Flashpoint (6 page)

He patted her shoulder. “Yeah.”

“I need to go down to the booth just a few minutes. I have to pick up a couple of files, make one or two calls, and then I'll be right back. Will you be okay?”

“I'm headed home anyway.”

“You sure?”

He nodded.

Sonora felt their awkwardness. Sort of married. Sort of not.

Ashley Daniels's voice turned cool. “There's that car again. I hope it's somebody interested in the house.” She walked across the room, shifted the curtains to one side.

Sonora set her coffee cup on the end table and went to the window. “What car?”

Ashley Daniels looked at her over one shoulder. “Gone. Why?”

Sonora looked out at the street. Pavement, new sidewalk, baby grass on vulnerable, emerging lawns. No cars.

Ashley looked at Keaton. “You want the rental car delivered here or at your place?”

“Here, I guess. Can you get it for me this morning?”

“Done. And I'll have your check in three days. There are some advantages, to having an Allstate agent in the family.” Ashley smiled at Sonora, pulled a business card from her blazer pocket. “I work out of a booth at Tri-County Mall. If you ever want a rate estimate, give me a call. Mostly I handle property and casualty—car insurance, homeowners. Life when I'm lucky.”

Sonora nodded, pocketed the card, watched Ashley Daniels go into the kitchen, heels clacking. She heard a garage door.

“Where were we?” Keaton said.

“You were telling me what kind of magazines your brother read.”

“More interesting than the ones I get.
Weekly Reader. Highlights for Children
.”

“For the foldout.”

“They have some great ones where you connect the dots.”

Sonora tilted her head to one side. “Mr. Daniels, one thing I want to bring up. Our arson investigator couldn't find your brother's keys.”

“The car keys?”

“Yeah. What keys were on the ring?”

“Keys to this house. Keys to my apartment. My car and Ashley's car, and my desk at school. They must have burned up.”

“Even so, he should have been able to find them. Melted, carbonized, they'd still be there.”

“And he'd be able to tell?”

“Reads fires scenes like you read
Highlights for Children
. It's possible the killer kept them.”

“You think it's something to worry about?”

She opened her arms. “I'm not saying go overboard, but I don't like the killer having keys to your house. Just to be on the safe side, why don't you change your locks?”

“She won't know where I live, anyway.”

“Was there a registration in your car?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“There you go.”

“You really think—”

“I think it's a good precaution. Do it, why don't you? Getting robbed is no fun.”

“You think she'd rob my apartment?”

She thought robbery might be the least of his worries, but she didn't point it out. “It's best to take precautions. Change your locks, Mr. Daniels.”

7

The only picture of Mark that Keaton Daniels had handy was a wedding picture he'd removed from a gilt-edged frame. Sonora had been reluctant to take it. The pose showed Keaton, sturdy and serious, with Mark on one side and Ashley, radiant and beautiful, on the other. Mark looked young and smug, his elbow on Keaton's shoulder.

They did not look particularly alike, these brothers. Mark had light brown hair, fine and straight. His face was thin, chin pointed. He build was wiry in contrast to his brother's more solid mass. His eyes were blue.

Not a case of mistaken identity.

A Closed sign hung in the window of Cujo's Café-Bar, but the front door was unlocked. Sonora saw no sign of Sam, and didn't feel like waiting on the doorstep. She thought of Annie, tiny in a hospital bed. She would try to take Heather over for a visit.

The café was warm inside, divided into two main sections. The first was a bar, the second a small dining room with a Nonsmoking sign over the frame.

The bar itself was beautiful but battered, the rich teakwood scuffed and gouged. The brass plate along the bottom needed polishing. The barstools were high, but they had backs and armrests. Comfortable, Sonora thought, settling in. She studied the array of bottles grouped under the mirror that ran along the back.

The sight of so much alcohol so early in the morning offended the ulcer, and Sonora checked her jacket pocket for a Mylanta tablet. She was frowning at an empty foil packet when she heard soft footsteps and looked up to see a woman, short and stout like a fireplug, walk in from the dining room.

