Flashpoint

by Lynn Hightower

  “You want to tell me about it, I’ll listen.”

  “Lot of things I could tell you about.”

  Sonora wondered how old Sheree was. Impossible to tell, with hookers, the streets aged them quickly. This one looked forty and acted fourteen.

  The girl seemed bored suddenly, glanced again at Molliter, then took a deep drag of her cigarette. “He was kind of on the tall side, nothing major. Five-eleven maybe, six feet. Sort of skinny, you know, stringy kind of build. Hair was reddish brown, and I think his eyes were green.”

  “Anything else you notice about this guy?” Gruber said.

  She shrugged.

  “You told us all kinds of stuff on Shonelle. Do the same for me on the guy.”

  “I told you. Tall and skinny.”

  “So what kind of nose he have? Big nose?”

  “Just a … just a regular nose.”

  “Tattoos? Dark eyelashes?”

  “Sure. No. I guess his eyelashes were light.”

  Sonora blew air between her teeth.

  “What?” Sam said.

  “She’s describing Molliter. There is no Superdude.”

  “Looks like Molliter’s eating it up.”

  “Molliter would. They should see if she’ll take a lie detector. Right now. See if she will.”

  “We can’t do one today, anyway.”

  “I know that, but she doesn’t. I’ll be right back.” Sonora went into the bullpen and veered left, sticking her head into officers’ quarters. Crick was in front of the terminal, his sausage-thick fingers working the keyboard over with swift, heavy jabs.

  “Sergeant?”

  “Yeah, what is it, Blair?”

  “Gruber and Molliter tell you anything about this witness they got?”

  “So, what about it?”

  “I been watching, Sergeant, and I’m telling you she’s pulling their chain.”

  “What makes you psychic?”

  “Come on. She says this missing guy is named Superdude, and when they asked her for a description she gives them Molliter. Let’s just say I got a feeling. Looks to me like she’s got it in for this Shonelle she’s trying to pin.”

  “Oh, well, Blair, if you got a feeling say no more.” Crick leaned back in his chair. “She give much detail on the description?”

  “Precious little. Broad and vague, and when Gruber led she was happy to follow. The only thing that does strike me is the girl herself. She kind of fits the general description. Short and blond. Bent.”

  Crick pulled at his bottom lip. “How about we offer the lady a lie detector?”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “Okay.” He went back to the keyboard. Sonora stayed in the doorway. “What now?”

  “That Dumpster fire makes it pretty clear. Flash is sticking close to Daniels.”

  “No, Blair. We do not have the manpower to surveil him round the clock.”

  Sonora leaned against the doorjamb. “What about that trip to Atlanta? That cop, Bonheur, has no problem with me going down there, looking at the case file, talking to the victim.”

  “How you going to do that? They using mediums, or making do with Ouija boards?”

  “I told you, sir, the victim survived on this one. Untied his ropes and got away.”

  “No handcuffs?”

  “No, but a lot of other similar elements.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Are you inclined to say yes?”

  “Maybe. Are you inclined to go away? Listen, Blair, you talked to Sanders?”

  “No, why?”

  “She’s onto something. Run along now, and bother her.”

  33

  Sonora stood with her back to the bathroom door, bolt digging into her ribcage, thinking she might need to be sick again. The back of the toilet was littered with wadded cellophane packets, an empty box, a wrinkled instruction sheet.

  She held the white wand limply, tears rolling down her cheeks. Both windows pink. Why pink, she wondered, why not black? This could not be happening, not to her, not now. Men like Chas should not be spreading genetic material.

  Sonora picked up the instruction sheet, hand shaking. She studied the succession of little pictures in the directions, vision blurred by tears. The outside door opened, and she heard footsteps.

  “Sonora? Sonora, you in here?” Sanders. Sounding chirpy and excited. “Sonora?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m here.”

  Sonora reread the instructions. Took a breath. Both windows were supposed to start out pink. For negative results, wait five minutes and pray the window on the left turns white.

  There was still hope. She looked at her watch, wondering how long it had been.

