No Good Deed (15 page)

Not well, she decided.

Chauncey sat limply, shoulders slumped, large hands hanging loosely between his legs. She took a step backward to lock the door and he looked up. For a minute his eyes were alive with a light and a focus that Sonora found hard to meet. She studied his hands, looking for scratches, wounds. Nothing but calluses that she could see.

Sonora tried to catch Sam's eye. Had he delivered the news? Surely not, with the children in the room.

‘Guess who's been calling?' Sam said.

Sonora sat on the footstool in front of the wide easy chair that she was sure would be the room favorite. It seemed a bit more worn than the others, and something sticky had been spilled on the armrest. Looked like Coke.

‘Montel Williams wants Mr Chauncey for an interview.'

Chauncey swallowed. ‘He wants me to appeal to the kidnappers – ask them to …' The voice broke. ‘… to give me back my little girl.'

Both children looked up sharply, watching him.

Look to your daughters, Sonora thought, appalled to find herself feeling such a mix of annoyance and impatience. Chauncey was soft, unpalatably soft. She wanted to shake him. She did not like the way he stood like a lamb for the reporters, putting up a brave front. She did not like the way he crumpled down and waited. Where was the anger? Where was the fight?

Why was she such a hardass?

‘When is the interview?' She wondered what Crick would say about a Montel show. Another media blot for Cincinnati, still trying to live down their jailing of a grandmother for a parking meter violation.

My home-town.

‘I told them no,' Chauncey said, lips tight. He did not want to talk about it.

Sonora did not argue. A plea to kidnappers was a moot point. This was a homicide now.

Sam looked at Sonora, and they stared at each other for a moment – who would lower the boom?

Sonora cleared her throat, voice low and quiet. ‘Mr Chauncey, do you think that Mary Claire and Kippie could draw in their room for a few minutes while we talk?'

He looked up, shoulders drawn. He started breathing quickly and Sonora saw sweat, slick and oily, break out across his forehead. His fingers trembled like butterflies against his knees.

She bit her bottom lip. She should have handled that better, should not have talked about the children as if they were not there. But it was too late. Mary Claire was snatching up colored pencils and the puzzle books and taking Kippie by the hand. It was too much for a small person. Four of the pencils dropped and she turned a look on Chauncey that made Sonora wish she was anywhere but here.

‘Looks like you could use some help, ma'am.' Sam bent down and picked up pencils, and Mary Claire gave him a mesmerized look. It was likely the first time a strange man had called her ma'am. Sam held out his arms and Kippie went to him, and he led the little girls down the hall.

Sonora waited for the bedroom door to close.

‘Mr Chauncey, we've found the body of a young girl, and I'm afraid that she matches pretty closely your description of Joelle.'

Chauncey bowed his head and began to cry, tiny little sobs like hiccups of grief. Sonora noticed that his hair was thick, clean and blacker than ever. She heard soft footsteps, saw that Sam was back in the room.

Sonora met his eyes, then looked back at Chauncey. ‘We need to make a formal identification as soon as possible.'

‘Do I have to?' Chauncey's voice was small. Childlike.

Sonora looked at Sam, who nodded. ‘I'm afraid so.'

Chauncey's shoulders slumped. Acceptance, Sonora thought, wondering if this man always did as he was told.

‘I don't think I can drive. I'm too upset.'

‘We'll give you a ride.' Sam's voice was gentle.

‘Do you want to go to your daughters for a while?' Sonora asked.

‘No.'

Sonora leaned toward him. ‘Can I get you something? A glass of water?'

He nodded. Looked up and mumbled something.

‘What's that?' Sonora was appalled to hear the tinge of impatience in her voice.

Sam gave her a sideways look. ‘He said no ice.'

‘Okay.' Sonora headed into the kitchen. The dishwasher was running, sounding like Sonora's old Nissan when it dropped a brake shoe. Chauncey, whose sobs had subsided while giving the specifics of his water, kicked in with some gusty crying that teetered on the edge of a hysteria that made Sonora wince. She and Sam usually made their exit before this stage. They were going to have to ride with this guy all the way downtown. Sam was going to kill her.

