No Good Deed (7 page)

The uniform opened his notebook. ‘Perpetrator is over twenty-one.'

Sonora was beginning to like this kid. She stood up, touched the small of her back. ‘Hair on the pillow, Mickey.'

‘I'll get to it, Mom.'

Sonora looked over her shoulder at the square-necked uniform, caught his grin. ‘You first on the scene?'

He nodded.

‘She say anything?'

He referred to his notebook. ‘Sonofabitch, sonofabitch, sonofabitch.'

‘That it?' Sonora asked.

‘Like a mantra.'

‘How'd the guy get in?'

The uniform led her into the kitchen, pointed to a groundfloor window that was still open, six to eight inches. ‘Forced the window, climbed in.'

He pointed to streaks of mud on the windowsill. Sonora looked out. Hedge, about waist high. A broken arm of foliage on the ground next to the grass.

‘You check out there for footprints?'

‘Got a toe smear,' Mickey said. ‘My guess is a male in Adidas, size eleven and a half.
Heavy.
Look for a big guy.'

‘That narrows it down,' Sonora said.

A green Tombstone pizza box, ripped open and empty, sat on the small maple kitchen table over a stack of old mail, newspapers, a pile of towels and brushes one might use to groom a horse. A rusty hoofpick sat next to the pizza box, like it had been used to rip the edges. The pizza was still on the stove, more than half of it, sausage, the edges dried and hard. A stained, smeared pizza cutter was on the counter at the end of a trail of crumbs. Sonora bent over and squinted. Just pizza sauce and cheese.

Be awkward to remove a finger with a pizza cutter anyway. Too much sawing. She wondered what the guy had used.

Something scalpel-sharp.

Sonora went past Mickey, who was humming under his breath, past the uniform, and into the bedroom. The bed was made up. She touched the edge and it gave – a water bed. Looked perfectly comfortable, so why had Delaney been sleeping on the couch? Drugged, Sonora remembered. So someone could cut off her finger.

The bedroom was crowded – too much furniture, like a person who has moved from a large house to a small apartment. None of the furniture was in particularly good condition, though some of the pieces were antiques. There were boxes in one corner, the one on top open. Sonora looked in, saw crumpled and faded ribbons. Horse shows – greens, pinks, whites, the occasional blue and red. The box emitted the distinct odor of ancient cat urine.

There were pictures on the wall, of Donna Delaney with children – always around horses. Were they students? Children of her own? Somehow Sonora did not see her in the mommy role, but a little blond boy showed up in enough pictures to make Sonora wonder if the woman had a son.

The pictures looked old. Nothing since the last ten to fifteen years, judging from the clothes. The boy never seemed to grow older than eight, and he looked like Donna, particularly around the eyes.

The furniture was crammed in any which way, as if Delaney were storing things and had no intention of staying. The desk was a huge mahogany roll-top with a hutch of tiny drawers hidden behind stacks of mail. Sonora sat in a wood chair that swiveled, the eighteenth-century precursor to the modern roll chair. The wood creaked. She scooted close to the desktop and began going through the mail.

Bills. Lots of them. Utility companies threatening cut-off at the barn address. Feed stores – Southern States closing her account. Tax liens from the state of Ohio.

Sonora felt a twinge. Some of this looked like her own stack at home.

She picked up an envelope with a clear Plasticene window. Not a bill, a bill of sale. Donna Delaney had paid two thousand eighty-seven dollars for a saddle made by somebody named Kieffer. German?

Cash.

Sonora frowned at the stack of bills. A couple of the envelopes looked like they were from collection agencies.

Where had Delaney gotten that much cash? Why would she spend two thousand on a saddle if she owed so much? Was she expecting an influx of money? Would she make a horse disappear for the insurance money as in the horse Joelle had been riding? Had the horse been insured?

But the horse, supposedly, had been an old brood mare, not worth much, used by the caretaker's kids as a trail horse.

From the living room, Sonora could hear Mickey singing a song she remembered from when the kids watched
Sesame Street
, and every finger had a name.

‘Where is Pointer? Where is Pointer?'

Chapter Fourteen

Sam met Sonora in the waiting room of Jewish Hospital with a cup of coffee. She handed it back to him.

‘What?'

‘It's cold, Sam.'