  Sanders’s voice was melodious. “Crick said to talk to you and let you know, because I think I may have found her.”

  “Who?” Sonora leaned against the wall. Breathed in and out. Listened to the beat of her heart. Time to look, time to check that little window, or wait another minute?

  “Who? Oh, you’re kidding. I was checking community colleges in those parts of Kentucky that Detective Delarosa—”

  “Sam.”

  “Sam was talking about.”

  Sonora’s grip tightened on the wand.

  “And I’ve got a possible that looks really good—fires and a suspicious death, and there’s a picture, a yearbook picture. They faxed it, and it came through pretty good. Could you come out and look at it, please?”

  Now. It was time. Sonora swallowed, felt her stomach flip-flop, and raised the wand in a shaking hand.

  Left window white.

  Sonora closed her eyes and leaned into the metal door. “Thank God, it’s an ulcer.”

  “What?”

  “Just one second, Sanders.” Sonora took a deep breath. Nah. She was done being sick. She pushed hair out of her eyes, came out of the stall.

  Sanders held up a thin white slip of fax paper. “You think this might be her?”

  “Give me one minute.” Sonora bent over the white porcelain sink, grimaced at the familiar rust stain that circled the drain. Her knees were weak. She cupped her hands under the faucet and rinsed her mouth.

  A small idea came to mind. She could make those calls and visits from Chas disappear with one message left on his machine—just tell him her period was late. Sonora looked at her reflection. Was she that much of a bitch? She thought maybe she was.

  Sanders tapped a toe in a soft, annoying staccato. Sonora looked in the mirror.

  “Okay, Sanders, what’s her name? This girl in the picture?”

  “Selma Yorke.”

  Sonora decided that Sanders was holding her breath. She wiped her hands on a brown paper towel.

  “Give it here.”

  34

  Sonora had that feeling she got when the case was finally breaking. They had a name. They had Selma Yorke.

  It was definitely her picture in the yearbook. Sans wig, but Sonora knew the face, the look of her.

  She had been featured twice. Once in the traditional rows of students, unsmiling and shy, hair waving in pale blond rivulets, bangs longish and combed to one side. The other picture was a group shot of young girls in long white dresses, posing on a wide sweeping staircase. Perfumed and made up, eyes shiny with excitement, each and every one with a bouquet of tiny pink roses. Selma was the standout, the one who ignored the camera, looking off in the distance with a sour expression. She held her bouquet tightly in one hand, letting it trail to the side, as if she couldn’t care less about the flowers but had no intention of letting them go. Her bangs were ragged and short, angled awkwardly as if they’d been snipped by an angry child. Sonora remembered when Heather had cut her bangs with little plastic safety scissors. They had looked much the same.

  Selma Yorke.

  Sanders hunched over the phone book, limbs loose, eyes downcast. “She’s not in here.”

  Sam looked at Crick. “We going to pick her up or circle?”

  “Pick her up, if we can find her.” Cr
ick squinted at the computer terminal. “Never been arrested in Cincinnati. No Ohio driver’s license. We can run it and see if she’s got a Kentucky or Tennessee license.”

  Sonora crooked a finger. “Come with me, Sanders. Sam and I will show you how it’s done.” She glanced at her watch. “You guys just give me half a minute to make one quick call.”

  “Didn’t you just talk to your kids?” Sam asked.

  “I have to leave one short message for Chas. Only take a sec.”

  Sonora put a videotape of The Crying Game up on the counter. It was a slow afternoon, so there wasn’t a line.

  Sanders stood beside her, looking nervously over one shoulder. Sam was in front of the popcorn machine. He bought a large bag, crammed a handful of kernels into his mouth. Sonora opened her purse and dug in her wallet.

  “Do you have an account here?” The clerk was male, in his late teens.

  Sonora nodded. “I forgot my card.”

  “Name?”

  “Selma Yorke.”

  He tapped the keyboard. “Is your account at this location?”

  “No, it’s at the other one.”

  “That’s Selma Yorke at 815 Camp Washington?”

