Eyeshot (31 page)

Collie blinked. “Are you in God's good truth trying to sit there and tell me my husband is trying to kill me? You think I'm just so desperate to be married to Gage, or to anybody, that I'll put up with anything? Is that what you think?”

Sonora kept her mouth shut. It was what she thought.

“Because I'm overweight and have a goofy face and a big nose. I have to take what I can get.”

Sam looked at her. “I don't believe it.”

“Not that you
have
to,” Sonora said. “Just that you think you do. Protect that baby of yours, Collie. Make a formal complaint. Let us open an investigation.”

“I have two babies to protect. Mia's mine too. And unless the laws have changed just recently, the only rights I have toward Mia are the ones Gage lets me have. You going to tell me what to do now?”

Sonora put her business card on the table, jotted her home phone on the back. “Call if we can help.”

“Nobody can help me, Detective.”

Sam stood up. “Take care, Mrs. Caplan. And good luck.”

61

Sonora always thought of mad scientists and old Frankenstein movies whenever she went into the crime scene side of the bullpen. There was always so much going on—vats of liquid, glass cases with who knows what suspended in the middle. The room did not look modern or pristine—in fact, it reminded her of high school labs, with that same air of aged equipment and people all around mixing chemicals and running experiments that she did not understand.

Terry had a smudge on her cheek. Not unusual for Terry. Her long, straight hair was coming out of the braid, falling across the high broad cheekbones. She was rail thin, wearing white overalls and a lab coat, and she pushed her cat glasses back on her nose and smiled at Sonora.

“You want me to start?”

“Crick wants to do this in his office. He and Sam are there now, waiting for us.”

“Oh.” Terry looked around the lab, as if she were a fish forced to leave her tank. “I guess.”

She followed Sonora through the swing doors into the bullpen.

“Hey, Molliter,” Sonora said.

He stood at the coffee machine. Turned his back.

Crick had a fresh pot of coffee and plenty of extra cups.

Terry helped herself to coffee. Added cream and sugar. She raised both eyebrows and leaned against a file cabinet. “Let me know when you want me to start.”

Crick waved a hand. “Start now.”

She nodded her head up and down, up and down. “You guys have been keeping me busy. Any particular thing you want me to start with?”

“Free hand,” Crick said.

She cleared her throat. Went to the end of the room, as if she were prepared to lecture in a hall. Sonora and Sam turned their chairs around so they could face her, and Crick sat down behind his desk.

“Let's start at the beginning, which was eight years ago, with the homicide of Micah Caplan. I've studied the file on that, done a little futzing around, and I can tell you definitively that the water in her lungs did not come from the creek where her body was found. Two months before she was killed there was a sizable agrichemical theft in that area. Very well organized crime ring going after the dealers—you can get a couple hundred dollars per gallon container—and somebody was ripping them big time. The upshot is that thanks to a well-placed informant, the police were pretty much able to give chase. In an attempt, unsuccessful I might add, to destroy the evidence, one hundred pounds of simazine and twice that of Treflan were dumped into that creek.

“No traces of either chemical were found in Micah Caplan's lungs, but traces were found in her hair and on her clothes.”

“So her killer dunked her in the creek, but she was drowned somewhere else,” Sam said.

Terry chewed her lip and nodded. “I'd say so. The water in her lungs had traces of surfactants, phosphorus, calcium carbonate, hypochlorite bleach, various detergents. Elements consistent with the kind of chemicals used to clean bathrooms.”

“Toilet water,” Crick said.

“Right.”

“Good. Go on.”

She took a sip of coffee and winced. Hot. “Cosmetics. There were traces of lipstick and foundation and saliva on the armrest of the rental car. The cosmetics are a match for what you brought me out of the vic's hotel room.”

“Rum Raisin Bronzer,” Sonora muttered.

Terry nodded. “I studied the soil samples from the rental car—very similar to what we found on the Bobo killer's shoe. I studied the density gradients, mineralogical profiles. Pollens.” She looked at them expectantly.