‘It wasn't cold forty minutes ago, which is when you were supposed to meet me.'

‘I went to Delaney's place on the way.'

He leaned forward, drinking from her cup. ‘What was it like?'

‘Dump.'

‘I'm not asking for the
Better Homes And Gardens
report.'

‘Forced entry through the kitchen window. A few specks of blood on the couch. Toe smear in the mud from a ‘big guy' and that's official, from Mickey. A lot of mud on the carpet but most of that was from the cops and the ambulance crew.'

‘She say anything?'

‘Sonofabitch, sonofabitch, sonofabitch.'

Sam scratched his cheek. ‘Doctor says she's sedated and in shock and he wants her vitals to stabilize before we talk to her.'

‘Who's the doctor? Not Maiden, I hope.'

‘No, some new guy I don't know. Gillane.'

‘What kind of a name is that?'

‘Where are you going?'

‘After the doctor, Sam. Let's get on with this.'

Sonora headed for the desk, looked around for a familiar face. Why couldn't her bud Gracie be on duty? If she had to be working, so should everyone else.

The woman behind the desk wore blue polyester, shapeless, comfortable, and she did not look up from the computer.

Sonora flashed her ID. ‘Excuse me?'

‘One minute.'

‘I don't have one minute.' Sonora headed for the ER, pushed through the swing doors. She heard voices, Sam's mumble.
Who
was he talking to now? The man could make friends with anyone, anywhere.

She started looking into cubicles, twitching white curtains, trying not to rattle the plastic border at the top, which was impossible. Got a glimpse of a woman, highly pregnant. God,
that
made her stomach hurt. One who looked like a heart attack, a lot of doctors. She kept moving.

Found Donna Delaney sitting up on a metal table that was likely passed off as a bed, with a mattress not much thicker than a thumb. All for three hundred dollars a day. Delaney was huddled in a backless blue print gown, looking dopey and bewildered. Waiting to be admitted? Waiting to be released? Waiting.

Sonora pushed the curtain gently and Donna Delaney gasped and looked up.

Whatever they'd used to sedate her wasn't working too well.

She looked bad. Chalk white. Sonora had not realized the woman was sun-freckled, but the brown marks stood out like leopard spots against her pallor.

Her hair was still tied back, but it looked slept on and tangled. An IV line was draped across her bruised wrist, connecting her to a metal pole and a plastic bag that was running on empty. Her legs were thin and well muscled. Covered with goose bumps.

Sonora moved in closely, quiet and soft. ‘Ms Delaney?'

The woman stared, eyes dark-shadowed like a corpse's. Her pupils were huge. Her hand was bandaged hugely, but the blood-flecked gauze did not disguise the space between her fingers.

‘Ms Delaney, I'm Detective Blair, we met yesterday afternoon. Do you remember meeting me?'

Delaney stared. Shivered. ‘Have you found her?'

The voice was flat, hard.

‘Joelle's still missing.'

‘The horse. Have you found the bloody horse?'

‘No.' Sonora wondered again if the horse was insured – for a large sum of money. Maybe she was in foal to a valuable stallion. Sonora was out of her area here.

Delaney put her head in her hands, jarred the bandage. Pulled her hands away and stared at the gap between her fingers.

‘Ms Delaney, I'd like to ask you some questions.'

The woman's teeth were chattering. ‘You've got to find her.'

Sonora had the distinct feeling they were still talking about the horse. ‘You want a blanket, Donna? Are you cold?' Sonora knew her way around enough to find the linen closet. She could be there and back in minutes.

‘Two blankets.'

Sonora nodded, felt the first stir of rapport. She might actually get something out of this woman.

‘Two blankets,' she said. In exchange for some answers.

The linen closet had just been filled – the blankets were fresh out of the dryer, still warm. Sonora bundled two up, touched a corner to her cheek. They ought to use fabric softener. She headed back to Delaney's floor, moving quickly. Hoping the woman had not been admitted, or wheeled away for testing.

The 7 a.m. shift were still doing their changeover, charting, chatting, in their own bubble world. Sonora scooted past the desk without being noticed, turned a corner, saw Sam standing outside Donna Delaney's white-curtained cubicle, facing a man who reminded Sonora of an undertaker she'd known when she was a child.

