No Good Deed (34 page)

She remembered standing in the pastures at End Point Farm, hearing the train in the distance, wondering if they would find Joelle Chauncey alive or dead.

Had the child been alive then?

The ME did not think so. Sonora had called Stella and asked, only to find out from Eversley that Sam, Hal and Mickey had all called with the same question.

There was no escape from the mental image that replayed over and over in her head.

Joelle on horseback, rounding the corner, horse cantering across the beaten-down dirt pathway, dark hair flying out behind. A moment of happiness. Both girl and horse, together in the rhythm and pace, unaware of the strand of Weed Eater tape, stretched across the path, and the man who waited for the fall.

Sonora knew that man was Dixon Chauncey.

Had he watched? Had he turned away? Had Joelle screamed, or had it happened too fast?

Anyone could use a Weed Eater tape. A Weed Eater tape did not prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Dixon Chauncey had killed Joelle. A dyed black hair in a dorky ear-flapper cap did not prove that Dixon Chauncey had killed Joelle.

And much as she hated to admit it, Bristol had a point. The case was full of holes. She would have to fill them in.

What she needed to do now was find out why. She had spent all day yesterday, Sunday, re-reading the journals, going through Joelle's things. What she had to have was a motive.

Sonora looked at the clock. Two thirty a.m. She got out of bed. Put on her favorite navy sweatpants and her little gray T-shirt, layering it over with the big black sweatshirt she liked to wear inside out. Her newest and whitest Reeboks.

She would bake raspberry muffins for Heather and Tim's breakfast, and then she would go to work.

The outpatient and emergency parking lot at Jewish Hospital was about two-thirds full, most of the cars with parking stickers that indicated staff. Sonora found a good slot, right up front, and she locked the car up tight, hospital parking lots being one of the three most dangerous places in the world, the other two being ATMs after dark and downtown parking garages.

A paramedic unit was parked in the emergency entrance, lights flashing. Someone else's drama. She passed the smokers, huddled together in the small outdoor terrace to which they had newly been sentenced, passed through the automatic doors into the harsh, yellow-white light of the lobby.

The hospital was hot and heavy on a courtesy campaign, one thing accomplished by the influence of Health Maintenance Organizations, and the receptionist actually smiled.

‘Gracie on shift?' Sonora asked.

‘Gracie?'

‘Gracie Fletcher.' Everybody knew Gracie. This one must be new. ‘This is her shift,' Sonora said, not sure, but hoping.

‘Oh, yeah, I'm sorry, I'm brain-dead tonight. She's in the break room, mikeing a Lean Cuisine.'

‘Thanks.'

Sonora headed down the hall. Turned a corner and saw Gillane, walking her way, head down.

She leaned up against the wall, folded her arms, watched him unaware. Same jeans, same Ropers, a white T-shirt, lab coat and ID. All alone in the hallway, he looked exhausted, and maybe a little down.

‘You always wear jeans to work?'

Clearly she had caught him unawares, and his eyes crinkled up when he saw her, that smart-alec half-smile.

‘Woman, a vision in sweats. Love the hair – no, I'm serious, I bet it took you three seconds to stick it up in that clip.' He walked toward her, talking. ‘But it's almost … artistic.' He touched the hair that had come loose. ‘See how it spills down every which way? Is this your favorite sweatshirt?'

‘Yeah. So?'

‘I have one just like it that's my favorite, only I don't wear mine inside out.' He touched her cheek. ‘Bruises, fading.'

She put a hand up. ‘You should see the other guy.'

‘You're up late tonight. Or is that early this morning? Is anything wrong?'

‘I'm working.'

‘Good. I have those lab results for you.'

‘Finally.'

‘Come on, they're in my call room. Plus, I have a secret stash of Twinkies.'

She had to walk fast to keep up with him. ‘
Twinkies?
I can't eat Twinkies. I ate bacon already this week.'

‘These Twinkies are magic Twinkies. They have no fat and no calories when eaten by a woman wearing sweats.' He smiled at her in that way men have when they're glad to see you and don't care if it shows.

