Flashpoint (41 page)

“Except nobody ever does it that way.”

“But this guy
did.
So why's he take the foot off
over
the ankle joint?”

“Cut there first, saw how much trouble it was, got smarter on the next cut and did it at the joint.”

Sonora frowned. Sometimes she didn't like it when Sam made perfect sense. “Maybe. Or maybe he was cutting it off over a tattoo. This victim was a female between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-eight and the blood type matches Julia Winchell's.”

“Face it, Sonora, most victims of that kind of crime are young females. And half of America has A-positive blood.” Sam pulled the car into the circle drive in front of the lobby. “I wonder what Julia Winchell was upset about.”

“Probably going home.”

“She was pretty damn set on getting up here. You think she was fooling around on him?”

“You saw the picture.”

“You got to feel for this guy, Winchell,” Sam said.

Sonora slammed the car door. “Not if he did it, I don't.”

It was cool in the hotel—not quite chilly, and a relief from the heat and humidity rising in gasoline-tainted waves from the asphalt parking lot. The lobby was wide and noisy, full of fountains and people in sports shirts and sandals. A tired-looking woman in lime green shorts herded a knot of preteen girls out the front door. Two of the girls turned and looked at Sam. There were giggles.

“I think I'm the butt of a joke,” Sam said.

“A familiar sensation I'm sure.”

“You always get bitchy in the heat.”

The desk clerk was tall and had bushy eyebrows, and a nervous habit of clearing his throat. He handed Sam a card key.

“There was a man here, earlier, asking about her. He said he was her husband.”

“Black hair, glasses, name of Butch?” Sam asked.

The clerk nodded.

“That's the husband.”

“We have to be very careful about who we—”

Sonora waved a hand. “No problem, I'm glad you brought it up. You definitely didn't let him in?”

“Definitely.”

A good thing, Sonora thought. Winchell was never officially in the room. If they got forensic proof he was, that would nail him. “She got any messages?” Sonora asked.

“I could look,” the man said.

Sonora looked at the man's name tag. Van Hoose. “So look already.”

He ducked to the other side of the counter, and Sam gave Sonora his rudeness disapproval frown.

“Seven.” Van Hoose handed Sonora a computer printout. “This is a list of the calls she made. And here are the messages, never picked up.”

Sonora looked it over, followed Sam as he said thanks and moved away from the desk. One of the numbers seemed familiar.

Sonora looked up at Sam. “We got your public library. A bunch from Winchell. Return a call to what looks to be another room in the hotel.” Sonora went back to the desk clerk. “That what this is? One of the other rooms?”

He nodded.

“Look that up, why don't you, and let me know who was staying in that room at the time the call was made.”

Van Hoose hesitated. But they were the police after all. He went to his computer.

Sam drummed his fingers on the counter. Sonora laid her hand over his to make him stop.

“The call came from a Mr. Jeffrey Barber in room three-twenty-seven.”

“Checked out when?”

“July sixteenth, on a Sunday.” He handed Sonora a slip of paper. “This is the name, address, phone number, and plate number he filled out for registration.”

Sonora smiled. “We may have to hire you, Van Hoose.”

“What's your procedure when a guest disappears?” Sam asked.

Van Hoose shifted his weight to his left foot. A bone popped in his hip. “We check the credit, and if the card's good, we keep the room a while.”

“How long?” Sonora asked.

“Honestly? It's a management call. Depends on the guest's credit and how bad we need the room.”

Sam patted the desk. “Okay, thanks.”

Sonora followed him through the lobby, to the elevators. Punched four.

“They got free breakfast with the room here,” Sam said.

“Very important,” Sonora agreed, closing her eyes. She leaned against the back wall of the elevator, which stopped at the second floor to let in two couples, freshly bathed, perfumed, pantyhose and heels.

Sonora wondered what Smallwood was doing tonight. Probably not working.

The elevator stopped. Sonora got the rat-in-a-maze feeling brought on by hotel corridors.

She gave Sam a look out of the corner of one eye. “You seem to know your way around this place.”

“This is where I bring my women. They like that river view and I like the breakfast.”

