They drove.
‘You have to admit, Sam, McCarty is an attractive man.’
‘I wouldn’t know.’ He went through a yellow light, just as it turned to red.
‘Come on, you don’t think he’s cute?’
‘I’m a guy. I don’t know if a man is cute.’
‘Hey, nobody’s asking you to give up football or turn in your dick. I mean, he’s a good-looking guy. McCarty is. Don’t you think?’
No answer.
‘Okay, Sam, speaking professionally, like you were describing a suspect. Is he cute or not cute?’
‘We still on McCarty?’
‘We still are. Answer the question.’
Sam wiped his forehead. ‘The suspect could be described as … attractive.’
‘To women or just men?’
‘Fuck all y’all.’
Security let them in through the front door. Their footsteps echoed in the dark hallway. Gone were the late nights and camaraderie that had been the hallmark of this office when Gage Caplan had been in charge. He’d been very good at his job – good with the younger attorneys. It was no wonder Sonora was not popular down here. The man was undoubtedly missed. It was his habit of murdering pregnant women and dismembering their bodies that had gotten him in trouble, as such a habit often will. Other than that, he’d been an all-around guy.
Light shone from behind the frosted glass of Bristol’s office door. Any other attorney would have left the door ajar, acknowledgment that he was expecting them.
Not Bristol.
Sonora considered just walking in, but she decided to make a genuine effort to get along. Be a trooper. Do the job. She wanted to pull Dixon Chauncey in. Get Mary Claire and Kippie out of his tear-stained hands.
Sam knocked. They waited.
Heard the squeak of a chair, soft footsteps, then the door opened. Why not shout ‘come in’ from the desk?
Not Bristol.
He looked at them through a three-inch crack. Frowned, voice soft. ‘Detectives.’ He left the door open and crossed back to his desk.
He was the kind of man who ironed his jeans and disapproved of people. He was thin. He took nourishment not enjoyment from his food. He smelled sweetly of cologne. On his desk was a picture of his wife – no children. She looked unhappy.
No mystery there.
Bristol’s hair was very short, just shy of a butch cut, coming to a point at the back of his neck. He wore glasses with wire frames, and his nose was sharp, like a beak.
‘Please. Have a seat.’
Sam and Sonora exchanged looks, took a chair, faced him across an immaculate desk.
‘What is it I can do for the two of you?’ Bristol was soft-spoken. His words held a sympathetic understanding that was not matched by the tone of his voice or the look in his eyes.
He had started in Juvenile. He had, by reputation, been fond of grinding any child unlucky enough to come under his purview into a fine dry ash and scattering them across the juvenile court system. He was every mother’s nightmare in court. He had no children of his own, which did not stop him from having views on exactly how they should be raised, and, more important, punished. He liked holding people’s fates in his hands.
Sam did the talking. Bristol listened with infinite patience, hands folded in his lap. Occasionally, Sonora would find him sneaking a look at her.
She braced herself for the barrage of questions that would come after Sam was through. But Bristol just stared at them. He sighed, stood up slowly.
‘Do either of you want coffee?’
‘No.’
‘No, thanks.’
He went to the coffee pot, which sat on a marble-topped table he had likely brought from home. The coffee-maker rested on a white circle of lace, next to a brass spider lamp, small light blazing.
Bristol bent at the waist, filling the cup. He took his time, carefully measuring out a teaspoon of sugar as if it were the most important thing in his life. He was in a world of his own, focused solely on that cup of coffee. Still bent, one arm rigid by his side, he took a sip. He straightened swiftly, a look of resignation crossing his face. The coffee had failed him.
He turned to Sam and Sonora. It was their turn to fail.
‘I can’t help you.’
They started at him a long minute.
‘What do you mean you can’t help us?’ Sonora asked.
