No Good Deed (2 page)

‘Police Specialist Blair. You're Dixon Chauncey?' Sonora showed him her badge, knowing he would find it a comfort. She wondered why he was not out looking for his daughter with the uniforms.

‘Yes, ma'am. I'm Joelle's father.'

His knees were wobbly, and he teetered forward. Which answered her question as to why he wasn't out looking.

Sonora took his hand and nudged him back toward the couch. ‘Sit down, Mr Chauncey.'

He obeyed instantly.

He wasn't overweight by more than fifteen or twenty pounds, which would have been unnoticeable if he dressed with a certain amount of common sense. He didn't. He wore his pants tight and curved over his hips, and the length was an inch too short. Likely the pants had fit perfectly until washed.

He could have been attractive, but he wasn't. The least endearing thing about him was his posture – back slightly humped, shoulders curved and sloping, elbows bent, like Popeye. He wore a short-sleeved plaid shirt with a pack of Marlboros in the pocket. His hair was black, like shoe polish, and dull as if he dyed it. It sat on his head like a plastic cap. Sonora figured he combed it straight down with water every day.

‘Have you met my partner, Detective Delarosa? He got here ahead of me, he drives faster than I do.' Sonora smiled gently while she worked him, felt the ease of tension in the room. The rider mommies gave her a look of approval mixed with relief, and Chauncey braved a shy half-smile.

Let him know there was a man on the case, Sonora thought, on the chance that he was one of those people who were particular about the gender of their cops. Give an air of competent professionalism, and leaven it with ‘I'm just a regular Joe'.

Confidence and a bit of comfort for him to hang on to while they found the body of his kid, and decided whether or not he'd had anything to do with it.

The tears looked genuine, at any rate.

The door leading into the barn proper slammed open, just grazing Sonora on the elbow. She heard a horse whinny and snort, then a thumping noise, as if the horse were pawing the ground.

‘Shut that up or you're going out.' A woman's voice. Harsh. Inflection sounding kind of Chicago – Midwest, anyway.

The horse was instantly quiet, as was everyone else in the room.

The woman stood in the doorway, taking them all in. Her attention created a frisson of awareness that said watch your step. Her chin was pointed, face almost drawn, hair a cotton-white blond because she was worth it. She did not wear a lot of makeup and her features were strong. She bordered pretty, if you liked them hard-looking. Her eyes, dark, flat and judgmental, went back to Sonora, and she extended a hand.

‘I'm Donna Delaney. This is my farm, and my office.'

Tiny lines, half-circle grooves like hoofprints, arced the corners of her mouth. She had thin slash lips, wore jeans and a flannel shirt that fit her loosely. She was slim and she looked good in jeans. She scraped her feet on the door-sill. She wore black rubber boots crusted with mud, manure and wood shavings, and her feet were long and slender. Her throat and shoulders were dark brown, the permanent tan of a woman who spent a lot of time outdoors no matter the heat.

‘Detective Blair,' Sonora said.

‘So you come in pairs. I've talked to the other one already. Delarosa.'

‘I have a few questions—'

‘I already talked to your partner.'

Sonora was aware of the rapt attention of the women on, the couch. ‘That so?' She smiled, keeping it lazy. ‘Ms Delaney, did you see Joelle Chauncey this afternoon?'

Delaney's eyes narrowed, then she turned and headed for the door, glancing back at Sonora over her shoulder. ‘It's past feeding time and my horses are hungry. Want to walk along beside me while I work?'

‘I won't keep you much longer,' Sonora said.

Delaney hesitated.

‘I can feed them, Donna.' Chauncey stood up again, then leaned against the wall. His voice was small, sad and brave.

‘You can't even stand up,' Delaney said.

‘We'll do it.' The two women got off the couch, looked at each other, nodded their heads. This was something they could handle. Glad to be of help.

Delaney gave them a mere flicker of attention. ‘Don't worry about the horses in the back stalls. And only give that pony a taste. He's pig-fat as it is.' She looked back at Sonora. ‘No. I didn't see Joelle today.'

‘Were you here? What's your usual schedule?'

‘I get here in the morning, a little before eight. Leave around twelve-thirty. Got back at six. Today's Tuesday. I do private lessons on Tuesdays, usually in the evening. Other days I'm back by four.'

