No Good Deed (10 page)

‘That's one serious looking blood trail.'

‘Yeah, and it was all from the other guy. Most of it anyway.' Sam, coming in behind Mickey. ‘It's a good shoot, sir.'

Crick looked at him. Did not deign to mention that Sam, being her partner, might not be the most unbiased judge.

‘It was,' Mickey said. Looked at Sonora. ‘Where was
your
gun?'

Crick's gaze was steady. Sonora looked at the floor. ‘In my purse.'

‘Which was where?'

‘In my car. But the car was locked.'

Sam winced.

‘That keeps your weapon safe, but it doesn't do much for you,' Mickey said.

‘What brought you back in the barn?' Crick asked.

She looked up and saw Sam, standing behind Crick, shake his head slightly. As if she'd be stupid enough to admit she'd gone in to feed the horses.

‘Instinct, intuition. Being nosy,' Sonora said.

Sam nodded. ‘Good cop traits.'

‘We'll talk later.' From Crick. He headed into the barn, Mickey on his heels.

Sam bent over her, muttered something about tagging along with Crick.

Going to make sure everybody came to the right conclusion, Sonora thought, as he winked and headed out, leaving her alone with McCarty, two uniforms, and a woman from CSU who was bent over a clipboard, filling out one of the endless forms that were the curse of modern law enforcement.

Crick would look the scene over himself, Sonora thought. She did not know what he would say to her privately, but she did know that if he agreed with Mickey he would watch her back with the Internal Affairs Division. God help her if he didn't.

‘I'd be glad to run to the house and get you some ice. If you don't want to go to a hospital. Which is where you should be.' Hal McCarty's voice was kind.

The CSU woman looked up. ‘I'll drive you,' she said softly.

Sonora shook her head, regretted it. ‘They'll just sit me on a metal table for six hours till some doctor comes in and tells me I have a concussion, which is something I already know.'

The CSU technician, a tiny redhead who, in Sonora's memory, used to be brunette, nodded and went back to the form, which looked to be giving her trouble.

Sonora frowned hard. Kindness would undo her. It didn't sit well to get scared shitless, kicked in the head and yelled at by the boss after being up all night.

There had to be a reason she was in this line of work.

She focused on McCarty, trying to come up with the right questions. ‘You say Donna Delaney called and asked you to feed the horses?' She would get him on this one. Delaney hadn't called anybody.

He shifted in his seat and looked to the left. Prelude to a lie, Sonora thought.

‘I haven't talked to Donna since … oh, last night. About the time you guys left.'

He could be telling the truth, or he could know Delaney was incapacitated. ‘So what are you doing here, now, this morning?'

He leaned forward, hands on his knees. ‘I'm here every morning. The truth is, Donna likes to sleep in. She breezes in late all the time, so I come early and help Dixon feed the horses. She knows we're doing it, because there's feed missing, and it pisses her off, but she won't come out in the open and admit she isn't going to feed them herself, so Dixon's got her cornered. He started it. I just didn't think he'd be up to it today.'

‘You're telling me
she
doesn't feed them?'

‘That's what I'm telling you.'

Sonora held her head at an angle, to ease the throb in her temple. She had touched it once, a mistake, and she was afraid to look in a mirror. The miracle of makeup was not going to help her out of this one.

She rubbed her forehead. ‘So you just came over to feed the horses out of the goodness of your heart. And you do this every day?'

‘No, I told you. Dixon does it.' His smile was sympathetic. He knew the story was weak, and he knew her head hurt.

‘Where did you spend the night, Mr McCarty?'

‘At home.'

‘Nope.'

‘Nope?'

‘Did you take a shower this morning?'

‘You working Homicide or Hygiene?'

‘Answer the question.'

‘Yeah, I took a shower.'

‘What did you eat for breakfast?'

‘Egg McMuffin.'

‘There isn't a McDonald's in five miles.'

‘Ma'am, when I want an Egg McMuffin I'll get in the car and drive for it.'

Sonora saw the smile flick across the CSU technician's face, but she frowned her down and the woman went back to the clipboard like she was glued to it.

‘So you went out to breakfast?'

He shook his head. ‘No, this one was old and cold. Got it out of the fridge. Single-guy syndrome.'

