Authors: Lynn Hightower

No Good Deed (38 page)

Home invasion. It was the kind of call Sonora dreaded, the kind of call no homicide cop, no matter how experienced or jaded, could approach without a flutter of dread; unhappy butterflies low in the belly.

She stood to one side of the porch, just at the edge of her garage. One of her neighbors pulled into the driveway across the street, raised a cautious hand. In a community of young families, all couples with small children, a widowed homicide cop with teenagers was an object of dread and fascination. She could not blame them. Teenage boys with loud bass throbbing from car speakers used to make her nervous, before she got one of her very own.

Sam hadn't given her the address of the call, but it would be a house just like that one across the street, just like the one next door.

Some cops made fun of John Q. Public for his naÃ¯vetÃ©, scorned parents who did not see a pedophile on every corner (fewer and fewer every day), people who could not fully comprehend the concept of two-legged evil. Sonora knew this copper's disdain was nothing less than envy.

She never told anyone, not even Sam, how routinely she hit that book of mug shots, known child molesters who stalked the streets of Cincinnati. There were times of great private embarrassment when she saw a familiar face, say, in Dairy Mart, or taking the kids to Graeters. And she'd be unable to remember if the familiarity of that face came from a chance meeting at a PTA Open Parent Night or a mug shot of a guy in and out of jail for raping eight-year-olds.

She glanced over her shoulder at her own house, curtains still open in the living-room window, Heather curled up on the couch, Tim pacing the hallway, talking on the phone. It seemed so bright inside, cozy, as sunlight drained away and motes of darkness grew thick in the air.

She felt off, somehow. Maybe it was just the sense she had, looking into that living-room window, that her babies were growing up and away, that dawning knowledge you gain as you get older that life cannot be static, that everything changes just as you manage to take hold, and you have to let go, whether you want to or not.

She had a peculiar feeling, like homesickness, only she didn't know where home was. She pressed into the warm scratchy brick front of her house, looked down the road. The gold Taurus crept around the street corner and turned into her driveway, car lights milky in the dusk. She could barely make Sam out, there behind the wheel of the car.

She did not move. She had a bad feeling, like if she didn't turn around and go back inside the house, make some kind of excuseâshe was sick, something, anythingâthat if she didn't she would go and come back and things would be different. Nothing would ever be the same.

She sensed, rather than saw, Sam looking at her. Listened to the engine idling. Knew Sam was wondering why she did not leave the hard comfort of faded red brick against her back. Sonora slung her purse over her left shoulder, the weight of the Beretta soft on her hip, and went to work.

“It's in Olden,” Sam told her, something like regret in his voice. His clothes looked tiredâkhakis wrinkled at the waist and knee, tie knot slipping, blue cotton shirt billowing from the waistband, collar unbuttoned and loose. He had run a comb through his hair, straight, brown, and baby fine, parted to one side, slipping over one eye. He was past the need for a shave.

Sonora frowned, mind suddenly flooded with dream images from the night before. Peculiar things, dreams, wild animals of the mind. Try to force them and they would hide and disappear. But relax, let them come forward on their own, and your conscious thoughts would be inundated with images, feelings, and memories, as if dreams had to be coaxed out when you were not looking, as if they had to choose the time and place.

She had dreamed of her brother, Stuart, dead now these last four yearsâhad it been so long? He had died at the hand of a small blond sociopath who had been playing games of death with Sonora. Hazard of the profession, but it was not supposed to spill over on the family, inept evil that would not stay in the lines, and it had taken her brother.

The grief thing. Business as usual.

“Sonora? You okay over there?”

It was not normal for the two of them to be so quiet. Sonora gave him a sideways look, wondered if he was fighting with his wife again or just tired.

“Sam, do you dream much?”

He looked at her. “Do I dream?”

“Yeah. Dream.”

That he was not surprised or perturbed by her question was a sure sign that they had been working together too long.

“Only when I have hot peppers on my pizza. Or if I eat chili.”

“Chili makes you dream?”

“Among other things.” He turned the Taurus into the entrance of a new subdivision, passing a small pond. “This is it. This is Olden.”

So many things Sonora saw here, senses raw, hair stirring on the back of her neck, that cop instinct and edginess keeping her alert. “Pretty here” was all she said.

Sam nodded. “I got a cousin lives two streets over.”

“Really?” Sonora said.

