No Good Deed (22 page)

Sonora went to the television. Turned
The Simpsons
off as the phone rang. Tim answered, sounding delighted to hear from whoever was on the other end, a tone of voice he never used in conversation with her, a mere mother.

Sonora made a slitting motion across her throat. ‘Off.'

Tim curled his lip. ‘Got to go eat dinner. My mom for once decided to come home and eat, so now we drop everything.
That's
fair.'

Sonora sat down at the table. Smiled at Heather, who she realized was wearing a sweatshirt for the sixth or seventh day in a row.

‘We should wash that,' she said.

‘It doesn't matter,
okay?'
Heather glared at her.

‘Bad mood?' Sonora asked.

‘You'd be in a bad mood too if you had to come home from school to Tim every day.'

Sonora poked the macaroni. Sticky. Got up to put the bowl in the microwave. ‘Off the phone, Tim,
now
.'

He slammed down the receiver. Sat at the table. Glared at the floor.

‘Isn't anyone going to ask me what I did today?' The bell on the microwave dinged. Sonora stirred macaroni, put the bowl back in the center of the table.

No one answered. She got the catsup out of the refrigerator, reached for the Worcestershire sauce.

‘You saw a body,' Heather said. Her tone of voice implied big deal.

‘You went to court.'

‘You caught a killer.'

‘Met an informant.'

‘Filled out paperwork for your casebook.'

They were on a roll, voices full of boredom and scorn for the everyday activities of a single parent.

‘Nope,' Sonora said. They were still talking. ‘I bought a horse.' They kept talking. She wondered how long before the words would sink in. Then wondered if they were going to sink in.

The phone rang. Dinner as usual.

Sonora wondered, as she headed out the door, locking it carefully, if she could pull this off every night and keep her job. She wondered if she wanted to.

Sam opened the driver's side door of the Taurus, stuck his head out. ‘You're going to need a heavier jacket, Sonora, it's getting cold.'

‘Thanks, Mom.'

She slid into the seat behind him. He had the heater going and it felt good.

‘What's that on your shirt?'

Sonora looked down. ‘Meat loaf and catsup.'

‘Meat loaf? Did you cook?'

‘I cooked.'

Sam gave her a sideways look.

‘What, Sam?'

‘I didn't say a word.'

She leaned back into the seat. Folded her arms. Closed her eyes, just for a moment.

‘You asleep?'

‘No.'

‘I was thinking maybe we throw Donna Delaney to the wolves.'

Sonora sat sideways and looked at him. It was dark in the car. They passed through a row of streetlights; she got a glimpse of Sam's face in the glare. He had shaved.

‘What'd you have for dinner?'

He glanced at her. ‘Chicken over rice.'

‘Shelly cook?'

‘She always cooks.'

‘Was it good?'

‘Yeah. She bakes it in this mushroom soup thing with white wine.' He looked at her. ‘Why?'

‘I was wondering what was on
your
shirt.'

‘There's nothing on my—'

‘I know. I just wanted to see if I could make you look. What do you mean throw Donna Delaney to the wolves? Where the hell are you going?'

‘Bisky Farms. You want to drive?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Tough. I mean we tell them she ratted them out.'

‘Tell 'em outright, or imply?'

Sam shrugged. ‘Play it by ear.'

Pink neon flashed across the interior of the car. ‘You're liking Bisky Farms for this, think they're the ones?'

‘I talked to Mickey this afternoon, while you were off doing your thing with McCarty. That blanket we found wrapped around Joelle is something for horses called a cooler.'

‘What's a cooler?'

‘I told you, it's a horse blanket. Lightweight. When a horse gets exercised and you cool them off, you walk them around in this blanket thing.'

‘Doesn't it make them hot?'

‘See, Sonora, if you ever worked out, you would know that after intense physical exercise some people get chilled.'

‘Other people just light a cigarette.'

‘Not that kind of exercise.'

They passed a White Castle. The smell of onions and burgers wafted through the car.

‘Look, Sam, every horse farm in the world has coolers. Anyone can buy them. Donna Delaney probably has some in her tack room.'

‘This one was almost new, in excellent condition.'

