The Debt Collector (17 page)

Sonora felt the sick stir of anger in her stomach, and the candy she was nibbling felt heavy in her hand.

“Well, I was plenty upset, but Davy said he'd go pay it for me, he had some money from his band. Davy plays guitar for Dead Head Devils. Have you heard of them?”

Sonora was sorry to admit she had not. Sam ate another bourbon ball, crunching the pecan. How, Sonora wondered, could he eat such a huge bite of candy without getting sick?

“They play for parties at the high schools. And they came in third in battle of the bands. They should have come in first.”

“Grandmom,” Davy said, though it was clear he agreed.

“Anyhow, he goes and pays, and three days later they are calling me again. And neither of us has anything to spare. And this man on the phone, he gets nasty and says for me to watch the papers and see what happens on Edrington Court, and maybe
then
I'll pay them. And he—” Her voice broke and she put a sticky hand to her forehead. “He called me a deadbeat and he said I would be sorry if I didn't pay.”

Sam was up and off his chair, wetting a paper towel and wiping candy filling off the woman's brow. Sonora knew he felt the need to do something, she felt the same way. Davy watched them with a palpable sense of relief, and Sonora imagined that the two of them had been feeling very alone, backs to the wall. A feeling she knew pretty well herself.

Davy's jaw was tight. “If those people try and come here, they'll have me to deal with.”

The slam of a car door made them all jump. The creak of the screen was barely audible.

“Stay put,” Sam said, drawing his gun. He inclined his head toward Sonora. “Take the front.”

She fished the Beretta out of her purse and followed Sam into the narrow dark hallway. She took one backward glance into the kitchen. Martha Brooks had a hand to her mouth. Davy looked excited.

31

Sonora parted ways with Sam, heading past a dishwasher, a deep sink piled high with dishes, and a sour-smelling mop. You wouldn't catch her eating in this place.

She went around a counter into a tiny, dark dining room that held five round tables, chairs perched on top and off a floor that looked like it had been swept but not mopped.

She saw no headlights, no shadows, through the tight-lipped ivory miniblinds in the picture window. The front door was bolted, a nothing lock. She unhooked the dead bolt, opened the door a crack, and looked out.

A car went past on the street below, came to the dead end, circled and headed back out. She watched till it hit the limited-access highway. The parking lot was empty.

Sonora stepped out, eased the door gently shut, making sure the spring lock on the doorknob clicked into place. She moved left, along the side of the building, listening.

Voices, coming from around back. Two men, and a woman. The woman surprised her. She was looking for men—two if you listened to Crick, three if she followed her gut.

She saw the car by the side of the building—a Jeep, which made her heart jump just for a second, till she realized that this one was red, not white like the one stolen from the Stinnets' garage.

The voices, still low, took on a little more distinction. She thought she heard Sam. The woman said something and laughed. Sonora could have sworn she sounded embarrassed.

“Sonora?” Definitely Sam, definitely annoyed. “Ollie ollie in come free.”

She came in out of the shadows, and a woman, tallish, jumped sideways and squealed. She put a hand to her heart. “Oh my, where did
you
come from?”

The man next to her, in khakis and a gray sweater, encircled the woman in his arms. “Hello again.”

“Hello, Keaton, and I thought I told you not to come.” Sonora tucked her gun into the back of her pants, where it rested snugly.

Sam opened the screen door and motioned everyone in. “Hang here a second, and I'll tell them it's okay.” He glanced at Sonora. “I hope your gun's on safety.”

“Just remind me not to sit down,” she said.

32

Sonora could not hide a covert fascination with Keaton Daniels's fiancée. Physically she was amazingly like the wife who had been murdered before she could become the ex—a tallish, slender thing, long brunette hair. But the first wife had been a sharp dresser, high heels and business suits, worn with a daunting air of competence that would have taken her to the top of the glass ceiling.

Why, Sonora wondered, trying not to stare and failing miserably, would a grown woman, over the age of, say, eight, wear a striped dress with a big red bow at the waist? With little red Pappagallo flats to match?

