Flashpoint (25 page)

“Give it here.”

34

Sonora had that feeling she got when the case was finally breaking. They had a name. They had Selma Yorke.

It was definitely her picture in the yearbook. Sans wig, but Sonora knew the face, the
look
of her.

She had been featured twice. Once in the traditional rows of students, unsmiling and shy, hair waving in pale blond rivulets, bangs longish and combed to one side. The other picture was a group shot of young girls in long white dresses, posing on a wide sweeping staircase. Perfumed and made up, eyes shiny with excitement, each and every one with a bouquet of tiny pink roses. Selma was the standout, the one who ignored the camera, looking off in the distance with a sour expression. She held her bouquet tightly in one hand, letting it trail to the side, as if she couldn't care less about the flowers but had no intention of letting them go. Her bangs were ragged and short, angled awkwardly as if they'd been snipped by an angry child. Sonora remembered when Heather had cut her bangs with little plastic safety scissors. They had looked much the same.

Selma Yorke.

Sanders hunched over the phone book, limbs loose, eyes downcast. “She's not in here.”

Sam looked at Crick. “We going to pick her up or circle?”

“Pick her up, if we can find her.” Crick squinted at the computer terminal. “Never been arrested in Cincinnati. No Ohio driver's license. We can run it and see if she's got a Kentucky or Tennessee license.”

Sonora crooked a finger. “Come with me, Sanders. Sam and I will show you how it's done.” She glanced at her watch. “You guys just give me half a minute to make one quick call.”

“Didn't you just talk to your kids?” Sam asked.

“I have to leave one short message for Chas. Only take a sec.”

Sonora put a videotape of
The Crying Game
up on the counter. It was a slow afternoon, so there wasn't a line.

Sanders stood beside her, looking nervously over one shoulder. Sam was in front of the popcorn machine. He bought a large bag, crammed a handful of kernels into his mouth. Sonora opened her purse and dug in her wallet.

“Do you have an account here?” The clerk was male, in his late teens.

Sonora nodded. “I forgot my card.”

“Name?”

“Selma Yorke.”

He tapped the keyboard. “Is your account at this location?”

“No, it's at the other one.”

“That's Selma Yorke at 815 Camp Washington?”

Sonora nodded, smiled, paid $3.50, and signed for the movie. Sanders was bouncing again. They headed for the parking lot, and Sam wandered out with them.

“Popcorn?”

Sonora took a handful.

“How can you
eat?
” Sanders looked at them over her shoulder as she headed into the road. Sam grabbed her elbow and held her back, pointing a salty finger at an oncoming brown truck.

“UPS stops for no man, or woman.”

Sonora licked salt off the palm of her hand. “No one, Sam. Sounds better if you just say no
one
.”

The truck moved by in a cloud of exhaust, and Sanders danced ahead. “What now?”

“We could watch the movie,” Sonora said.

Sanders laughed, and Sam looked at Sonora. “We were young once.”

The sign said
WELCOME TO CAMP WASHINGTON
. The tiny group of houses lay just under the interstate, one street over from the slaughter yards. Railroad tracks were in spitting range, and old brick warehouses were a couple of blocks away. Sonora rolled the car window down and listened to the backdrop roar of traffic. It was still light out, drizzly. Humidity made the air thick and sticky, in spite of the chill. Sonora heard the whine of a train, the metallic squeal of brakes, on track. She closed her eyes. This was what Selma Yorke heard at night when she lay in her bed. These were the noises and smells that framed her life.

Sanders leaned over the back of the seat. “We could knock on the door and see if she's home.”

Sam raised an eyebrow at Sonora. “What you think?”

Sonora gave Sanders a look. “Remember. She's not under arrest. We don't have a warrant. We just want to talk.”

“Got your gun, Sanders?” Sam said.

Sonora opened her car door. “Leave her alone, Sam.”

The house was old, two stories, nearly hidden behind a large leafy oak tree and caged by a tall ragged hedge that almost concealed a rusting chain-link fence. The lawn was scrubby, weed-infested bare dirt. The windows of the house were crusted with grime, the interior secreted behind gauzy curtains that looked filthy, even from a distance. A tire swing sagged from a tree in the front yard, suspended by a rotting rope.