“Ooooo,” Sonora said.

“Ahhhh,” Sam added.

“Thank you. I came up with oil, pea gravel, creosote present in both samples. But sample one, from Bobo, has pollens indigenous to Cincinnati. Sample two, from the rental, is from farther south. Pollens you'd find in Kentucky and particularly Tennessee, where they have a lot of dogwood and azalea. These pollens are also present inside that plastic bag that held Julia Winchell's head, hands, etc. They're in her hair, under fingernails and toenails.”

Sonora looked at Sam.

“It gets better,” Terry said. “Silica, clay … let's call it river mud. Consistent with the Clinch River and Laurel Lake area. Found in the soil sample from the rental car, and in that plastic bag of remains.”

“So he used her car. To kill her, then cart her around in later. Dropping off his little packages.”

“The packages were well wrapped then,” Terry said. “And he didn't do the butcher work in the car. But he may well have used it for delivery.”

Sam waved a hand. “And there's nothing, not a damn thing in the vacuum cleaner bag that would make you think Julia Winchell was ever in that cabin?”

Terry shook her head. “Forget the cabin. You need to start looking for railroad tracks.”

“Railroad tracks?”

“The creosote was in one of the bottommost layers in that soil sample. Whoever it is went through the mud, and went across railroad tracks.” She looked at Sonora. “Wish list. Bring me the box of garbage bags he used. Bring me the box and I'll match the one that had Julia Winchell's remains to the next one on the roll. Then the prosecutor will love you.”

“In this case,” Sonora said. “Maybe not.”

Terry pushed her glasses back on her nose. “This guy kill his first wife when she was pregnant, that right?”

Sam nodded.

“And you guys think he's going for wife number two, and she's pregnant? Is it the pregnancy thing?”

Sonora shrugged. “Who knows?”

“Why doesn't he just get a vasectomy?”

“Be easier,” Sonora said.

Sam looked at Crick. “Only women could think of a vasectomy as an easy solution.”

Crick folded his arms. “And for this guy, probably not as much fun.”

62

Gruber was coming in the door as Sonora and Sam were going out. “Look, kiddos, your phones were ringing back and forth, one then the other, so I figured it was somebody had both your numbers and going crazy. You know a lady named Dorrie Ainsley?”

Sonora moved faster than Sam, and got to the phone first. The receiver that was off the hook was on Sam's desk. She picked it up.

“Mrs. Ainsley?”

“Is this Detective Blair?” The voice was tight, throbbing.

“Right here, Mrs. Ainsley. I'm sorry, I should have gotten back to you right away, I had—”

“Detective Blair, I just got a call from Mia. She … this makes no sense, Detective, but she says she's at a park by the water. Downtown by the river. She says there's a flying pig? And barges?”

“I know where she means,” Sonora said.

“Collie took her down there. She left her at the playground and said she'd be back in about twenty minutes. That was over an hour ago. Mia said Collie hasn't come back. She said that they went to the park in a cab, and that Collie made her pack a bag and that Collie had a bag. Mia tried to call her dad, but she can't track him down. Grey's on his way, but—”

“We'll pick her up.”

“Something else I better tell you. When Collie and Gage were down here, they—”

“Is this about the canoe?”

“Yes. You know about that?”

“Yes, Mrs. Ainsley. But I appreciate you letting me know.”

“That's what I was calling about earlier. There's something else. Two nights ago I had a phone call from Gage. He was very upset. Or he acted like he was. He cried.”

Sonora frowned. Bad things happened when this man cried.

“He said that he found out Collie was having an affair. He was afraid she was going to leave him.”

“Do you think this is plausible, Mrs. Ainsley?”

“He said she had one of those on-line lovers. You know, on the Internet.”

“Is Collie a hacker?”

“I don't know. I know she has a computer she fiddles with. Gage said he got into her E-mail, and that she and this man, this Elvis, is what he calls himself, he and Collie have been carrying on for months. He wanted to know if Collie had confided in me about this guy, and what he should do. Whether he should mention it, or hope it played itself out.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him he was crazy.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he hoped I was right.”