Impossible for her to understand the mind-set. Which seemed to include a printed agenda picturing orange fuzzy kittens, which the woman had laid on the countertop, avoiding the watery beef. She had used a red felt-tip pen to check off her handwritten commitments. Sonora edged closer, checking out the puff sleeves banded on the thin little arms.

Steph's b-day gift!

Dog to the groomer's!

Sonora admitted that this Trudy person looked good in red. But she thought the white hose a bit much. She would have bet money that Trudy dotted her
is
with little hearts. She was chewing gum, something with a cinnamon smell.

Meeting Trudy actually made Sonora feel better. If this was what Keaton wanted in a woman, he was not going to get it from her.

She noticed Sam looking at her. Again. She wished he would stop. It was like old-home week in the kitchen, with Trudy embracing Martha Brooks and giving Davy a quick awkward hug that seemed to take him by surprise.

“I cannot thank you enough for your help,” Martha said, and Trudy ducked her head in demure acceptance. “Keaton, and Trudy, thank you so much for setting this up.”

Trudy tossed her head. “I am
not
one of those people who can just
stand
by.”

“Maybe you could be one of those people who leave,” Sonora said, just under her breath. Sam looked up and grinned at her, though she knew there was no possible way he could have heard.

“Mrs. Brooks, perhaps you'd like to come in to the office tomorrow and make a statement,” Sonora said.

There was a moment of stunned silence.

“Oh, but
no,
” Trudy said. “You can't just leave them here, not without protection!”

If it sounded, to Sonora, like a plea for condoms, she chalked it up to sour grapes. “Mrs. Brooks, did you use your home address in any of your … transactions?”

“Oh.” Martha waved her hands. “No. I didn't want—” She glanced at Keaton and Trudy.

“Perhaps you could step into the dining room here, with me,” Sonora suggested.

Martha nodded, waving Davy off to find more chairs. She and Sonora huddled next to the sink of dirty dishes, the Crock-Pot soaking in tomato-and-soap-tinted water.

“Mrs. Brooks.” Sonora smiled, giving the woman a moment to catch her breath and gather her thoughts. They kept their voices low. “You were saying.”

“Because of the way that my husband … that things are, with this business?”

Sonora gave her a nod.

“I was really careful not to leave any kind of paper trail that would lead to my home.”

“You said they called you? To pressure you?”

“I have a cell phone. I got it to carry in the car, but I've been using it for the business.”

“What address do you use? For the cell phone, and on your checks? Do you have a checking account for the business?”

“Yes, but I use a post-office box.”

“Okay, good.” This lady had it covered. “Did you ever call these people from your home? Even once?”

“No. No, ma'am, not ever. Douglas keeps track of all my calls, and I didn't want him to know.”

“Are you absolutely sure? They'll have caller ID. If you've ever called from your home, they'll have made a note of it.”

“No, never.”

“How about Davy? Did he call them? Do they know where he lives?”

“No, I never let him call them.”

“Okay. Have they ever called or contacted you at your home?”

“No.”

“Have they been in touch since … what happened at the Stinnets'?”

Martha shook her head. She was biting her bottom lip.

“Ma'am, I don't think you have a lot to worry about. Just to be on the safe side, stay away from that post-office box till I talk to you again and clear it. If you absolutely have to go, we'll send you with an escort. It's a small risk, that they'd follow or bother you, but it's one I don't want you to take. And don't make any attempt to get in touch with them.”

“What do I do if they call me, or if they ask me to pay?”

“Any chance you'd be willing to lend me your cell phone? I'd like to be on the other end when they call.”

“I guess … sometimes I get calls for orders and—”

“I'll take messages for you. You can check in with me every day and pick them up. We could have your calls forwarded, Mrs. Brooks, but that takes time to set up, and sometimes it doesn't work, I don't care what the technicians say. I know it's a hardship, but in a situation like this, I don't like to leave any room for error.”

