Eyeshot

by Lynn Hightower

  “Speaking of which, we’ll need your credit card numbers, the last statements.” Sonora cleared her throat. “Also, was your wife hospitalized any time recently? Her latest medical records might help us out.”

  Winchell pushed his glasses up on his nose. “With the babies, she was. I can get that for you.”

  Sonora smiled again. “Sooner the better.” She checked her watch, waved a hand at Sam. “Detective Delarosa can get this going for you. Maybe get some of the basics faxed. Sam?”

  He nodded, gave her a watchful look, turned a gentle smile on Winchell. “There’s a phone we can use out here.”

  Not going back to his desk, which butted right up to hers. Good Sam, Sonora thought. He, at least, had picked up on the significance of the hospital records. He always hated asking that question, because sometimes people cried.

  Sonora took the picture of Julia Winchell and her two babies and headed for her desk.

  She settled into her chair, checked her watch. Two o’clock. Two hours till shift change. The peculiar Friday feel of restless energy and ennui was thick. Sunlight streamed through the windows like a beacon.

  Sonora dialed a number she was beginning to know by heart. Listened to it ring. Conversations with Smallwood were getting more and more frequent.

  She’d met him months ago, on his day off, when he’d left Caleb County, Kentucky, to tell her about a local murder that dovetailed with one of her own. She’d been going through a bad time then, and his voice on the other end of the line had gotten more and more welcome.

  He fed her the interesting pieces of the bad and the ugly he came across in day-to-day work and gossip—a sort of cop-to-cop come-on.

  “That you, Smallwood?” Sonora pictured him in his deputy uniform, one foot on the desk.

  “Girl.” The voice was country Southern, and deep.

  “Answer me a question.”

  “Yes, I do accept your kind invitation to dinner. Or is that supper, in Cincinnati-speak?”

  “Pay attention, Smallwood. You remember that severed leg you were telling me about?”

  “Always business with you, isn’t it? Yeah, I remember.”

  “Where exactly was that found?”

  “Down I-75 south, between London and Corbin.” His voice got sharper, more focused. “You got something?”

  “I don’t know. Hope not, actually.” She spread the pictures of Julia Winchell’s little girls across the desk. “You ever hear any details on the victim?”

  “Nope, but it’s not like I would. I know somebody down there, though, she’s going with my cousin.”

  “Nice to know you fit the typical Southern stereotypes.”

  “Let me put you on hold real quick, and I can find something out.”

  “Is this a Cincinnati quick, or a long Southern minute?”

  “Knit something, why don’t you?”

  The line clicked, and Sonora balanced the phone on her shoulder, turned in her chair, saw Gruber doing the same.

  “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Gruber said.

  On hold and stirring up trouble, Sonora thought. He was from New Jersey, dark and swarthy—sad brown eyes. An air of challenge women found interesting. He’d picked up weight, all of a sudden, but he still looked good.

  “Is this the secretary? Can I speak to a real cop?” Smallwood, back in her ear. “You there, Sonora?”

  “Where else would I be?”

  “I could think of a couple places. Anyhow. Results aren’t back from the state lab, but unofficially the victim is female, between the age of twenty-five and thirty-eight, leg severed over the ankle, but taken off at the hip joint.”

  “Blood type?”

  “A-positive.”

  “Any scars, tattoos?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Sonora made a note.

  “You going to tell me what you got?” Smallwood asked.

  “Missing person, woman from Clinton, Tennessee, disappeared up here at some kind of seminar.”

  “I must be missing something. Why would her leg be showing up in Kentucky? This be because she’s from Clinton? Think maybe this leg just kind of migrated on home?”

  “Pay attention, Smallwood, and listen to how a real cop thinks. This woman has a tattoo, a dragon, right over the left anklebone. I just thought it was funny. Killer took off the leg at the hip joint, which makes perfect sense, though none of them ever do it, do they? Then he goes and sweats the foot off over the ankle, which makes no sense at all unless there’s a tattoo he’s trying to hide.”

  “You say this vic is from Clinton?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cause London’s on the way there.”

  “Is it?” Her next stop was going to be a map.

  “South down I-75. Maybe not such a long shot after all. You getting cop twitches on this, Sonora?”

  “We call it instinct, Smallwood.”

  “Maybe you want to come on down then.”

  “Maybe.” Sonora looked up, saw Sam and Winchell headed her way. “I’ll get back to you, Smallwood, and thanks for the help.” Sonora hung up. Smiled at Winchell, who trailed Sam like a baby duck following his mama. Cop imprinting.

  She picked up a high school transfer paper she needed to fill out for her son, and waved it in the air. “Just for the record, Mr. Winchell, can you tell me your wife’s blood type?”

  His eyes went flat. “A-positive.”

  Sonora turned the pictures on her desk face down, so she didn’t have to look at Julia Winchell’s babies.

  3

  The Orchard Suites Hotel was on the Ohio River in Covington, right across the bridge from Cincinnati. Sam eased the Taurus up and down the parking lot.

