Eyeshot (6 page)

Caplan nodded, thin-lipped and grim.

Sonora gave Caplan a sideways look. No doubt, then, that the call was from Julia Winchell. She had the usual cop's aversion to coincidence.

“What'd you tell her?” Caplan asked.

Bea Wallace shrugged. “She didn't sound like the typical nutcase, but how can you tell? We've had a lot of calls since the Drury thing started. This kind of case brings out the bad ones.”

“In droves,” Caplan said. Grimaced.

“I don't like it when they get personal about Mr. Caplan. So I didn't tell her anything.”

“She call back?” Sonora said.

Bea looked down. “Just once.”

“What about?” Sonora asked.

“Wanted to know what Mr. Caplan's wife's full name was. His first wife.”

“And she was killed?” Sonora said.

“Murdered,” Caplan said. “Brutally.”

“She wanted to know if they'd ever caught the killer.”

Caplan shifted his weight. Stared at a spot on the wall, somewhere between Sonora and Bea Wallace.

Sonora pushed hair out of her eyes. These people did not give ground easily. “And you said?”

Bea Wallace stood still, both feet planted side by side. She would not meet Sonora's eyes. “I said no. They did not catch the killer.”

8

The parking situation tipped Sonora off—after-hours, no special events, and all the slots in front of the Board of Elections Building filled, both sides. These were not cop cars. Cops tended to drive two types of cars. The older guys, the guys with families, favored the beige Taurus or Camry, cars that didn't stand out to the highway patrol, cars that were the equivalent of stealth bombers on the interstate. One could tote the kids in comfort, and indulge in an excess of speed without the embarrassment of glad-handing a brother officer into forgiveness. The younger cops drove Chevy Malibus and Camaros, with souped-up 454 engines for speed, and modified turbo 400 transmissions that gave torque and muscle.

The underpaid press tended toward Chevettes, Vegas, and Escorts.

Sonora looked at the mix—a Lincoln, an LTD, a van, Chevy Blazer, one small blue Mazda. Looked like John Q. Public.

She headed into the building, took the elevator to the fifth floor. She heard the buzz of voices as soon as the doors opened. The noise reminded her of high school hallways between classes. She passed the empty glass booth of reception and went through the swing door into homicide.

She veered sideways immediately, reflexes sharp, to get out of the way of a woman who walked past with the air of the person in charge. Sonora did not recognize her. She was tall and big-boned, wings of gray in the swept-back, coarse brown hair. Her dress was that deep shade of purple that seemed to appeal to British royalty and women past menopause. The dress was belted in the middle, setting off a well-toned, nicely proportioned figure, though the shoulders were large, and the hands and facial features oddly mannish.

The woman caught Sonora's look, lifted her chin, and breezed past, finding herself face to face with the swing door. She turned and frowned, and Sonora leaned up against the wall, arms folded, thinking that this was a woman people were probably at pains not to cross.

“Where
is
this mythical coffeemaker, or can I persuade someone to actually get me a cup?” She looked at Sonora expectantly, and held a mug out, as if in supplication.

Sonora noticed that the mug was her turquoise Joseph-Beth Booksellers cup. “You don't want
that
one.”

The woman braced her legs. “What?”

“That mug. You don't want to drink out of that one, it's got lipstick stains on the side.”

The woman turned the mug on one side and squinted, then pursed her lips. “You're right.” She curled her lip, handed the mug back to Sonora. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

Sonora continued down the hallway, stopping at the coffeemaker that steamed on a table by the left-hand side of the wall. She wondered how the woman in purple had missed it. She put coffee and cream into the mug, rocked it gently to disperse the white powder, smiled when the mix turned the right shade of mocha brown, and headed for her desk, noting, as she went by, that both interview rooms were full.

“Sonora?” Sam leaned out of Interview One, right behind her.

He loped down the hallway, brown hair sliding into his eyes. His tie was loose, shirt ballooning from the waistband of his pants. He looked boyish and tired, as if he hadn't slept.

“How'd you get all these people here so early?” Sonora said.

