Eyeshot by Lynn Hightower Page B

“What’s with the phone?”
    â€œHe’s fourteen years old and he’s having a conference call.”
    â€œIf that boy’s got a girl on each line, I’m going in there to shake his hand.”
    Sonora rubbed the back of her neck. “What was it that led me to procreate in the first place?”
    â€œProbably too much to drink.” Sam picked up the map, tossing it up and catching it. “Have a moment with maps, did you, Sonora?”

14
    The sheriff’s office was in a cinderblock building next to the Farmer’s Co-Op. Sonora opened the door of the Blazer and let Heather and Clampett out. Too hot to leave them in the car.
    She looked at Sam. “You know, if you die and go to hell, you could wind up here.”
    â€œSpeak up, Sonora. Make sure we get off on the right foot with the locals.” He opened the door.
    â€œHang on to Clampett’s leash,” Sonora said, glancing at her daughter. She could use some cleaning up. Her pale blue shorts were loose around her thin, tan legs, and her white tank top was smeared with grape from a cup of Hawaiian shaved ice they’d stopped for on the way down. She wore plastic sandals with silk daisies on the front. Her toenails needed trimming. Her shoulders were pink with sunburn, arms broken out in goose bumps from the chill inside the police station.
    Clampett’s toenails clicked against the worn yellow linoleum, and he zigged and zagged through the small lobby, sniffing. Heather held tight to the leash, along for the ride.
    â€œThat dog taking you for a walk?” The woman behind the desk was tiny and thin, hair cut short, dyed white blonde. Her eyes were thickly circled with eyeliner, expertly applied. She had a deep tan that gave her young skin the patina of alligator hide, cigarette husk in her voice.
    Sonora put her ID on the woman’s desk. “Detectives Blair and Delarosa, Cincinnati. Homicide. I think Sheriff Sizemore is expecting us.”
    The girl looked at Sonora curiously, then glanced at Sam. The nameplate on her desk said Sylvia Lovely.
    Good name for a porn star, Sonora thought.
    â€œIt’s that Julia Winchell thing,” Sam said. “You didn’t happen to know her?”
    The girl shook her head. Her neck was long and pretty. Her earrings dropped all the way to her shoulders. She glanced at Sam’s left hand, noticing the wedding ring.
    â€œNo, I didn’t know her.” She leaned over her desk, picked up the phone, punched a button. “Monte? You got those folks from Cincinnati here waiting.” She looked up. “Said to tell you he’s real sorry for the wait, and he’ll be off the phone in just a minute.” She nodded her head toward the couch. “Y’all can take a seat if you like, shouldn’t be but a minute. Can I get anybody a pop? We got coffee made up, too.”
    Old coffee, Sonora thought, judging from the smell.
    Clampett was licking the bottom of a blue can of Cherry Coke when a door opened and Sheriff Monte Sizemore walked into the room.
    He was taller than Sonora, which wasn’t saying much. His hair was brown, cut short in the way of state troopers and marines, gray-flecked at the temples and across the top. His uniform was well pressed and had likely been spotless when he’d put it on that morning. The bottoms of his shoes were mud-crusted, and the cuffs of his pants had been drenched, then dried into mud-stained wrinkles. There was a large round stain over his left knee and his shoes squeaked.
    He shook hands with Sam and Sonora, bent down to say hello to Heather and Clampett.
    â€œHow long you been on the case?” he asked Heather.
    She smiled and dipped her head, pushed her glasses back up on her nose and leaned against Clampett, who drooled down her leg.
    â€œI think your puppy wants his own Coke,” Sizemore said.
    Heather tilted her chin. “I already gave him a drink of mine.”
    Sonora grimaced,