No Good Deed (18 page)

‘Homicide, Blair.'

‘Medicine, Gillane.'

She frowned. He was out of context. Then remembered. The devastatingly attractive doctor in hiking boots.

‘How are you, Cricket?'

‘Why do—' No. She was not going to play that game.

But he was.

‘Why do I call you Cricket? It's not to annoy you, if that's what you think. My favorite dog in all the world was named Cricket.'

‘How can I help you, Doctor?'

‘Boy, that takes the wind from me, you being polite. I called to tell you that I put a priority on those lab tests.'

‘And?'

‘And what?'

‘You got them back already?'

‘My God, you're an optimistic woman. I just did the priority paperwork an hour ago.'

‘Well, gosh. Thanks and all that.'

There was a pause. What did this man want? Courtesy?

Sonora leaned back in her chair, checked over her shoulder for Crick, put her feet up on the desk.

‘So,' Gillane said, ‘what's going on with you?'

‘It's been a bad day. I'm going to learn to play guitar and sing mournful songs.'

‘Be interesting to see which comes harder for you. Learning to play the guitar or learning to sing.'

This was more like it. For a heart-stopping moment she'd been afraid Gillane liked her. In middle-school parlance.

‘Goodbye, Gillane. Feel free to call next time you have a point.'

‘Goodbye, Cricket.'

He sounded happy. Insults were good for this man.

Chapter Thirty

Sonora went through the garage door into the house, arms full of plastic grocery sacks. The days of brown bags were fading. Today's trip had been a budget-cruncher: muffin mix, ground chuck, Vidalia onions and things geared to please children – Dunkaroos, Gushers, kiwi fruit and strawberries.

The house was quiet, except for the thump of Clampett's tail as it knocked against the wall. He expressed his ecstasy in her company by licking her leg, just over the knee, until her khakis went soggy and dark brown in a two-inch strip.

The woman at the deli and the kid behind the cash register at the grocery store had stared at her face, reminding her that no amount of makeup covered those serious bruises and swellings. She could see the addition in their eyes – battered housewife.

This was what the world had come to.

She fingered her lip, which was still swollen, still sore. If, for example, Hal McCarty wanted to kiss her passionately, it would not be without pain.

Did she have the right to risk her life doing police work? Was it sensible? Most of her colleagues had a spouse to carry on, ex or no, a co-parent. Sonora was all that stood between her children and the big bad world.

Did she want that on her tombstone?

It was late for a career change. And the mortgage had to be paid, groceries bought, shoes, backpacks, cool sunglasses and haircuts.

She let the bags scatter across the cabinets, wincing as one absorbed a puddle of sticky milk next to dried cornflakes that lay like Band-aids on the counter. Those would come up about as easily as concrete.

She stopped to rub Clampett under the chin, reached into the cabinet over the sink for his heartworm pill. She'd forgotten to give it to him last month. Should she give him two?

He took it like an angel because the kids had convinced him that the pills were dog treats. She rubbed his nose. He drooled happily.

Sonora checked her watch. She was supposed to meet Hal McCarty in forty minutes. Her children should be trailing in some time in the next hour.

She'd take some time. Make a world-class meat loaf. Bake muffins. She checked her watch, wondering if she had time to put in a batch of home-made macaroni and cheese. Pushing it. She'd have to track McCarty down at that livestock auction some time today. If Crick caught her being a good mommy in the middle of a high-profile murder investigation, she might become unemployed.

It would have to be the macaroni that came in boxes.

For the first time in a long time, Sonora met her children at the door when they got home from school.

Tim came first, fumbling for his key, when Sonora opened the door and let him in.

‘What are you doing home?' he asked.

‘I live here. Hello, Tim. Hello, whoever you are.'

The girl trailing him smiled shyly. She seemed nice enough. No tattoos, no black lipstick, just baggy denim and a T-shirt with the CURIOUS GEORGE monkey keeled over dead from poison.

‘Janet just came over to hang out,' Tim said.

Sonora nodded. Did she have a rule about girls visiting when parents weren't home? Did she need one?

In the old days, kids got in trouble after dark. Now it was after school.

‘Muffins in the kitchen.'