An empty bird's nest sat in the crook of a rusting gutter pipe under the eaves of the house. Sonora heard the coo of a dove. She walked across the spongy grass, boot heels sticking.

She's not here, Sonora thought. But her heart was pounding and her palms were coated with sweat.

She stood away from the window and the door, letting Sam knock. A significant number of police officers were killed on front porches, even on minor calls.

No one answered.

35

Sonora was alone when the call came through. The paperwork was done, and she was listening for the umpteenth time to Gruber's interview with the woman who'd spotted Flash's car. She came out of her daze on the second ring, looked around, and realized that the guy on night shift was at dinner.

“Homicide, Blair.”

“Girlfriend, we need to talk. Phone booth half a block down by the parking lot. Get over there now.”

Selma. Sonora caught herself before she called Flash by name. “Let's talk here.”

The line went dead. Sonora ran her hands through her hair, grabbed her blazer, and headed for the elevators.

The streetlights blazed over deserted sidewalks, office buildings lit and empty. Sonora was glad to have the Baretta in her purse. A car cruised slowly, muffler loud. Sonora made eye contact with the driver—lone male—who speeded his car and disappeared.

The ring of a phone sounded as the throb of the car's engine trailed away. Sonora ran the last few steps. Picked up the receiver.

“You'uns didn't have much of a childhood, did you?” The words were flippant, the tone was not. Selma Yorke's voice was thick and draggy.

Sonora shivered. “I'll see you my childhood and raise you yours. You're getting us mixed up.”

“I did it for you, you know. I felt sorry for you, after talking to him. I mean, it was all threes for you, wasn't it, girlfriend?”

“What do you mean, threes?”

“People have personalities and bad luck, just like numbers. You never notice that before? Three is bad news. And that brother of yours a one.”

“A one?”

“You know, a
one
. Shy and outcast, nobody liked him. That bothered you a lot, didn't it? Kids are mean, he was all the time getting beat on, and then your daddy getting mad at him for not sticking up for hisself.”

Sonora's purse strap slid down her arm. “Tell me about
your
daddy.”

She might never have spoken.

“Then you go and marry a man just like him, just like they say in the shrink books. Make you happy, he's dead now?”

“Does it make you happy, the men you've killed? Is that why you do it?”

“You'uns think I'm a total mess, don't you, you think only good girls have nice feelings. I tell you this. I knew a boy once, just a boy, like Keaton. Made me feel like I was … like I was important, like I was a part of him. The thing is, I always have been all by myself. And I liked it that way, except sometimes I'd get to feeling funny. Like I was going so far inside myself I wanted to scream? You ever feel like that?”

“No,” Sonora said.

Silence again, then a choked laugh. “That's why I like you, you always say just what you think. Maybe you don't know how it feels. But it's noises, inside of me. Like Mama in the fire.”

Maybe it's your conscience, Sonora thought.

“You ever hear whale songs, Detective? That's what it sounds like, inside of me. Look, I know I'm different. I've always known that, always been on the outside, looking in. This boy, Danny, he was like Keaton. He made the bad feelings go away. Being with him was like … like being high. It felt good. I didn't think I'd ever feel that again. I see men, and they look like him, like Danny, but they don't work, they don't give me that feeling.”

“Does Keaton give you that feeling?” Sonora said.

“Good to know you're catching on.”

“What was that business on the playground?”

“I was missing him. I had to see him.”

“Don't give me that,” Sonora said. “What you're doing is hunting him.”

“Don't you see?” Selma said. “That's where you come in. I helped you. Now you help me.”

36

By the time Sonora made it back to the squad room, the phone was ringing again.

“Homicide, Blair.”

“Ms. Sonora Blair?”

“Speaking.”

“Ma'am, I'm calling from University Hospital, concerning a Charles F. Bennet. Are you a relative?”

Ex–significant other, Sonora thought. “I'm his, um, his friend.”