The call room had a single bed, no windows, a desk. A laptop computer glowed on the desk, next to, of all things, a harmonica, and a guitar was parked next to the wall.

Gillane opened the bottom desk drawer. Pulled out a box, already open, and tossed her a Cellophane-wrapped Twinkie.

‘I'm not keeping you from your work?' Sonora said.

‘Slow night, Cricket. This ain't Parkland.'

‘Parkland?'

‘Just a little hospital in Dallas.'

‘Remind me why you call me Cricket.'

‘I told you, after my favourite horse.'

‘You said dog.'

‘Ah, you remembered. I was testing you.'

‘I have a horse,' Sonora said.

‘You have a horse?'

‘My first one. I bought it a few days ago.'

‘I didn't know you rode.'

‘I don't. I ran across this gelding and I just had to have him.'

‘Oh, that it were me.' He studied her a minute. ‘Are you telling me that you spontaneously, without agonizing and shopping and researching and asking ten of your best friends for advice, went out and willfully bought you a horse? On the spur of the moment?'

She snapped her fingers. ‘Just like that. And I don't know a damn thing about horses, but I am learning fast.'

‘I bet you are.' He frowned. ‘You should never tell me this sort of thing. I've been married three times already. And I'm. Catholic.'

‘You are?'

‘Well, call me Catholic light.'

She tried not to laugh. ‘What's that got to do with anything?'

He glared at her. ‘Do you think it's easy? Not falling in love with a woman who goes out one afternoon, and comes back that night with a horse?'

‘Most people don't see it that way, believe me.'

‘Most people are idiots. This calls for a Twinkie.'

They sat side by side on the bed, opening Twinkies. He looked at her, smiled, started bouncing up and down on the mattress.

‘I'm going to excuse your weirdness, Gillane, on account of it being four o'clock in the morning, and because I want a favor.'

‘Favor?' His mouth was full of sponge cake and cream.

‘I want you to take that little laptop of yours and pull up some medical records for me.'

‘That would be naughty.'

‘But you could do it?'

‘Oh, honey. With the greatest of ease. We're all one big conglomerate medical computer bank, and when the queries come from the inside, they're assumed to be legitimate. What is it you want to know, anyway?'

‘Blood types. On Dixon Chauncey, and his kids – Joelle, Mary Claire and Kippie.'

‘They ever been patients here?'

‘I don't know. Does it matter?'

‘Probably not. You wouldn't have any social security numbers?'

She reached into her pocket. ‘Right here.'

‘She comes prepared.' He reached for the laptop, took another bite of Twinkie. Attacked the keyboard. ‘Am I assisting in a real live police investigation?'

‘Yep.'

‘Wow. Can you deputize me?'

‘Raise your right Twinkie.'

He complied.

‘You're a deputy.'

He tapped the keyboard. Looked at her. ‘What is it you're expecting?'

‘One of the children isn't his.'

‘No. Shocking. Here it comes.' He frowned.

‘Well?'

‘I'll be damned. None of them are.'

‘None of them?'

‘Nope. And Joelle isn't blood sister to the other two. Mary Claire and Kippie.'

‘Who's related to who?'

‘More like is anybody related to anybody.'

‘And?'

‘Possibly the two youngest, possibly not. Nobody else. What, are you going?'

‘I've got to go home and sleep for ten minutes, get the kids to school, go to work and catch a killer.'

‘
She brings home the bacon, fries it up in a pan.
No, stop, you can't go yet, I've decided to court you.' He grabbed his guitar. Looked at her soulfully and stated to sing ‘Woman'. John Lennon.

She threw a Twinkie at his head.

Chapter Fifty-Six

Sonora sat in front of the computer, eating bite-sized Tootsie Rolls a mile a minute, drinking from a can of Coke, glaring into the screen. She was still in sweats, had gone to an ATM, that blessed modern convenience, and stopped by the house long enough to put the kids on alert. Emergency money in the secret box, stay in touch by phone, and warn their grandmother.

The case was breaking.

The children had been sleepy, but were experienced in the drill. She was touched when Heather gave her the bag of Tootsie Rolls (Sam's Club size – God knew where she had gotten it) and her son had given her back her Eagles tape to listen to in the car, so she could relax and think.

