Flashpoint

by Lynn Hightower

  The bed creaked when he got up. She heard a drawer open and close, the crinkle of a foil packet. He climbed back into bed and stretched out beside her, kissing her again. She swung her legs over his hips and sat on top of him. He put a hand on her belly, and then he was inside again, and now it was safe, and she rocked on top of him, slow and sure.

  And then she was overwhelmed, suddenly, and closed her eyes, lost just before his soft groan.

  Sonora sank slowly to Keaton’s chest. He put his arms around her, scratching her back lightly, making her shiver and smile.

  “You hungry?” He sounded sleepy and peaceful. Kind.

  “Starved, how’d you know?”

  “Your stomach’s growling.” He turned a lamp on beside the bed. The room was all dark wood and masculinity. He opened a dresser drawer and pulled out a large white sweatshirt. “Put this on if you’re cold.”

  She slid the shirt over her head. The cuffs hung past her wrists.

  “Be right back.” He went into the bathroom. Shut the door.

  Sonora went to the dresser, checked her hair in the mirror, noticed a newspaper clipping with her picture. Next to the clipping was a hardbound notebook that had JOURNAL OF INVESTIGATION printed in bold black letters on the front.

  Private, of course. She turned the cover.

  My brother is dead now, the police are tracking the killer. The detective in charge is a woman. She strikes me as tough and capable. She has a smart mouth, but underneath I think she is kind.

  Sonora grimaced, then smiled. Interesting to get those first impressions.

  I will be dogging her every footstep. I want Mark’s killer caught. But I am getting ahead of myself. I think this all started with phone calls, right around Easter, when Ashley and I began falling apart.

  Sonora heard the toilet flush. She closed the journal and moved away.

  Keaton came out of the bathroom wearing a dark blue bathrobe. He took her hand, leading her down the stairs through the dark silent house, and they laughed for no particular reason. Sonora felt like a child who was getting away with something.

  He turned on the lights. Darkness was thick against the windows, and Sonora blinked at the harsh, cheery brightness of his kitchen.

  “I was hoping you would come, so just in case.” He opened the refrigerator and waved an arm.

  Chocolate-covered strawberries, frozen yogurt, egg rolls. Classic Coke in bright red cans.

  Keaton Daniels smiled proudly. “Girl food.”

  42

  Sonora left Keaton’s town house well before dawn, with a full stomach, a sleepy ulcer, and a long hard kiss.

  “You really go to work this early?” he asked as she hunted through the living room for her clothes.

  “Umm. Where is my … oh, there it is. Here’s your towel back, and thanks for the use of the shower.”

  “Can I talk you into some breakfast? You said last night you wanted toast.”

  “I lied.”

  The phone rang. Keaton frowned, looked at her. “Think it’s for you, some cop thing? Nobody calls me this early.”

  Sonora shook her head. “I didn’t give your number out. Nobody knows I’m—answer it, why don’t you?”

  He took the extension in the living room. Said hello. Listened.

  She knew who it was by the sudden set of his shoulders, the hand by his side closing into a fist.

  He hung up.

  “It was her,” Sonora said.

  “Yeah.” His voice was tight, so different from the way he’d sounded minutes before.

  Sonora yanked her boot over her foot. “What, Keaton? What’d she say?”

  “She said she’d pay me back. She’d pay both of us back good.”

  Sonora drove through the dark streets—it was garbage day again, and plastic bags clogged the curbs. She had called home, of course. All was well. She cruised out of the Mount Adams area and wound down to Broadway onto the bridge, just as the sky got lighter. She glanced over her right shoulder, saw the mountains were fogged in. A train whistled. Three large road locomotives strained at the upgrade, pulling a fully loaded unit train—Kentucky coal, headed north.

  She wondered how adults—herself in particular—expected teenagers to be sensible about sex, when they were dumb themselves. Do as I say, not as I do.

  It started to rain, and Sonora turned on her windshield wipers, squinting through the gray haze and drizzle. The river was greenish at the edge, brown toward the middle. The local access bridge was brightly lit, and Sonora passed through the stone crossing. Lights from the parking lots at Riverfront Stadium made reflections that looked like torches coming up from the water. The roar of trucks on the interstate sounded lonesome.