The kitchen was clean, countertops spotless. The stainless-steel sink was shiny, a tiny residue of scouring powder along the rim of the drain. Not a crumb in sight on the tablecloth, foam-backed plastic, lemon yellow.

Sonora opened cabinets, looking for a glass. Found canned goods, stacked for the most part in order of size and content, with a few variations. Soups, chowders, jars of spaghetti sauce. Cans of Slim Fast – who was going on a torture diet? Dixon Chauncey, or the young Joelle?

She hoped it was Dixon and not Joelle. She hoped Joelle had eaten chocolate and pizza before she died.

She opened another cabinet. All the dishes were perfect, glasses in rows, perfectly matched, unlike her own cabinets with cups with plastic bird feet lined up next to her remaining three crystal wineglasses.

All of Chauncey's glasses were clean. Her own dishwasher was leaving dried residue on her dishes, which made the machine something of a moot point.

She filled a glass with water – no ice. Opened the freezer, in case he hadn't wanted her looking there, remembering the head found in Jeffrey Dahmer's refrigerator.

No body parts.

Lots of Tupperware, though, all neatly labeled – meatballs, lasagne, chicken noodle pie bake. Chauncey had dinner cooked ahead for the next two weeks.

He bought Ore Ida Shoe String potatoes, Sealtest ice cream, chocolate chip cookie dough, by the gallon. The ice trays were uniformly filled – none of that pop-out-a-few-cubes-at-a-time behavior acceptable in this kitchen.

The refrigerator was less than perfect – catsup spills on the egg trays, which were empty of eggs. It would have been hard to imagine a refrigerator any other way, with three kids in the house.

Two now.

No Styrofoam white squares of take-home leftovers – did they ever eat out? Chauncey seemed to have the domestic front well in hand. Maybe he always cooked.

Sonora set the glass of water on the counter. Opened the cabinet under the sink – child proof latch, each new design an IQ test, but she was an experienced mom, she had it open in no time, like an expert safe-cracker.

No cleaners under the sink, which was good – there were small children in the house. The trash can was overwhelmed by a black plastic garbage bag, lawn and garden size, that hung down the sides, yellow ties threaded through the top seams for efficient disposal later on. It rested on a sticky plastic mat that would attract ants in the summertime. Sonora put a fingertip on the edge and tipped it forward.

Coffee grounds, lumped and deposited on a filter that had gone from white to sepia brown. Apple peel, an empty spray bottle that still had a blue film of Windex, and a lone plastic glove, thin, stained reddish black.

Sonora pulled the trash can out, looked at the glove. Not blood, surely? She rattled the bag, saw the box of Van Hale's Shampoo-In Hair Color. shades of raven black.

He had dyed his hair, that morning or the night before.

She found a plastic evidence bag in her jacket pocket. Put a latex glove on, took the stained plastic glove and the box of hair dye, just for good measure. He had invited them into his home, and agreed she could get him water. She should be okay on this. Best make sure that was really hair dye and nothing else on the glove.

Her pocket bulged, but Chauncey was not the type to make a challenge. And if he wondered and was nervous, so much the better.

Sonora put the trash can back under the sink, took the glass of water off the counter. Grabbed a box of Puffs – hefty size – sitting in the kitchen window. Chauncey was crying steadily, she could hear him faintly over the grind of the dishwasher.

It was going to be a long ride into town.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Inside the familiar corridors of the city morgue, Chauncey seemed to shrink and grow wooden. He walked between Sonora and Sam down the long linoleum corridor that led to the room with a view.

It was very like a hospital corridor, hollow and impersonal, moderately clean. Not a happy place. There was no comfort to be had from block concrete walls, no matter how recently they had been painted.

Chauncey surprised her. He had stopped crying when he talked to the children, handling them gently, rocking Kippie in his lap until a friend from work arrived to look after them for the duration. Mary Claire had sat stiffly by his side as he rocked her little sister, and all Sonora could do was look at the little girl and wonder who was going to rock her.

He had cried quietly all the way into town, but as soon as they'd parked the Taurus and he'd looked out the window, as if to see that yes, indeed, what was happening was real, they were on their way to the morgue, the tears had dried.