He sat down behind the desk. Lips in a tight little bow. ‘Really, Detectives. This case is a mess. Motive? Journal entries from an unruly, ungrateful teenage girl who probably resented being told to come home for curfew. You have this war going on between these two horse farms, you’ve even caught the man who mutilated one of the principals, and yet you look to the father as the killer. The girl was fatally injured when she came off that horse. Are you seriously telling me that she was the intended target? Why not shoot her and have done? This makes no sense at all.’
‘There are other children involved,’ Sonora said.
‘Yes, that is uppermost in my mind. You want to rip them from their home on your gut instinct?’
‘That, plus the evidence,’ Sonora said.
Bristol looked at his watch. ‘You’ve made me late for my dinner.’
‘Look—’
Bristol help up a hand. ‘Stop and think, Detectives, stop and think.’ He did not raise his voice. Sonora would have liked it better if he had. ‘This man has been all over the eleven o’clock news – this is a high-profile case. If he was Mr Nobody with a record, I’d say pick him up in a heartbeat. This is a middle-class widower, bringing up three children—’
‘Two now.’ Sonora had to interrupt.
‘He has a steady job, and, more important, the sympathy of this entire community. He turned down Montel Williams!’
Sonora wondered where Bristol got his information.
‘He doesn’t come in until the case is so solid it could be tried by an idiot.’
Sam kicked Sonora before she could say a word. She stayed quiet. It was hard.
‘Come back when you’ve made your case.’
‘And meanwhile those other two kids are at risk,’ Sonora said.
‘If that’s what you believe, Detective, then you’d better get to work. Cross your t’s and dot your i’s.’
And blacken yours, Sonora thought. She looked at Sam, who inclined his head toward the door. She knew what he was thinking. If you can’t go through, go around.
So much for cooperation.
They drove back in silence, both staring straight ahead. Not a word, till Sam pulled into the parking lot at the Board of Elections building.
‘Where’d you park?’ he asked.
‘Just let me off here.’
‘You’re upset.’
‘I’m worried about those kids. Aren’t you?’
‘Am I uneasy? Yes. Do I think they’re in immediate danger? No.’
She opened the car door. ‘See you tomorrow.’
‘Come on, Sonora. Don’t be mad at me any more. You know I love you.’
She closed the door, looked in at him through the open window. ‘Thank you, Sam. Now don’t ever say that again unless you plan to follow it up.’
‘With what?’
‘Sex. Love. Commitment.’
‘How about two out of three?’
‘Sam, I just want to say that your timing really sucks.’
Chapter Fifty-Five
Sonora awoke to the sound of a train, the wail of the horn. Had she been asleep? Halfway, maybe. The train sounded the horn again. She looked at the clock. Two a.m.
She remembered standing in the pastures at End Point Farm, hearing the train in the distance, wondering if they would find Joelle Chauncey alive or dead.
Had the child been alive then?
The ME did not think so. Sonora had called Stella and asked, only to find out from Eversley that Sam, Hal and Mickey had all called with the same question.
There was no escape from the mental image that replayed over and over in
her head.
Joelle on horseback, rounding the corner, horse cantering across the beaten-down dirt pathway, dark hair flying out behind. A moment of happiness. Both girl and horse, together in the rhythm and pace, unaware of the strand of Weed Eater tape, stretched across the path, and the man who waited for the fall.
Sonora knew that man was Dixon Chauncey.
Had he watched? Had he turned away? Had Joelle screamed, or had it happened too fast?
Anyone could use a Weed Eater tape. A Weed Eater tape did not prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Dixon Chauncey had killed Joelle. A dyed black hair in a dorky ear-flapper cap did not prove that Dixon Chauncey had killed Joelle.
And much as she hated to admit it, Bristol had a point. The case was full of holes. She would have to fill them in.
What she needed to do now was find out why. She had spent all day yesterday, Sunday, rereading the journals, going through Joelle’s things. What she had to have was a motive.
Sonora looked at the clock. Two thirty a.m. She got out of bed. Put on her favorite navy sweatpants and her little gray T-shirt, layering it over with the big black sweatshirt she liked to wear inside out. Her newest and whitest Reeboks.
