Flashpoint (7 page)

“Out of earshot,” Celia said.

Sam grinned at her.

“There a pay phone here?” Sonora asked.

Celia pointed down a dark hallway to the left of the bar. “Right between the bathrooms.”

“Works okay?”

Ronnie nodded.

“Get pretty noisy in here last night? You have a crowd?”

“Not bad for a weeknight. We offer twofers from four to seven and that brings people in on their way home from work.”

Sonora looked at Ronnie. “Tell me everything you remember about the blonde.”

Ronnie closed his eyes and his brow furrowed. “She was real blond.”

“Real blond? Like me?”

He opened his eyes. “Lighter.”

Sonora sighed. “Look dyed?”

“Not really, but it's hard to tell sometimes. It didn't have that fakey, cotton candy look to it. It was very light. Kind of collar length and turned under. Very … kind of … ethereal.”

Chita Childers made a rude noise. “Ethereal? It was dyed, if it's the one I'm thinking of.”

“Eyes?” Sonora asked.

“Brown. Big brown eyes. Kind of … funny.”

“How could she have funny eyes?” Chita said.

Sonora clenched her fist, let it go. Smiled at Chita Childers and looked back at Ronnie.

“Brown eyes,” Ronnie said.

“Blue,” Chita chimed in. They glared at each other.

“Maybe she changed them. With contacts.” Celia Anders looked pleased.

Sonora glanced at Sam. The old witness shuffle.

Ronnie scratched his chin and looked at Sonora. “She's very small. Shorter even than you.”

“Wow,” Sam said. “Pretty short, huh?”

Ronnie grinned. “She looked kind of, I don't know, fragile? But she never smiled. Oh, and her lips were scarred. Like she bit them a lot.”

“She talk to a lot of guys? Flirt a lot?”

“Not with me. I thought she seemed kind of shy. I remember being surprised she was talking to that guy. In the picture.”

“She was dressed to kill,” Chita said. “Short black jean skirt, and cowboy boots, and a bodysuit. Lots of makeup and long earrings.”

Ronnie nodded. “Yeah. She had on a short skirt. I noticed that.”

Chita sounded deceptively sweet. “She's come in before, dressed like that. I've seen her talking to the other one.”

Sonora turned the picture around, her fingertips grazing the features of Keaton Daniels. “The other one? This one?”

“Yeah, him.”

“The woman in the picture. The bride here. You ever see her come in?”

Chita frowned and shook her head. “Not that I remember.”

Sonora passed the picture to Ronnie.

“No. Her I would remember.”

“I just bet you would,” Chita muttered, and was politely ignored. Ronnie handed the picture to Sonora, but Celia Anders intercepted it and gave it a good look. Sonora thought of sticky fingerprints. It was high time for copies.

Sam pulled his ear. “Did Mark Daniels or the blonde use the phone? Ask for change, maybe?”

Negative. Blank looks. The witness fairy wasn't going to come.

Sonora climbed down from the stool, took her purse with her, found a quarter to call her answering machine and check out the phone. She listened. No emergencies. And the pay phone worked. She pulled out her notebook and jotted down the number. They could pull records from the phone company. She wanted to know if Keaton Daniels had been called from the bar.

8

Sonora went into the Board of Elections building and took the elevator to the fifth floor, to Homicide. There were Nonsmoking signs in three places, one of them over a metal ashtray. Crimestoppers wanted-posters were pinned neatly on a bulletin board. There were no coats in the coatrack out front. There never were.

A woman sat in the glass booth doing a crossword puzzle, and Sonora waved. The door on the left led to the Crime Scene Unit, the other to Homicide. Both warned against entry without proper police escort.

Sonora veered right, walked past the worn-down interview rooms, smelling fresh coffee. The box outside the door of the brass's office was full of soda cans. Homicide recycled. As always, she glanced at the poster board that listed homicides for the year, solved and unsolved. Most of the unsolved were drug drive-bys. Hard as hell to track and prove, and the only satisfaction was in knowing that the shooter had a good chance of showing up on the board as a victim sometime in the next few months.

Mark Daniels was the latest entry.

