needed getaway time. She tossed him a looped clothesline and told him to wrap it around his wrists, legs, and belly, and thread it through the steering wheel. She took the keys out of the ignition and the car registration out of the glove compartment. Then she'd looked up at him and said, by the way, before you get fancy with the rope there, hand over your clothes.

That was where he'd turned balky. No way was he taking off his clothes, too weird. She'd explained in a firm, matter-of-fact voice that she would put his clothes and car keys together about a hundred feet from the car. That would slow him down and give her plenty of time.

But she had gone strange on him in a way he could not explain. Her eyes were empty, her speech mechanical, as if she wasn't seeing him, as if he wasn't there. Somehow, they weren't connecting.

He stood his ground. She shot him in the leg. Selby's voice still echoed surprise after all these years. He never believed she would shoot him, not without working herself up to it. But she hadn't hesitated.

Sonora nodded slowly. So this was how little Flash had gotten the man tied up.

At first, Selby was saying, he had been so shocked he hardly felt the pain. Flash demanded his shirt, and he handed it over. He remembered he fumbled one of the buttons and she had leaned over and ripped it off, and kept it, clutched in her left fist, right hand steady with the gun. He'd grabbed at her when she got close, and she'd shot him again, the bullet hitting his shoulder.

He was bleeding and hurting, so she'd helped him loop the clothesline around his hands and waist, passing it through the steering wheel. She had tied the knots herself—not very well. He'd done a half-assed job looping the rope around his hands, but she hadn't protested.

She rolled down her window, grabbed her bag, and got out of the car. He watched her from the rearview mirror, though he was getting dizzy and had to concentrate not to pass out. She went to the gas tank, tried to open it, but it was the locking kind. She found the key on his ring—very cool about the whole thing—then pulled plastic tubing and an empty Coke can out of the bag. She put the tube in the gas tank, sucked the end of it, and inserted it through the keyhole opening of the Coke can, filling it with siphoned gas from the tank of his car.

The whole time she worked she hummed. A small part of his mind kept trying to place the song.

She took the dripping Coke can and splashed gasoline in his eyes.

He remembered crying out, rubbing his face on the bare skin of his shoulder, while she splashed gas into his lap, the front seat of the car, and all along the loose end of the clothesline that she pulled out of the window to the pavement below.

He heard her fumble in the bag, saw a flash, and opened his eyes long enough to see that she had a camera and had taken his picture.

He was sick now, the gasoline fumes making him nauseous and dizzy, and his thoughts weren't connecting too well. He smelled the burnt head of a match. He opened his eyes to the nightmare vision of a ribbon of flame eating its way up the clothesline, and—he hesitated here—the woman pulling up her skirt and wedging a hand between her legs.

Seconds, was the thought in his mind. He only had seconds. And suddenly the gun didn't seem to matter a hell of a lot.

He got untangled from the rope fairly quickly, but it took some fumbling to unlock and open the car door. That was where he'd made his second bad mistake. If he'd gone through the window he might have made it out in time—at least not been burned quite so badly. Maybe saved his face. But the gasoline fumes exploded just as the car door opened, and he was engulfed in fire.

Here the memories got sketchy. He thought he'd dropped to the ground and rolled, and he'd swear she'd stayed to take pictures.

After this point, everything in his mind was dark and vague, but he had the impression that someone had driven by, honking their horn. He'd always wondered about that. Had it been somebody trying to summon help … or had it been her?

Her, Sonora thought, but said nothing. The dog snored, the clock ticked. Dusk was gray in the room.

Ray got up, put a hand on Selby's shoulder. “You all right there, James? Can I get you a beer, or a glass of water?”

James Selby covered the scarred hand with the good one. “Funny how it comes back so clearly. I even remember what she was humming.”

Sonora nudged the dog with her foot.

Selby turned his unseeing eyes in her direction. “It was that one Elvis used to sing. ‘Love Me Tender.'”

Sonora sat forward on the couch. “You
sure?
”

Ray was watching her, the wary cop look. “What?”