He was quiet now, head tucked down into the wings of his shoulder blades.

Sonora watched him out of the corner of one eye. He had not asked how Joelle had died. Which could mean that he was in shock, that he was afraid to ask questions, that he was avoiding the knowledge, or that he already knew.

With this man, any explanation could apply.

Was he capable of such a brutal murder and disposal? A man who did exactly as he was told, whenever he was told?

She'd interviewed men who had committed heinous crimes – men who were small, whippet thin and dorky. One of the worst killers she'd tracked had been a petite blonde with tiny soft hands. Sonora could still see her, smiling serenely in the interview room. It was not a vision she encouraged. It reminded her of people she did not want to think about. Not now, when she had to concentrate.

They passed the ME's office – Stella's door was open. Sonora let Sam and Chauncey walk on ahead, and stuck her head in. The woman behind the desk was precision perfect – careful makeup, a tight chignon, crisply ironed hospital fatigues. Sonora had never seen Stella when she was not handling three things at once, but today she sat behind the desk, fingertips pressed into a black cork blotter pad, eyes squinted and dreamy. She had high cheekbones and her skin was a rich and flawless mocha brown.

‘Stella?'

‘Hello, Sonora. Was that him?'

They had been on first-name basis for a couple of years now, a major concession from this very correct, meticulous superwoman, who handled job, children, husband and committee work with dedication, attention to detail and very little humor.

‘Yes,' Sonora said.

Stella Bellair touched her bottom lip. ‘I gave the child a quick preliminary look before Lee got her draped for viewing.'

Most MEs would have said vic. Victim. Subject.

Sonora stepped into the office, lowered her voice. ‘I thought she was in a pretty advanced state of rigor for someone who was last seen at three o'clock yesterday afternoon.'

‘Yes, but she was buried in a manure pile. I talked to Mickey. That could have accelerated the process.'

‘I see.'

Stella tapped an impossibly white fingernail on the edge of the desk. ‘This girl was how old?'

‘Fifteen.' Probably about a year younger than Stella's daughter, if Sonora remembered correctly. ‘Stella, do you think she was alive when the killer buried her?'

Stella shook her head. ‘Way too early for me to comment. How's the father holding up?'

Sonora shrugged. That wasn't what Stella was really asking. The woman wanted to know if he was under suspicion.

‘Not well. He's here now, making the ID.' Sonora wondered how Stella kept her office so clean. Did she come in after hours and scrub it herself? Or perhaps she just frightened the cleaning crew.

Stella gave her a steady look. ‘You want me to get blood and hair samples for you? From the dad?'

Sonora thought for a moment, nodded. ‘Yeah. That would help.'

Lee Eversley was wearing a thick cable-knit fisherman's sweater in a color that could be best described as Mercedes white. He was holding a hand up at Sam.

‘Give me thirty seconds.' He glanced back down the hallway, saw Sonora and winked. His face had healed indifferently over the scourge of old acne scars, which gave him a rough, masculine look. He had big shoulders and Sonora always wanted to hug him. She wondered about his love life.

She heard the door to the viewing room shut, a bolt slide into place, and she waited for the song and dance to begin. The procedure, developed by the age-old process of trial and error, was set in concrete.

Sam and Dixon Chauncey waited, backs to the wall. The ring of a shower curtain sliding across an aluminum bar made everyone go tense. The curtains framed a rectangular window, six by two, coffin-sized, through which they would be able to see into the refrigerated room where Joelle Chauncey's mortal remains rested on a thinly padded gurney.

That there had to be a wall between the victim and his kin was established early by the understandable but evidence-compromising behavior of people who often flung themselves on the body of their loved ones. There were no doctors in sight, in the hope that relatives would feel inhibited about fainting or showing physical signs of distress.

Sam pinched Chauncey's elbow and encouraged him to move closer to the window. He nodded at Eversley, who pulled back the edge of the white sheet to show the small, vacant, blue-tinged face.

Watching Chauncey made Sonora think of old Greek legends where vengeful gods turned men into stone. He grew silent and still in a way she had never seen before.

‘Is that Joelle?' Sam asked softly.

Chauncey nodded. It was understood by everyone that he would not be able to talk.