Julia Winchell's suite had that hotel air of maid service around clutter. It opened onto a sitting room: TV, desk, table and chairs. Hunter green couch. There was a bar with a coffeepot and small refrigerator. The room was freshly dusted and vacuumed, pillows plumped. Stacks of paper, books, and a small, open briefcase crowded the top of the desk.

Sonora gave the couch a second, wistful look. Her dog Clampett had chewed up the cushion on the one in her living room, and it left a trail of stuffing every time someone sat down.

She peeped into the bedroom. The bed was made, and a teddy had been neatly folded on the ridge of pillows that stretched across the king-size mattress.

Sonora picked it up. Smelled the wave of sweet flowery scent, fingered the soft black silk, admired the spaghetti straps that crisscrossed along the back.

She heard Sam whistle as he opened and closed the tiny refrigerator behind the bar.

“Old pizza,” he shouted.

“Save me a piece.”

“What?”

“Look in the bathroom, Sam. Count the toothbrushes.”

His steps were heavy in the hallway. Sonora knew he could walk lightly if he wanted to. She'd heard him do it once or twice.

He put his head in the bedroom doorway. “Two. Both dry as a bone.”

Sonora waved the teddy. “I guess she wasn't just here for the riverfront view.”

“Poor son of a bitch.”

“I assume you mean the husband. Who now has a very good motive.”

“Keeps us in business.”

Sonora headed for the dresser drawers, wondering if Julia Winchell was the kind of hotel guest who unpacked.

She was.

Sonora found a silk nightie, slate blue, Victoria's Secret price tag hanging from the side seam. She had one like it at home in her closet, hooked over her lingerie bag. Julia had paid full price for hers; Sonora had waited for a sale.

Which might mean a special occasion, as far as Julia Winchell was concerned.

She had a tendency toward white or black, tailored shirts and khaki pants, longish skirts, straight cut, size eight. She shopped at The Limited, spent a lot of money on shoes that were well worn, and size seven and a half.

A full cadre of makeup clotted the bathroom counter—neat but not obsessive. Julia Winchell had brought her own makeup mirror. Bubble bath from home.

Sonora took a quick mental tally. Mascara, eyeliner, blush, two shades of lipstick. All partially used, nothing new except one of the lipsticks. Sonora opened the older tube, rolled it out. Rum Raisin Bronzer.

There were theories that you could read a woman's character by the shape of her favorite lipstick. Sonora had seen an article on it once in the
Inquirer.

She looked back into the bedroom at the black silk teddy, the crisply ironed white shirt hanging on the back of the bedroom door. There was a quietness in the room, already a layer of dust on the worn floral suitcase. Julia Winchell wasn't coming back.

“Sonora?”

It was the way Sam said her name that got her attention—a particular tone of voice.

She put the tube of lipstick back on the bathroom counter. “What, Sam?”

He had his back to her, a sheaf of paper in his left hand.

The phone rang.

Sonora raised an eyebrow at Sam. He nodded, and she picked up the desk extension. There were several phone numbers jotted down on an Orchard Suites scratch pad, one with a 606 area code. Julia Winchell was from Tennessee, which was 423, Sonora knew from calling Smallwood. She was pretty sure that 606 was Kentucky. The leg had shown up in Kentucky.

“Hello?” Sonora pitched her voice low. At a guess, she'd say Julia Winchell was an alto.

Silence.

“Hello?” Sonora said again. She heard a click, looked at Sam. “Hung up.”

“Sit down, Sonora. You should look at this.”

“What is it?”

“I think I know why Julia Winchell decided not to go home. It isn't what you think.”

“What is it?”

Sam had Julia Winchell's open briefcase on the couch. He moved it to the floor, picked up a sheaf of papers that looked like handwritten notes and a newpaper clipping with ragged edges.

Sonora settled on the couch. Sam handed her the newspaper clipping. “Let's start with this. Recognize the picture?” He sat on the arm of the couch, knee touching hers. Tapped the newspaper. “Look at the date.”