“Someone's been calling my house, that's all. Singing that song.”

“A woman?” Ray asked.

“Yeah, a woman.”

Selby leaned toward her, face folding into the semblance of a frown. “Be careful, Detective.”

46

Sonora was restless on the flight back from Atlanta. She had asked Selby if there had been anything after the attack. More phone calls. Notes, maybe. Pictures. The question took him by surprise and earned her a sharp look from Bonheur.

Nothing else, he had assured her.

She hit the bathroom before they landed, running a pick through her hair, leaving it draped over her shoulders rather than tied back. She took a moment for a coat of bronze lipstick. There wasn't much she could do about the greenish pallor; air travel never agreed. She'd feel better once her feet were on the ground.

The flight landed on time. Sonora ignored the baggage pickup snarl with the superior air of one with only carry-on luggage. She paused in front of a bank of phones. Selby had looked too much like Keaton, before the fire had eaten his face.

She called the Mount Adams town house, and a voice answered after the third ring—a voice she knew well.

“Sergeant Crick?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Blair, what the hell's going on?”

Crick's tone was grim. “She's been here.”

Sonora's knees went weak.

“Daniels got home from school around four-thirty this afternoon—”

Flash had been waiting for him, Sonora thought.

“—and found the door partway open, the side window smashed.”

Why?
she thought. Why did he go in? Idiot. Keaton.

“So he went to a neighbor's house and called. Sonora? You still there?”

Sonora leaned against the wall, the tile cool on her cheek. “Listen, Sergeant Crick, this connection's bad, I can hardly hear you. Is Daniels okay?”

“He's shook, but he's all right.”

“I'm coming out.”

A CSU van and a swarm of official cars were stacked along the streets near Keaton Daniels's town house. Sonora was stopped by a uniform on the sidewalk out front. The officer eyed her blue jeans, dusty boots, leather jacket.

“Can I help you, ma'am?” His voice was stern—one of the uniformed types who used courtesy like a blunt instrument.

Sonora flashed her ID.

The officer apologized but stood his ground. Sonora gave him a second glance, and he moved reluctantly off the sidewalk, into the grass and out of her way. She went up the front step slowly, boot heels loud on the concrete, and walked into the living room.

Keaton Daniels was on the couch, looking stunned and being ignored by the bevy of crime-scene officers. Sonora heard Molliter's voice, saw Sam headed down the stairs, two at a time. He gave her a warning look.

“Blair.” Crick's voice was a bark, and he didn't seem happy.

Sonora raised an eyebrow. “I told you he needed protection. Keaton?” She touched his shoulder and took his hand—ice cold. She sat on the edge of the coffee table and leaned close. “You okay?”

He nodded, looked relieved to see her.

“Keaton, are you cold? You want a sweater or jacket?”

“I'm okay, Detective.” His voice sounded dull, a monotone.

Sonora looked over her shoulder. “Anybody found this man a cup of coffee?”

Crick was watching them, eyes narrowed. He singled out a patrolman. “Find the man a cup of coffee.” He motioned Sonora up the stairs. “Crime-scene guys are still working things over, but let me give you the tour. The bathroom is the worst.”

Sonora pretended to be confused about which way to turn.

“She took a shower, used the toilet.”

“How'd you figure that out?” My fingerprints will be all over this place, Sonora thought, peering in through the doorway.

“How do you think, Blair? Hey, be careful, don't touch.”

The guest bathroom, so tidy before with fresh towels and expensive peach soaps, was now a mess. Sonora stayed in the doorway, thinking that she was likely the last person to use the bathroom before Flash. She felt queasy suddenly, and her head hurt.

The bath mat, thick, white, and fluffy, had been rolled up and jammed in the corner behind the commode. One of the drawers under the sink was open partway. The toilet lid was up, and Sonora took a quick look. Yeah, okay, Flash had used the toilet and left a wealth of clues as to her current dietary habits.

The shower curtain had been yanked sideways, and one corner had torn loose from the rings and sagged into the tub. A sopping-wet washrag had been thrown on top of the bath mat, and the soap was in the bottom of the still-wet tub, melting and stuck to the porcelain.