‘Is there usually anyone here between noon and four, or six on Tuesdays?'

‘No. Unless I'm showing a horse for sale or something, it's usually dead around here in the afternoons. Picks up at night for lessons from five to eight, except Tuesday, like I said. When I do private. Then I feed and bed the horses and go home. Joelle usually helps me.'

‘Was Joelle in the habit of riding out by herself in the afternoon?'

‘Yeah, she'd usually ride after school for a little while, before lessons started. She wasn't really supposed to go out on Tuesdays, though, because nobody else is here. It's better if someone's around to keep an eye out. But one of the arrangements I have with Dixon is that his kids get to ride the horses. He's supposed to look after them. I'm not their baby-sitter.'

Sonora glanced at Dixon Chauncey, wondering how Delaney's insensitivity would register.

Defensively.

‘She wasn't supposed to ride by herself,' he said quickly.

Sonora looked back at Chauncey. ‘She did, though, didn't she?'

‘I should have been stricter with her about that. But she was a good rider.'

‘She could handle herself,' Delaney said. High praise.

Joelle was only fifteen, Sonora thought. A lot of things could come up that a fifteen-year-old couldn't handle.

Chapter Three

Dixon Chauncey insisted on showing Sonora through the barn, as if she could not make it down the dirt-packed aisle on her own. The rider mommies manned a wheelbarrow, scooping feed through the bars of the stalls. The horses nickered, waiting impatiently, snorting when the grain hit the feed tub.

The musk of horse mixed pleasantly with emanations from fresh cedar shavings that were piled all the way to the barn roof in an empty stall at the opposite end. Sonora found the noise of munching horses soothing. She peeped in through one barred window.

The horse, chestnut and skinny, did not lift his head from his dinner. The stall was rank with black muck and manure, cobwebs hanging in streams from the rafters.

A barn cat, tiger-striped and skinny enough to show ribs, scooted in front of Dixon Chauncey. Sonora bent down absently and caught its tail as it went by, got a handful of cat fur and barn dust.

The barn doors were open. An outdoor light sent a weak yellow glow over the weed-edged, beaten-down path that led to a small riding ring. Dixon Chauncey pointed to the lit section of backfield. Sonora saw the uniforms, Crime Scene Unit techs in heavy boots walking up and down the field, a man in jeans she thought might be Sam. Business as usual no matter where she went.

‘Where's your trailer?' Sonora asked.

Chauncey pointed to the far left of the backfield. Lights shone through tiny square windows, much like the barn, but smaller.

‘Mr Chauncey, did Joelle leave any kind of a note?'

‘No, ma'am, I don't think she did.' He shook his head, eyes wide and wary. This was a concept he had not considered.

The trailer door opened and a little girl walked out to the front step. She wore a faded red sweatshirt and shorts, though it was chilly out. Her shoulders drooped and she rubbed her eyes, head tilted sharply to one side. Sonora thought she was crying.

‘Mr Chauncey, how old are your kids?'

‘Seven, nine, and fifteen, counting Joelle.'

Are we still counting Joelle? Sonora wondered. ‘They alone?'

He waved at the little girl, but she did not seem to see him. ‘Yeah. I really need to go and see to them.'

‘Hang right here, just for a moment.' Sonora went around the front of the barn, called to Renquist.

He came toward her at a jog, which put him immediately out of breath. ‘Press is coming.'

Sonora looked down the empty drive, wondered how Renquist knew. A car passed by on the two-lane road, switched on its lights. It would be full dark soon.

‘They listen in on us. We return the favor.'

Sonora nodded. ‘I'll send somebody out to watch the drive. I don't want them wandering. You I need.'

Renquist followed as she walked back around the barn.

‘Escort Mr Chauncey back to his trailer – evidently this guy's got two other kids. Stay with him till I can get over there, go through Joelle's room myself. Let me know if he goes through her stuff, removes anything. Keep watch. In a sympathetic manner.'

‘I got you.'

He understood. Sonora could tell by his tone of voice. He handed her his flashlight, a big black Mag Lite, cop issue.

‘It'll be dark soon, ma'am. You may need this.'