Sonora got her mind off the knee and looked at the paper. It was neatly cut from the Saturday edition of the
Cincinnati Post
, the Metro section, dated July fifteenth, the day before Julia Winchell had been supposed to drive home to Clinton. She raised an eyebrow. Read the caption. “District Attorney Gage Caplan put closing arguments before the jury today in the trial of ex-Bengal football pro, Jim Drury, accused of running down Xavier University co-ed Vicky Mardigan. Drury, a popular hometown boy made good and local celebrity, attended Moelier Catholic High School, a school well known for nurturing football players. He has done spot coverage for local television stations during the football season for the last nine years. Mr. Drury played for the Bengals from 1979 to 1986.”

Sonora looked up at Sam. “Caplan's going for vehicular homicide.”

Sam grimaced. Vicky Mardigan had been dragged thirty-eight feet down Montgomery Avenue, and left to die in front of the White Castle in Norwood. She was breathing when the 911 team got to her, but hadn't survived the night.

“You think Caplan has a prayer of nailing him?”

Sam shrugged. “Drury says she walked out in front of him. How's Caplan going to prove otherwise? His word against a dead girl's.”

“Sam, he dragged her half a mile down the road.”

“He says his foot slipped when he tried to hit the brake. And there were no alcohol or drugs in the guy's blood—that'll work against Caplan.”

“You've heard the rumors.”

Sam nodded. Every cop had. Drury was a known maniac on the road. Short-fused, he took his anger out behind the wheel. He'd been pulled over time and again by uniforms, but he was Drury for heaven's sake. He usually signed an autograph and went on his way.

“Yeah, Sonora, but you can't take rumors to court. I've worked with Caplan a couple of times, no question he's good. Most of 'em, you hand them the case file, they look it over fifteen minutes before they go into the courtroom, if you're lucky. Caplan does his advance work, and he charms the shit out of the jury.”

“Gee, Sam, thanks for the visual.” Sonora's foot itched. She rubbed her shoe against the carpet, wondering if she should take it off and go for total ecstasy.

Sam turned sideways, so he could look at her. “Julia Winchell left a lot of little notes behind in that briefcase, Sonora. She saw a murder. Or thinks she did.”

Sonora gave Sam a lopsided smile. “By chance she mention the killer's name?”

Sam grimaced and Sonora thought he looked sad. He tapped the news clipping in Sonora's hand. The one with Gage Caplan, ace District Attorney. “As a matter of fact, she did.”

Sonora tilted her head to one side. “Somebody he's putting away?”

“No, Sonora. Him.”

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I had a lot of help on this one.

My thanks to Michael Miller, primary school teacher, for sharing insight and experience, and whose perception and wit made for an entertaining interview.

I was made very welcome by the Homicide and Crime Scene Units of the Cincinnati Police Department. My thanks to Police Specialist Mike O'Brien, who went out of his way to help and answer my questions, and to Police Specialist Jim Murray, Police Specialist Diane Arnold, Community Services Police Specialist Kim Moreno, and Police Chief Michael Snowden.

My sincere thanks to Detective Maria Neal, of the Lexington Police Department's Bureau of Investigation. She went out of her way to answer my questions and share insight and expertise.

My thanks to Dr. George Nichols, of the Louisville coroner's office, for putting up with my fascination with and questions about his work. I did appreciate your time and trouble.

To Detective David A. Green, of the Jefferson County Police Department's Arson Unit, even if you did say you'd be keeping an eye on me. And to Arson Investigator Gary Nolan.

To my favorite lawyer, Jim Lyon, who never tires of my constant questions, scenarios, and what-ifs.

To another favorite lawyer, C. William Swinford, who was kind to me, and represented me well.

To talented artist and good pal Steve Sawyer, for insight, discussions, and good coffee.

To Anthony Smallwood, world's best dancer, who helped Sonora with her two-step.

To Ron Balcom, of Balcom Investigative Services, for early research and last-minute questions.

To my good buddy and fellow mystery writer, Taylor McCafferty, who is always up for forensic “girltalk,” and a trip to the morgue on our way to lunch. My phone bills are your fault.

To Carolyn Marino, my terrific editor, whose judgment and instinct are always dead-on, and who is a pleasure to work with.

My thanks to Allstate agent Rebecca Turner, Jonathan Edwards, Jonathan Amherst, and Physician's Assistant Lynn Hanna, who always wants to know if I'm mad at anybody before she gives me technical details on anything medical and violent.