Sonora gave the couch a second, wistful look. Her dog Clampett had chewed up the cushion on the one in her living room, and it left a trail of stuffing every time someone sat down.
She peeped into the bedroom. The bed was made, and a teddy had been neatly folded on the ridge of pillows that stretched across the king-size mattress.
Sonora picked it up. Smelled the wave of sweet flowery scent, fingered the soft black silk, admired the spaghetti straps that crisscrossed along the back.
She heard Sam whistle as he opened and closed the tiny refrigerator behind the bar.
“Old pizza,” he shouted.
“Save me a piece.”
“What?”
“Look in the bathroom, Sam. Count the toothbrushes.”
His steps were heavy in the hallway. Sonora knew he could walk lightly if he wanted to. She’d heard him do it once or twice.
He put his head in the bedroom doorway. “Two. Both dry as a bone.”
Sonora waved the teddy. “I guess she wasn’t just here for the riverfront view.”
“Poor son of a bitch.”
“I assume you mean the husband. Who now has a very good motive.”
“Keeps us in business.”
Sonora headed for the dresser drawers, wondering if Julia Winchell was the kind of hotel guest who unpacked.
She was.
Sonora found a silk nightie, slate blue, Victoria’s Secret price tag hanging from the side seam. She had one like it at home in her closet, hooked over her lingerie bag. Julia had paid full price for hers; Sonora had waited for a sale.
Which might mean a special occasion, as far as Julia Winchell was concerned.
She had a tendency toward white or black, tailored shirts and khaki pants, longish skirts, straight cut, size eight. She shopped at The Limited, spent a lot of money on shoes that were well worn, and size seven and a half.
A full cadre of makeup clotted the bathroom counter—neat but not obsessive. Julia Winchell had brought her own makeup mirror. Bubble bath from home.
Sonora took a quick mental tally. Mascara, eyeliner, blush, two shades of lipstick. All partially used, nothing new except one of the lipsticks. Sonora opened the older tube, rolled it out. Rum Raisin Bronzer.
There were theories that you could read a woman’s character by the shape of her favorite lipstick. Sonora had seen an article on it once in the Inquirer.
She looked back into the bedroom at the black silk teddy, the crisply ironed white shirt hanging on the back of the bedroom door. There was a quietness in the room, already a layer of dust on the worn floral suitcase. Julia Winchell wasn’t coming back.
“Sonora?”
It was the way Sam said her name that got her attention—a particular tone of voice.
She put the tube of lipstick back on the bathroom counter. “What, Sam?”
He had his back to her, a sheaf of paper in his left hand.
The phone rang.
Sonora raised an eyebrow at Sam. He nodded, and she picked up the desk extension. There were several phone numbers jotted down on an Orchard Suites scratch pad, one with a 606 area code. Julia Winchell was from Tennessee, which was 423, Sonora knew from calling Smallwood. She was pretty sure that 606 was Kentucky. The leg had shown up in Kentucky.
“Hello?” Sonora pitched her voice low. At a guess, she’d say Julia Winchell was an alto.
Silence.
“Hello?” Sonora said again. She heard a click, looked at Sam. “Hung up.”
“Sit down, Sonora. You should look at this.”
“What is it?”
“I think I know why Julia Winchell decided not to go home. It isn’t what you think.”
“What is it?”
Sam had Julia Winchell’s open briefcase on the couch. He moved it to the floor, picked up a sheaf of papers that looked like handwritten notes and a newpaper clipping with ragged edges.
Sonora settled on the couch. Sam handed her the newspaper clipping. “Let’s start with this. Recognize the picture?” He sat on the arm of the couch, knee touching hers. Tapped the newspaper. “Look at the date.”
Sonora got her mind off the knee and looked at the paper. It was neatly cut from the Saturday edition of the Cincinnati Post, the Metro section, dated July fifteenth, the day before Julia Winchell had been supposed to drive home to Clinton. She raised an eyebrow. Read the caption. “District Attorney Gage Caplan put closing arguments before the jury today in the trial of ex-Bengal football pro, Jim Drury, accused of running down Xavier University co-ed Vicky Mardigan. Drury, a popular hometown boy made good and local celebrity, attended Moelier Catholic High School, a school well known for nurturing football players. He has done spot coverage for local television stations during the football season for the last nine years. Mr. Drury played for the Bengals from 1979 to 1986.”
Sonora looked up at Sam. “Caplan’s going for vehicular homicide.”
Sam grimaced. Vicky Mardigan had been dragged thirty-eight feet down Montgomery Avenue, and left to die in front of the White Castle in Norwood. She was breathing when the 911 team got to her, but hadn’t survived the night.