She would bake raspberry muffins for Heather and Tim’s breakfast, and then she would go to work.
The outpatient and emergency parking lot at Jewish Hospital was about two-thirds full, most of the cars with parking stickers that indicated staff. Sonora found a good slot, right up front, and she locked the car up tight, hospital parking lots being one of the three most dangerous places in the world, the other two being ATMs after dark and downtown parking garages.
A paramedic unit was parked in the emergency entrance, lights flashing. Someone else’s drama. She passed the smokers, huddled together in the small outdoor terrace to which they had newly been sentenced, passed through the automatic doors into the harsh, yellow-white light of the lobby.
The hospital was hot and heavy on a courtesy campaign, one thing accomplished by the influence of Health Maintenance Organizations, and the receptionist actually smiled.
‘Gracie on shift?’ Sonora asked.
‘Gracie?’
‘Gracie Fletcher.’ Everybody knew Gracie. This one must be new. ‘This is her shift,’ Sonora said, not sure, but hoping.
‘Oh, yeah, I’m sorry, I’m brain-dead tonight. She’s in the break room, mikeing a Lean Cuisine.’
‘Thanks.’
Sonora headed down the hall. Turned a corner and saw Gillane, walking her way, head down.
She leaned up against the wall, folded her arms, watched him unaware. Same jeans, same Ropers, a white T-shirt, lab coat and ID. All alone in the hallway, he looked exhausted, and maybe a little down.
‘You always wear jeans to work?’
Clearly she had caught him unawares, and his eyes crinkled up when he saw her, that smart-alec half-smile.
‘Woman, a vision in sweats. Love the hair – no, I’m serious, I bet it took you three seconds to stick it up in that clip.’ He walked toward her, talking. ‘But it’s almost … artistic.’ He touched the hair that had come loose. ‘See how it spills down every which way? Is this your favorite sweatshirt?’
‘Yeah. So?’
‘I have one just like it that’s my favorite, only I don’t wear mine inside out.’ He touched her cheek. ‘Bruises, fading.’
She put a hand up. ‘You should see the other guy.’
‘You’re up late tonight. Or is that early this morning? Is anything wrong?’
‘I’m working.’
‘Good. I have those lab results for you.’
‘Finally.’
‘Come on, they’re in my call room. Plus, I have a secret stash of Twinkies.’
She had to walk fast to keep up with him. ‘Twinkies? I can’t eat Twinkies. I ate bacon already this week.’
‘These Twinkies are magic Twinkies. They have no fat and no calories when eaten by a woman wearing sweats.’ He smiled at her in that way men have when they’re glad to see you and don’t care if it shows.
The call room had a single bed, no windows, a desk. A laptop computer glowed on the desk, next to, of all things, a harmonica, and a guitar was parked next to the wall.
Gillane opened the bottom desk drawer. Pulled out a box, already open, and tossed her a Cellophane-wrapped Twinkie.
‘I’m not keeping you from your work?’ Sonora said.
‘Slow night, Cricket. This ain’t Parkland.’
‘Parkland?’
‘Just a little hospital in Dallas.’
‘Remind me why you call me Cricket.’
‘I told you, after my favourite horse.’
‘You said dog.’
‘Ah, you remembered. I was testing you.’
‘I have a horse,’ Sonora said.
‘You have a horse?’
‘My first one. I bought it a few days ago.’
‘I didn’t know you rode.’
‘I don’t. I ran across this gelding and I just had to have him.’
‘Oh, that it were me.’ He studied her a minute. ‘Are you telling me that you spontaneously, without agonizing and shopping and researching and asking ten of your best friends for advice, went out and willfully bought you a horse? On the spur of the moment?’
She snapped her fingers. ‘Just like that. And I don’t know a damn thing about horses, but I am learning fast.’
‘I bet you are.’ He frowned. ‘You should never tell me this sort of thing. I’ve been married three times already. And I’m. Catholic.’
‘You are?’
‘Well, call me Catholic light.’
