Flashpoint Read Free Page A

a repressive hand at the camera. “Tracy, you’re way too early here. Not before makeup, please.”
    Tracy Vandemeer blinked. She herself had had ample time, though less reason, to do her own makeup. She wore a crisp red blouse, silk, and a high-waisted Lycra skirt that could be worn only by a woman who was a stranger to childbirth and chocolate.
    â€œSpecialist Blair, can you give us the identity of the—”
    â€œCome on, Tracy, you know better. We’ll have the release out in a few hours. Any questions have to go through my sergeant.”
    Vandemeer smiled. “Come on, Sonora. I’ve got deadlines.”
    â€œGoing to interrupt the farm report with a special bulletin?”
    Vandemeer’s smile faded, and Sonora remembered a beat too late that Tracy had started out on the 6 A.M . broadcast, covering barley and corn crops.
    â€œFor that remark, Sonora, we’ll be filming you from your bad side.”
    â€œWhat? Me walking in and out of the ER is news?”
    â€œIt is if you don’t give me anything else.”
    â€œHomicide cop forgets to brush hair. Don’t forget to call CNN.”
    Tracy Vandemeer let the microphone relax, eyes roving, surveying the huddle of cops in the corner. Sonora took advantage of the lapse of attention to move away. Vandemeer would have no luck with the boy’s club.
    Sonora scanned the room, looking for hospital security. Saw the brother, shoulder against the wall in the hallway. It struck her that hers was the last face Mark Daniels had seen.
    Daniels took a sip from a cup of coffee, his free hand jammed deeply into the pocket of his coat. Moisture glistened on the navy blue raincoat that hung open and unbuttoned, the cloth belt trailing the floor. Behind him, a door stood open. The sign on the door said FAMILY CONSULTATION / CHAPLAIN .
    Sonora looked him over carefully as she drew close, checking for tears in the white dress shirt, soot on the shoes and beige khakis. She took a breath, wondering if he’d reek of smoke. He didn’t. But she wished he’d lose the raincoat. No telling what might be under it.
    Sonora smiled and put on the mom-voice. “Your coat’s wet. Probably ought to get it off.”
    The man’s eyes were glazed, but they focused on her suddenly, intensely. He had a raw, pained look she knew only too well. It was a look that begged for a miracle, for peace of heart. It was a look she saw in her dreams.
    â€œYour coat?”
    He took it off slowly and draped it over his arm. The white cotton shirt was wrinkled but clean. If this guy was involved with the killing, he’d had time to change clothes.
    No stone unturned, Sonora thought. She held out a hand.
    â€œSpecialist Sonora Blair, Cincinnati Police Department.”
    He met her eyes steadily and took her hand, holding tightly. He had brown eyes, and he looked intelligent, younger than she had first supposed. He had black hair, thick and curly.
    â€œKeaton Daniels.”
    Keaton, Sonora thought. Key? Mark had been screaming “key” when Officer Minner had pulled him from the burning car.
    â€œHow is Mark?”
    His voice was deep, shadowed with fear. He still had her hand, though she didn’t think he realized it. The automatic doors swooshed open, and Sonora glanced over her shoulder.
    Another news team, idling in the restricted lane out front, a guy in blue jeans and an old army jacket arguing with a uniform.
    Sonora guided Daniels into the consultation room.
    Inside was an oasis of worn green carpet, a brown vinyl love seat, and a well-padded easy chair. Sonora steered Daniels into the chair, for her money, the best seat in the house for comfort and a moment of peace.
    â€œSit down, Mr. Daniels. Be back in a minute.”
    She slipped into the hallway and motioned to a uniform, checking his name tag.
    â€œO’Connor? Looks like you got plenty of help out here.” She waved a hand toward the lobby. “Channel