Flashpoint (32 page)

“What did Keaton say?”

“He said he clipped all the articles about the investigation.”

“There you go.”

“I didn't see any other articles.”

“I guess he hasn't had time to put together a scrapbook, Sergeant. Why don't you get specific, sir, and tell me just what the problem is. Or is there a regulation against my picture on this man's dresser?”

“No, Blair, and there's no regulation against fucking him either, but you damn well better
not
be.”

Sonora spoke through clenched teeth. “You don't have these little talks, these kinds of suspicions and speculations, when it's male cops and female witnesses.”

“Don't give me that sexual harassment crap, unless you want to make it official. I want you to listen to me, Blair, and for once in your life don't interrupt. If there
is
something going on between you and Daniels, we got problems. The woman is dangerous, and I want her before she goes off again.” His voice lowered and went gentle. “I've known you a long time, Sonora. I've never seen you dump a case, I've never seen you cross the line. If something's going on, I want you to tell me, and tell me
now
.”

Sonora stared at him, stony faced.

Crick threw up his hands. “You fucking Daniels or not?”

Sonora folded her arms. “
Not
.”

47

“Sam, I'm in
trouble
.”

“Sonora—”

“
Shit
, Sam.”

“Don't panic, girl. Get yourself together, before somebody hears us. We'll talk later.”

Sam lit a cigarette, and Sonora didn't complain. They sat in the parking lot of the Sundown Saloon, looking at the still sludge of the river. Sam flicked ash out the open window.

“You should have told him the truth.”

“You said that already.”

“Yeah, but, Sonora, he's right, it does affect the investigation. You were the last one in the bathroom before Flash. Suppose those are your hair samples?”

“You think that hasn't got me worried?” Sonora took a deep breath and looked out the window. “What are you going to say if Crick asks you about it?”

“You mean if I know you slept with the guy? You want me to lie for you?”

“Yeah.”

Sam flicked the cigarette butt out the window. “Remember back when we thought we were the good guys?”

“Thanks, Sam, you always know how to make it all better.”

“You okay now? I'd like to go home.”

“I'm going to get the kids and go back to the house.”

“You're going to get them up? It's two
A.M
. Let them sleep at your brother's.”

“I promised I'd get them tonight. Besides, I want them home in their own beds so I can get them off to school okay.”

“Come on, then. You herd Tim and I'll carry Heather.” They closed the car doors softly—habits acquired on stakeouts. Sonora felt bad suddenly, the ulcer again, and she leaned against the side of the car.

Sam turned to look at her. “You coming?”

“In my own good time. Sam?”

“What?”

“Something I was wondering. This guy in Atlanta, this Selby. He said the calls started up after Easter. And it just dawned on me that Keaton said the same thing.”

“I don't remember him saying that. And I've gone over all the transcripts at least four times.”

Sonora remembered that she had read it in Keaton's journal of investigation. “He said it, Sam, okay?”

“Pillow talk?”

“It's interesting, don't you think? I mean, what's the big deal about Easter?”

“Eggs, bunnies, religion. Could be a lot of things. Sonora?”

“Yeah?”

“Let me know, will you? When you find out?”

“Find out what?”

Sam grinned. “Whether or not Keaton changed the towels.”

48

The kids slept in the car on the way home. Sonora carried Heather to her bed and guided Tim into his. Clampett had made three messes, in spite of being let out regularly by the boy next door, who had dutifully deposited the mail and newspapers on the kitchen table as instructed.

Sonora left her carry-on bag in the hall. She flipped through the mail in the kitchen, finding monthly greetings from MasterCard and her utility company, and a reminder that it was time for the children to visit their dentist.

She paused in the dark hallway, feeling the ulcer, too tired to move but too wired to sleep. A long soak in a hot bubble bath would be good right about now.

She had just belted into a bathrobe when the phone rang. Please be Keaton, she thought.

“Sonora?”

It was him.

Sonora kept her voice formal. “Thank you for checking in, Mr. Daniels. Are you at your wife's house?”

