Eyeshot

by Lynn Hightower

  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.”

  4

  Sonora looked at Sam. Looked back at the picture in the clipping. “Did I understand you? You’re telling me Julia Winchell saw a murder—”

  “I’m saying she thinks she did.”

  “And the killer was Gage Caplan? This Gage Caplan?” Sonora waved the clipping. “Champion of the underdog, defender of law and order, friend to cops, kids, yada yada yada?”

  “How many times do I have to say yes?”

  “Until I get you to say no. Who’s he supposed to have killed?”

  “His wife.”

  “His wife? That establishes a motive, I guess.”

  “Seriously, Sonora—”

  “Seriously, Sam, his wife is alive and well. They had a picture in last week. Caplan the family man. Wife and little kiddy.”

  “First wife, Sonora. This all happened eight years ago.”

  “So why didn’t she bring it up eight years ago?”

  “She did. Nobody believed her. And she only saw the guy, she didn’t know his name. Till she picked up the newspaper two weeks ago, and there he is.”

  “Give me details, Sam.”

  “I don’t have details.” He stood up, pointed to the sheaf of papers on the desk. “This is all I got. Notes. Stuff she jotted down.”

  “It’s thin. Except …”

  “Except what?”

  “This list of calls she made. I thought one of those numbers was familiar. She was calling the DA’s office.”

  “Look, Sonora, I’m not saying it’s true. Calling the DA’s office proves not a thing, except she may have had a screw loose.”

  “Her husband doesn’t describe her that way.”

  “He maybe is the one who killed her.”

  “If she’s dead.”

  “There is that.”

  Sonora smoothed the clipping out on her knee. Frowned at the headline. Caplan Closes In. The picture had been taken in the courtroom, from the side, Caplan talking to the jury. He was a big man in a nice suit—not too nice, you’d never picture this guy in a pinkie ring. He was attractive—carrying a lot of extra weight, the way ex-athletes often do, but it sat well on him. His hair was thick and full, razor cut.

  A district attorney with definite jury appeal. And popular in the ranks.

  Sonora skimmed the article.

  The defense attorney was Judith Kelso, another hometown girl, which was a smart move on Drury’s part. She was a short, squat blond, and she was moving hard and heavy. Much had been made of Drury’s squeaky clean blood test, his all-American hard-jawed good looks, his community service with the Shriners, his struggle to be a good father to his kids, despite the divorce. This was a golden boy, who deserved the benefit of the doubt.

  Vicky Mardigan, a nineteen year old from Union, was not pretty. In her pictures she looked chunky and small and she had a bad complexion. The photos from the accident scene were hard to take. The jury had needed a recess.

  Women’s rights groups had picked up the case, for reasons that were not clear to anyone. They were holding vigils downtown, trying to take back the night. Sonora wasn’t sure they’d ever had it.

  In the bullpen, Drury was getting three-to-one odds in a new twist on the usual football betting pool. Caplan was the only reason Drury’s odds weren’t better.

  Business as usual.

  Sonora laid the newspaper clipping gently on the coffee table. “Make a prediction, Sam. Is Caplan going to convict?”

  “If anybody could, he’d be it.”

  “See, that’s the problem, Sam. I agree with you. Almost every cop in the city agrees with you, including, I might add, our chief of police.”

  Sam looked at her. “We could let it go.”

  “Maybe she’ll come back,” Sonora said flatly. She looked up, caught both her own and Sam’s reflection in a mirror that hung over the desk.

  Two unhappy cops.

  “She ain’t coming back,” Sam said.

  5

  The shift had changed over and everyone had gone off duty except Molliter, who was on nights. Molliter was a tall, rangy redhead with a sour look. Known to be religious. He was at his desk, eating pineapple rings from a square Tupperware container.

  Sonora shuddered. Settled at her desk. “My phone light’s not blinking.”

  “No messages? Where are your kids?” Sam asked.

  “Heather’s at some skating thing. Tim’s at the mall hanging out and annoying the security guards.”