Like many other cops before her, she turned to the National Hotline for Missing Children, said a prayer for Adam Walsh and his parents, who had founded the hotline in his memory, and fired up the search.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Her eyes blurred, and she rubbed them. She did not feel tired. She felt powerful. She hoped Dixon Chauncey was sleeping peacefully in his bed. It would be the last time.

When the information came through, she caught her breath. Lots of possible matches. All these babies, lost in the world. She had fingerprints on Joelle; she'd need them for the other two.

They could take Chauncey into custody for forty-eight hours without charging him. Bristol could keep those soft sweet hands of his clean.

Would Chauncey have changed the birth dates?

She looked at the clock. A quarter to six. Where was everybody? She needed some help here. She picked up the phone.

Maybe it was all in her head, but it seemed like the light in Interview Two had never been so bright. They'd brought in extra tables and warm bodies, and Sonora had not felt this focused in a long time.

Some days she loved being a cop.

She looked up, saw Crick glance in from the hallway, realized she was still wearing the sweatpants. They would take her as they found her today.

Sam came through the doorway like a tornado.

‘You've got it?' Sonora asked. Holding her breath.

‘Her name is Joellen Karen Carlisle, and her mother has been looking for her for eight years. She disappeared when she was seven years old, supposedly snatched by the mother's live-in fiancé, William Butcher.

‘Butcher was a welder, steady, no record of any kind. The mother, who was involved with Butcher for eighteen months, lived with him for six, does not think he was molesting her daughter, and felt he took Joelle, Joellen, to get back at her for breaking up with him. She lives in Seattle, and she's catching the first plane out.'

‘Does she know?'

‘Yes.'

All these years looking, Sonora thought. And now it was over. But the woman would have closure, and an end to some of the nightmares.

‘The funeral's tomorrow, isn't it?' Sonora said.

‘That was the plan.'

‘I think we should bring him in, Sam. Right now.'

‘We have to time it, Sonora. We're not getting any help from Bristol on this, and if we use up our forty-eight hours before we get our shit together, we'll have to let him walk. Just give it a few more hours and we'll grab him.'

‘Let's go now.'

‘Stop worrying, will you? Chauncey won't miss the funeral. All that sympathy? All those newspaper photographers? He didn't dye his hair for nothing.'

‘We should have kept Delaney and Bisky.'

‘That's up to TRC and they haven't made their case. Wait, there's the fax machine. Hang on.'

She rubbed the toe of her Reebok into the tile floor, saw that the pristine white was now smudged. It made her sad when the new ones started getting dirty.

William Butcher. It sounded made up. Where had the two other kids come from? Why on earth had he taken them? There were absolutely none of the usual indications of child abuse, child porn, nothing there but solid parenting. Did he just take them to raise? There were easier ways to get a family.

Or were there? For Dixon Chauncey – unloved, unwanted, timid and afraid?

She put down her Coke can and followed Sam to the fax machine.

The papers were rolling out, dark squares that meant pictures. She wanted to snatch them out of Sam's hands, but settled instead for standing on tiptoe and looking over his shoulder.

The picture was an old one, but there was no mistaking him – the bent shoulders, the bowed arms, the don't-kick-me-I'm-just-a-puppy look in his eyes which even came through over the fax, or maybe she imagined it. This guy was getting to her.

William Butcher. Dixon Chauncey. And God knows who else. But there were two children unaccounted for and the blood tests showed they weren't his.

Where had he gotten those social security numbers?

Sam lowered the fax, so she could read without, being on her toes.

‘Sam, can we cross-reference here? Missing kids snatched by a live-in or fiancé?'

‘That'd be about ninety per cent.'

‘No, not biological parents, Sam. He's not the real father. I got to talk to Crick.'

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Crick was on the phone, but he motioned her in as soon as he saw her hanging shyly by the door. She went in slowly, sat down while he wrapped up the conversation, then got back up again.

Impossible to be still.

‘Catch you later.' He hung up. She closed the door and sat on the edge of the seat, leaning forward. ‘Sergeant, let me be blunt.'