Wadded into the corner of the stall was a thick blue towel. Sonora wondered if Keaton had changed the towels. Please God, he had changed them.

“
Blair?
”

“Sir?”

“I said we got pubic hair out of the drain and … you with me here?”

“Yes sir. Excuse me, I've been to Atlanta and back in the last twenty-four hours.”

“You should have slept on the plane. Anyway, we may get something off the towel. God knows, this place is lousy with physical evidence, which will do us no good whatsoever, unless we catch this bitch.” Crick grimaced. “Terry says she's a natural blonde.”

Sonora opened her purse and dug out a bottle of Advil. She poured three tablets into the palm of her hand and swallowed them dry.

“Take a look over here in the bedroom. Something you better see.”

Terry was stripping the sheets from the bed as they went in. Sonora felt her knees go funny as she looked around the room. Dark bronze lipstick had been smeared across a pillow case, the shade close to Sonora's own.

Sam was pointing a flashlight onto the dark floor of the closet. “She took his
shoelaces
. And tore buttons off some of the shirts.” He squatted down on his haunches, touching nothing. “Looks like a tennis shoe outlet in here.”

Crick touched Sonora's arm and pointed her to the clothes dresser. The newspaper photo of Police Specialist Sonora Blair had been wadded, then ripped into three pieces. Keaton's journal of investigation was gone.

“That all?” she asked.

Crick put his hands behind his back and cocked his head to one side. “‘That all,' she says. I would think it would get under your skin a little, Blair. Because this is a dangerous woman, and I get the
serious
feeling she doesn't consider you good people.”

“This surprises you, sir? After coaching me through the press conferences? I would have thought you'd be happy.”

“You just be careful, Blair.”

“What else did she do?”

“Went in the kitchen and took a fistful out of a macaroni-and-cheese casserole. Ate some of it, we think, and smeared the rest on a dish towel.”

“She'll be in trouble looking for leftovers at my place. I got a thirteen-year-old.”

“Funny girl.”

He crooked a finger and ushered her into Keaton's tiny private bath. Sonora frowned, followed.

The countertop was crowded—Braun electric razor, worn black toothbrush, deodorant. No peach soaps shaped like roses. Crick shut the bathroom door. He closed the lid on the oak toilet seat and waved a hand.

“Go ahead, Blair, make yourself comfortable.”

Sonora perched on the edge of the tub, folded her hands in her lap. “Yes, Sergeant?”

Crick scratched the side of his neck. He was a big man, and he took up a lot of room. His knees were too close, and Sonora pulled away.

“Look, Blair, I ought to call you in my office and come up on this in a more delicate way, but we've worked together a long time. I want you to consider this an
unofficial
question. And be honest, Blair, for your sake and mine.”

She was cold suddenly. She swallowed.

“Is there something going on between you and this Keaton Daniels?”

Sonora cocked her head to one side. “Something going on? He's Mark Daniels's brother, Sergeant, and I think he was the intended victim all along. Sam and I have questioned him silly, and spent some time trying to gain his trust. We're trying to keep him alive. I consider that part of the job.”

Crick rubbed the top of his forehead. Sonora noticed that his eyes were bloodshot, lids swollen.

“Look, Blair, I've been in touch with Renee Fischer. You heard of her?”

“Forensic psychiatrist. Used her on the Parks thing, didn't they?”

Crick nodded.

“I hear she's good,” Sonora said.

“She is. She's just getting started on Flash, but she called me early this morning. Said she'd been up all night, going through what I gave her.”

“And?”

“She says there's obviously something about Daniels, something different from the usual victims.”

“We knew that.”

“Yeah. And she's looking at you as a cross between a confidante and a rival.”

“I'm the cop trying to bring her in, makes perfect sense.”

Crick looked at her.

“Your point? Sir?”

“Okay, you're the one after her hide. Fine, Blair, if that's as far as it goes. But that's your picture there, on top of the dresser in this man's bedroom, and Flash didn't cart it up here. I asked.”