No Good Deed

by Lynn Hightower

  He shook his head. ‘If Chauncey’s been a good father all these years, why kill Joelle now? Why cut off Donna Delaney’s finger?’

  ‘He didn’t do that. That was the Bisky people. Your guy Vincent, just like you told me, and I want you to know I’m delighted to have shot him.’

  ‘Too much coincidence here, Sonora.’

  ‘Did it ever occur to you that Chauncey picked his time to take advantage of all the stuff between Delaney and the Biskys? It gives him a built-in villain to point the finger at.’

  McCarty shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘You ought to have consulted with me about Delaney.’

  ‘Look, while you’re searching for the evil horse-sponge artist and the equine fraud con, I’ve got a fifteen-year-old victim who was buried alive with blunt trauma to the head.’

  ‘Your horse just stopped.’

  ‘Don’t try and change the subject.’ Sonora looked at her horse, who had come to a halt, weight forward. She petted his neck and told him what a good boy he was till his head came down and his lower lip quivered.

  Hal stepped close, rubbed Poppin’s neck. ‘There you go. A relaxed, obedient horse. How do you like training?’

  She gave him a look. Her children would have been nervous about a look like that, but Hal did not seem worried.

  ‘I like training just fine.’

  ‘Good thing. You got your work cut out for you with this one.’

  She led Poppin back to the stall, stopped him two feet away. But the horse was on his good behavior now, with McCarty in the barn, and he went in politely without rushing, and stood docilely while she unclipped the rope.

  No chains, no screams, no beating. Was there a way to apply this to children?

  She checked his water, got him a handful of grain, ignored Hal’s comment about spoiling and gave Poppin two thick flakes of hay, shaking them out in the corner so that it looked like a huge pile of food.

  Poppin snatched a mouthful of hay, then rushed to the window to munch and visit. Sonora rubbed his nose, pulled a stick of hay from where it hung between his lips.

  ‘He’s friendly, you have to give him that. Are you sure you want to get attached to him?’

  She looked over her shoulder. McCarty had climbed up in the loft, and was shoving hay bales. ‘Look out below.’ He rolled three bales, one after the other, over the edge, and they fell with soft thuds, spreading into flakes, raising clouds of dust.

  ‘You’re thinking I ought to sell him?’

  ‘I’m thinking horses are expensive and time-consuming. You’re going to have to board him out eventually, pay vets, farriers, have his teeth floated, not to mention hay, grain—’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  ‘I’m sure the Horseman’s Buddy would take him back.’

  ‘Go to hell.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘I’m allowed to have a life, aren’t I? Can there be more to the day than work, bills and children?’

  ‘Yeah, more work, more bills and manure.’ He sat on the edge of the loft. ‘Come on up, why don’t you? I’ll show you where the good hay is. If you’ve got a minute.’

  She looked up at him. ‘I take it I’m invited to the morning festivities?’

  ‘We’re using your office.’ He was swinging his legs, giving her that smile. He wore a gray sweatshirt, big and loose, over Levi’s.

  She’d fed the kids before she left. Cooking again – country ham, corn on the cob, and eight little dinner rolls from the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Mother of the year.

  ‘I’ve got a minute.’

  The bottom rung of the ladder was the kicker, especially with McCarty watching. Graceful was hard when you were trying to bring your knee above waist level, and she was thankful she had worn loose-fit jeans, like everyone else in her generation.

  McCarty cocked his head, watching her. Stood over her as she came up the last rung, gave her a hand. It was dusty in the loft, dark and warm. The rain was loud on the roof.

  Something about the way he took her hand. A tentative quality she thought of as a query.

  Testing one-two-three – is she willing?

  She had not felt nervous like this in ages. She was not sure she liked it. Butterflies in the stomach were not a pleasant thing. She could be safe at home.

  ‘See this hay over here? See this scummy stuff on the top? It’s moldy. Don’t feed it to your horse or your children.’

  She nodded, looked at the hay.

  ‘Over here is the grass hay. And this is a timothy-alfalfa mix. Your horse won’t eat the grass hay. He likes the more expensive stuff.’