Everyone was in, and the energy level was high. A lot of people on the phones, and Sonora getting speculative looks. Daniels was a real whodunit, and the other detectives were being pulled off their cases to run down leads.

This one would be a headliner.

The message light on her phone was lit and blinking. Her desk, piled with forms, files, a Rolodex, an evidence bag, and a half-filled can of Coke, was placed in the center of the room, butted up to Sam's. Every desk had a plastic-wrapped teddy bear on top—some new program or other. A grant for every cop to carry a stuffed animal to give to children trapped in the crossfire of adults who screwed up. Sonora tossed her purse underneath the desk and kicked it where it would be out of range of the wheels of her chair.

Her phone rang just as she settled into her chair. “Homicide, Sonora Blair.”

“Can I please speak to one of the detectives?”

“You're speaking to one.”

“You're not the secretary?”

“No, I'm not the secretary.”

Sonora heard a laugh, looked over her shoulder at Gruber.

He grinned. “They want a real cop, I'm available.”

Sonora put a hand over the phone. “Make yourself useful, honey, and get me a cup of coffee.”

Gruber looked her up and down in a way guaranteed to annoy. He had bedroom eyes, a perpetual slump to his shoulders, a swarthy complexion, and New Jersey manners that offended some people and attracted young women.

Sonora focused on the voice on the other end of the phone. “I'm sorry?”

“You know that guy that burned up?”

Sonora frowned and picked up a pen. “What guy is that?”

“The one in the news. They didn't give his name. But I think I better explain to you the situation with my brother-in-law, make of it what you will.”

Not much, Sonora thought. She made a face, took useless notes. No stone unturned.

“Another nut,” she said, hanging up the phone.

“You attract 'em,” Gruber said. “'Member when we took you out trawling? You pulled in the weirdest nutcases, even for a hooker detail.”

Sonora nodded. She'd hated and resented the prostitution detail and had been unable to refrain from giving prospective johns the copper's eyefuck. Only one or two had been inexperienced or desperate or intrigued enough to try and do business. Sonora had been pulled off the streets after two weeks.

“I always wondered if you screwed up on purpose, you know? To get off that detail.”

Sonora smiled. “Keep wondering, Gruber.”

“Molliter didn't think so, but I figured maybe you did.”

“Where is old Molliter these days? He quit and become a television evangelist?”

“Working personal crime since last Christmas.”

“
Molliter?
”

Gruber folded his arms and cocked his head sideways. “Can't you just hear him lecturing the rape victims on provocative clothing and those jiggly walks?”

Sonora bit her lip. Actually, she could.

Gruber shrugged. “Yeah, well. Bad choice. They had to pull him out of vice, he was trying to save souls. Didn't really fit in down there, if you know what I mean.”

Sonora draped her jacket over the back of her chair. Thought about coffee, thought about ulcers, decided against the one she had some choice about. The message light on her machine was still blinking. She settled into her chair and pushed the button.

One informant looking for a handout, a terse one from Chas, who was feeling neglected, a coroner's assistant about the suicide she hadn't liked. There was a message from one of the mothers from Heather's class reminding her to send cupcakes for day after tomorrow (shit, Sonora thought) and the one from Tim, letting her know that Heather had gotten on the bus okay, he was on his way, and
yes
he had his keys.

Sonora took out a scratch pad, roughing out the description she would put out on the NCIC. Early days yet, but this one looked like a repeater, and she wasn't asking permission. Under key points, she put homicide involving white female, victim white male, burned to death in car. She chewed the end of her pen.

She felt a large hand on her shoulder and a familiar presence by her side. “Sonora, girl, that pen taste good, or you didn't get any breakfast?”

Gruber waved a hand. “It's an oral thing. What she needs …” He caught the expression on Sonora's face. Trailed off.

“Wise,” she told him.

She swiveled her chair and looked at her partner, and flashed back to a night four years ago, before she really knew Sam's wife, Shelly, and, hell, she'd decided not to feel guilty about that anymore. Sometimes she looked at Sam and still felt the urge. Something about Gruber put thoughts like that in her head.

“Crick wants us,” Sam said.