  Sonora glanced at her brother’s saloon, snug in its berth on the waterfront. She had no regrets about investing Zack’s death benefits in Stuart’s business, but had lately been wondering what she was going to do about sending the kids to college. Surely by the time Tim was out of high school, she and Stuart would have enough return on investment to send Tim to Harvard. Provided he passed algebra.

  Sonora took the exit to Covington. The steep hilly streets were quiet. She drove past tall narrow houses, packed close together, painted in an astonishing range of colors—stately red brick to lime green. All of them looked dingy in the gloom. There were high-rise hotels, the big clock tower, Super America, Big Boy Burgers, Mainstrasse Village, and the sign for the visitors center. Cincinnati kept its sin on this side of the river, and Covington was a small town, big-city-satellite mix of stately churches, dingy houses, motels, and bars that featured GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS and XXX MOVIES.

  Sonora passed Smith Muffler shop (Free Installation), KFC (Finger-Lickin’ Good), and Kwik Drive-in (Kools, Camels & Savanna Lights). She breezed past Senior Citizens of Northern Kentucky and turned into the empty parking lot that served the legal offices of McGowan, Spanner & Karpfinger—uncomfortably located across from Red & Orange Liquor Shoppe and Angel’s Bar, featuring GIRLS DAY & NITE.

  Sonora saw a hunched figure in a black leather jacket through the glass of a brightly lit booth. The lawyers were not pulling all-nighters, but if they had been, their BMWs would be safe. Ruby was on shift.

  Sonora walked across the freshly patched asphalt, finding nothing much and everything in particular of interest. Cop attitude. Ruby, as always, had her head bent over a book.

  A tiny CD player spewed jazz with a state-of-the-art quality that had cost thousands in speakers and amps just ten years ago. A pink-and-white box of Dunkin’ Donuts was open and empty, and Ruby was sipping Evian water and scoring notes on blank sheets. Ruby acknowledged Sonora with a nod and put out her cigarette.

  Sonora opened the door of the booth and leaned her shoulder against the edge. “Hey, girl. Have I come at a bad time?”

  Ruby gave her a sideways sloppy smile. “The great composer at work. I’d offer you a doughnut, but I ate them already.”

  Sonora had never been able to pinpoint Ruby’s age—somewhere between twenty-eight and forty-eight. She was big boned and fleshy, skin a deep blue black, and her hair was thick, abundant, and rigid with tight curls some women paid big bucks to achieve. She was deft with makeup, and wore purple lipstick and a nightstick on her belt as if the two always went together.

  “Ruby, you ought to be studying.”

  “I know. What you smiling about, you just get laid or something?”

  “I’ve been over there at girls girls girls, dancing on tables all night.”

  “I have to say it agrees with you.”

  “Speaking of dancing. You know a working girl named Shonelle?”

  “Shonelle, hmmm. She danced at the Sapphire, didn’t she? The one jacked up her knee?”

  “Jacked up?”

  “Messed up. Sonora, you are so white.”

  “Yeah, yeah, be a bigot. How about Sheree La Fontaine, you know her?”

  Ruby shut her eyes. “Skinny little girl with fake blond hair that she doesn’t wash good more ’n once a week?”r />
  “That’s the one.”

  “What’s going on? I’ve seen that evangelist cop hanging around, what’s his name, Molliter?”

  “Molliter.”

  “I hear he has an AK-47 stashed in his basement in the burbs. Cincinnati’s finest. Who protects us from you guys?”

  “You need protecting, Ruby?”

  Ruby patted her nightstick and the huge revolver on her hip.

  Sonora flipped open the lid of the Dunkin’ Donuts box and scooped up a crumb of chocolate frosting.

  “This have anything to do with that dude got roasted in his car?”

  Sonora licked her finger and nodded. “Tell me about this Sheree La Fontaine and Shonelle.”

  “No love lost, that’s for sure. Always fighting over … get ready. Clothes.”

  “Clothes?”

