Eyeshot (5 page)

“Hi kids.”

Tim looked up. He was on his back, one leg bent, head pillowed by the only couch cushion free of dog bites. His hair was black, close-cropped, which gave him a tough look he cultivated. His jeans were oversized and bagging. Sonora always wanted to tell him to pull them up.

“What's in the bag, Mom?”

Heather got up. “Doughnuts, stupid.” She pushed her glasses back on her nose. Her hair, dark and fine, streamed loose from a braid. “Can we have some?”

“If you can get to them before Clampett does.”

“Mom,” Tim said, “can you wait a while before you go into the kitchen? Me and Heather are going to clean that up later on.”

Sonora overslept the next morning. She drove fast, dropped Tim off at a friend's, and Heather at her grandmother's. Homicide had no respect for weekends.

She headed for the city, wondering how she could justify being so late. Decided to stop and talk to Caplan on the way in, go through the motions, meet Sam and regroup. No one would know how long she had talked to him, or waited around until he could talk. She could go to the office like a worker bee, instead of slinking in, hanging her head.

It was a plan.

She didn't know where Caplan lived, but it would be a good bet to try his office. There was a chance he'd be working. Even if he'd given his final arguments, he had to prepare for the sentencing segment, in case he won. The Drury thing was probably muscling in on his weekends.

There were cars in the parking lot, which Sonora found encouraging.

She went through a door into a hallway, heard laughter, a young male shouting, “Yeah, right,” then a female voice, also young, that said, “You sure you don't want me to stay?”

Sonora got the feeling, as she rounded the corner, that the woman would have liked to stay. A male voice, rich with the medium depth of a good baritone, said, “Hell no, you kids get home and enjoy what's left of your weekend. I'll see you first thing Monday morning. Early, the both of you.”

The kids, Sonora saw, were a man and woman anywhere from twenty-two to twenty-five, wearing jeans and khakis, Saturday casuals. They had the sheen of up-and-coming youngsters who had sufficient pocket money and fun on what weekends they took from the office, and the pale complexion of kids who worked long hours.

Sonora immediately recognized the man at the door who was waving them off. He wore his shirtsleeves rolled up and his strong forearms were crisscrossed with glints of gold-brown hair. His body type might have been called fat in a man more unattractive, but not this one. His clothes fit him well, and he wore them with the air of comfort a man gets when he is happy with who he is and where he is going. His hair was dark tobacco brown, the waves well cut and under control, and he had the big shoulders and muscular build of a man who is good at physical things.

He smiled at Sonora, a one-sided smile, and she noticed that his eyes were very blue. He folded his arms, cocked his head to one side.

“You have the world-weary air of a cop.”

The “kids” in the hallway gave Sonora a long look.

“You're Caplan?” she said. Just making sure.

“We haven't met.”

His handshake was firm, and he covered her one hand with both of his and gave her a speculative look, the kind a man gives a woman. Sonora had not expected him to be quite so taking in person. Like all the best DAs, he had a certain presence that would be a plus in the courtroom, or anywhere else, and she liked the steady way he returned her look, and the intelligence she read in his eyes.

She was glad she had worn the silky white shirt. “Specialist Sonora Blair. Homicide.”

He grinned. “
Really.
Surprised we haven't run across each other till now. You brought down that nutcase last year, Yorke, wasn't it? Serial killer? Liked to play with matches?”

“Selma Yorke,” Sonora said. Liked to play with matches was one way to describe a woman who handcuffed men to the steering wheels of their cars, doused them with gasoline, and set them ablaze.

He looked over Sonora's shoulder at the two in the hallway. Made shooing motions. “Get along and get rested up. I'll be working your butts on Monday.”

They obeyed immediately, footsteps echoing.

Caplan waved an arm, cop-friendly. “Come on in, and excuse the mess. Trying to nail myself a vehicular homicide, so we're working late nights and weekends.”

“I appreciate your time. Your name is legend, you know.” Sonora caught the smile, boyish and on the edge of shy, as she followed him through the doorway.