‘That lets Delaney out.' Sonora had been in that tack room. Seen nothing that was not threadbare and dirty. ‘Mickey got specifics?'

‘Horsehair, and hairs that he thinks will belong to Joelle. He's just started, got a long way to go. But someone has removed a square of material, bottom right of the blanket.'

‘It's not just torn?'

‘Mickey said it was cut away with scissors, and he says it happened probably the day of or the day before the murder.'

‘How does he know that?'

‘Fiber fragments on the end. Come on, Sonora, you're quibbling. If it comes from Mickey, it's written in stone.'

‘That's an archaic expression, Sam. Nobody writes ‘in stone' any more.'

‘Fine, it's written in aluminum siding.'

‘Why cut a square out?'

‘I'm thinking maybe a barn name, farm logo.'

‘The farms put the names on the blankets?'

‘Yeah. The big ones do.'

‘To keep people from stealing them?' Sonora asked.

Sam laughed. ‘No, it's like monogrammed stationery. The little ones just write their name in the tag.'

Sonora tapped a finger on the armrest. Sam gave her a quick look that meant he was annoyed. She kept tapping. ‘We use Delaney, it could screw up McCarty's investigation.'

Sam did an imaginary scale, shifting weights from one open palm to the other.

‘Keep your hands on the wheel, will you?'

‘The point, Sonora, is do we care? Who else we got?'

‘We got Dixon Chauncey.'

Sam glanced at her. ‘There are three reasons at least why that doesn't make sense.'

‘I can give you three why it does.'

‘Name them.'

‘Placement. Opportunity.'

‘That's two, Sonora.'

‘He dyed his hair.'

‘Come again?'

‘He dyed his hair the night Joelle went missing. The night before she was found. He's not out looking for the kid, or sitting up worrying, he's in the bathroom dyeing his hair. Plus there are all those casseroles in the freezer.'

‘I'm having a little trouble with your logic here.'

‘He's made a whole week's worth of dinners, all wrapped, labeled and frozen. Like he knows he's going to be too busy to cook.'

‘He may do that all the time. Look at that mobile home. This guy could win the Suzy Homemaker award.'

‘Oh, and I couldn't?'

‘How did you get into this, Sonora?'

‘You just keep your societal expectations to yourself. I'm a working mother. I made meat loaf and I had to sneak out this afternoon to do that.'

Sam gave her a look. ‘I thought you were with McCarty all day.'

‘That's what you were supposed to think.'

‘You made meat loaf in the middle of a homicide investigation?'

Sonora turned sideways. ‘You people can't be pleased, can you? If I'm working, I should be at home putting chicken in a mushroom wine sauce. And if I'm making meat loaf, you look at me because I'm working a homicide.'

Silence settled, like leaves falling. Sonora looked out the window, saw nothing she had not seen a thousand times before.

‘Is it safe to talk again?' Sam asked, giving her a quick sidelong look.

‘Give me your three reasons why Dixon couldn't have killed Joelle.'

‘First off, the timing is wrong. What's the trigger, what's the motive? Why now and not next week, or last month, or two years from now? With Bisky Farms, we know why now. The horse, and Delaney not giving it up when the owner is due back. That's a big motive, if McCarty is right. One irate owner, one missing horse. Even if the Bisky people manage to explain it away, you think it looks good? You think people who haven't had their doubts before might not jump on it?'

‘That doesn't mean Dixon didn't do it, it just means that Bisky might have.'

‘And another thing. This was planned, Sonora, somebody had a truck and trailer to transport that horse. Why transport a horse if you don't want a horse? If Dixon did it, how's he going to know the horse will spook and the kid will fall?'

‘It just so happens that I own a horse now, and from my short but sweet dealings with this animal, I think you could count on
him
to spook at any available opportunity.'

‘Come on, Sonora, there are better, more definite ways. It's too iffy. Say you're right, which you're not, but say you are. Suppose Chauncey really is a planner. He dyes his hair – for what, efficiency?'

‘For the television cameras.'