  “See, they both work the streets, right? And some of the girls, I’m talking about Sheree here, stash clothes in out-of-the-way places around their hangouts. Might need a switch during the night, sometimes they change if the cops run them in, you know the drill. And Sheree says Shonelle keeps taking her stuff, and buddy, they got into it big-time last month. I’m talking a hair-pulling, cussing, spitting cat fight.”

  “What’s the dope on this Sheree, anyway?”

  “From down south somewhere, the Carolinas I think. I hope she’s not par for the course, because if she is and the South does rise again, we all be in for some shit.”

  “Could you get a little more specific?”

  “Weird, Sonora, even for an addict. Sits in the bars and lights matches. Shonelle is twice her size, but went after her, digging with those fingernails like a maniac. Course, hooker addicts aren’t exactly your average bear, you get me?”

  “You see her around the night the Daniels kid got killed?”

  “Let me think. That was … Tuesday week, that right?”

  Sonora nodded.

  “You know, come to think, I did see her. Around midnight, getting in a car with some john. I didn’t get much look at the guy, so I don’t know if it was your boy.”

  “My guy was up in Mount Adams at midnight. On his way to die.”

  Ruby looked grim. “Yeah, well.”

  Sonora yawned. “I got to go home and kiss my kids before they go to school.”

  “How they doing?”

  “Good, except my son’s flunking algebra. How’s yours?”

  “She’s fine. Potty trained, finally, thank you, Jesus.” Ruby glanced down at the page of notes, then looked back up at Sonora. “Me and my ex, you know, we just don’t go good together. But he’s helping me with tuition, and he keeps the baby sometimes. Now, most girls I know, their ex just walks off and leaves them with the babies, never even looks back. Lot of anger out there, Sonora. Lot of girls I talk to just nod and say maybe this guy got burned up, maybe he brought it all on his own head.”

  “He didn’t, Ruby.”

  “Hell of a way to go.”

  Sonora nodded. “Listen, there’s no food in my house. There an all-night grocery store anywhere close?”

  “Nothing but that Kwik Stop, and they charge an arm and a leg.”

  “I look rich to you?”

  43

  Sonora was thinking that she had bought everything except milk, when she turned the corner toward home. In a split second of clarity she saw the flashing blue lights, the police cars, the open front door.

  Remembered Selma’s words—I’ll pay you back good.

  Sonora slammed on the brakes, opened the car door, and was on the pavement as the parking gear caught and the Nissan rocked backward. Out of the corner of one eye, she could see the wary stance of the patrolman in the second car, see his hand cover the gun on his hip as she ran toward his partner.

  “What the hell’s going on here?”

  The uniform on the radio was young, dark hair cropped short. He clicked his radio off, blinked. “Everything’s all right, ma’am.”

  “This is my house, okay? I’ve got kids inside.”

  The screen door slammed. Stuart headed her way, taking the porch steps two at time. His shirttail hung over his jeans, and his shoelaces were untied.

  “Where are the kids?”

  “They’re all right, Sonora. Everybody’s okay.” He ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up on the side.

  Sonora folded her arms, closed her eyes a short moment, took a deep breath.

  “Ma’am, did you say you live here?”

  It was the one who had touched his gun. Light brown hair, thick neck.

  “Detective Blair, I work homicide. And yeah, I live here.”

  The dark-haired one, the steady one, was nodding at her. “We got a call, nine-one-one, possible intruder—”

  Sonora heard the door open. Heather ran toward her, arms out, face tear-stained and pale. Something bad.

  Sonora looked at Stuart. “Where’s Tim?”

  “Right here.” Tim shut the front door and followed his sister down the steps.

  Sonora put her arms around Heather, gave Tim a hug. He did not pull away. She lifted Heather up in her arms, groaned as the weight of her growing child hit her in the small of the back.

  “So, what’s up kidlets?”

  “Let me tell it,” Tim said. “We heard somebody outside the house, and—”

  “She pulled on the knob, Mommy! On the back door, we saw her.”

  “Her?” Sonora swallowed hard.

  Tim folded his arms across his chest. “I thought it was you. I almost opened the door. But Clampett was barking, and he yelped and I looked out the curtain, and it wasn’t you.”

  “So then what?”

  “She knocked on the glass real hard!” Heather burst into tears and buried her face in Sonora’s shoulder.