“Ma'am, I'm sorry, we don't open till noon.”

“Yeah, I figured there might be a reason the chairs were stacked up on the tables. Plus the Closed sign was kind of a tip-off.” Sonora opened the leather case that housed her ID, waited patiently while the woman looked the badge over carefully. The days when you could flash ID and not break stride were long gone.

“Detective Bear?”

“Blair,” Sonora said.

“Sorry, I don't have my reading glasses. What can I help you with?” The woman moved behind the counter, heading for a coffeepot. She'd have to stand on a stool to tend bar. “Get you a cup?”

The ulcer had segued neatly from ache to nausea, and Sonora grimaced. “No, thanks.” She heard a car engine and spotted a pickup pulling up by the curb out front. Sam. She took the recorder out of her purse and laid it on the bartop.

“You work here, Ms.…?”

“Anders. Celia Anders. I'm day manager.”

The bell over the front door jingled, and Sam came into the bar. Sonora waved.

“Ms. Anders, this is my partner, Detective Delarosa.”

He nodded. Celia Anders smiled at him. She liked him, Sonora could tell, though all he'd done was walk through the door. Sonora looked at Sam in mild irritation.

“Ms. Anders, did you work last night?” Sonora asked.

Celia Anders looked at the recorder. “No, I'm
day
manager. I go home at seven.”

“Who was here?”

“Let's see. Usually Ronnie seats people in the restaurant part. And Chita tends bar. They own the place. Ronnie Knapp and Chita Childers.”

“Either of them around?” Sam asked.

“They're in the kitchen. At least, Chita was.”

“We'd like to talk to them,” Sonora said.

“What's this all about?”

Sonora smiled.

“Okay then,” Celia Anders said. “I'll get 'em.”

Sonora glanced at her watch. Both Tim and Heather should be snug in school. Provided, of course, Heather's bus hadn't wrecked or been hijacked by terrorists, and some middle-aged man in a raincoat hadn't forced Tim into his nondescript brown car. Sonora sighed, and Sam looked at her. He had an air of distraction that let her know he was upset. Annie was no doubt having a rough morning.

“Okay?”

He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “We got her settled.”

Sonora heard muted female voices, then a tall woman with a pure vanilla complexion and frizzy red-gold hair walked in, followed by Celia Anders. They looked remarkable, walking together, one tall, thin, and confident, the other short and squat, shoulders hunched together as if she expected to be hit.

“Hi, I'm Chita Childers.”

Her voice was thin and she'd sing soprano. Her eyes were blue and her hair was long, pulled up on the sides with a silver-and-turquoise barrette. She wore jeans and a Bengals T-shirt.

“I'm Sonora Blair, this is Sam Delarosa, Cincinnati Police.”

“What did you want to see me about?” She looked over her shoulder. “Ronnie!”

“I'm in the bathroom.” The voice was muted, male, irritable.

Sonora put the wedding picture on the counter.

“Do you recognize this man?”

Chita Childers squinted and stared down at the picture. “Yeah, this one. He's here all the time.”

She stabbed a long skinny finger at Keaton Daniels. Her nails were long and coated with maroon polish. Glued in the corner of each squared-off nail was a tiny zircon, glinting like a diamond.

“
This
guy?”

“Yeah.”

“Was he in last night?”

Childers squeezed her eyes shut and tilted her head upward to aid her memory. So all the thoughts in the top of her head could slide into her brain, Sonora thought.

“No, I don't think so. He hasn't been in that much lately. For a while, he was here two or three nights a week. But”—she opened her eyes—“not last night.”

“Who about the other one?”

“The woman?”

“Either.”

“The woman, I don't know. She's a type. Ronnie might remember.”

“And the guy?” Sonora pointed to Mark Daniels.

From somewhere close came the sound of a flushing toilet, the noise of running water, a door opening, closing. A man in his mid- to late thirties, slender, thinning brown hair and a mustache, came in from the dining room. He stopped in the doorway.

“Oh.”

“Police Specialists Blair and Delarosa,” Sonora said. “Didn't mean to catch you at a bad time.”

