Flashpoint (33 page)

“Uh, no. Actually, our man went in and—” The fireman cleared his throat. “Clearly, the victim was dead, and it was … it was obviously a matter for the police.”

“Obviously a matter for the police,” Sonora echoed. She wondered what the fireman had seen that made the upstairs apartment so clearly a matter for the police. “When can we go in?”

“Still pretty hot up there, ma'am.”

Molliter touched her elbow. “Let's find you a place to sit, shall we?”

Sonora agreed that would be nice.

Her hair was dry by the time Sam and Crick arrived.

“Long time no see,” she said.

“You don't have to be tough tonight, Sonora.” She didn't know Gruber was there till he touched her shoulder.

“She can't help it.” Sam crouched down on one knee. “Shelly's here.”

Sonora let a breath escape. “Good. Where?”

“In the car with your kids.”

“What about Annie?”

“At the hospital.”

“Of course, Sam. Sorry. Can't believe I forgot.”

“That's okay, honey.” He squeezed her shoulder, and she put her hand over his. She thought for a minute she might like to cry, but the urge quickly passed.

Crick edged close. “Sonora, I can't believe this is happening. Did I hear right? Flash was at your place tonight?”

Sonora nodded.

“Thank God your kids are all right.” He shifted his weight. She realized he was talking to her in a tone of voice she'd never heard. Maybe it was the voice he used with the babies in the church nursery. “Sonora, we're going in now. I want you to—”

“Please, Sergeant Crick. Let me come in.”

He got that look of infinite patience. “Not a good idea.”

“Your brother, you'd go in.”

“I'll leave it up to you, Sonora. My advice is stay away.”

She nodded. Dropped the blanket that had been around her shoulders. She picked it up off the ground, shook it out, folded it, then frowned, not sure what to do. Crick waited as if he had all the time in the world. Gruber took the blanket from her matter-of-factly.

“Let's go,” Crick said.

He had a flashlight. Sonora followed, Sam on one side, Gruber on the other, Molliter bringing up the rear.

It was hot inside, acrid with smoke. Sweat filmed the back of Sonora's neck, dripped down her spine. She felt hot and cold, a tense flutter in her chest. She was breathing hard. Tasting salty sweat on her upper lip.

She went up the side of the stairs, thinking how much her brother had loved this place. The smoke-singed tables and charred wet carpet seemed vaguely familiar. She glanced over her shoulder at the bar. Thought of Stuart developing his palate during his restaurant days, sampling leftover drinks from the night before while cleaning the bar the next morning. Thought of him looking after the kids, feeding them TV dinners, playing Monopoly, giving horsey rides.

Thought of him in the bad old days, walking home alone every afternoon.

Crick faltered at the top of the stairs, and Sonora took the lead, first one in the tiny, well-equipped kitchen. The pictures that Heather had colored and taped to the refrigerator were torn and shredded. The round glass table was over on its side, and the drawer that held kitchen knives gaped open.

“The oven's still on,” Sonora said.

Sam looked thoughtful. “They were baking cookies tonight, weren't they? Stuart and the kids?”

Sonora nodded. Opened the oven door. Cookie sheet, no cookies. “My guess is he was in here baking when she surprised him. Looks like they fought.”

“Mess could have been made by the firemen,” Gruber said.

“They're not going to rip the pictures off the refrigerator.” Sonora pointed. “Bedroom's that way.”

Gruber and Molliter headed down the dark hallway. Sam patted Sonora's shoulder.

“Let me go in first a minute, okay?”

She nodded, reluctant now.

“You all right?” Crick said. He wiped a handkerchief across the back of his neck.

Sonora said yes, heard the snap of rubber gloves from the bedroom, the drip of water down the wall, the roar of traffic on the bridge across the river.

She looked at her feet. “I think I'm going in now.”

“If you're sure.” Resignation and fatigue in Crick's voice.

She started in just as the others came out.

It was Sam's face that changed her mind. He put an arm around her and turned her away. “Don't be going in there, honey. It was pretty quick. He didn't suffer long.”

Sonora hid her face in Sam's shoulder and squeezed her eyes shut, thinking how land he was to lie.