“No. Red Roof Inn, exit seven off seventy-one north.”

“I'll be in touch as soon as I know something.”

“Sonora—”

“I'll be in touch, Mr. Daniels.”

“Oh. Thank you, then.”

“Good night.” Sonora hung up, switched the phone to the children's line. Called information, Red Roof Inn. He answered on the first ring.

Sonora caught her breath. “Sorry, Keaton. My line is monitored right now. I'm calling on the kids' phone. You okay?”

“No.”

“We need to talk.”

“How about dinner tomorrow night?”

“Not possible. Keaton, I'm in trouble here, about you and me.”

“I was getting that impression tonight. You acted funny.”

“I lied to my sergeant. About us. I told him it was strictly business.”

“Is it?” He sounded cold suddenly, wary.

“I don't usually sleep with witnesses. Look, I have to ask you about the towels.”

“The towels?”

“In the bathroom. When we … got together. After I took a shower, did you change the towels?” She held the phone clamped tightly in her fist.

“Oh. Sorry, no I didn't. Is it a problem?”

“There's physical evidence, Keaton. Hell, they found pubic hair in the bathtub drain. It could be mine or hers. They think it's hers, but we know better. It could be either of us.”

“What did your sergeant say?”

“I didn't bring it up, Keaton. I'd prefer not to get fired, considering my kids and the state of my bank account. Mortgage and all, you know?”

“Sorry, I must be dense, this really is trouble.”

“It really is. Another thing I need to know. I saw on your dresser before I left for Atlanta your journal of investigation.”

“That was private.”

“I didn't read it.” Just the first page, she thought. “Was it there when Flash got into your bedroom?”

“Flash? Is that what you people call her? Is this some kind of a cop joke?”

Sonora winced. “It's slang, and it's not a joke, it's real life in the world of a police officer. I'm sorry if you're offended. Was the journal out when Flash came through your town house? Did she take it, or did our lab people get hold of it?”

“She took it.”

“I see. What was in there?”

“Personal things I'd just as soon no one else read. It started out as a log of investigation, but there's also things about my brother. And about you.”

“About me?”

“Yeah.”

“Damn. That journal is going to piss her off big-time. You take care of yourself, Keaton, and watch your back. Call me at the first sign of trouble.”

“Do I understand you to mean that's the only time I call you?”

Sonora closed her eyes. “Afraid so.”

“For how long? That we can't see each other?”

“Till I catch her, Keaton. And bring her to trial. And convict her ass.”

“Yeah. I see.” He hung up.

Sonora set the phone down gently. Maybe not the bubble bath routine. Maybe just a very hot shower.

She checked the kids—both sound asleep. Clampett was stretched in the hallway between their rooms. He lifted his head when Sonora walked by. Whimpered.

“Want to go out?”

He wagged his tail and got up with a painful, jerky movement that made Sonora notice the white fur rimming his black lips, the sagging muzzle, rheumy eyes. She crouched low and hugged the dog, thinking from the smell of him it was high time for a doggy bath.

“Go out, Clampett?” She headed down the hallway, turned off the alarm. A cold shock of air wafted through the door, and Clampett slowed. Sonora nudged his hind end with her knee, and the dog kept going. Slowly.

“Good boy.”

She flipped on the back porch light. Waited. Clampett disappeared into what was left of the garden. Sonora reset the alarm and went to take her shower.

The bathroom was still neat—the kids had not had a chance to shed clothes, pull down towels, toss washrags, and leave lumps of toothpaste in the sink. Sonora turned the shower on hard and hot, closed her eyes as water streamed across her shoulders.

She was rinsing shampoo out of her hair when the burglar alarm went off.

Sonora left the water running, grabbed a towel, and stepped over the side of the tub, wiping suds out of her eyes. Her robe hung from a hook on the back of the door. She grabbed it just as the doorknob turned, then caught on the snap lock.

Sonora froze, jammed wet arms into the sleeves of the nubby terry-cloth robe, belted it quickly, and opened the door.