Sonora pulled the bottom drawer open in Sam's desk. “You still got that extra pair of cuffs?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Where'd Molliter go?”

“You know damn well where he went, I heard you say ‘fuck' under your breath when he went over to talk to Terry.”

“Can't hide anything from you, can I, Sam?”

“What are you up to?”

“Trust me, you don't want to know. Where's Crick?”

“Out to lunch.”

“Just as well.”

63

“What's he want me for?” Molliter asked.

Sonora scratched the back of her head, playing it irritable. “How the hell would I know? I got stuff to do, and I'm late. He asked me to come get you, I came and got you. Maybe they figured out where the smell was coming from.”

Sonora opened the door to the men's room. The light was off, and the smell was a presence. She had counted on Molliter cringing and being distracted, just long enough.

“Get the light, will you, Molliter?”

“I'm looking for the switch.”

“Somewhere over there, I think.” Sonora guided his hand into the open cuff on the pair that she'd hooked to the drain pipe. The key to good police technique was the advance work.

She had Molliter's cuff snapped while he was still groping for the switch. She took his gun out of the shoulder holster, just to be safe.

“What the hell are you doing, Blair?”

“You been a cop all these years and you don't recognize handcuffs, Molliter?” She flipped on the light. Molliter looked pale and perplexed. And angry. She took a step backward. “I'll put your gun in your center desk drawer, Molliter. For safekeeping.”

“Man. It
stinks
in here.”

“Yeah. And all you guys are using the women's bathroom, so I don't guess anybody is going to find you.”

“Are you crazy?”

Sonora shrugged. “I think you're the one, Molliter. Somebody's calling the DA's office and keeping them up to date on this Winchell thing. And now the second Mrs. Gage Caplan is missing, and I don't want Gage getting the play-by-play over the phone. So to be on the safe side, you're going to spend a while in here.”

“I'll just call for help.”

“I anticipated that.” Sonora took a roll of strapping tape out of her blazer pocket. She covered his mouth quickly, speed was the key here, keep him off balance. “I'm sorry, Molliter. You don't look all that comfortable, and with any luck at all, you're going to be here a while. Now, I could be wrong, and if I am I'll owe you a great big apology that you'll never accept, so likely I won't bother.

“I think after a while you'll just get used to the smell.”

He made a noise in the back of his throat. Sonora did not like the look in his eyes. She was glad he was cuffed.

64

Mia was on the swing set in the third play area they searched. Sonora took a deep breath when she saw her, and Sam squeezed her shoulder.

The little girl had a stoic look, legs pumping, no eye contact or interest in anything going on around her. She swung with precision, up, down, joyless.

It was muggy out and hot. The air was clouded with gnats and the hum of bumblebees. Some of the other children studied Mia. She did not acknowledge their presence.

From the playground, you could not see the river. Sonora wondered where Mia had found a pay phone. She had evidently ranged far and wide.

A small green backpack and a battered blue Samsonite suitcase sat next to the metal frame of the swing set. Mia glanced over periodically, as if to be sure they were still there.

“Mia?” Sonora stood with her back to the sun.

Mia squinted.

“How you doing?” Sam said.

“Fine, thank you.” She stopped the swing by dragging the toe of her hiking boots through the sand.

“Remember me?” Sonora said. “I'm the police detective that came and talked to Collie.”

Mia nodded.

“This is Sam. He works with me.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No, honey,” Sam said. “We came to make sure you're okay.”

“How did you find me?”

“Your grandmother sent us.”

“You know my grandmother?” Wonder in her eyes. And suspicion.

“Yes. Her name is Dorrie Ainsley, and she lives in London, Kentucky, and she paints bluebirds with faces on them. I've seen them. One of the faces is yours.”

“And one is Mommy, and Daddy, and Collie.” Mia looked at Sonora. “Did she tell you that Collie didn't come back?”

“That's why we're here. We're going to find her. After we take you home.” Sam crooked a finger and she came running.