Flashpoint (21 page)

“So you'll go home and leave me alone. It's negative reinforcement. Plus it covers our ass, proves we tried everything.”

“Here's everything for you, sir. She has a rural background, and probably grew up in a small town—somewhere in Kentucky where, they say you'uns. My guess is she's been snagged on some kind of shoplifting charge, sometime in her life. She's been setting fires for sexual gratification since she was a teenager, maybe younger. She tortured animals for fun when she was little, and she likes to watch the families of her victims suffer. I'd bet my last penny she's stalking Keaton Daniels, and I will tell you again we should stick to this guy like glue.”

“How about an address for her, Blair. You got that?”

“Will I get an address by filling out this form?”

Crick waved a hand, the gesture unenthusiastic, tired. “Never know till you try.”

“Make you a deal. I fill out the form, and you clear me for Memphis and Atlanta.”

“You fill out that form, and I'll get back to you.”

Sonora stayed put. Looking at him. Willing him to agree.

He growled. “Anything else, Specialist Blair?”

“No sir.”

“Go away.”

26

The parking lot was well lit and empty. Sonora slammed the car door and checked the locks. She had a weird, unsettled feeling, and she turned and scanned the backseat. Empty. Should have looked before she got in.

She started the engine, glanced up at the foggy windshield, and saw that someone had traced a three over the driver's side.

Flash?

The cellular phone rang, as if on cue. Sonora picked it up, listened.

“Hey, girlfriend, how you doing? Keaton get my package okay?”

Sonora flicked on the headlights, checked the rearview mirror. No one, no one close. But Flash was likely around somewhere. Watching.

“Yeah, we got it.” Sonora pulled the car out of the lot. She turned left, heading toward the river, trying to remember where all the pay phones were.

“We?” A pause. “Funny, isn't it, that you knew it was me right off in that graveyard today. See, I think we're connected, you and me. I think—”

“How'd you get this number?”

“Forget how I got it. Maybe you gave it to me. Maybe I am you, maybe I'm your dark half. Maybe you did the killings and don't remember. Maybe you're six and I'm three.”

“What's that supposed to mean? Make some sense, why don't you?” Sonora scanned the streets. Empty.

Silence on the other end. Then, “Okay, girl, let's talk about you.”

New tone of voice, Sonora thought. Change of tactics? New buttons to push?

“It wasn't no stroke now, was it? What killed your mama?”

Sonora hit the brakes, pulled the car to the curb. “What are you talking about?”

“You know, my mama died, too, when I was real little. At least you were all grown up.”

“What happened to your mother?”

“We're talking about yours, Detective. Your mama. The doctor never was too sure what happened, isn't that right? Too many pills, or what. You could've said the word, but no, no autopsy for
your
mama. You think she took them pills herself, or you think your daddy give 'um to her? Or maybe he just held a pillow on her face, when she's all doped up. Think she knew? When it was happening? You should see people's faces when they know they're going to die. They get the funniest looks.”

27

It was cold in the conference room, early-morning chill. The smell of new coffee was comforting. Sonora took a small bite from a plain cake doughnut, barely aware of the buzz of voices. She had not slept. She had lain in bed and closed her eyes and seen Mark Daniels, cuffed to the steering wheel, flames licking the side of the car. Saw her mother, looking grumpy and sad in the coffin.

Sonora pulled her bottom lip and watched Sam trace a thick forefinger across the map.

“Right along the Big South Fork here. And around this part of southern Kentucky, particularly near the Tennessee border. I mean, it's a joke to a lot of people, but in some of these rural areas they say you'uns like we say y'all.”

There was a ripple of snickers.

“We?” Gruber was grinning.

“We'uns from farther south. And by the way, fuck all y'all, which is another thing we say in the south.”

Sanders looked up. She was the rookie in the group, thin and young, hair cut short and swingy. “Do you think maybe—”

The door opened. Sergeant Crick walked into the room, black lace-ups polished and shiny, a burly tan sweater stretched over his shoulders and chest. Terry followed, looking distracted. She wore a soiled blue smock, and a strand of hair had come loose from her ponytail.

Crick settled at the head of the table and waved a hand. “Terry?”