Sonora did not believe him, but there was nowhere to go with this. She could ask him if he'd been to Delaney's place. Get him on record saying no. She checked her watch. Nine a.m. Only 9 a.m. Shaping up to be a terrific kick-ass day.

‘Did you go see Donna Delaney last night? Go to her home?'

He cocked his head to one side. ‘Nope.'

‘You won't mind coming down to the office, giving me a written account of where you were last night?'

‘Not at all. But I wasn't there. You can trust me, Detective. I've admitted to an Egg McMuffin. If I was a liar I'd tell you I had bran flakes and a banana.'

Chapter Eighteen

Sonora shifted the ice-cream sandwich up along her temple. The seam of thick white wrapping caught her skin and she winced. ‘Did you even try to get ice?'

Sam glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. ‘It was the most frozen thing I could find. Sure you don't want to go to the ER? You could flirt with Gillane some more.'

‘Maybe later. What did Helen say exactly?'

‘How many fingers am I holding up?'

‘One, Sam, and thanks for my morning obscenity. When did Helen call you?'

‘She called Crick because she couldn't get you. You were supposed to meet her first thing, remember? Phone locked in the car with the weapon?'

‘How many fingers am I holding up, Sam?'

‘Crick took the call while we were following the blood trail of your latest victim. Helen was pretty excited. Said the dog was having a fit over a big pile of manure, and for us to bring a shovel and a pitchfork and get out there. Said there was a pitchfork up against the fence, but she was thinking it might be evidence, so she didn't want to touch it.'

‘My God, Sam, think about it. I'm excited. You're excited. Helen and the dog are excited. Over manure. What kind of job is this?'

Sam gave her a look. ‘You really got hit on the head.' He checked over his shoulder, saw a pickup barreling toward them, pulled out anyway. Sonora hung on to the armrest.

‘You sure you never saw the guy before?' Sam asked.

‘What guy? The one in the ski mask?'

‘Yeah, the one in the ski mask.'

‘How would I know if I ever saw him, he was in a ski mask, that's the point of ski masks. You don't see their face. But I have to say it weirded me out to find McCarty in the middle of everything.'

Sam looked at her. ‘He your number-one suspect?'

‘Where'd you get that idea?'

‘Well, you did send him downtown.'

‘Let's see, he's got Joelle's blood all over his shirt, he's Johnny-on-the-spot when I run into that maniac in the barn—'

‘Johnny-on-the-spot? I haven't heard that one in years.'

‘Plus he's a veterinarian. Which means he could be our finger-ripper.'

‘Finger-ripper. I like that.'

‘Are you paying attention at all?'

‘Sort of, but I'm mainly looking for Helen's car.'

‘She knows we're coming?'

‘Crick told her to hang on, we'd be right out. Told her you'd been delayed by a small case of dismemberment and a barn brawl.'

‘Nothing like the truth.' She looked out the window. ‘Speaking of which. There's her pickup.'

Sam hit the brakes, waited for a battered white Montero to blow past, and pulled the Taurus to the side of the road in front of the Mazda, which was half in and half out of a ditch.

Sonora opened the car door, looked over her shoulder at Sam. ‘You could have parked so the ditch was on your side.'

‘Climb over. The ice cream's melting. You going to eat it?'

She handed him the ice-cream sandwich, slid across the front seat of the car and climbed out after him into the two-lane road. ‘Which way from here, Sam?'

He unwrapped the white paper, took a quick bite of the ice cream which was melty and sagged sideways. He pointed to a small square sign, red on white, a six mounted on a silvery metal stake.

‘She said to look for a huge red-brick house, go down the gravel road that says fire gate number six, and follow it back to the barn.' He took another bite of ice cream.

Sonora looked across the road. Saw a large red-brick house that looked like it dated from the Civil War. If a brick house could sag, this one did.

She looked back at the sign. ‘It doesn't
say
fire gate.'

‘Yeah, but it says six.'

‘So fire gate is implied? It's not on the sign?'

‘I'm trying to remember if you were like this before you got hit on the head.' Sam finished the ice cream in two large bites, rolled the wrapper into a sticky white ball and handed it to Sonora. ‘I'll get the tools.'