It was a busy room, too many desks in too small a space, and it had the familiar tired smell of old coffee and cold pizza that Sonora recognized from long nights in the bullpen. The trash cans were full, some of them overflowing. One desk still had a light on and a typewriter uncovered and was snugged in an alcove right outside of the open office Caplan led her into.

His desk was as close to immaculate as a desk could be after weeks of intense work. A brass lamp cast a pool of light over the flat black surface, set in heavy, well-polished mahogany. An open briefcase housed an Apple PowerBook, taking up the slick and dusted right corner. His computer was set to the left on an arm of mahogany, and the screen was up, color monitor.

Not government issue, Sonora thought, looking at the bookshelves, the credenza, the flowered love seat, and oriental carpet. Looked like something you would find in a well-heeled law office, where they handled things like bankruptcies and corporate taxes.

Brought a few goodies from home.

A double-frame holder sat on a bookshelf, off the desk, non-traditional. Caplan couldn't see it but everyone else could. On one side was the picture of a little girl, six or seven, maybe a bit younger than Heather. The child was Amerasian, hair jet black and shoulder length, eyes slanted and cornflower blue. Her skin had a fragile porcelain look and she wore a red velvet dress with a sash so big that either end of the bow peeked out from both sides of her tiny waist.

Her smile was wide but unconvincing, and she looked tense. Her eyes were sad.

The companion picture was a contrast of informality. The woman wore wide khaki shorts that stopped at her knees, chunky waist cinched with a drawstring belt. Her sleeveless blue denim shirt looked worn but comfortable. She had chin length, thin, dark blonde hair, an odd sort of clown nose, and a figure that an unkind person might dismiss as dumpy.

She looked shy, as if she knew that she was unphotogenic, and that the camera would not be kind.

“My family,” Caplan said.

Sonora nodded, muttered “lovely” under her breath. The woman could not be the biological mother of the little girl, but those big blue eyes looked like Caplan-issue.

Sonora took the newspaper clipping from her briefcase. Handed it across the desk. “Good picture.”

Caplan did a double-take when he recognized himself, then leaned back in his chair. “My wife went out and bought a dozen newspapers when this came out. Sent them to all her relatives. She grew up on a farm, so I guess she figures that when the barn cats don't scare the mice, these will.”

Sonora gave him a sideways smile. “Don't add that one to your collection, it may be evidence.”

Caplan scooted his chair in close to the desk, smile fading. “What do you mean, evidence?”

The relaxed feel of the room went away. Caplan had a wary look that put Sonora on guard.

“I've got a woman who's come up missing. Julia Winchell. She had this clipping in her hotel room.”

He shook his head, a look of polite perplexity wrinkling the brow. Sonora was watching and he knew it. It made them both nervous.

“Julia Winchell? Sorry, I don't know her.”

Sonora nodded. He said the name as if it meant nothing. She studied him, thinking that probably it did.

Caplan rocked from side to side in his chair. “It's odd, though. I mean, whoever she is, she clearly cut this out with a purpose. You think she has some connection to the case?”

Sonora waved a hand. “Anything's possible, we're just in the initial stages. She's not from around here.”

Caplan leaned back and waited. He wasn't going to ask.

“She's from Tennessee,” Sonora said. “In town for some sort of small business convention.”

“Married?” Caplan asked, voice dry.

“Married. Two little kids.”

He was nodding. “You know, it's possible—”

Sonora waited. Let him say it.

He waved a hand. “Sometimes the family thing is overwhelming. Wife gets away from the diapers and the house a couple days, gets swept off her feet. She'll probably call in a week or two when the novelty wears off.” Caplan scratched his chin. “I know I sound a little hard. It's not something I'd say, except to someone like you who knows the business.”

“We think it's possible she witnessed a murder.” Sonora smiled. Bland.

“No kidding? She file a police report?”

Sonora shook her head. “It was something that happened a long time ago.”

Caplan pulled his ear. “That's kind of weird. You think maybe she called our office or something?”

“No stone unturned. That's why I'm here.”