“Ma'am, Mr. Bennet has been in an accident and—”

“A fire?”

“No ma'am. A car accident.”

“How bad is he?”

“He's in emergency now, but—”

“I'm on my way.”

It was raining again, just like the night Mark Daniels was killed. Sonora felt like she was dreaming as she went through the automatic doors into the waiting room.

Quiet night. Two people watching television, one uniformed police officer on the phone.

“Sonora Blair, here about Charles Bennet.”

The clerk was middle-aged and tired, eyes blue and bloodshot. “Yes ma'am, if you'll take a seat, someone will be right with you.”

The police officer looked over his shoulder. “Excuse me, ma'am, did you know Mr. Bennet?”

Did? Sonora nodded.

“I wonder if I might ask you a few questions.”

Sonora brought her ID up out of her purse. “All you want, but I'd appreciate knowing what happened.”

“You're homicide?”

“Yeah. He's dead, isn't he?”

The uniform hesitated. He was an older man, close to retirement, and his eyes were sad. “I'm sorry, he was DOA.”

Sonora nodded, feeling stiff and numb.

The uniform put a hand on her shoulder. “Hit-and-run, he never saw it coming.”

“Any leads on the car?”

The officer shook his head. “No witnesses. Got shards of broken headlights in his shirt pocket, and tire marks on …”

“It's okay.” Sonora straightened her shoulders. “I think I better have a look.”

The pretty face was gone. There were tire marks on the crushed chest, windpipe, and larynx: For the first time in a long time, Sonora looked at death and felt ill.

She turned away, saw the clothes piled on the counter. The shoes were in good shape, pants in tatters, shirt all gore. The familiar jacket was stiff with blood. Sonora fingered the sleeve, then gave it a second look.

There had been four leather buttons—one had been torn away, leaving three. She checked the other sleeve. Three buttons again, one missing.

I helped you, now you help me
. Three and three. Proof of what she already knew.

Selma Yorke.

37

Sam handed Sonora a beer and sat on the end of the couch. He scratched Clampett behind the ears. “You doing okay over there, Sonora?”

“I don't know. Tell you the truth, I don't feel so good.”

“Tell you the truth, you don't look so good. Have a big drink of that beer.”

“Hang on a second, I think I hear Heather.”

“She's fine, the kids are asleep, I checked them both just a minute ago.”

Sonora took a sip of beer, leaned back, and closed her eyes. “This is so unbelievable. It's hard to … I'm not happy about this, Sam.”

“I didn't figure you would be.”

Sonora opened her eyes. “I mean, I may have been pissed and all, but I'm not glad he's dead. He was … it made me sick to look at him.”

“What's the matter with you, hon, nobody's going to think you're happy over this.”

“Selma does.”

Sam sat forward. “You talked to her?”

Sonora swallowed. “A couple of times.”

“You mean stuff we don't have recorded?”

“Once on a pay phone. Once on my car phone.”

“And you didn't
say
anything? What the hell's going on with you?”

“I … she … she knew things, Sam, really private stuff.”

“Private? What are you playing at, girl, there's nothing private between the two of you.”

Sonora blew air between her teeth. “Wrong, Sam. She knows things,
personal
things, stuff she's got no business knowing.”

Sam put a hand on her shoulder. “Okay, Sonora, let's take this slow and think it through. Tell me what she knows.”

“Things like … like my parents. You remember that business when my mom died?”

Sam set his beer on the end table and gave Sonora a sideways look. “You saying she knew that you think your dad—”

“Yeah. She knew that.
All
about that.”

Sam got his thoughtful look. “What else? Anything?”

“About my brother, growing up. And about Zack.”

“You talk about this kind of stuff to just
anybody
, Sonora?”

“Jesus, Sam, of course not. You. Just you. And you didn't tell her, did you?”

“You have to ask?”

“I haven't told anybody else. Well, my brother. But he wouldn't talk to her.”

“What about the obvious here, Sonora, boyfriends? You were over the moon about Chas for a while there, you give him all the intimate details?”