Heather was next, running into the kitchen while Sonora iced the top of the meat loaf with catsup, covered it with foil.

‘Mama!' Heather grabbed her around the waist. ‘How come you're home?'

‘I just stopped in to say hi. I made muffins. How come you're home? I thought you were staying after.'

‘I didn't have a ride home.'

Sonora winced. Guilt pang. ‘You hear me? I made muffins.'

‘I bet Tim ate all of them.'

‘I hid yours. They're wrapped in foil, under your bed. Don't let Clampett get them.'

‘Mommy?'

‘Yeah?'

‘I got a D on my math test. Multiplying fractions.'

Sonora sat down at the table. ‘Study harder, kid. You want me to help you, later on tonight?' Wondered what the odds were of getting home on time.

‘Last time you helped me I got an F.'

‘F plus. Maybe Tim can help.'

‘Tim's a pig.'

‘A pig who's a whiz at fractions. And by the way. What is your bicycle helmet doing in the tub?'

‘You didn't move it, did you? Babe was in there.'

‘Babe?'

‘My newt!'

‘Oh. I think he may be somewhere else now.'

‘Mommy, we have to find him, he might die!'

Sonora looked at Heather, gauging her attachment to the lizard. Pretty attached. She thought of Hal McCarty, waiting, a young girl buried alive – all of it shifting on the scales that working mothers kept active in their minds.

Motherhood won. She was off on the case of the missing newt, tension making her stomach hurt, wondering where the average newt would go, given a choice.

Chapter Thirty-One

Hal McCarty was leaning up against a tan-on-rust pickup that had a maroon trailer attached to the bed by a metal contraption that looked like a question mark.

A goose-neck, Sam had explained to her, earlier, when he was talking to her about pickup trucks, a subject of which men never seemed to tire. She could almost imagine herself driving one.

This case, clearly, was getting to her.

Sonora pushed a button, her window glided down. She smiled at McCarty. ‘I'm late.'

McCarty unfolded his arms. ‘Just a couple hours.' His grin was friendly. He wore a white T-shirt – Jockey? Hanes? Short-sleeved. Jeans and boots. ‘I was forty minutes late myself.'

‘Then I win.'

‘Just lock up your car and leave it.
What
are you wearing?'

‘They're called khakis, McCarty, you find them everywhere. When was the last time you shopped – outside of the general store, that is?'

‘Nobody wears khakis to sell a horse.'

‘Crick just told me to meet you here. He didn't mention the possibility of livestock.'

‘I guess, being a girl, you can get away with it.'

‘Real men don't wear khakis?' Sonora glanced at the trailer, which seemed heavier on the left-hand side. ‘That is a horse in the trailer, right?'

‘Well, let's see.' McCarty looked into the side window. ‘Mane, tail, four legs. Looks like a horse to me, Detective.'

‘Where'd you steal it?'

‘He's on loan from the mounted police. Think of him as your new partner. His name is Oklahoma.'

‘Is he from Oklahoma?'

‘He didn't say. But don't pet him. He looks like a lamb, but they kind of warned me about him.'

‘What does he do?'

‘Sort of charges you down and bites. They use him more for night shifts downtown than kiddy carnivals, if you get me.'

Sonora looked into the window. Oklahoma looked back. He was a dark chestnut, with a pretty head, a long refined nose. ‘He's a big sucker.'

‘Sixteen hands. Come on, hop in, we're running late.'

The door on the passenger's side of the pickup was heavy. It creaked. McCarty glanced across the seat, and offered a hand up. She scrambled in, hanging on to the seatbelt while she reached out and pulled the heavy door shut. Her feet just barely touched the floorboard, which was muddy. A Bubbalicious wrapper, hot pink, was wedged in the right corner.

McCarty squeezed her fingers, let her hand slip away, and cranked the engine. He shifted into first, and hit the gas.

The engine was loud, and McCarty was driving fast. Sonora hung on to the armrest. It was nice, being this high up.

‘McCarty?'

‘Yes, darlin'?'

‘You ever driven a horse trailer before?' She looked back through the middle window, wondering how the horse was faring. Couldn't see a thing through the grille.

‘I didn't figure you to be a nervous type.'

‘Yeah, well, now you know.'