50

The children did not know what to make of her. She had laughed when she broke the news of Stuart's death, then apologized and laughed again. Tim had looked at Heather and said, “You know, we may have to commit her.” Then all three of them had burst into tears.

Sonora still had her funeral dress on, but the kids had changed into blue jeans.

Tim looked at the clock in the airport restaurant. “Baba's going to make us miss the flight.”

Sonora grimaced. “She'll come rolling in at the last minute. No one in your father's family is punctual. It's genetic.”

Heather waved her new Barbie doll. “Thank you for all the presents, Mommy, and my new jeans.”

“You sure we can afford this?” Tim asked.

Sonora gave him a look. “You like the Walkman?” They were young, she thought. Young enough to be distracted by pretties.

“I wish you could come with us, Mommy.”

Tim ate a large bite of hamburger. “How come you can't? You're off the case, aren't you?”

Sonora put her finger in a wet mark on the table. “Yeah, I'm off.”

“That's mean, Mommy, when you work so hard.”

“No, hon. I can't work it anymore. Them's the rules, and they're good ones.”

“It would be upsetting, dork.” Tim looked at Sonora, grimaced, and exchanged looks with Heather. “She's doing it again.
Mom
. Why are you looking like that?”

“What's wrong, Mommy? And don't say nothing.”

Tim put his french fry down. “Is it because of Stuart, or because we're going? We can stay with you, Mom. I'm not afraid.”

Sonora rubbed her eyes. “It's Stuart. I'm going to be upset about this awhile, okay? Aren't you guys upset?”

Heather stuck her thumb in her mouth.

Tim shrugged. “I loved him, okay? But I never miss people. When they're gone, they're just gone. I still have my life.”

Sonora chewed the knuckle of her left fist. Hard words from a thirteen-year-old. Which worried her more than tears. “Eat up, kids.”

Heather put her hands demurely in her lap. “It's very good, but I'm not hungry. Mommy, are you going to be lonely?”

“Clampett will keep me company, and I've got some stuff to do that's going to keep me busy.”

“What stuff?” Tim said.

Sonora wiped her hands clean on the thin and unsatisfactory paper napkin. She poured salt in her palm and ate it. She hadn't done that since she was Tim's age.

“But where are we going?” Heather said.

“Atlanta,” Tim told her.

“But after Atlanta.”

Sonora squeezed her daughter's hand. “Won't know till you get to Atlanta. Baba's going to pick. Why don't you talk her into taking you to a beach?”

“The ocean?” Heather said.

“That's where beaches are.”

Sonora scowled at her son. “Be nice. I'm counting on you. I'm counting on both of you. Look after each other and be good. And do your schoolwork.”

“How long are we going to be gone?” Tim asked.

Sonora frowned. “I don't know, I haven't thought that far. Probably till Visa cancels my card.”

51

The first picture came in the mail late that afternoon. Two more arrived the next day.

52

Sonora sat on the couch in the living room, thinking about walls. The phone rang. She did not count the rings, or notice when they stopped.

Walls were not the sort of thing one normally noticed. She knew that, in the back of her mind—knew that so much time staring at walls was not a good thing. But there was something about a wall that was steady and undemanding, muting somehow. Walls dulled the senses, which in turn dulled the pain.

She was glad the kids were gone. It was good to know they were safely tucked away at the seaside with a grandmother who might smoke too much, and make Heather sneeze, but who would nurture them. Nurture was hard right now. Sonora was relieved not to have to nurture.

And dealing with the kids would definitely take away from wall time.

She heard a bark. Got up to open the back door, felt the wind across her face, sniffed it like a bouquet.

So much for her quota of daily activity.

Clampett nudged her knee, licked her fingers. Sonora scratched his neck under the worn leather collar. The angels might turn their backs, but not her trusty dog.

53

Sonora was asleep on the couch when the doorbell rang. She opened her eyes. Rubbed a hand over her face, licked dry lips. She looked at her watch, saw it was two o'clock—
A.M
. or
P.M
.?

The doorbell rang again;
P.M
., she decided. Felt like afternoon.