  Sonora did not want to admit that all the hay bales looked the same to her, so she committed their locations to memory. Bad hay, right back-corner; grass hay, left center; good stuff, far left and central. She would just give Poppin the good stuff.

  McCarty looked up at the roof. Patted a hay bale and sat down. ‘Rain’s still coming down pretty hard. Might as well wait it out.’

  She sat next to him and he gave her that funny half-smile, leaned close, picked sticks of hay off her sweatshirt.

  Now was the time to pull away, if she was going to.

  She watched him, wondering what he would do next. She felt oddly quiet and scared. She was not quite sure what she was afraid of, just that lately she was afraid.

  He leaned close to kiss her, a long, slow brush with his lips. He pulled back, just an inch, to double-check, to give her the opportunity to scream, run away or file a lawsuit. When she chose none of the above, he snugged his legs next to her, put his hand on the back of her neck and kissed her properly, slowly, sweetly and confidently.

  She did love a confident man.

  He was clearly one of the ones who enjoyed the kissing part, who liked to take his time. He sucked her bottom lip into his mouth and she leaned closer in. He wrapped his hand in her hair, and his other arm went around her shoulders and he enveloped her in a tight, lush hug. The size of him, the strength of him, the confident safe maleness of him, was warmth and tingly pleasure.

  They seemed to fit well, her head in the crook of his shoulder. She did not resist or pull away when he rolled her off balance, catching her in his arms and cushioning her before she hit the stack of hay bales behind. Her instinctual ease in trusting him in this small thing surprised her.

  She abandoned all the scary feelings, listened to the pressure of his fingers as they moved under her sweatshirt, touching the border of the white lace demi-bra before he unfastened the hooks in back, and she felt his palms, large and square, on her bare skin.

  He was rougher than she was used to, enthusiastic, and very well versed in the dance.

  He had done this before, many, many times before, and it was a smooth transition from jeans to no jeans, sweatshirts in a tangled heap. He had a blanket stashed, and a package of condoms, and he spread the blanket and smiled, acknowledgment that yes, he’d been lying in wait. She felt sexy, elusive and desirable.

  He was heavy, on top of her, and his chest was broad, arms thick in the way of well-muscled men, thighs wide and firm, basketball calves – men often had the best legs.

  He was gratifyingly responsive when she let her hand travel to that first touch, a pause when he did not move a muscle, except to smile and make a noise in the back of his throat to let her know she was on the right track.

  She pressed a palm into his chest and he lay beside her willingly, and she loved the way he smiled and laughed when she ran her tongue up and down his body.

  He smelled good. Clearly he was fresh from his shower, which was not fair – she had not had time to prepare. She wanted a long soak in the tub, to rub lotion all over her body, to find the right combination of silk and lace, and then make him hers.

  Next time.

  He laughed suddenly. Put a hand on the top of her head. ‘Better stop. Oh, God, no, really.’

  ‘I don’t want to stop.’

  He took her shoulders and brought his face to hers.

  And then at last he settled h
is body over hen, and once more she felt the weight of him, pressing her down. She put her arms around his neck, holding him tight and pulling him close, and he worked her slowly, roughly, like a man who does not know his strength. She could have made him go easy with the right word, but found that she wanted to do no such thing.

  The phone woke Sonora at 6.40 a.m. She opened one eye. This early it had to be a body.

  Or Hal?

  She smiled. The sun was just starting to come up. She had a pretty new white eyelet bedspread. And the start of a by-God normal relationship with a very attractive man who was—

  The phone rang again, and she picked it up.

  ‘Good morning, Sonora.’

  ‘Hal?’ She tried to keep the sleep out of her voice.

  ‘No, you can call me Sam, because that’s my name. Sam.’

  Sonora raised herself up on her left elbow. ‘What’s up, Sam?’

  ‘I’m in the office.’

  ‘This early?’

  ‘You expecting maybe Hal McCarty? He usually call you at six-thirty Saturday morning?’

  ‘They’re serving warrants with the pancakes this morning, Sam. I thought he might need to get in touch. Isn’t that why you’re in so early?’

