Free Flashpoint by Lynn Hightower Page A

if the killer had stalked Mark Daniels, if she’d known him from Adam. Was this a random hit? A well-planned hit, random victim? Why did Keaton Daniels come up every time she looked for Mark?
    The linoleum in the apartment hallway was peeling up in the corner and overlaid with muddy footprints. The mud was reddish brown—most of the prints showed the webwork of rubber soles. Big feet, too. A lot of size tens and elevens, one that looked bigger. Mostly guys, Sonora decided. Lexington had evidently had its share of rain. Their footsteps were muffled by a hideous, raisin-colored runner.
    â€œSam, what color was the mud in the park?”
    â€œGray-black, Sherlock.”
    Sonora was out of breath by the time they passed the second floor. “What’s the kid’s name?”
    â€œBrian Winthrop. Age twenty-three.”
    â€œEver notice we never talk to people who live on the first floor?”
    â€œIt’s a well-known phenomenon. Always the third-floor people who get into trouble.”
    â€œIs he going to say you’uns too?”
    Sam gave her a sour look.
    â€œHey, I only meant to be offensive.”
    Sonora scooted to the door ahead of him and knocked, thinking how much time she spent on doorsteps, wishing she could somehow convert it to time spent with her kids, or better still, sleeping. She crooked her finger at Sam, and he dipped his head to listen.
    â€œThe guy I want to talk to is the one who called it in. You think there’s any chance he’ll get back to us?”
    â€œShit, no. He’s in Mount Airy Forest on a weeknight, after dark, in the rain. Who do you know who goes to the park under those circumstances?”
    â€œGays.”
    â€œCloset gays. He did his civic duty and called nine-one-one. I don’t look for him to buy any more trouble.”
    A dead bolt clicked, and the door cracked open just slightly, then stuck. The thin wood bowed inward, and Sonora heard a muted mutter.
    â€œYes?”
    Mark’s roommate was a tall boy, and thin; shoulders bumpy, hipbones jutting, Adam’s apple prominent. His head seemed overlarge for his body. His hair was dark brown and wavy, and a bad barber had given him a poor haircut too long ago. His skin showed blemishes here and there, nothing major, and he was of an age to shave daily, though he hadn’t. Sonora wondered if he was into the stubble look or trying to grow a beard.
    Sam showed his ID. “Specialists Delarosa and Blair, Cincinnati Police Department, about Mark Daniels. We talked last night?”
    Sonora tried not to yawn. “Can we come in?”
    â€œInside. That would … yeah, in the room, that would be to say, for the best.” Winthrop nodded vigorously and stepped back.
    Sonora scratched her cheek and looked at Sam. He raised one eyebrow and motioned her ahead.
    The room smelled like fried fish and tartar sauce. The rug was worn, mustard colored, with a rusty-looking stain under the window.
    Bloodstain? Sonora wondered. Always a copper.
    A card table sagged under the clutter of books, papers, and pizza cartons. A set of barbells and weights sat in the corner. Along the wall behind the couch was an IBM PS/2, a modem beneath a phone, and a Hewlett-Packard laser printer. The computer screen was lit, the background a searing blue. A miniature cartoon man in a green suit with an orange vest did backflips to the tune of a ditty that set Sonora’s teeth on edge.
    Winthrop flung an arm toward the living room. “Place to sit. Here. If you’d like. Of course, you might not, but probably you would.”
    Sam sat in the middle of the couch and reached into his coat pocket for his recorder. Sonora took a worn armchair that had a Salvation Army look. The chair sank beneath her, a wayward spring the only thing keeping her off the floor. She scooted forward, balanced on the edge, and studied Winthrop.
    â€œBrian, how long were you and Mark roommates?”
    â€œYou … we were