Chapter Nineteen

The gravel road was narrow, and looped to the right, leading to the fields behind the red-brick house. Sam and Sonora walked along the fence line, in the sparse grass on the shoulder of the drive, avoiding the muddy water pooled in tire ruts of mud and gray-white gravel dust. Sam carried a pitchfork and a scoop-shaped shovel over his left shoulder. Sonora carried her purse.

She touched the inside of her lip with her tongue. The tissue was swollen and huge, and she wondered if this was what collagen injections felt like. Too bad the swelling would not spread evenly so she could be sore, but sexy.

They paid for this in LA.

She frowned, because for some reason the lay of the land looked familiar. The pasture was pale brown and fading green, black four-plank horse fencing in excellent repair. The house, set back from the road on the right, was built in an L shape, with a porch running down one side and along the back. It had recently been whitewashed. Sonora pictured herself sitting there on a porch swing, drinking a glass of wine.

Maybe she would get a porch swing. That might be affordable.

‘Sam, can you hang a porch swing?'

‘I'm a guy, Sonora. If I say I can't hang a porch swing, I go down two notches on the belt loop of manhood. Your problem is – if you get me to hang a porch swing, will I do it right? Or will—' He looked over one shoulder. ‘This place look familiar to you?'

‘The
belt loop
of manhood?' Sonora shook her head, and moved ahead of him. The road completed its curve and straightened. On the left, the fields were fenced into five-acre paddocks, automatic concrete waterers in the center, circled by mud and churned-up sod.

The morning drear was giving way to patches of sun, and the wind was still at last. Sonora looked around, thinking how beautiful it looked, wishing herself away somewhere in the sun, dreading the short, dark days of winter ahead.

The road straightened and led to a huge black barn, doors slid open. Cobwebs streamed from wood rafters, pieces of rusty machinery parked every which way.

Sonora heard a bleat, saw two black-faced sheep and a couple of goats in a pen on her right. One of the sheep had his head sideways under the bottom fence slat, and was chewing at the grass on the other side.

‘Helen?' Sonora shouted.

She caught a streak of movement from the left – a dog, running toward them. Soft white with thick fur in a ruff around his neck. A Shepherd–Akita mix.

‘Tail's wagging.' Sam held out a hand and the dog went to him happily. Accepted a head-rub, looked expectantly toward Sonora.

She scratched his ears. Looked at the tag. ‘Hello, Lincoln.'

He grinned up at her, tongue sideways, then headed up toward the house.

‘Watchdog?' Sam said.

‘He's watching.'

Sam pointed. ‘Helen said go around the back of the barn, head left along the fence line, couple hundred yards. We'll see her.'

‘She'll be hard to miss.'

‘I wouldn't say stuff like that in earshot.'

They headed around the left-hand side of the barn, out of view of the house. The ground was spongy beneath their feet. The barn had small square windows, way high up, dark and impenetrable.

They rounded the side, both looking to catch sight of Helen. Wood posts, twelve feet high, had been set in the ground behind the barn – skeletal, raw, promising. Someone planning an addition. A mound of freshly dug dirt was humped between the posts, a wheelbarrow tipped against a stack of twelve-foot slats of treated poplar.

Sonora hesitated at the edge of the barn, looked over her shoulder at Sam. Moved to the open door, took a small step inside. Barns were foreign territory.

It was cool inside, and dark, sunlight pooling at the edge of the open doors. The dirt floor was uneven, and sprinkled with straw and wood shavings.

The loft was full of hay on the right side, empty on the left. Pitchforks, shovels, rakes were hung on the walls. The right-hand side had stalls, with red-mesh metal doors.

‘Sam,' Sonora said. ‘Better get in here.'

He set the fork and shovel against the barn door, came close enough to her that his hand brushed her back. Whistled, low and tuneless.

In the aisleway, next to a rusting manure spreader and a small yellow-and-rust John Deere tractor, was a teal-green pickup.

Sam moved to the back of the truck. ‘I'll be damned. Double tires – Dually.'

Sonora looked into the front. The floors were muddy, a wealth of forensic detail. ‘Keys in the ignition. Seems real strange.'