  Sonora nodded, smiled, paid $3.50, and signed for the movie. Sanders was bouncing again. They headed for the parking lot, and Sam wandered out with them.

  “Popcorn?”

  Sonora took a handful.

  “How can you eat?” Sanders looked at them over her shoulder as she headed into the road. Sam grabbed her elbow and held her back, pointing a salty finger at an oncoming brown truck.

  “UPS stops for no man, or woman.”

  Sonora licked salt off the palm of her hand. “No one, Sam. Sounds better if you just say no one.”

  The truck moved by in a cloud of exhaust, and Sanders danced ahead. “What now?”

  “We could watch the movie,” Sonora said.

  Sanders laughed, and Sam looked at Sonora. “We were young once.”

  The sign said WELCOME TO CAMP WASHINGTON. The tiny group of houses lay just under the interstate, one street over from the slaughter yards. Railroad tracks were in spitting range, and old brick warehouses were a couple of blocks away. Sonora rolled the car window down and listened to the backdrop roar of traffic. It was still light out, drizzly. Humidity made the air thick and sticky, in spite of the chill. Sonora heard the whine of a train, the metallic squeal of brakes, on track. She closed her eyes. This was what Selma Yorke heard at night when she lay in her bed. These were the noises and smells that framed her life.

  Sanders leaned over the back of the seat. “We could knock on the door and see if she’s home.”

  Sam raised an eyebrow at Sonora. “What you think?”

  Sonora gave Sanders a look. “Remember. She’s not under arrest. We don’t have a warrant. We just want to talk.”

  “Got your gun, Sanders?” Sam said.

  Sonora opened her car door. “Leave her alone, Sam.”

  The house was old, two stories, nearly hidden behind a large leafy oak tree and caged by a tall ragged hedge that almost concealed a rusting chain-link fence. The lawn was scrubby, weed-infested bare dirt. The windows of the house were crusted with grime, the interior secreted behind gauzy curtains that looked filthy, even from a distance. A tire swing sagged from a tree in the front yard, suspended by a rotting rope.

  An empty bird’s nest sat in the crook of a rusting gutter pipe under the eaves of the house. Sonora heard the coo of a dove. She walked across the spongy grass, boot heels sticking.

  She’s not here, Sonora thought. But her heart was pounding and her palms were coated with sweat.

  She stood away from the window and the door, letting Sam knock. A significant number of police officers were killed on front porches, even on minor calls.

  No one answered.

  35

  Sonora was alone when the call came through. The paperwork was done, and she was listening for the umpteenth time to Gruber’s interview with the woman who’d spotted Flash’s car. She came out of her daze on the second ring, looked around, and realized that the guy on night shift was at dinner.

  “Homicide, Blair.”

  “Girlfriend, we need to talk. Phone booth half a block down by the parking lot. Get over there now.”

  Selma. Sonora caught herself before she called Flash by name. “Let’s talk here.”

  The line went dead. Sonora ran her hands through her hair, grabbed her blazer, and headed for the elevators.

  The streetlights blazed over deserted sidewalks, office buildings lit and empty. Sonora was glad to have the Baretta in her purse. A car cruised slowly, muffler loud. Sonora made eye contact with the driver—lone male—who speeded his car and disappeared.

  The ring of a phone sounded as the throb of the car’s engine trailed away. Sonora ran the last few steps. Picked up the receiver.

  “You’uns didn’t have much of a childhood, did you?” The words were flippant, the tone was not. Selma Yorke’s voice was thick and draggy.

  Sonora shivered. “I’ll see you my childhood and raise you yours. You’re getting us mixed up.”

  “I did it for you, you know. I felt sorry for you, after talking to him. I mean, it was all threes for you, wasn’t it, girlfriend?”

  “What do you mean, threes?”

  “People have personalities and bad luck, just like numbers. You never notice that before? Three is bad news. And that brother of yours a one.”

  “A one?”

  “You know, a one. Shy and outcast, nobody liked him. That bothered you a lot, didn’t it? Kids are mean, he was all the time getting beat on, and then your daddy getting mad at him for not sticking up for hisself.”