  “How’d they get to these places?”

  “A combination of their grandmother, one parent with a van, and a friend’s big brother who drives. Wait till your Annie gets older.” Sonora watched him out of the corner of her eye. Last year, it would not have been a safe comment. “How’s she doing?”

  “Two Bs, the rest Cs on the last report card. She’s behind but she’s catching up.”

  Sonora opened her bottle of tea. It was nice to ask after Annie and get something other than a medical report. This time last year she’d been in the hospital, enduring blood work and testing in an ongoing battle against leukemia.

  Sonora peeled the yellow and white tissue paper from her sub sandwich. “Okay, Sam, you take this Barber guy and I’ll take Julia’s sister.”

  “I’ll take the sister.”

  “No, I will.” Sonora saw no telltale smear of tomato sauce on the paper. She opened the bread of her sandwich. “Gross, what is this?”

  “Crab and seafood salad. You got mine.”

  They switched sandwiches.

  “You got a nice phone voice, Sonora. Barber will talk to you.”

  “You just want the sister because you hope she looks like Julia.”

  “What is this?” Sam asked.

  “It’s Snapple, Sam. Mango Madness. I thought you’d like it.”

  “Real cops don’t drink Snapple.”

  “Give it here then.”

  He pulled the bottle out of her reach.

  Sonora dialed the number Butch Winchell had given her, got a busy signal, and put the phone on redial. She chewed meatball and jalapeño pepper and was halfway into the sub when the phone rang once, and was answered immediately.

  Sonora swallowed a mouthful of bread. “My name is Blair, Detective Blair, and I’m trying to reach a Liza Hardin?” She grabbed a pen with greasy fingers, heard Sam snicker.

  The voice was wary. “I’m Liza Hardin. I’m sorry, who did you say you were?”

  “Detective Blair, with the Cincinnati Police Department. A Mr. Butch Winchell has reported his wife, Julia, missing, and he gave us your number and said—”

  “Oh, yeah, I’m her sister.”

  Sonora flipped open a notepad. “Do you have a few moments to talk with me, Ms. Hardin?”

  “Of course.”

  “Have you seen or talked to your sister any time recently?”

  “I talked to her … um, a few days ago. Sunday morning, the seventeenth.”

  “Sixteenth,” Sonora said.

  “Whatever. I talked to her that Saturday night too.”

  “When she was in Cincinnati?”

  “Yeah. Really, I talked to her every night she was there.”

  Phone lines humming, sister to sister. “Do the two of you usually talk every day?”

  “Um, no, only when …”

  “Yes?”

  Hardin cleared her throat. “Just when there’s stuff going on. When we have things to talk about.”

  “What was going on?” Sonora asked.

  Hardin did not answer.

  “Ms. Hardin, have you heard from your sister at all since Sunday morning of the sixteenth?”

  Harden’s voice softened. “No. I haven’t.”

  “Don’t you think that’
s odd?”

  “Yes. I didn’t know what was going on. Butch called me and he said he was headed your way. He didn’t find her?”

  “No ma’am, he didn’t. And you’re sure she hasn’t been in touch?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The woman sounded definite. Truthful.

  “Ms. Hardin, I know you don’t want to betray any confidences here, but we’re concerned about the whereabouts of your sister. Do you think it’s possible she might have left her family, um, willingly?”

  Hardin’s voice went flat. “No, I don’t.”

  “No doubt?”

  “You know about the affair, don’t you?”

  Sonora thought about it. “Can you confirm that there was an affair, and give me the man’s name?”

  “Yes, there was an affair, and no, I don’t know his name: But she didn’t run off with him, Detective. The affair was not going well and he was the last thing on her mind.”

  “What was on her mind, do you know?”

  Hardin took a breath. “It sounds … dramatic. But my sister saw a picture in the paper. A picture of a man she thinks killed somebody eight years ago. She was upset about it, and she was going to the police.”

