Free Flashpoint by Lynn Hightower Page B

friends a lot of, well, knowing. I could tell you but remembering is one thing, but it is more than years.”
    Sonora wondered if Winthrop was sincerely unable to communicate, playing it smart, or terrified of police. Sam met her gaze, raised his right shoulder slightly. Big help.
    It could never be easy.
    Sonora tried again. “So you’ve known Mark several years?”
    Winthrop made an obvious effort. “Three. That would be as roommates. Ten as known friends. Longer really.”
    For the first time in her life, Sonora missed the sneering streetwise punks who were sometimes irritating, sometimes chilling, but at least able to communicate, often in lyrical, if obscene, rap.
    â€œSo you’ve roomed with Mark for the last three years?”
    Winthrop nodded vigorously.
    He seemed bright enough. She detected a working mind behind the intelligence of the gaze, and a look of panic to go with the sheen of sweat on the forehead. He could have had something to do with Mark’s killing, but she didn’t think so. Her instinct told her the panic was due to sheer social nervousness, and she supposed that if she talked the way Winthrop did, she’d be nervous too.
    She thought of her brother, going through school with his speech impediment, teased, imitated, retreating every afternoon to his room.
    Winthrop cleared his throat loudly. Impossible not to root for him in his intense effort to organize his thoughts into speech. And that was the problem, she decided. Some kind of mental stuttering.
    She grimaced, turning it into a smile. “Did Mark date around a lot? Was he pretty popular with girls?”
    â€œNo, but they all, to say, that’s because you know Sandra. But they would if he wouldn’t.”
    â€œSandra’s his girlfriend, right?”
    Winthrop nodded.
    â€œDid he date anyone else?”
    â€œWell I don’t. Not to my … my own understanding, I couldn’t say always know ever. But he, as far as I would know, and I didn’t ever see it.”
    â€œHe didn’t as far as you know?”
    She was beginning to get the hang of talking to this guy—very like communicating with a two-year-old. Grab the gist, double-check the results, and resist the urge to drop to your knees and beg him to just say it.
    She led him through the routine patiently, getting a lead on Mark’s favorite bars (three or four, Lynagh’s in particular); favorite restaurants (the Mex place, Casa Galvan, and Jozo’s Cajun); what he studied (social work); and what bothered him (the job market, AIDS, final exams). There were no surprises—an average male college student in his early twenties.
    He loved Sandra, he partied on Friday and Saturday, spent Sunday afternoons playing pickup basketball, and studied week-nights after work. He worked evenings, but had recently been “let go” by new management. Nothing major there, just something of a personality clash with the new guy. Winthrop suspected Mark had been fired because the new owners didn’t want to pay more than minimum wage. They were letting a lot of the regulars go and putting in new people. Mark hadn’t been the only one out the door.
    Sonora shifted on the uncomfortable rim of the armchair, wishing she’d beaten Sam to the couch.
    â€œOkay, Brian, there’s something I want you to think about. Did Mark get any odd phone calls—anything unusual, maybe someone calling and hanging up?”
    â€œThe phone now that’s a … its … I might not. Because you never know if he’d say in particular, though he might, you know. He might.” Spittle spewed from lips that were thick, chapped, and dry. Sonora shifted to one side so that Sam was in the direct line of fire.
    â€œAnything you’re sure about? Any calls you took, any calls Mark mentioned?”
    â€œI don’t. No. Usually, Mark would—”
    â€œMark answered the phone?”
    Winthrop nodded. Sonora nodded