“No. No, Detective, what they did to those people was so awful. But you think I'm okay?”

“Yes, ma'am, I think so. But if something, anything, happens to scare you, or even make you uneasy, call me. And if they somehow find your home number or you get even a hint they know where you are—where do your cell bills go?”

“How would they get that?”

Sonora cocked her head sideways. “We live in the age of information sharing, Mrs. Brooks. Where do your cell bills go?”

“The post-office box.”

“You are one smart lady.”

Martha ducked her head. Smiled. Sonora handed her a business card. “My home phone number is scribbled there on the back. Can you read it?”

“Yes, no problem. You really have very pretty handwriting, Detective.”

“Thank you.” She didn't, but she appreciated the compliment. It was a girl thing. Martha Brooks was returning the favor of approval, a commodity every woman craved, no matter how independent. Sonora glanced at Martha Brooks for a moment, thinking of her mother, who had given her approval every day of the week. “Call me anytime, day or night, if you have even the tiniest reason to be worried or afraid.”

Martha held up the cell phone. “I'll have a direct line. But I promise not to use it unless I have to.” She leaned forward, surprisingly, and gave Sonora a hug.

33

Sonora lay rigid in her bed, eyes wide and gritty after two of the Benadryl tablets Gillane had left her and another glass of wine downed while she had cleaned up the kitchen after the dinner she'd never cooked. If the mice had returned they were sleeping quietly. Clampett paused at the foot of her bed, took one mighty leap, and landed beside her, nose wet. He paused, waiting to be told to get down.

Sonora patted his neck, and he stretched out beside her.

I am afraid, Sonora thought. The fear was like an ache that became more acute every night. She did not know what she was afraid of, which made it hard to deal with. But she felt the weight of the fear, piled on top of the weight of her responsibilities. The children needed her, financially and emotionally, and would for years and years. And, like the Stinnets, like Martha Brooks, like everyone else in the world, she had bills to pay that looked like they would go on forever and ever. And if she did get ahead, there was college to think of.

What if she slipped up? She was alone, there was no safety net. Her children would be as vulnerable as the Stinnets' little baby girl.

And in the meantime, she had to catch their killer. Who was she to catch a killer? It was getting to be a burden, this Homicide gig.

Think on it, she told herself. A victim. A human being. His life is over because someone steps out of bounds and kills him. Who the hell? Who the hell would have the arrogance, the anger, the coldhearted selfishness? And yet. Homicide. A daily occurrence.

And she was going to put this right? She was going to find the killer in a city full of people and possibilities? She would find the right one?

She cocked her head, considering cases solved. Statistically speaking, sometime in her career, what were the odds that she would put the wrong one in jail? Or let somebody dangerous slip away, because she just wasn't smart enough to get it right?

Had it already happened?

The phone rang. Not Martha Brooks's cell phone, which was tucked next to her pillow. Her own phone.

“Blair,” she said.

“Sonora, it's Keaton.”

“Keaton?” Sonora looked at the clock beside the bed: 3:47
A
.
M
. “
What's up?
”

“Nothing.” The voice was wistful and exhausted. Like her own. Should she mention that it was almost four o'clock in the morning? “Sonora, I'm sorry to call so late. I couldn't sleep.”

“Why can't you sleep, Keaton?” My God, she was as patient with him as she was with her children, on good days, anyway.

“I feel this sense of … obligation, I don't know. You were so good tonight, with those people. And I sort of sprung it on you, the engagement, it just seems kind of mean now, as I think about it. I'm afraid … you're upset. I just felt … like I should call you.”

It was the word
obligation
that stung. That, and the dramatic pauses that were incredibly … irritating.

“Look, Keaton. I was doing my job tonight. And if you have information about a crime, particularly one like this, you are morally and legally obligated to bring it to me. Other than that, I'll tell you the truth. I would rather scrub toilet bowls in gas stations with my own personal toothbrush than talk on the phone to a man who is calling me only because he thinks he should.”

“I …”

Dramatic pause.