  ‘Yeah, sure, so where the hell are you?’

  ‘On my way.’

  ‘Anyway, Sonora, since I had a minute, I ran McCarty through the system. Since I thought you might be getting interested.’

  ‘No, Sam, I always think it’s best to stay away from co-workers.’

  ‘Just as well. You do know he’s married?’

  ‘Who? McCarty?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She lay back on the pillow, thinking what a fleeting thing happiness was.

  ‘That so?’ Conversational. Sam was rambling on about something. She threw all three of her pillows, lovingly encased in new pillow cases, across the room.

  Her arm was as good as ever. One of the pillows caught the desk lamp, which crashed to the floor.

  ‘Sam, one of the kids is having a temper tantrum. I have to go.’

  Chapter Fifty

  When Sonora walked into the bullpen at 7.50 a.m. she was not in a good mood. She had cooked the children a hot breakfast, left it wrapped in foil on the stove top. Okay, grilled chicken sandwiches were not the average morning meal, but you had to work with what was in the freezer. She’d fed hers to Clampett, because her appetite was a thing of the past, and since it was Saturday the kids wouldn’t be up till noon anyway.

  Lucky them.

  The interview rooms were lit, doors shut, and she felt a pang. Everything was moving along without her. She was being left behind.

  She was halfway to her desk when she saw the huddle, Crick and Sam over her own desk, invading her space before she got her first cup of coffee.

  ‘We expected you earlier,’ Crick said.

  ‘I will remind you that I have two children who need breakfast in the morning.’

  The staccato cadence of the words, and the tone of voice, caused one of those sudden sweeping silences in the squad room. She turned her back on everyone while they got over it, headed for the coffee-maker, which she refused to clean no matter how dirty it got. She had realized a couple of years ago that the men were not expecting her to clean it, they just didn’t notice it was dirty.

  There was her mug, lipstick stain on the side. Woman in residence.

  She filled the cup, added as much cream as she wanted, almost too much – it was a very light brown. On impulse, she helped herself to Molliter’s Swiss chocolate fat-free flavoring. An entire spoonful.

  She stirred, taking her time, and took the first perfect sip while everyone waited. Then she turned back to Crick and Sam, trying to quell that ‘bright ingénue’ look that was coming over her face no matter how hard she tried to make it stop. I do not have to smile, she told herself.

  ‘Bring me up to date,’ she said.

  ‘We’re getting ready to go three-way. Hal with Donna Delaney, Sam with Vivian Bisky, and you with Claude Vincent. You need to ID him anyway, if you can.’

  ‘That one you can sort by his injuries.’ Gruber off in the corner. Giving Sonora the thumbs-up.

  Sam did not look at her. She did not look at him.

  ‘How do you want to work this?’ Crick asked. ‘You want someone in there with you, or will it go better if you’re in alone?’

  ‘Alone,’ Sonora said. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Two,’ Crick said.

  She nodded, grabbed her cup and went down the hall.

  She didn’t exactly kick the door in when she entered the room, but neither was she quiet. Claude Vincent was not fazed. He looked tough, particularly with the patch over his left eye. In her mind she repeated the policeman’s prayer – please, God, let him be stupid – and sat down next to him in a chair, invading his space.

  She grinned at him. ‘How you feeling, Claude?’

  He gave her a look. Bored.

  She took a drink of coffee, and from the way he watched out of the corner of one eye, she knew he wanted a cup. This was the hardest part of interrogation for her, the Martha Stewart instinct, which was to provide hospitality no matter what.

  She leaned back in her chair, playing with the edge of the mug. ‘Don’t say you don’t remember me, Claude. That would hurt my feelings. How’s the leg?’

  He squinted his eyes, and she was aware of his thought processes moving. Slowly. This one would be cake.

  ‘You don’t recognize me, Claude? You can’t be serious. The guys have been laughing their asses off about our little tussle in Delaney’s barn, and I’ve still got the bruises. I have to thank you, man, you’ve done wonders for my credibility around here. Hey, are you a natural blond? ’Cause I love the color.’