The brass had their own office, more desks butted together, phones, files. Crick was at the computer when Sam and Sonora walked in, and he looked irritable. He did not get along with the department terminals, which were inferior to the setup he had at home. He was often overheard making rude comments about archaic software.

Loosen your tie, Sonora thought. Your disposition will improve. Someday she would say it out loud.

“Sit down, Blair. Delarosa.” Crick rolled his chair backward. Sam took two chairs from behind empty desks, straddled one, aimed the other at Sonora. She stopped it with her foot. “God, the two of you. Just sit.”

Sonora glanced at Sam and wondered if he was thinking what she was thinking. Were they caught? Were they going to get fired?”

“How are you doing on that suicide?” Crick said.

Slow, Sonora thought. Way behind. She cleared her throat. “Family went squirrelly over the autopsy, Sergeant. We're moving them along easy, trying to keep things from boiling over.”

Crick stuck a finger under his collar and scratched his neck. “Drop the bullshit, Blair.”

She crossed her legs, resting a foot on her knee. “I don't like it. There's a large insurance policy involved, just barely past the two-year limit on suicide. Coroner can't find anything definite, but we're waiting for test results. We can fly by the grand jury, but if we go to trial, their forensic whores will take us apart.”

“How'd the coroner sign it off?”

“I'm pressuring, but he's probably going to rule it suicide.”

“Drop it, then.”

“Lot of money at stake.”

“Let the insurance company worry about it. I can tell you now or the DA can tell you later.”

“Yes sir.”

“What else you working on?”

“Crenshaw baby. Stabbing on Ryker Street, looks like a drug burn. And we got that burning bed, Meredith.”

“You sure the wife did it?”

“No doubt in my mind,” Sam said.

“No doubt the husband deserved it.”

Sam wagged a finger. “You got to get off this ‘I hate men' kick, Sonora. Not all guys are like your dead husband.”

They had this conversation two or three times a month, and Sonora went on with her lines. “Yeah,
they're
breathing. So why is it, Sam, if a woman calls a spade a spade, or a jerk a jerk, she gets labeled a man-hater?”

Crick waved a hand. “Enough already, you guys are worse than my kids. Give your files to Nelson, and sit up and pay attention here. Coffee?”

“Sure,” Sam said. Sonora nodded and looked at Sam. He winked, but he was worried. There were budget cutbacks again this year. They'd seen some pretty good people get screwed.

Maybe they were being transferred somewhere awful.

Crick poured them both a cup from a pot that sat amid stacks of computer printouts. Sonora was aware of a tiny, annoying buzz coming from the timer that turned the pot on every morning at 7:50. It was the wrong kind of timer, not made to handle the load, and had melted down twice. Fire hazard, Sonora thought. She was seeing them everywhere all of a sudden.

Sonora took a big sip of coffee, tasting nothing. Crick sat back down. His chair squeaked. He squinted his eyes.

“You feeling okay, Blair? You don't look too good.”

“What am I, Miss America? I been up all night looking for a killer who set a twenty-two-year-old kid on fire. How would you look?”

“My wife says I always look the same, no matter what.”

Can't argue with that, Sonora thought.

Crick leaned back in his chair. “This Daniels thing is going to be a big deal. Heinous crime, innocent kid. It's all over the news, we been getting calls like you wouldn't believe. There's a lot of leads to follow and a lot of coordinating to do with the arson guys.” He pointed a thick finger. “You caught it, you're the lead detectives. You got to know everything that goes down. Every witness statement, every tiny piece of evidence, you know the drill. We're going to task-force this thing. We'll pull in twelve detectives from district, plus our own people. You're even going to get your own computer.”

Sam whistled.

“We'll meet every morning to hand out lead cards, then everybody goes out. We meet up again the end of the day. Couple of guys from arson will be in on this, Lieutenant Abalone and I will handle the press. Any information we hand out, we'll clear through the task force. Kick it around first. We can use the media on this, maybe push a few buttons with this headcase we got here. Run a description, if we get a good one.

“Nobody's taking anything away from you, you understand? I'm just pulling in some help, organizing everything all around you, so you two supercops can bring me this bitch's head on a stick.”