The hallway was empty.

She checked the children—mother first, cop second. Tim was asleep in spite of the alarm. Heather sat bolt upright in bed, clutching a stuffed penguin.

“Stay put,” Sonora said.

Clampett barked, the hysterical bark, guard dog aroused. His toenails raked the back door.

Sonora smelled smoke just as the detector went off. The earsplitting buzz made the hair stand up on the back of her neck.

She ran down the hallway. The front door stood open, broken panes of glass in the foyer. She heard footsteps—someone running across the sidewalk. She was torn, but she'd seen enough fire scenes to know how quickly a house could go up.

A car door slammed as she headed into the kitchen.

The fire was on top of a pizza pan, pictures curling into flames. Sonora grabbed a dish towel and smothered the tiny blaze. She heard footsteps, saw her son.

“Fire's almost out. Go see to your sister.”

The dish towel was blackened and smoking, and she tossed it into one side of the sink and turned on the water. Outside, Clampett sounded suddenly far away.

Sonora looked down at the Polaroids. Saw her son's face, this time sound asleep. She frowned. Recognized the bed she'd just hauled him out of. Stuart's place. Her hand trembled as she flipped the second picture.

Heather, clutching the penguin, cheeks round and soft in sleep. Same nightgown she wore right this minute. The pictures had been taken hours ago at Stuart's.

Sonora took another dish towel and waved the air beneath the smoke detector. The alarm stopped. Silence, except for the shower running. She took a deep breath. Went to the phone, hit the automatic dial button for her brother. The squeal of a disconnected line was loud in her ear.

“I'm sorry, the number you have called is not in working order. Please—”

Tim and Heather stood in the doorway, close together. They asked no questions, which told Sonora how shook they were. She clutched the edge of the kitchen counter.

“Somebody broke in, and I'm worried about Uncle Stuart. I'm going to call for help, then all of us are going to get in the car and go check on him. We're staying together, got that?”

They nodded.

“Can Clampett come?” Heather asked.

“You bringing your gun?” Tim said.

Sonora bit her bottom lip. “Yes to both questions.”

Both children looked satisfied.

49

The windshield fogged as the car spiraled downhill. Sonora opened the window, smelling the river, listening for sirens. Her hands were unsteady on the steering wheel, and Clampett's doggy breath was moist on her shoulder as he leaned over the back of her seat.

“Heather. Get the dog.”

“Mommy, are you okay?”

“Drive faster,” Tim said.

“Everybody's seat belt fastened?”

The riverboat rose out of the water, a smoking black skeleton. Blue lights from police cars strobed across red pulses from the ambulance and fire trucks.

“
Mommy
.”

Sonora caught her breath. “Maybe he wasn't home. Stay in the car, I'll go check. Hang on to the dog.”

The first person she recognized was Molliter. She was about to call to him when a uniform stepped into her path.

“I'm sorry, Miss—”

“I'm a cop,” she said.

He looked dubiously at her wet hair, still sticky with shampoo, the sweatshirt, blue jeans, Reeboks, no socks.

“This is my brother's place.”

His look went from tough to pitying. “Could you step over here please, ma'am?”

It was Molliter who came to the rescue. Molliter who waved the uniform away and sent someone to sit with the kids. Molliter who took her to a smoke-grimed fireman who offered her a blanket and a sweaty handshake.

“Did you bring anybody out?” she asked.

He hesitated. He had blue eyes, big shoulders. He looked past her to Molliter, who said, “Best tell her what's going on,” in a flat tone of voice.

Cop tones, she knew them.

“You say your brother was inside?”

“Maybe. He lives on the third floor. There's a storeroom up there, next to his apartment.”

“Right about where would that be, ma'am?”

Sonora pointed.

The fireman gave her a look of sympathy. “I'm sorry. We weren't able to get him out in time.”

He glanced over her shoulder at the waiting ambulance. Sonora followed his gaze, aware, for the first time, that the paramedics were standing around. Waiting.

“He's in the ambulance?” Sonora said.