  Sonora’s purse strap slid down her arm. “Tell me about your daddy.”

  She might never have spoken.

  “Then you go and marry a man just like him, just like they say in the shrink books. Make you happy, he’s dead now?”

  “Does it make you happy, the men you’ve killed? Is that why you do it?”

  “You’uns think I’m a total mess, don’t you, you think only good girls have nice feelings. I tell you this. I knew a boy once, just a boy, like Keaton. Made me feel like I was … like I was important, like I was a part of him. The thing is, I always have been all by myself. And I liked it that way, except sometimes I’d get to feeling funny. Like I was going so far inside myself I wanted to scream? You ever feel like that?”

  “No,” Sonora said.

  Silence again, then a choked laugh. “That’s why I like you, you always say just what you think. Maybe you don’t know how it feels. But it’s noises, inside of me. Like Mama in the fire.”

  Maybe it’s your conscience, Sonora thought.

  “You ever hear whale songs, Detective? That’s what it sounds like, inside of me. Look, I know I’m different. I’ve always known that, always been on the outside, looking in. This boy, Danny, he was like Keaton. He made the bad feelings go away. Being with him was like … like being high. It felt good. I didn’t think I’d ever feel that again. I see men, and they look like him, like Danny, but they don’t work, they don’t give me that feeling.”

  “Does Keaton give you that feeling?” Sonora said.

  “Good to know you’re catching on.”

  “What was that business on the playground?”

  “I was missing him. I had to see him.”

  “Don’t give me that,” Sonora said. “What you’re doing is hunting him.”

  “Don’t you see?” Selma said. “That’s where you come in. I helped you. Now you help me.”

  36

  By the time Sonora made it back to the squad room, the phone was ringing again.

  “Homicide, Blair.”

  “Ms. Sonora Blair?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Ma’am, I’m calling from University Hospital, concerning a Charles F. Bennet. Are you a relative?”

  Ex–significant other, Sonora thought. “I’m his, um, his friend.”


  “Ma’am, Mr. Bennet has been in an accident and—”

  “A fire?”

  “No ma’am. A car accident.”

  “How bad is he?”

  “He’s in emergency now, but—”

  “I’m on my way.”

  It was raining again, just like the night Mark Daniels was killed. Sonora felt like she was dreaming as she went through the automatic doors into the waiting room.

  Quiet night. Two people watching television, one uniformed police officer on the phone.

  “Sonora Blair, here about Charles Bennet.”

  The clerk was middle-aged and tired, eyes blue and bloodshot. “Yes ma’am, if you’ll take a seat, someone will be right with you.”

  The police officer looked over his shoulder. “Excuse me, ma’am, did you know Mr. Bennet?”

  Did? Sonora nodded.

  “I wonder if I might ask you a few questions.”

  Sonora brought her ID up out of her purse. “All you want, but I’d appreciate knowing what happened.”

  “You’re homicide?”

  “Yeah. He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  The uniform hesitated. He was an older man, close to retirement, and his eyes were sad. “I’m sorry, he was DOA.”

  Sonora nodded, feeling stiff and numb.

  The uniform put a hand on her shoulder. “Hit-and-run, he never saw it coming.”

  “Any leads on the car?”

  The officer shook his head. “No witnesses. Got shards of broken headlights in his shirt pocket, and tire marks on …”

  “It’s okay.” Sonora straightened her shoulders. “I think I better have a look.”

  The pretty face was gone. There were tire marks on the crushed chest, windpipe, and larynx: For the first time in a long time, Sonora looked at death and felt ill.

  She turned away, saw the clothes piled on the counter. The shoes were in good shape, pants in tatters, shirt all gore. The familiar jacket was stiff with blood. Sonora fingered the sleeve, then gave it a second look.

  There had been four leather buttons—one had been torn away, leaving three. She checked the other sleeve. Three buttons again, one missing.

  I helped you, now you help me. Three and three. Proof of what she already knew.