She opened the door, blinked at the man who stood on the front porch. Felt Clampett's presence by her side.

The man was somewhere between twenty-eight and thirty-eight, which was a nice age bracket for a girl who was interested, which she wasn't. He wore jeans and a white cotton shirt, had high, broad cheekbones, a baby face, wavy brown hair.

Nice shoulders, Sonora thought.

The man picked up a rose petal from the soft stems and pieces that littered the front porch.

“Somebody been sending you flowers, pretty girl?”

Sonora wondered if she should tell him that the rose petals had spilled from funeral flowers. She looked down at her worn jeans, thin white T-shirt, thick white socks. She decided that she was not a pretty girl and that this man annoyed her.

“I don't want any,” Sonora said.

“Now hang on and give me a chance. See, your dog there hasn't barked or growled once. Dog knows I'm good people.”

Sonora put a hand on Clampett's collar. “This is the world's best dog. In honor of this dog, I'm going to give you thirty more seconds.”

He grinned. “I'm from across the river, honey, I'm not sure I can talk that fast.”

“Give it a shot.”

He rocked back on his heels. “You're Blair, aren't you? Homicide cop working the case where the guy was cuffed in his car and burned up?”

Sonora straightened her back. “Let's see some ID.”

He reached into his back pocket, and she tensed. “No room in there for a weapon, honey, not in this pair of jeans.” He handed her a badge, and she looked it over, squinting.

“Deputy Sheriff Jonathan Smallwood. Calib County, Kentucky?”

He propped an elbow on the wood rail of her front porch. “Sorry about what happened to your brother.”

She nodded. Word like that spread quickly, cop to cop.

“That's the main reason I drove up here. After I heard about your brother. I got a story to tell you.”

Sonora opened the screen door. “Maybe you better come in.”

Smallwood paused at the edge of her living room, gave her a look over one shoulder, and shook his head.

“You been eating anything at all?”

Sonora curled up on the couch, cross-legged, pretending not to notice when Clampett jumped up on the next cushion and laid his head in her lap. House rules for dogs had gone to hell.

Smallwood opened the curtains, stirring the dust, letting a latticework of sunshine in so bright Sonora blinked. He gathered up glasses, wadded tissues, pizza boxes, and disappeared into the kitchen. He stacked newspapers and set them on a chair.

“Feel better?” Sonora said.

“No, but you will.” He settled into her rocking chair. Crossed one ankle over his knee. “Once upon a time.”

Sonora leaned close.

It had been five years since he'd come across the car burning hotly on an out-of-the-way county road where the savvy parkers knew to go. It had been hot out, early September, and he shuddered when he described the blackened figure fused to the steering wheel—eyeless sockets, arms pulled forward, pugilistically locked.

The car had belonged to one Donnie Hillborn, and dental records had confirmed that the blackened body was indeed Donnie, the older brother of Vaughn Hillborn, hotshot football player, currently being courted by the University of Tennessee, the University of Kentucky, Duke, and Michigan State.

Donnie had been a local embarrassment. Donnie had been gay and proud of it.

There had been numerous oddities at the scene. A key in a charred fist. The smell of gasoline inside the car. A Coke can in the weeds nearby that had held gasoline and not Coke. No shoes, belt buckle, or signs thereof, anywhere on or around the body.

“Could've burned up, I guess.” Smallwood glanced at Sonora.

“Not if the body didn't.”

He looked thoughtful. “Officially listed as a traffic fatality, despite the lack of tire marks or collision damage.”

“Autopsy?” Sonora asked.

“Wasn't one.”

“Why does this smell so bad? Why cover it?”

Smallwood rubbed the back of his neck. “It's the sports thing.”

“You've lost me.”

“The family didn't want it investigated. They figured it was some kind of hate thing. Because Donnie was gay.”

“You've
got
to be kidding.”

“This is a very out-of-the-way county in Kentucky. A man can go to LA and walk around with false eyelashes and a cosmetics bag and people don't look twice. But where I come from … don't tell me Cincinnati's an oasis of tolerance. You people just concentrate your vice on the other side of the river in Covington.”