She tried not to laugh. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
He glared at her. ‘Do you think it’s easy? Not falling in love with a woman who goes out one afternoon, and comes back that night with a horse?’
‘Most people don’t see it that way, believe me.’
‘Most people are idiots. This calls for a Twinkie.’
They sat side by side on the bed, opening Twinkies. He looked at her, smiled, started bouncing up and down on the mattress.
‘I’m going to excuse your weirdness, Gillane, on account of it being four o’clock in the morning, and because I want a favor.’
‘Favor?’ His mouth was full of sponge cake and cream.
‘I want you to take that little laptop of yours and pull up some medical records for me.’
‘That would be naughty.’
‘But you could do it?’
‘Oh, honey. With the greatest of ease. We’re all one big conglomerate medical computer bank, and when the queries come from the inside, they’re assumed to be legitimate. What is it you want to know, anyway?’
‘Blood types. On Dixon Chauncey, and his kids – Joelle, Mary Claire and Kippie.’
‘They ever been patients here?’
‘I don’t know. Does it matter?’
‘Probably not. You wouldn’t have any social security numbers?’
She reached into her pocket. ‘Right here.’
‘She comes prepared.’ He reached for the laptop, took another bite of Twinkie. Attacked the keyboard. ‘Am I assisting in a real live police investigation?’
‘Yep.’
‘Wow. Can you deputize me?’
‘Raise your right Twinkie.’
He complied.
‘You’re a deputy.’
He tapped the keyboard. Looked at her. ‘What is it you’re expecting?’
‘One of the children isn’t his.’
‘No. Shocking. Here it comes.’ He frowned.
‘Well?’
‘I’ll be damned. None of them are.’
‘None of them?’
‘Nope. And Joelle isn’t blood sister to the other two. Mary Claire and Kippie.’
‘Who’s related to who?’
‘More like is anybody related to anybody.’
‘And?’
‘Possibly the two youngest, possibly not. Nobody else. What, are you
going?’
‘I’ve got to go home and sleep for ten minutes, get the kids to school, go to work and catch a killer.’
‘She brings home the bacon, fries it up in a pan. No, stop, you can’t go yet, I’ve decided to court you.’ He grabbed his guitar. Looked at her soulfully and stated to sing ‘Woman’. John Lennon.
She threw a Twinkie at his head.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Sonora sat in front of the computer, eating bite-sized Tootsie Rolls a mile a minute, drinking from a can of Coke, glaring into the screen. She was still in sweats, had gone to an ATM, that blessed modern convenience, and stopped by the house long enough to put the kids on alert. Emergency money in the secret box, stay in touch by phone, and warn their grandmother.
The case was breaking.
The children had been sleepy, but were experienced in the drill. She was touched when Heather gave her the bag of Tootsie Rolls (Sam’s Club size – God knew where she had gotten it) and her son had given her back her Eagles tape to listen to in the car, so she could relax and think.
Like many other cops before her, she turned to the National Hotline for Missing Children, said a prayer for Adam Walsh and his parents, who had founded the hotline in his memory, and fired up the search.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Her eyes blurred, and she rubbed them. She did not feel tired. She felt powerful. She hoped Dixon Chauncey was sleeping peacefully in his bed. It would be the last time.
When the information came through, she caught her breath. Lots of possible matches. All these babies, lost in the world. She had fingerprints on Joelle; she’d need them for the other two.
They could take Chauncey into custody for forty-eight hours without charging him. Bristol could keep those soft sweet hands of his clean.
Would Chauncey have changed the birth dates?
She looked at the clock. A quarter to six. Where was everybody? She needed some help here. She picked up the phone.
Maybe it was all in her head, but it seemed like the light in Interview Two had never been so bright. They’d brought in extra tables and warm bodies, and Sonora had not felt this focused in a long time.
Some days she loved being a cop.
She looked up, saw Crick glance in from the hallway, realized she was still wearing the sweatpants. They would take her as they found her today.
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