“I guess they get out of bed before you. You up all night cleaning and paying bills and doing the mom-thing?”

Actually, she had let it all go to hell and curled up with a book. She gave Sam a noble look, tinged with sadness. “I chose to be a single mother. I'm not complaining.” She yawned and covered her mouth. “Stopped at Caplan's office on my way in.”

“Yeah? How'd it go?”

Sonora frowned. “A little weird.”

“Weird how?”

“Just a feeling I got. Everything he
said
was right, anything I can do to help, all that. But he told me his secretary had gone home, and she hadn't.”

“Arrest that man.”

“I got the feeling he didn't want me talking to her.”

“Maybe he wanted you to go away so he could get his work done and go home.”

“Maybe. But she did call. Julia Winchell. The secretary talked to her.”

He rocked backward on his heels. “Aha. What did she want?”

“She wanted to know about Caplan's first wife. And how she got killed.”

“Nancy Drew at work.”

“Which is what I need to be. It's wall-to-wall cars outside, how many people you got up here?”

“Five or six,” Sam said. “Hundred. Locals. Called and invited to drop by.”

Sonora hid a smile. “Who's the sweetheart in purple?”

“Valerie Gibson, the conference coordinator.”

“Scary.”

“I'll take her,” Sam said. “You cover the couple in Interview Two. Molliter's working the lady in one.”

“I thought he was on nights.”

“He wants the overtime and we need the help.”

Sonora gave Sam a hard look. “What's wrong with the couple in two?”

Sam smiled sweetly, and scooted down the hallway, fast enough to let her know she'd been stuck. She stopped for a minute outside the hallway to peep in at them, saw the woman, sixtyish, rummaging in an expensive-looking tapestry purse, waving one hand in the air. The man sitting next to her was frowning and watching intently, as if his life depended upon what might or might not come out of the purse.

Sonora took a sip of coffee and ducked inside. The woman was unwrapping sticks of Wrigley's Doublemint gum. She gave one stick to her husband and unwrapped another, looked up and caught sight of Sonora.

“Are you the secretary, miss?”

The woman would be short when she stood up, Sonora thought. Five two at the most. Still taller than Sonora herself, but a good deal heavier. She wore a lavender blouse that looked more like real silk than rayon, and looped in a big bow across the collar that had been buttoned tightly around her neck. The ends of the bow fluttered across what she would undoubtedly call her bosom, and dipped below the high waistband of the navy skirt that flared and folded, the hemline midcalf. Her shoes, under the table, looked sensible and new, the toes squared, the heels chunky. The oval lenses of her glasses magnified her eyes.

“I'm Police Specialist Blair. I'm a detective.”

“Gum?” the man said, chewing discreetly.

Detectives merited gum, Sonora noted. “No thanks.” She shook both of their hands and sat down. The woman set her purse on her lap.

Sonora gave them a smile that was likely more preoccupied than friendly, threaded a reel of tape into the old warhorse of a tape recorder, and asked them both to state their names.

“Barbara Henderson Miller,” the woman said, eyes big and alert behind the thick lenses of her glasses. “And this is my husband—”

“Alford C. Miller,” he said, leaning toward the recorder.

“What's the
C
stand for,” Sonora asked, thinking maybe
Crabby.

“Carl,” he said. And blinked.

Sonora rubbed the back of her neck. “As I understand, one of you, both of you—”

“Both,” Mrs. Miller said. Alford nodded.

Sonora was not surprised that they had not needed to hear the question. These people would know the answer before you decided what to ask.

“Both of you attended this small business conference at the Orchard Suites?”

Mrs. Miller's purse slid sideways and a checkbook, flowered glasses case, and roll of butterscotch Lifesavers spilled out. The Lifesavers hit the floor and rolled under Alford's chair. Mrs. Miller caught the checkbook and glasses case, pressing them into the folds of her thick polyester skirt.

“You didn't close it, Barbie.” Alford leaned sideways to pick up the butterscotch Lifesavers.

“I
did
close it, I heard it snap. Didn't you hear the snap?” She looked at Sonora.

“I wasn't paying attention. Are the two of you local? You live in Cincinnati?”