  Tim looked tense and young. “I called Uncle Stuart, and he called nine-one-one. That was right, wasn’t it?”

  Sonora put a hand lightly on her son’s shoulder. “It was perfect.”

  He nodded, cheeks flushed, lips tight. “We can’t find Clampett.”

  Stuart bent down to tie a shoe. “We’ll find him, Tim.”

  Sonora set her daughter down. “Did you get a good look at this woman, Tim?”

  “Short hair, like to here.” He touched his collarbone. “Blond. She was little, like you, Mom. She looked funny.”

  “Funny?”

  He shrugged. “Weird.”

  The patrol officer grinned and tousled her son’s hair. “I bet I could put my feet up and let him write the report.”

  Sonora looked at her brother. “You get a look at her?”

  “Long gone by the time I got here.” He bent down, picked up Heather, balanced her on his hip. She wore nothing but a nightgown, and her long thin legs had chill bumps.

  “Cold, baby?” Sonora put her blazer around her daughter’s shoulders. She looked at the uniforms. “You guys had a chance to take a look around?”

  “Just a quick one.” Thick neck.

  Sonora nodded. “Stuart, why don’t you take the kids inside and—” Sonora heard a whimper and looked over her shoulder. The three-legged dog bounded toward her, something yellow streaming from the side of his mouth. Clampett barked, doggy breath frosting white in the chill air.

  Sonora braced herself as the heavy muddy paws landed against her shoulders. Clampett’s tail swished back and forth, thumping Heather’s bare legs.

  “Want to dance, pup?” Sonora put her hands on the dog’s soft muzzle, pried open the black-rimmed jaws, wrestled a large round lump off the back of the thick ham tongue. Clampett barked and jumped, and Sonora twisted sideways, playing keep-away.

  The dark-haired cop looked pale. “What is that?”

  Sonora held up the soggy blond head so he could see. “Barbie. Or parts thereof.” She studied the wet, plastic doll head, wondering about prints.

  It was muddy out in the yard. Stuart took the kids inside to make hot chocolate while Sonora walked the perimeter of her property, circling closer and closer, to the ho
use, the dark-haired uniform at her heels. The volleyball net sagged across the middle of the backyard, and the lawn was overgrown and brown, thick grass limp with dew.

  She wondered what Flash had thought of the plastic kiddie pool filled with trolls and algae-coated water, the basketball wedged under the rusted-out slide, the plastic playhouse so full of old toys the door bulged open.

  There were footprints outside Sonora’s bedroom window and another set by Heather’s.

  The thick-necked cop rounded the corner of the yard and jogged over, hand holding the radio snug to his belt. “CSU van is on the way. I asked your brother to stay inside with the kids for the time being.”

  Sonora nodded and sat down on the bottom porch step. The uniforms moved discreetly away and talked together in low voices, pretending not to notice while Sonora put her head on her knees.

  44

  Sonora slopped coffee into her lipstick-stained mug. She was late, the task force had already assembled. Her phone rang before she could get away from her desk. Sonora sighed and picked it up.

  “Hey, girlfriend, how’s the kids?”

  Sonora sat back down. Gritted her teeth. “You listen to me—”

  “No, you. I’ll make you’uns a deal. Leave Keaton alone, I’ll leave them alone. Think about it.”

  The line went dead. Sonora’s palms were slippery on the receiver, and the phone smacked hard on the desk when she lost her grip. She took a breath, hung the phone up gently. Closed her eyes, opened them. Took a notepad off her desk and headed for her meeting.

  They were watching a videotape of the latest press conference Sonora squinted at the screen, wondering if it was her imagination, or if she was showing just a hint of double chin.

  Gruber looked up. “That’s a nice tie, Sonora, but what happened to the one with the catsup on it?”

  Crick shushed him. “Watch for the next part, it’s good.”

  On-screen, Sonora cocked her head to one side and told the reporters that the investigation was moving forward swiftly and it was only a matter of time. Yes, she was the case detective and would make the arrest herself. The DA’s office was waiting for lab results, merely a formality. They had been lucky with witnesses, and, quite frankly, the killer had made a number of careless mistakes.