She took it from him gratefully. Must be looking for promotion. Age discrimination would sink him.

‘Thanks, Renquist. I'll make sure it's returned.'

She turned then, feeling the strong pull of the crime scene, and headed for the backfield, and Sam. She heard the murmur of voices over her shoulder as Renquist introduced himself to Chauncey and suggested they head for the trailer. Chauncey went like a lamb. Sonora gave them one backward look. Renquist moved like a marine, maybe he'd been one. Chauncey had a peculiar walk, head down, one foot forward, the other scooting behind in a soft shuffle that whispered low self-esteem.

Sonora glanced back at the trailer. The little girl was gone. The porch light, dim already, flickered once and went out.

Chapter Four

The gate to the paddock had been white some years ago. The bars had rusted through, two of them had separated, and the whole mechanism sagged crookedly, wedged in a mound of dirt. Sonora passed through and stepped into knee-high clumps of sawgrass, ironweed and purple-topped thistles. She was wearing her newest Reeboks and the khakis that made her look skinny. She prayed to the god of detergents that she would not get anything on them that wouldn't come out.

No body, no smell.

It was a good walk to the end of the backfield, and the sky was going darker. Sonora took a breath. You could almost taste the metallic hum in the air. They'd better get this crime scene processed. It would be raining soon.

Wind ruffled the bright yellow crime scene tape, a loose end flapping. One of the horses took exception to the tape and took off, stampeding them all.

Something had come through the fence, smashing through an entire eight-foot section. Broken slats, the wood raw and splintered, hung on either side like badly broken bones.

A riding boot lay in the grass, maybe eight to ten feet from the broken fence line.

Sonora ducked under the crime scene tape, looked around till she spotted Sam – wearing Levi's, so he'd already been home. He was studying the edges of a broken fence board. He'd lost weight and she hadn't even noticed. Must be the jeans.

‘Hey, buns of steel. You got a clue or something?'

He turned, and Sonora realized that it was darker than she had appreciated. Either that or her eyesight was going. Whoever he was, he wasn't Sam.

The man grinned. ‘Have we met?'

Sonora had lately been in the habit of looking at men and thinking up reasons why she was happy not to be married to them. She was missing romance, though, missing lust even more. And beginning to wonder if her heart had deadened somehow, from one too many extremes.

One look at this guy, and she knew she was all right.

She extended a hand. ‘Detective Blair. I'm sorry, I thought you were someone else. Who are you, anyway?' And what are you doing in my crime scene?

He had a firm handshake, as well as other things. He was tall and dark-haired, had brown eyes and broad shoulders and a lot of other things Sonora liked.

‘Hal McCarty.'

‘Specialist Blair. Detective Blair. What exactly are you doing, Mr McCarty?'

‘Interfering in your crime scene, Detective. You look annoyed. Or maybe you're just embarrassed.'

‘Hard to tell, isn't it?'

‘I'm a neighbor – I lease the barn next door.' He nodded his head to the right, frowned, voice dropping. ‘Dixon stopped by my house earlier and asked me to help him find Joelle.'

‘What time was that?'

‘A little before six.'

She heard the swish of footsteps and turned. Sam. Still wearing the wrinkled khakis and sports coat he'd had on when they parted no more than two hours ago.

‘Mr McCarty, if you'll stand to the side over there, I'd like to ask you a few more questions, once I've come up to speed.'

‘Look, Detective—'

But she was turning away. She saw, out of the corner of her eye, that he did not look happy to be dismissed, but he moved away, turning once and giving her a second look over his shoulder to see if she was still watching.

She was.

‘About time you got here.' Sam ran a hand through his hair, which blew every which way in the wind. He had loosened his tie.

‘That's mine,' she said, pointing to said tie.

‘You gave it to me.'

‘I did not.'

He took her elbow, pulled her toward a knot of technicians – two she recognized.

‘What are you eating?' Sonora asked.

‘Starbursts.'

‘Give me a pink one.'

‘I ate the pink ones. I've got red ones. Cherry okay? Want to see the blood?'

She nodded. ‘Yes I want to see the blood, and yes I want a red one.'

He handed her a Starburst. ‘Over here.'