“You think Caplan has a prayer of nailing him?”
Sam shrugged. “Drury says she walked out in front of him. How’s Caplan going to prove otherwise? His word against a dead girl’s.”
“Sam, he dragged her half a mile down the road.”
“He says his foot slipped when he tried to hit the brake. And there were no alcohol or drugs in the guy’s blood—that’ll work against Caplan.”
“You’ve heard the rumors.”
Sam nodded. Every cop had. Drury was a known maniac on the road. Short-fused, he took his anger out behind the wheel. He’d been pulled over time and again by uniforms, but he was Drury for heaven’s sake. He usually signed an autograph and went on his way.
“Yeah, Sonora, but you can’t take rumors to court. I’ve worked with Caplan a couple of times, no question he’s good. Most of ’em, you hand them the case file, they look it over fifteen minutes before they go into the courtroom, if you’re lucky. Caplan does his advance work, and he charms the shit out of the jury.”
“Gee, Sam, thanks for the visual.” Sonora’s foot itched. She rubbed her shoe against the carpet, wondering if she should take it off and go for total ecstasy.
Sam turned sideways, so he could look at her. “Julia Winchell left a lot of little notes behind in that briefcase, Sonora. She saw a murder. Or thinks she did.”
Sonora gave Sam a lopsided smile. “By chance she mention the killer’s name?”
Sam grimaced and Sonora thought he looked sad. He tapped the news clipping in Sonora’s hand. The one with Gage Caplan, ace District Attorney. “As a matter of fact, she did.”
Sonora tilted her head to one side. “Somebody he’s putting away?”
“No, Sonora. Him.”
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I had a lot of help on this one.
My thanks to Michael Miller, primary school teacher, for sharing insight and experience, and whose perception and wit made for an entertaining interview.
I was made very welcome by the Homicide and Crime Scene Units of the Cincinnati Police Department. My thanks to Police Specialist Mike O’Brien, who went out of his way to help and answer my questions, and to Police Specialist Jim Murray, Police Specialist Diane Arnold, Community Services Police Specialist Kim Moreno, and Police Chief Michael Snowden.
My sincere thanks to Detective Maria Neal, of the Lexington Police Department’s Bureau of Investigation. She went out of her way to answer my questions and share insight and expertise.
My thanks to Dr. George Nichols, of the Louisville coroner’s office, for putting up with my fascination with and questions about his work. I did appreciate your time and trouble.
To Detective David A. Green, of the Jefferson County Police Department’s Arson Unit, even if you did say you’d be keeping an eye on me. And to Arson Investigator Gary Nolan.
To another favorite lawyer, C. William Swinford, who was kind to me, and represented me well.
To talented artist and good pal Steve Sawyer, for insight, discussions, and good coffee.
To Anthony Smallwood, world’s best dancer, who helped Sonora with her two-step.
To Ron Balcom, of Balcom Investigative Services, for early research and last-minute questions.
To my good buddy and fellow mystery writer, Taylor McCafferty, who is always up for forensic “girltalk,” and a trip to the morgue on our way to lunch. My phone bills are your fault.
To Carolyn Marino, my terrific editor, whose judgment and instinct are always dead-on, and who is a pleasure to work with.
My thanks to Allstate agent Rebecca Turner, Jonathan Edwards, Jonathan Amherst, and Physician’s Assistant Lynn Hanna, who always wants to know if I’m mad at anybody before she gives me technical details on anything medical and violent.
And to my agent Matt Bialer, who told me to write this book, and didn’t let up till I got it right.
About the Author
Lynn Hightower grew up in the South and graduated from the University of Kentucky, where she studied creative writing with Wendell Berry and earned a journalism degree. She is the author of ten novels, including two mystery series, one featuring homicide detective Sonora Blair and the other featuring private investigator Lena Padgett. Flashpoint, the first Sonora Blair mystery, was a New York Times Notable Book. Satan’s Lambs, the first Lena Padget mystery, won the Shamus Award for Best First PI Novel. Hightower has also written the Elaki series of futuristic police procedurals, which begins with Alien Blues.
Hightower’s novels, which have been translated into seven foreign languages, have appeared on the Times (London) bestseller list and have been nominated for the Kentucky Literary Award, the Kentucky Librarians First Choice Award, and the Mary Higgins Clark Award. She teaches at the UCLA Extension Writers’ Program, where she was named Creative Writing Instructor of the Year in 2012. The author lives with her husband in Kentucky.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1995 by Lynn Hightower
Cover design by Michel Vrana
ISBN: 978-1-5040-2232-3
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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