Knapp's cheeks went dusky red. Sam coughed and cleared his throat.

Knapp extended a hand to Sonora and gave her a firm, damp handshake. He glanced at Celia. “We're out of paper towels in the bathroom, by the way.” Sonora wiped her hands on the back of her jacket and settled back down on the stool.

Sam scooted the picture across the bar. “Mr. Knapp, did any of these people come in last night?”

Knapp picked up the picture and studied it. “Last night, hmmm. That one didn't.”

Sonora rubbed her stomach. “Which one?”

Knapp flipped the picture around and pointed to Keaton Daniels. “This one. He used to come in a lot, but I haven't seen him lately. The other guy was here, though.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Talking to the blonde.”

Sonora felt rather than saw Sam tensing. She kept her voice casual. “What blonde?”

“Just some girl.”

“She a regular?”

“Been in a few times.”

“What blonde is this?” Chita Childers asked.

“You've seen her. Kind of little. Delicate, sort of. Never smiles.”

“How long did she talk to this guy?” Sonora pointed to Mark's picture.

“Awhile.”

“Do you remember how long?”

“Not really.”

“An hour?”

“Maybe not that long.”

“Just a few minutes? Half an hour?”

“Longer than half an hour. Like maybe forty-five minutes. Like that. They had a drink together. She drinks Bud from the bottle.”

“What was he drinking?”

“Draft beer. Bourbon chaser.”

“Did they leave together?”

“No.”

“Who left first?”

“Don't know.”

“About what time?”

“Jeez, I really don't know. Before eleven.”

Chita Childers edged forward, and Celia Anders had to step backward. “She must have left before he did, then. 'Cause this guy stayed late.”

“How late?” Sam said.

“Almost midnight. I thought he'd be around to close us down.”

Sam smiled at Celia Anders, then turned his attention to Chita Childers. Sonora leaned into the back of the stool.

“And the blonde had left by then?” Sam asked.

“Yeah.”

“He talk to anyone else?”

Chita shrugged. “He talked to lots of people. He talked to me. How come? He in some kind of trouble?”

“He's dead.”

“Dead? Killed?”

“Burned to death in his car.”

“
That
guy? I heard that on the news this morning.” She gripped the edge of the bar, eyes wide. “Oh, God, and I just talked to him. He was so young, too. I actually carded him. The news said somebody burned him
alive
.”

Ronnie Knapp sat down on a stool, turning it so he faced Sonora. “You think maybe this blonde saw the killer?”

Sonora kept her voice careful. “It's possible. Right now we're trying to reconstruct Daniels's last hours. This blond woman—you didn't overhear a name, by any chance?”

Ronnie and Chita both frowned. Chita's tongue came out—more help with concentration. Then she shook her head.

Sonora looked at Ronnie. “You?”

“No.”

“How'd she pay? Cash? Credit card?”

He shook his head. “I don't remember.”

“She tip?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Stingy? Generous?”

“Kind of in the middle.”

“Cash or on credit?”

“Cash.”

“All right. Gather up all your credit receipts for last night, and make copies. In fact, we'll need copies of everything that's come in over the last, say, six weeks.”

Ronnie nodded glumly.

Sonora smiled. “We appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Knapp. It would help us a lot if you'd bring the receipts down to our office today and make a formal statement. We'll make an appointment for you to get with our artist on a sketch of this blonde. We're on the fifth floor of the Board of Elections building, 825 Broadway. Public parking lot a block away. Just tell the man in the booth out front what you're there for, and he'll tell you where to go.”

Ronnie and Chita acquired the glazed and wary look of people who suddenly found themselves in the middle of a murder investigation.

“As soon as possible,” Sonora said.

“What if she comes back in?” Celia Anders had been left out and didn't like it.

Sonora took a card from her jacket pocket.

“She comes back in, call me, anytime. If I'm not there, be sure and explain to the detective who answers the phone, don't just leave a message. Here, this is my home number.” Sonora scrawled on the back of the card with a pen. “Any of you see her again, don't approach her, just give me a call.”