He had the self-important air of a newly minted MD, and he gave Sonora a glance over one shoulder, then turned to Sam.

Sonora scooted into the cubicle with the bundle of blankets, half her attention on the medic, pontificating in the hallway.

Something about continuous single-lock sutures.

Sonora handed the blankets to Delaney, who took them with a surly ingratitude that made it easier for Sonora to look objectively at the bandaged hand.

From the hallway came the sound of boot heels and a shout for a nurse. The curtains were pushed to one side, metal rings scraping. Delaney raised her head, moving slowly, groggy. But the light in her eyes was intense. Edgy, for a woman who was heavily sedated.

The man who stood and looked at her had to be a doctor, if you discounted the huge hiking boots and Levi's. There were clues. A stethoscope around his neck, the pager on the belt, the Rolex on his wrist.

‘You're tall,' Sonora said, not thinking. He'd be six three in his thick white socks.

‘You're not.'

Sonora showed her ID. ‘I'm waiting for Dr Gillane.'

He flapped the white lapel, waving the name tag that said Gillane.

‘I thought that was the guy in the hall.'

‘Ken doll with the waxy complexion, looks like an undertaker? That's Roth, Licensed Practical Nurse.' He glanced at Delaney and frowned. ‘Why hasn't anybody replaced the bag on your IV?' His gaze went to Sonora, the blankets. Looked at the chart. ‘I see your buddy brought you some blankets, Donna – and they say there's never a cop around when you need one. Why don't you lie back …' He reached toward Sonora and she handed over the blankets. ‘Let's put them both on. There you go. Let me elevate your feet there, Donna, get you warmed up. That better?'

Delaney turned her head to one side. Closed her eyes. Opened them.

‘Dr Gillane, I'd like to ask her a few questions.' He would kick her out, Sonora thought.

‘Ask away. I'd like to know what happened myself.' He looked at Delaney. ‘You up for this?'

She didn't answer and Sonora didn't wait.

‘Ms Delaney, do you know who cut … who your assailant was?'

Delaney looked away from her. ‘No.'

‘No idea at all?'

‘None. You deaf?'

Get your own blankets, Sonora thought. ‘Who was your visitor last night?'

‘Just … no one. I was alone all night.'

Gillane glanced at Sonora. Yes. That one was clearly a lie.

‘Ms Delaney, there were two cans of beer on your coffee table.'

Delaney frowned. ‘I drank two beers.'

‘Did you cut off your finger yourself?'

‘What the hell do you mean?'

‘I mean that unless you cut your own finger off, you weren't alone all night, were you?'

‘Sonofabitch,' Delaney said.

‘Oh, don't start that up again,' Gillane said. Mildly. As if he didn't really care.

Sonora followed him out of the cubicle.

‘Are you following me?'

‘I'm trying, but you take big steps.'

Gillane stopped and leaned lip against the wall. Even slumped – and the man had terrible posture – he was a head and a half taller than Sonora.

Part of it was the worn Ropers. Maybe he rode horses too, Sonora thought. Horse people were everywhere, once you started to look.

He folded his arms. ‘Are you a good witch or a bad witch?'

‘I'm a witch with a badge.'

‘I don't like cops.'

‘I hate doctors.'

‘Really? What do you do when you're sick?'

‘Suffer.'

‘What about lawyers?'

‘Lawyers are okay.' Sonora noticed that his eyes were very blue, and his face was tanned.

‘I thought all cops hated lawyers. What are your thoughts on realtors?' As an afterthought. As if he really wanted to know.

‘I don't have an opinion.'

‘Sell your house, you'll change your mind.'

‘Tell me about the finger. Tell me how you keep your tan this time of year. Didn't your mommy tell you that tanning beds cause skin cancer?'

‘I spend a lot of time outdoors. And the finger is gone. What's to tell?'

‘The wound, then, any thought on that?'

He cocked his head to one side. ‘They have real coffee down in the dungeon by the CAT scan machine.'

‘I'm on the clock,' Sonora said.

‘They pay you by the hour?'

‘You been up all night like me, or you just stupid?'

Gillane smiled. ‘I'm always like this. Focus, Gillane. People tell me that all the time. Ex-wives, professors, my cleaning lady. My last wife said that to me every day before she left.'