  “No sign of the rental on this end,” he said.

  “What color was it again?”

  Sam looked at her. “You mean you’ve been looking up and down your side and you don’t—”

  “1995 Ford Escort, red. Just double-checking.”

  “Tell me about that leg again. You say it had a tattoo?”

  “No, Sam, I said the foot was cut off well above the ankle—”

  “That would be the shin.”

  “Thank you, doctor. Think about it, Sam. Hip taken off at the joint, which makes the most sense.”

  “Except nobody ever does it that way.”

  “But this guy did. So why’s he take the foot off over the ankle joint?”

  “Cut there first, saw how much trouble it was, got smarter on the next cut and did it at the joint.”

  Sonora frowned. Sometimes she didn’t like it when Sam made perfect sense. “Maybe. Or maybe he was cutting it off over a tattoo. This victim was a female between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-eight and the blood type matches Julia Winchell’s.”

  “Face it, Sonora, most victims of that kind of crime are young females. And half of America has A-positive blood.” Sam pulled the car into the circle drive in front of the lobby. “I wonder what Julia Winchell was upset about.”

  “Probably going home.”

  “She was pretty damn set on getting up here. You think she was fooling around on him?”

  “You saw the picture.”

  “You got to feel for this guy, Winchell,” Sam said.

  Sonora slammed the car door. “Not if he did it, I don’t.”

  It was cool in the hotel—not quite chilly, and a relief from the heat and humidity rising in gasoline-tainted waves from the asphalt parking lot. The lobby was wide and noisy, full of fountains and people in sports shirts and sandals. A tired-looking woman in lime green shorts herded a knot of preteen girls out the front door. Two of the girls turned and looked at Sam. There were giggles.

  “I think I’m the butt of a joke,” Sam said.

  “A familiar sensation I’m sure.”

  “You always get bitchy in the heat.”

  The desk clerk was tall and had bushy eyebrows, and a nervous habit of clearing his throat. He handed Sam a card key.

  “There was
a man here, earlier, asking about her. He said he was her husband.”

  “Black hair, glasses, name of Butch?” Sam asked.

  The clerk nodded.

  “That’s the husband.”

  “We have to be very careful about who we—”

  Sonora waved a hand. “No problem, I’m glad you brought it up. You definitely didn’t let him in?”

  “Definitely.”

  A good thing, Sonora thought. Winchell was never officially in the room. If they got forensic proof he was, that would nail him. “She got any messages?” Sonora asked.

  “I could look,” the man said.

  Sonora looked at the man’s name tag. Van Hoose. “So look already.”

  He ducked to the other side of the counter, and Sam gave Sonora his rudeness disapproval frown.

  “Seven.” Van Hoose handed Sonora a computer printout. “This is a list of the calls she made. And here are the messages, never picked up.”

  Sonora looked it over, followed Sam as he said thanks and moved away from the desk. One of the numbers seemed familiar.

  Sonora looked up at Sam. “We got your public library. A bunch from Winchell. Return a call to what looks to be another room in the hotel.” Sonora went back to the desk clerk. “That what this is? One of the other rooms?”

  He nodded.

  “Look that up, why don’t you, and let me know who was staying in that room at the time the call was made.”

  Van Hoose hesitated. But they were the police after all. He went to his computer.

  Sam drummed his fingers on the counter. Sonora laid her hand over his to make him stop.

  “The call came from a Mr. Jeffrey Barber in room three-twenty-seven.”

  “Checked out when?”

  “July sixteenth, on a Sunday.” He handed Sonora a slip of paper. “This is the name, address, phone number, and plate number he filled out for registration.”

  Sonora smiled. “We may have to hire you, Van Hoose.”

  “What’s your procedure when a guest disappears?” Sam asked.

  Van Hoose shifted his weight to his left foot. A bone popped in his hip. “We check the credit, and if the card’s good, we keep the room a while.”

  “How long?” Sonora asked.

  “Honestly? It’s a management call. Depends on the guest’s credit and how bad we need the room.”

  Sam patted the desk. “Okay, thanks.”

  Sonora followed him through the lobby, to the elevators. Punched four.

  “They got free breakfast with the room here,” Sam said.

  “Very important,” Sonora agreed, closing her eyes. She leaned against the back wall of the elevator, which stopped at the second floor to let in two couples, freshly bathed, perfumed, pantyhose and heels.

  Sonora wondered what Smallwood was doing tonight. Probably not working.

  The elevator stopped. Sonora got the rat-in-a-maze feeling brought on by hotel corridors.

  She gave Sam a look out of the corner of one eye. “You seem to know your way around this place.”

  “This is where I bring my women. They like that river view and I like the breakfast.”

  Julia Winchell’s suite had that hotel air of maid service around clutter. It opened onto a sitting room: TV, desk, table and chairs. Hunter green couch. There was a bar with a coffeepot and small refrigerator. The room was freshly dusted and vacuumed, pillows plumped. Stacks of paper, books, and a small, open briefcase crowded the top of the desk.

  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 c
o-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?”