‘Okay, he dyes his hair for the press. And cooks meals ahead. And gets a truck and a trailer and has a plan on where to take it to get rid of the trailer and the horse. Every detail in place. And this same guy just hopes Joelle's horse spooks and the kid falls off and gets hurt?'

‘Yeah, and it didn't exactly work, did it, Sam? Because she wasn't dead when he buried her.'

‘So why didn't he kill her? Strangle her, or shoot her?'

‘He couldn't bring himself to do it. Have you ever met anybody less confrontational than Dixon Chauncey?'

‘No, I haven't, which proves my point, not yours. What if Joelle doesn't even fall off the horse? What's he going to do, grab her and kill her? It's not in him. He doesn't have the balls for this kind of thing.'

She looked out the window again. They were moving quickly now, Sam driving fast, leaving the city behind. It was one of those weird night skies, clouds like fists sculling across a horizon with just enough moonlight to see by.

‘You think we'll get anything out of those Bisky Farms people? Even if we threaten them with Delaney?'

‘You think they'll talk if we don't?'

‘And you don't care if we screw up McCarty's investigation?'

‘It's just as likely we'll help it. But no, to answer your question, I don't care. Do you?'

She thought about McCarty squeezing her fingers before he'd said goodbye. The murder of a young girl, against the concerns of the Jockey Club.

‘I guess not. But I don't think they'll tell us anything.'

‘Which tells us they've got something to hide. We're fishing, that's all. Aren't you the girl who always wants to see people's reactions?'

‘I hate it when you make me eat my words.'

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Sonora sighed when Sam turned off the four-lane limited-access highway on to the wide asphalt drive. It was the kind of farm that made you catch your breath.

A small sign, professionally painted, swung in the breeze, making a small creaking noise.

Bisky Farms

Cliff Bisky, Vivian Bisky

Owners, Trainers

Welcome

Sonora, embryo horse owner that she was, felt a wash of envy and wistful admiration.

A small, well-lit guard booth was empty. Sonora hung her head out the window. The booth was generously built; it had the look and fragrance of fresh raw wood. It was cute inside, like the little playhouse that the girl who had grown up across the street from Sonora had had delivered on her eighth birthday, causing Sonora much envy and distress when the girl would only permit her to stand in the doorway and look inside.

A phone, a neat desk, an intercom. A small brown bag with a sandwich made of white bread resting in a baggie on the top.

‘What kind of sandwich is that?' Sonora said.

Sam leaned out the window. ‘Definitely chicken salad.'

‘Could be tuna.'

‘Tuna's darker.'

A radio played softly. Country music. Sonora listened for a moment, thought of her brother, Stuart, killed by a female serial killer Sonora had been stalking, only to find herself on the receiving end of the attention. His had not been a pretty death.

It was his kind of music, country, and hearing it always made him seem close. Maybe she'd stop feeling guilty about his death. Maybe not.

‘Sonora?' Sam said. ‘You with me here?'

‘What?'

‘I was wondering where the guard is.'

‘I dunno. In the john somewhere is my guess.' She focused on the song lyrics – some woman had reached the enormous age of thirty-four without saying the I do word. ‘Listen, Sam.'

‘What?'

‘If we stay to the end of this song, I may have to kill myself.'

He gave her his sideways smile, accelerated gently.

The acreage rolled off into the darkness, enclosed by a double row of four-plank fencing separated by a thick, perfectly trimmed hedge. There were no corners, just rounded edges.

The drive, which looked like it had been freshly paved within the last two weeks, curved toward a house that had the sort of sprawling presence one might find in a Spanish ranch heavily influenced by
Architectural Digest.

In the distance, Sonora could see the dark, hulking presence of a row of large barns, some of them well lit. Barns with skylights.

She was in an agony to see them up close, to see what kind of horses would occupy such stalls, and for a minute she forgot why she was there.

But only for a minute.

‘Come on, Sam, let's get this wrapped up. We got Joelle's autopsy first thing in the morning.'

He nodded. It was something they were both dreading.

He parked the Taurus in a small, perfectly paved lot to the left of the house. A darkened section to the right, wooden stairs leading up to a double door, was clearly a daytime office. They got out of the car, shutting the doors softly.