  “I can double-check, but we have no record of her filing—”

  “I talked her out of it. Of going to the police. I thought she would just make an ass out of herself. She decided she’d look into things herself, don’t ask me how. I was hoping she’d give up on it and come home. It seemed … pointless.”

  “She didn’t give you any idea what she intended to do to check things out?”

  “No, but we got interrupted.” Hardin’s voice took on a rough edge. “That whoever it was she was seeing was at her door, upset about something, God knows what. He was very high maintenance, that’s one thing she did tell me, and driving her up the wall. She said she’d call me later, but she never did.”

  “You must have been worried.”

  “Very. But I wasn’t quite sure who to tell.”

  “What do you know about this murder she thinks she saw?”

  “No think’s, about it, Detective, Julia isn’t a nut. She told me about it, but it’s been years.” Hardin paused. “I know it happened when she was on campus. She went to the University of Cincinnati, did you know that?”

  “No,” Sonora said.

  “Look, I’ve got a date and he should be here any time, and I’ve got ten minutes to put on makeup and get these electric rollers out of my hair. Can I think about this and call you back?”

  Sonora gave her the number and hung up. Ten minutes was going to be a hell of a rush. She looked over at Sam. “How’d you do with Barber?”

  “He’s a photographer. He’s not home. It’s Friday night and nobody’s available.”

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  6

  Sonora was dawdling in the parking lot, not sure she was ready to leave Sam, not sure she was ready to launch into the mom-thing. She got into the Blazer, put the key in the ignition so she could roll the window down and talk.

  “I want this Chevy,” Sam said.

  “Tim wants me to keep the Nissan so he can drive it when he gets his license. You don’t want to buy that one, do you? I’ll give you a deal.”

  “I know it too well.” He slapped the top of the Blazer. “You ever want to sell this one, you let me know.”

  They looked at each other. The sun had gone down but it was still hot. Sam had sweat on his upper lip.

  “What you going to do tonight?” he asked.

  “Go home. Clean house. Pay bills.” For some reason, she had been going to say call her brother. Maybe because it was his car she was driving. He had left her everything in his will.

  “What?” Sam said.

  “Don’t ask me why, but I was going to say call Stuart.”

  Sam squeezed her shoulder. “I wish I could tell you these things go away, Sonora. I think you just learn to live with it.”

  She was. Learning to live with it. One brother, murdered in hot flame and agony, because he was related to a homicide cop after a serial killer.

  Someone honked a horn, and Sam looked over his shoulder and waved. A regulation blue Taurus unmarked cop car pulled close alongside the Chevy, loose gravel crunching beneath the tires.

  Gruber and Sanders. Sonora gave Sam a look. If there was ever a mismatched pair of cops.

  Gruber was a hard-ass guy from New Jersey, with an attitude to match his experience. Sanders was the little girl next door who wanted to grow up to be a mommy and a schoolteacher.

  “You guys forget the way home?” Sonora asked.

  Gruber rubbed a hand across his face. “Home? Where’s that?”

  Sanders stuck her head out the window. She had straight brown hair that hung to her shoulders. “Another clown down today.”

  Sam nodded. “We heard. Lion’s Club Fair, same thing?”

  Gruber shifted the car into park. “Yeah. Bobo’s in the dunking booth throwing out insults to the crowd, waiting for somebody to bean him with a ball. Instead, some guy cuts him in half with a thirty-ought-six, bolt-action rifle.”

  Sonora rested an arm on the open window of her Chevy. “Doesn’t anybody see this guy coming?”

  Gruber snorted. “Hell, yeah, lots of people. You going to argue with a guy with a deer rifle and an attitude?”

  Sanders shook her head. “Those poor clowns, sitting on that perch in the booth. There’s nowhere they can go.”

  “Except under,” Gruber said. “They got Bobo clowns quitting in droves.” He held up a bag of doughnuts, stuck them through the window over Sanders’s head. “Help yourselves, guys, courtesy of my partner here.” He saluted Sanders, who grimaced at the doughnuts.

  “We’re trying to set up a stakeout,” she said. “Catch this guy coming.”