McCarty slowed at the curve. ‘We're going to the auction at Aquitane. Hold it every Tuesday and Thursday, noon till whenever. Time-wise, this place would work out pretty good for Joelle's killer.'

‘If the horse was sold to slaughter, would they keep a record?'

‘A lot number maybe. Be hard to track.'

‘Is that what you think happened? Do you think the horse went to slaughter?'

McCarty shrugged. ‘That's what I'd do, if I wanted to get rid of a horse. The closest slaughterhouses are in Wisconsin. I've called, had a guy from one of our field offices go out there. No luck, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything. One chestnut mare among a thousand others, and nobody asks any questions. They just pay in cash and move along.'

‘Yeah? Doesn't this mare have a frieze brand?'

‘Yeah. Do you know what a frieze brand is?'

She looked over at him. ‘Actually, no.'

‘White markings like hieroglyphics under the mane. They're not in use very much any more. They're expensive, and most people just tattoo the lip. Be going to DNA soon.' He looked at her. ‘You an animal lover, Sonora?'

‘Sure, aren't you?' She squinted. The sun was in her eyes.

‘Yeah, but what I'm asking is, do you want me to spare you the detailed explanations, or do you want to know what's going on as it happens?'

‘I want to know what's going on.'

‘Prepare to hang tough.'

Sonora looked out the side window. Poor Sam. Missing all the fun.

The Aquitane Stockyards were a good hour out of the city proper, past the pretend perfect town of Lebanon, past tiny horse farms with black run-in sheds and automatic waterers in small, eaten-down pastures.

‘What's the matter with that horse?' Sonora asked, pointing.

‘Nothing. They just body-clipped him in the saddle area. Try not to talk too much while we're here, okay?' McCarty looked at his watch. ‘Our timing ought to work out. We're an hour or two after the killer would have shown up – I'm guessing between four and six. When's the autopsy?'

‘Tomorrow morning. Is this the only stockyard?'

‘In driving range, with the time frames. The killer didn't get caught up in the dragnet, which means he was long gone, or in the area. The horse isn't at any of the farms real close to Donna's place that I could see, but in all honesty, it could be anywhere. Guy could have dumped the horse and trailer over a cliff.'

‘Somebody would have found that and reported it.'

‘Maybe, maybe not. I'm hoping our guy was greedy. Sold the horse, made a little money, let it go at auction. Somebody'll have it penned up somewhere before they cut its head off.'

‘Do what?'

‘Sell it to slaughter.'

‘Do they cut their heads off?'

‘Yeah, but they kill them first.'

‘How do they do it?'

‘Chainsaw.'

‘They kill them with a chainsaw?'

‘No, they run them up a chute and shoot them. Sometimes they shock them with a cattle prod first. They don't use the chainsaws till they're dead.'

‘So you say.' Sonora pictured frightened horses, running up a path, smelling blood and death. ‘Suppose they won't go?'

‘Go where?'

‘Up the chute.'

McCarty looked at her. ‘It's not like they have a choice. If they won't budge, they'll poke them with something sharp till they do.'

‘And sell them for dog food?'

‘More like to Europe or Japan. Horsemeat is big over there.'

‘Why don't they just let them retire?'

‘Why don't they let cows retire? Look, I don't like it any better than you do, believe me. People ride a horse for years, make a pet out of it, then sell it and don't look back. And a lot of those dealers will give you a story, to make it all go down better. They'll tell you anything. They'll say the horse is for their little granddaughter and will be loved for the rest of its life. People either don't know any better, or they don't care.'

Sonora folded her arms, thinking betrayal. If she had a horse, she'd keep it for ever.

When the man leaped on to the running-board of the pickup, grinning in through the open window, Sonora half expected McCarty to speed up and shake him off. Instead, he eased back on the accelerator and slowed. All around them, in the dusty gravel lot, were horse trailers, stock trailers, men in dusty Wranglers, men who had forgotten to shave. Nine out of ten seemed to be smokers. The rest probably chewed.

Sonora stuck her head out the window, taking it all in. McCarty was right. She was out of place in her khakis. Most of the women were harsh yellow blondes or brunettes with tough fuzzy perms and the occasional tattoo.