She pushed her glasses back on her nose. “We lifted a print from one of the pictures.”

Sonora looked up. “You mean Flash didn't wear gloves?”

Terry tucked the strand of hair behind her ear. “I'm pretty sure she did. Thin ones. But she has very pronounced friction ridges, and she touched the surface of one of the Polaroids, which is very porous. Plus, it's been humid with all the rain we've had, and warm for this time of year. Which helps. We got lucky.”

“Is it a good print?” Sam asked.

Terry smiled, catlike.

Sonora leaned forward in her chair. “Where did she leave the print? Where on the picture?”

“On Mark Daniels's face.”

Crick looked at Gruber. “Your turn.”

Gruber gave them a lazy smile. “We went back to the neighborhood canvass. Had some houses we missed the day of the killing, nobody home. Sanders here found a lady who noticed a bronze Pontiac off to the side of the road, near the park. She thinks it was there that whole day before Daniels was killed. It's a little picnic area there, on Shepherd Creek.

“Anyway, this woman notices the car because she lives across the street, and you notice strange cars in your neighborhood. So we figure, okay, if Flash leaves her car so she can make her getaway that night, where does she go when she drops it off? And a ways down the road we got a Dairy Mart and a BP Oil, both with pay phones. We pull the phone records, and find somebody called a cab from BP Oil the afternoon Daniels was killed. We talk to the guys that work there, and one of them remembers seeing a blonde making a call. The hair's a little different from the sketch. He said she had real short bangs, said they looked funny. Ragged and uneven. So we got the cabdriver who picked her up. Took her to a place downtown. Shelby's Antiques.”

“How far was it from the car to where Daniels was killed?” Sam asked.

Gruber opened his mouth, but Molliter held up a hand. His voice was flat.

“Maybe I should answer, since I'm the one that walked it off.” He pointed a freckled finger at the map. “It takes eight minutes, walking briskly, to get from the kill spot to the area where the car was parked.”

“Longer in high heels, and after dark,” Gruber said.

Sonora frowned. “Provided she went by the road.”

Molliter gave her a patient look. “She's not going to go crashing through the underbrush down that hill in a pair of high heels.”

Terry took off her glasses and rubbed the two red spots on the bridge of her nose. “She changed her shoes.”

Sonora nodded.

“Come on, girls. She's got track shoes in a tiny little purse?”

“Big purse,” Sonora said. “She's got a lot of stuff to carry. Plus her feet aren't as big as yours, Molliter.”

Gruber was nodding. “Remember, she's got to have her rope and camera, so why not tennies?”

Sam waved a hand. “And she gets the gasoline out of Mark Daniels's car. You found that melted plastic next to the gas tank, right, Arson Guy?”

Mickey looked up. “Absolutely. Makes more sense to siphon it than to carry it around.”

“Anything oh the type of rope?” Crick asked.

“Garden variety clothesline. Find it in every hardware store in town.”

Sam rubbed his nose. “So how did she get to this Cujo's if her car's in the park? Taxi there too? Catch a bus?”

Gruber's eyes widened. “Good point.”

“Check it out,” Crick said.

A knock at the door gave him pause. Crick raised an eyebrow, and Molliter went to the door, muttered something, walked around behind Sonora's chair, and dropped a package on the table.

Sonora looked up from her notes. She shook the package, then peeled the tape back, which ripped the paper and brought all eyes to her side of the table. Mickey paused, then continued.

“Is it ticking?” Sam whispered over her shoulder.

Sonora peered inside. A note, and something small, square, covered in foil. She took the foil pack and put it in her lap, tried to open it quietly, peeling the edges slowly back.

Toast—two pieces. Whole wheat, lightly browned, delicately buttered with the crusts cut off. Sonora scratched her chin and reached into the mailer for the note—a piece of lined second-grade paper, thin and gray.

The handwriting was strong, made with a thick black felt-tip pen, slanted steeply to one side. Sonora squinted and held it close to her face.

I would have made you breakfast. K
.

Sam looked over her shoulder. “What is it, girl? Your face is turning red.”

Sonora snatched the note from his probing fingers and jammed it deep into her jacket pocket.