  A deep blush of rage rose like high tide from the base of his neck to his face.

  ‘Do you have high blood pressure?’ she asked. Seriously curious.

  ‘I want a lawyer.’ His accent was rather attractive.

  Sonora stood up. He’d said the L-word.

  ‘Good idea, Claude, ’cause you’re looking at the death penalty over that little girl. I’ll see you later.’

  He was a slow mover, possibly owing to the bulk of his muscles, because it wasn’t the bulk of his brain.

  ‘Wait.’ He was used to giving one-word commands.

  She turned, but kept heading for the door. ‘What do you mean, wait? You want a lawyer or don’t you?’

  ‘You have mistakes. I am not here about some little girl. I don’t know little girls.’

  Sonora wondered how old he was. Early twenties maybe. Somewhere he had a mother.

  ‘Look, you got a choice here, Claude, and I can’t make it for you. If you want a lawyer later, that’s cool. If you want one now, we can’t talk any more, it’s against the law. Now, it sounds to me like what we’ve got going is a misunderstanding, maybe even a case of mistaken identity. You know what that is, Claude? I mean, I’m not trying to imply you’re stupid, I’m thinking about the language barrier.’

  ‘My command of English is excellent.’

  Sonora smiled. ‘Good for you. So, okay, what’s it going to be, my friend? ’Cause you asked me for a lawyer. Which means this conversation is over, and you get locked down until we get a legal aid kid down here. Unless you’ve got an expensive lawyer, which means you still get locked down for a couple months at least till we get all this straightened out. Because bail is something you will not get when it comes to the brutal murder of a little girl. You’re here on a temporary visa, and you’re a major flight risk, and no judge in his right mind is going to let you out of the orange jump suit and chains.’

  ‘There is not little girl.’

  ‘Claude, I’m asking you one more time, then I got things to do. You want a lawyer, or you want me to grab you a candy bar and a Coke, maybe a cup of coffee, whatever, and you and I sit down like civilized people and get all this straightened out?’

  ‘You have the Baby Ruth?’


  ‘Babe Ruth it is. What to drink?’

  ‘Cherry Coke.’

  She got herself a candy bar too. What the hell, she was mad at the world anyway. Reese’s Cups. She liked the bright orange wrapper, and there was nothing quite like peanut butter and chocolate. They both got intent on opening candy wrappers and popping soda tabs. She had managed a surprising camaraderie with this guy over chocolate.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, mouth full of chocolate, caramel and peanuts. ‘The Reese’s Cup, this is good too.’

  It reminded her of Jean-Claude van Damme, the way he talked, only this guy wasn’t nearly as smart or good-looking.

  She broke him off a piece of a Reese’s Cup – the sacrifices she suffered to make a living – and was touched when he responded with a chunk of Baby Ruth.

  She took a sip of Coke. It was cold and wonderful. Pah on coffee. ‘I just don’t get it. I can’t picture you, doing something like that.’

  He looked uncomfortable, and was clearly struggling to figure out which crime she was referring to.

  ‘Was it an accident, you know, because you really just wanted the horse?’

  ‘Yes, the horse I wanted, but I get it other ways. I tell you there is no girl.’

  ‘Let me refresh your memory, Claude, Joelle Chauncey was the girl riding the horse. Tell me it was an accident. Tell me that you didn’t mean for her to get hurt. Believe me, it’ll make a big difference.’

  ‘But I tell you there was no horse.’

  ‘Oh, come on—’

  ‘No. Delaney has the horse, and this horse is Bisky property.’

  ‘Which horse are we talking about?’

  ‘The mare, Sundance, she is in foal to Big Blue Baby who has blood from We Had It Coming, very good lines these are.’

  ‘And she’s owned by the Biskys?’

  He waved a hand. ‘By the client of the Biskys.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m with you. How did Delaney get the horse?’

  ‘Is business arrangement.’ He leaned across the table. ‘This Bisky people, they have the beautiful show barn. You’ve seen it?’

  Sonora nodded.

  ‘They have over-rented the stalls, you understand this?’

  ‘Rent them out to more than one horse, collect all the board fees you want.’