“Which makes you good at what you do.” His voice stayed friendly, but he had an air of preoccupation. He tugged the middle desk drawer. It stuck, and he yanked it hard. “Messages,” he muttered, dislodging a fist full of pink telephone slips with jagged edges. A pencil spilled onto the floor and Sonora could see the edges of an unruly stack of papers and old envelopes. Caplan shoved the drawer shut and flipped through the messages, humming. “Revolution.” The Beatles.

He looked up and caught Sonora's eye, brows raised. “Nobody here by that name, but my secretary may have screened it, or someone else could have taken the call. It's been a mess around here lately.”

Sonora looked at the immaculate desk.

“Bea should be gone by now. We're in pretty good shape, so I told everybody to leave at noon. I've got to get home myself. My wife's expecting her first child, and she's been feeling bad the last couple of days. Probably the heat. Anyway, I'll ask Bea on Monday if she took a call like that, have her check with the staff. I'll get back to you on it.”

Sonora nodded. “Appreciate your trouble.”

He shook his head. “Not at all. Two little kids, huh? What ages?”

“Three and fourteen months.”

“Um.” He looked truly regretful. He was a family man. He had kids of his own. “Anything at all I can do to find their mama, don't hesitate to ask.”

Sonora shook his hand again. “Thank you.”

He stood up. “Is that blouse silk?”

It wasn't, but Sonora wasn't about to say rayon. She wasn't about to say anything. He was hitting on her. Damn.

“Stay in touch, Detective. We could do the lunch thing, when my schedule clears.”

“Let me know what your secretary says.”

“About my schedule?”

“About those phone calls. And thanks for your time.” Sonora turned away, wondered why the secretary had left her lamp on and her typewriter uncovered, if she had gone home. She looked over her shoulder at Caplan, caught him watching her butt. She inclined her head. “This your secretary's desk?”

Caplan moved across the room behind her, looked out. “Yep.”

Sonora waved a hand toward the lamp, the typewriter. “Maybe she's still here.”

Caplan put both hands on Sonora's shoulders and scooted her gently out of the way. He turned the lamp off. “I don't—”

Something landed hard very close by, and a woman's soft voice could be heard, muttering.

Caplan pursed his lips. “Maybe she
is
here. I sent her home a little while ago, but Bea's a real hard worker.” He headed toward an open door behind the desk. Sonora saw metal file cabinets, a copy machine, stacks of paper, forms, envelopes. “Bea? You in there?”

Sonora trailed him through the door.

Caplan opened his arms wide. Grinned. “I thought you went home.”

“First I heard of it.” She was black, thin, close to retirement age or beyond, and though there were lines of fatigue from her nose to her lips, and bags of exhaustion under her eyes, her smile was sweet, and she greeted Sonora with genuine warmth.

“Bea, this is Detective Blair. She's a homicide investigator from downtown.” He waved a hand. “Bea Wallace. Runs the office and everybody in it.”

“So long as I've got you fooled.” She leaned against the open filing cabinet, then rocked back on her feet, looking from Caplan to Sonora. “How can I help you out?”

The accent wasn't local, but from farther south. Maybe Kentucky, but to Sonora's ear, she'd guess Tennessee.

“I'm trying to track a woman who went missing a couple weeks ago. Julia Winchell. According to our phone records, she called your office here, several times.”

Bea Wallace folded her arms, closing the file cabinet with her back and resting up against the dull gray metal. “Say that name again?”

Sonora turned sideways, facing her. “Julia Winchell. She probably asked for Mr. Caplan. She clipped his picture out of the newspaper.”

“Julia Winchell. The name doesn't ring any bells. But we've been getting all kinds of calls since we started the Drury prosecution.”

“I bet you have,” Sonora said.

Bea Wallace tapped her cheek. “We did get one strange one though, come to think of it. Little girl wanted to know what the statute of limitations was on a homicide.”

“There isn't one,” Caplan said.

“What I told her. And she wanted to know if I could give her any details about …” she glanced at Caplan, “about a particular homicide.”

“Which particular homicide?” Sonora noticed Caplan going solid and tense.

“She'd caught that article about you in the paper, Gage. The one that gave that background stuff on your first wife. Sorry. She wanted to know how long Mr. Caplan's been a district attorney. That kind of thing.”