“Nothing.” The room was suddenly silent. She looked up to find Crick looking at her. “Sorry, I miss something?”

“Arson Guy said the key they found goes to handcuffs, but not the cuffs used to bolt Mark Daniels to the steering wheel of his car.”

Sonora settled the package in her lap. Thought a minute. “This makes no sense. You absolutely sure?”

Mickey scratched his chin. “The key we found would never fit the cuffs on Daniels. Whole different manufacturer.”

“One of those pictures Keaton got, it looks like Mark is holding something. You can't quite see it, but his fingers are pinched together.” Sonora held her hand up, thumb and forefinger touching. “And that patrol officer, Finch, he said Mark was screaming about a key, that he kept saying it over and over. Maybe he
wasn't
calling for his brother. Maybe he was talking about the key to the cuffs.”

Sam cocked his head to one side. “So he's got a key to the cuffs, but it's the wrong one?”

“Doesn't add up.” Molliter tipped his chair backward. “None of this works for me.”

Sonora thought of that last picture of Mark, fire following the wick of rope wrapped around his naked, vulnerable body, the awful look of knowledge on his face.

Gruber made a noise, and Sonora looked at him, knowing the thought hit him the same time it hit her.

She cleared her throat. “Try this. Flash gives Daniels a key to the handcuffs and he thinks he's going to be able to get away, right up till the last minute, when he gets the key in the lock, and finds out it doesn't fit.”

“Let me get this straight. She cuffs them to the wheel—”

“Why does Daniels let her do that?” Gruber crumbled a chunk of iced caramel doughnut.

“Could be a sex thing,” Sam said. “Let me cuff you and love you.”

“What kind of guy would go along with that?” Molliter's face was red, and a film of perspiration lined his upper lip.

“Nine out often,” Gruber said.

Sonora snorted. “What do you mean what
kind
of guy, Molliter? Are you saying if he spreads his knees for some girl he just met, he got what he deserves? That what you're saying?”

“Enough of that,” Crick said.

“He's made remarks like that about women victims. What do you think with the shoe on the other foot, Molliter? Is it different now?”

“Listen, Blair—”

“I said
enough
.” Crick's voice was impressively authoritative. Sonora decided she would imitate it the next time she was mad at her son. A Crick voice. Something to cultivate.

Sanders bit her lip. “Aren't we forgetting that Daniels was shot? That was in the autopsy report, wasn't it?”

Sonora nodded. “Okay, she threatened him with the gun, he gave her trouble, and she shot him in the leg. Snap on those handcuffs, boy, or I'll shoot you again.”

Molliter's face was bright red. “But what's the point? The key doesn't fit. Why give it to him?”

Sam waved a hand. “Somehow or other she gets this guy's wallet and his clothes and gets him handcuffed to the steering wheel. Now, face it, men aren't threatened by a little thing like Flash. They're not going to take her seriously. She probably has to shoot them just to get their attention. She's smart. She gets a gun on them and she's got the power before they even know they got a problem.”

“So it's not a sex thing.” Molliter sounded relieved.

“Not for the men,” Sonora said.

Sanders raised her hand, chin level. “Going back to that geographic thing—”

“I think we were on the
porno
graphic thing,” Gruber said. “And I don't know about the rest of you guys, but this sure takes the fun out of picking up women.”

Sanders smiled. Cleared her throat. “I wonder—”

“We get anywhere on park witnesses?” Gruber asked.

Sanders's cheeks went dark red, and she raised her voice. “Sam? Aren't there several community colleges in that area of Kentucky you were talking about? The places you pointed out on the map?”

Sam gave her an encouraging nod.

“Then I was wondering. Maybe she went to school there. We might check with some of the community colleges and see if they have any history of arson, or—”

Gruber waved a hand. “She could have gone to school anywhere, Sanders, if she went at all.”

Sam was shaking his head. “No, if she did go, Sanders could have something. The rural kids stick close to home those first two years. It's cheaper, for one. And they go to a school with their own, instead of heading off to a large university where people look down their nose at 'em. Then they're either happy with a two-year degree, they drop out, or transfer to a university that disallows most of their credits.”