“We live in Union,” Alford said.

“So you didn't stay at the hotel?”

Mrs. Miller took a tight grip on her purse. “Oh yes we did. We like staying in hotels. You get breakfast.”

“It comes with the room,” Alford explained.

Sonora took a breath, let it out slowly. “Mr. and Mrs. Miller. Did either of you see or talk to Julia Winchell during this conference?”

“Well, how could we not, it wasn't that big a conference,” Mrs. Miller said.

Alford thumbed his ear. “You mean that black-headed girl Detective Sam showed us? In the picture?”

“Yes.”

“He play football in school?”

“He was on the badminton team,” Sonora said. She did not want to get into Sam's glorious football history.

Alford was still working the thumb. “That can't be right. UC doesn't have a badminton team. Do they?”

“He went to school in Kentucky,” Sonora said.

“We certainly
did
notice
Mrs.
Winchell,” Mrs. Miller said.

“Pretty little girl,” Alford said absently. “She seemed very nice at first.” He gave his wife a dark look and both of them nodded.

“At first?” Sonora said. With these two it might be best just to let them talk, provided she could keep them on the subject.

Mrs. Miller leaned forward, mouth going tight. “She seemed nice at first, maybe a little offish, keeping herself to herself some.”

“Shy,” Alford said.

“Reserved. With some people, not with everyone. For instance, Mr. Jeff Barber certainly seemed to be a particular friend.”

Sonora made a note. Alford leaned forward and cut his eyes sideways. Sonora was tempted to print
GO TO HELL
on the notepad, but she couldn't pay attention and write upside down at the same time.

“I take it Mr. Barber was enrolled in these courses too?”

Alford shook his head. “Not courses. It was a one-week conference. Lectures, panel discussions, workshops. Really, it should have been a two-week thing. That would have been more effective.”

“But double the fee,” Mrs. Miller said.

“Maybe, maybe not. With economies of scale—”

She was losing them, Sonora thought. “Can I get either of you a soda, cup of coffee?”

Their heads swiveled as one, their eyes bright, as they allowed that a soda would be a welcome thing.

“Let's clear up this Barber thing before I run out to the machine.” Sonora had kids. She knew how to do this. “When you said they were good friends. Did either of you get the feeling they knew each other before?”

“They
said
not,” Alford said.

“You asked?” Sonora looked at him.

He nodded.

“They certainly got
very
chummy
very
fast.” Mrs. Miller gave Sonora a significant look.

“For instance?”

“Oh, but I don't like to say.”

“Mrs. Miller, I'll remind you that Julia Winchell has been missing for over fifteen days, and she has two young children waiting at home. You need to answer all of my questions to the very best of your ability.”

Alford made the kind of clucking noise you would make to a horse. “That just makes it that much worse, when an irresponsible young mother can't behave.”

Mrs. Miller leaned forward. “Does her husband know anything about all this?”

Sonora closed her eyes, shutting the two of them out for three precious seconds. “About all what?”

“About the way she was carrying on!” Mrs. Miller let go of the purse and it hit the floor, spilling contents that Sonora was now able to inventory with her eyes closed. Mrs. Miller looked at Alford, heading him off. “I did snap it shut, the catch is broken. And I've only had this purse a few months. I think the store should take it back. Don't you think?” She looked at Sonora.

Alford was on his hands and knees, picking up the butterscotch Lifesavers. “Did you keep the receipt?”

“No, she didn't keep the receipt.” Sonora leaned back in her chair, placed both hands flat on the table. “You said that Julia Winchell and Jeff Barber were”—she looked at her notepad—“in your words, ‘carrying on.' Tell me exactly what you mean.”

“They weren't the only ones.” Alford. Off on a tangent.

His wife nodded. “You must mean that MacMillan woman.
Sylvie.
”

Alford leaned forward. “First of all, they
sat
together. Every single class.”

“Saved each other seats,” Mrs. Miller said.

The two of them slid their chairs in closer to the table.

“Anything else?” Sonora asked.

“They laughed. A lot. She had this little way of turning her head sideways when he talked.”