“No, I made it up.”

“Like you're going to make up a cousin?”

“Lives two streets over, on Canasta.” Sam eased his foot over the brakes, bringing the Taurus almost to a stop, to let five ducks cross the road to the water. Sonora had never noticed before how they scrambled over curbs, pulling themselves up with their neck muscles.

Sam checked his rearview mirror. Turned on his left indicator. “You know this area?”

“Nope.”

“You will.”

Streetlights, halogens, cast a muted aura over fledgling trees, concrete curbs that were white and crisp, houses trim with new paint and shiny sidingâall the chirp and promise of raw wood and new construction.

Today was the third in a trio of sweet-summery days, winter hopefully no more than memory. The novelty of sunshine brought people out of their houses. A man in loose green scrubs walked a chesty golden retriever beside a woman pushing a dark blue stroller. The lawn of the house on the corner of Trevillain and Olong had been mowed for the first time of the season, and a spray of freshly clipped grass fanned up and down the edges of the sidewalk. The front-porch light was on, though it was sandy-dusk out and light enough to see. Three children in corduroys and sweatshirts rolled over the newly trimmed grass down the small hill. The air was just going crisp and chill. Tomorrow the children would wake up with raw throats.

Sam turned right and the neighborhood changed, houses smaller, trees larger, providing actual shade, everything well kept, lawns edged, landscaping minimal but precise. The cars in these driveways ranged in age from three years to twelve, not so many four-wheel drives and imports, just solid Ford Probes and Crown Victorias, with the occasional Firebird or Trans Am that bespoke a teenage population.

Someone had called the fire department. People were heading down the sidewalk, a few clutching the hands of children, looks of easy curiosity that made Sonora sure they were drawn by the crowd and ignorant of realities.

Two paramedic units flanked the fire truck, lights flashing, crews standing close together, talking, smoking.

“No survivors,” Sonora said.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My thanks to George Smock, horse educator, who has the rare and priceless ability to teach people and horses to work together, for advice and suggestions, and, incidentally, for helping with my own Hell Z Poppin, Empress and Cracker Jack. Any mistakes I made are most entirely my own.

To Sue Mardis, wife of Sergeant Roy Mardis, Lexington Kentucky Police Department, who died in the line of duty working one of his dogs to bring in a killer. My thanks to you for sharing your knowledge of Roy's groundbreaking work with bloodhounds.

To Sandy and Boyd Haley of Naibara Arabians, for spending an afternoon answering my questions, and talking horse. Many thanks for your hospitality.

To Kay Campbell and Amy Wilson for research assistance, conversations on plot, and backup at the barn during those moment of adrenalin rush at the paddock gates when the horses come thundering in. The jury is still out on which of us can climb a fence faster.

To Benji McEachin, who throws a wonderful dinner party.

To Lynn Hanna and Eileen Dryer for expertise in things medical.

To Jackie Cantor at Delacorte, who gets it.

To the gang at Hodder & Stoughton, George, and Phil and Stewart and Carrie and Camilla and Georgina, and Breda, and all of the fabulous sales reps. You guys really know how to throw a book tour.

And always to the usual crew, Matt Bialer, Maya Perez, Stephanie, Marcy, Jim Lyon, Steve and Cindy Sawyer, and the world's best kids, Alan, Laurel, and Rachel.

About the Author

Lynn Hightower grew up in the South and graduated from the University of Kentucky, where she studied creative writing with Wendell Berry and earned a journalism degree. She is the author of ten novels, including two mystery series, one featuring homicide detective Sonora Blair and the other featuring private investigator Lena Padgett.
Flashpoint
, the first Sonora Blair mystery, was a New York Times Notable Book.
Satan's Lambs
, the first Lena Padget mystery, won the Shamus Award for Best First PI Novel. Hightower has also written the Elaki series of futuristic police procedurals, which begins with
Alien Blues
.

Hightower's novels, which have been translated into seven foreign languages, have appeared on the
Times
(London) bestseller list and have been nominated for the Kentucky Literary Award, the Kentucky Librarians First Choice Award, and the Mary Higgins Clark Award. She teaches at the UCLA Extension Writers' Program, where she was named Creative Writing Instructor of the Year in 2012. The author lives with her husband in Kentucky.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Michel Vrana

ISBN: 978-1-5040-2234-7

This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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New York, NY 10014

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