  Sonora was looking into the bag, deciding between caramel iced and chocolate sprinkles. Sam took cinnamon cake.

  “I’m going to wear a clown suit and sit in the booth and Gruber’s going to collar this sucker, you see if we don’t.”

  Gruber turned and looked at Sanders. White powdered sugar flaked the beard stubble on his chin. “Who says you’re doing the decoy? You got dimples. Cops with dimples can’t be decoys.”

  “It’s a regulation, I think.” Sam licked cinnamon off his fingers.

  Sanders folded her arms. “I already talked to Crick. He said whosoever shall fit into the clown suit with vest underneath, shall therefore be the clown decoy.” Sanders smiled at Gruber. “We already got the suit, I’ve tried it on, and you’ll never fit.”

  “Wha—Is that the reason behind all the sub sandwiches and pizzas and candy bars you been bringing me?”

  Sanders smiled gently.

  “I bet I’ve put on fifteen pounds in the last three weeks.”

  “Maybe more,” Sanders said.

  Gruber stuck a finger in his waistband. “God bless. Now what am I going to do?”

  Sonora took the bag of doughnuts off his hands. “Do what women do.”

  “Which is?”

  “Induce vomiting.”

  7

  Sonora drove with the windows down. Stuart had loved country music all his life, and for some reason, lately, she found herself listening to his tapes. She stopped at a red light, turned the volume down.

  She had been a die-hard rock fan all her life and did not want to be caught listening to country.

  It was a long drive home, all the way into Blue Ash. She got to the house after dark, which at least meant she didn’t have to notice how much the lawn needed mowing.

  She headed up the stairs from the garage, saw, with no surprise, that her kids were on the floor in front of the television set. Clampett leaped off the couch, trailing clumps of yellow foam stuffing, tail wagging and thumping the wall. He stepped on Sonora’s foot and jumped for the bag of doughnuts.

  “Hi kids.”

  Tim looked up. He was on his back, one leg bent, head pillowed by the only couch cushion free
of dog bites. His hair was black, close-cropped, which gave him a tough look he cultivated. His jeans were oversized and bagging. Sonora always wanted to tell him to pull them up.

  “What’s in the bag, Mom?”

  Heather got up. “Doughnuts, stupid.” She pushed her glasses back on her nose. Her hair, dark and fine, streamed loose from a braid. “Can we have some?”

  “If you can get to them before Clampett does.”

  “Mom,” Tim said, “can you wait a while before you go into the kitchen? Me and Heather are going to clean that up later on.”

  Sonora overslept the next morning. She drove fast, dropped Tim off at a friend’s, and Heather at her grandmother’s. Homicide had no respect for weekends.

  She headed for the city, wondering how she could justify being so late. Decided to stop and talk to Caplan on the way in, go through the motions, meet Sam and regroup. No one would know how long she had talked to him, or waited around until he could talk. She could go to the office like a worker bee, instead of slinking in, hanging her head.

  It was a plan.

  She didn’t know where Caplan lived, but it would be a good bet to try his office. There was a chance he’d be working. Even if he’d given his final arguments, he had to prepare for the sentencing segment, in case he won. The Drury thing was probably muscling in on his weekends.

  There were cars in the parking lot, which Sonora found encouraging.

  She went through a door into a hallway, heard laughter, a young male shouting, “Yeah, right,” then a female voice, also young, that said, “You sure you don’t want me to stay?”

  Sonora got the feeling, as she rounded the corner, that the woman would have liked to stay. A male voice, rich with the medium depth of a good baritone, said, “Hell no, you kids get home and enjoy what’s left of your weekend. I’ll see you first thing Monday morning. Early, the both of you.”

  The kids, Sonora saw, were a man and woman anywhere from twenty-two to twenty-five, wearing jeans and khakis, Saturday casuals. They had the sheen of up-and-coming youngsters who had sufficient pocket money and fun on what weekends they took from the office, and the pale complexion of kids who worked long hours.