The Debt Collector (21 page)

“Murder warrants in hand,” Sam said.

“It's a high-risk entry, clearly, so we've got our emergency response unit on board. Captain's calling them in as we speak, briefing at five o'clock.”

Sonora checked her watch. Noon.

“When is it set to go?” Sam asked.

“Captain hasn't said for sure, but I suspect it will be the usual.”

“Four
A
.
M
.,” Sonora said.

Sam grimaced. “I wish we could get those kids out of there.”

“Can't wait forever,” Whitmore was saying, just as Sonora's cell phone rang.

40

Sonora leaned against the side of the Taurus. In spite of being in jail, Tim sounded pretty much like his normal self, with the overlay of charm he reserved for times of trouble. She was trying to figure out how she felt. Decided, on the whole, that
relieved
summed it up, with the possibility of annoyance in the very near future. Rage was not as strong a possibility as she might have thought. Her son was alive, semiwell, and returning home as soon as she posted bail.

“How much is it?” she asked.

“Nine dollars.”

“Nine dollars?” Her son, the criminal.

“Yeah.” He sounded good-natured. He usually did when he was in this much trouble. Tim was invariably at his best when he was in deep with Mom—his survival instinct kicking in. “I mean, I had eleven dollars in my wallet, but they took that.”

“They always do. Tell me again why they arrested you?”

“The computer said my license was suspended.”

Sonora paused. “Is it? I
will
double-check this.” She was a cop, dammit. She pitied the vulnerability of the average parent.

“No, honest, it's some stupid-ass computer glitch, I explained it to the guy.”

“But there had to be a reason they pulled you over in the first place, Tim. How fast were you going?”

“They said they clocked me at eighty-five.”

Carefully worded, Sonora thought. “You got clocked going eighty-five miles per hour through
Boone County?
Are you insane? Haven't I told you—”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“How fast
were
you going?”

He hedged. “About that.”

“I still don't see why they didn't just call me to come pick you up.”

“It was probably the machete thing.”

“The
what?
”

“Mom, you know that machete, the one I always take camping?”

She did, indeed, know the machete. “What was it doing in the car?”

“It isn't now, it's evidence.”

“How so?”

“The guy asked me if there was anything in the car he should know about, and I said, just the machete. I thought it was okay. I was trying to be honest. Anyway, they got me for speeding, driving on a suspended license, and carrying a concealed deadly weapon.”

Sonora shut her eyes. The boy was clearly overdue for a lecture on
How to Handle the Uniformed Police Officer
. Subtitled—
The Policeman Is Not Your Friend
. “That's a bullshit charge, hon', it'll never stick. A machete is not a concealed weapon, they were just slamming you. God, I hate cops.”

“
Mom.
” Tim was laughing, sense of humor intact.

“Okay, kiddo. That still doesn't explain why you didn't call me last night.”

“I didn't want to disturb you.”

“Try again.”

“I called my friend Walter, and he and Brock said they'd come get me out. I didn't want to bother you, Mom. I know you've got this big case.”

“That's a good one. So what happened to Walter and Brock?”

“Their car broke down. I was wondering if … you're coming, aren't you? To get me?”

Interesting, that bit of uncertainty in his voice. “I'm coming.”

“I was wondering if, on our way back, could we stop and pick them up?”

“Where are they?”

“BP Subway.”

“Dammit, Tim. Is there anything else I should know?”

The deadly pause. “One thing.”

“Yes?” Her heart was pounding.
Please
, God, no drugs.

“They got me for driving barefooted.”

41

The Meadowthorpe Grill sat in a depressed-looking shoestring of a strip mall that hadn't seen pretty in a long, long time. According to a sign on the front windows, the office next door had been a dialysis center. It was empty now.

Sonora cringed. She could not imagine walking through that door with anything remotely approaching confidence. Whitmore had explained that the center had relocated because the doors were too narrow for hospital stretchers.

A blessing.

Sonora resisted a backward glance at Whitmore, who sat in his pickup truck, smoking a Marlboro Light. He had warned them that, one, there was a back door from the storeroom beside the bathrooms at the back of the grill; two, subject Kinkle had been observed going inside twenty minutes earlier, presumably for lunch; and three, the food was excellent.

Sonora got her first look at the primer-stained Monte Carlo, parked crookedly out front. She resisted the urge to look through the windows. Kinkle might be watching.

Sam went in first, holding the black mesh door open for Sonora. Suddenly, they were a couple, out on a lunch date. It took the cop patina off them, in case Kinkle was watching.

The grill was cramped, tables in the front, booths and more tables crowding the narrow dining room on the right. The place was packed with a lunch crowd that ran the gamut—most of them men, some of them in uniform: UPS, NTW, BP Oil. Men in three-piece suits. Tobacco smoke mixed with steam from the open, cafeteria-style kitchen, where people dragged trays on metal bars and ordered meat and three, or burgers from the grill.

Sam headed for the food line, handing Sonora a plastic tray and silverware wrapped in a napkin. She was hungry. She scanned the lunchroom. A brown-haired boy at a table on the left, well to the back, looked like he might be Kinkle. Too far away to be sure.

My God, did she need glasses?
Dining room too hazy with cooking steam and cigarette smoke to make positive ID
. That's how it would go into her report.

“What'll you have?” The woman behind the counter had a round, doughy face, pale gold hair in a net behind her ears, and a large smile. Her lipstick was very red, and she wore a floral apron over her jeans and tailored white shirt.

“I'll take the fried shrimp,” Sam said.

“Coleslaw?”

“And mashed potatoes. With gravy.”

“There's your bread counter next to the wall there, right by the drinks.”

They might not be regulars, Sonora thought, but they were welcome. Sonora snapped her order out. “I'll have the Salisbury steak, mashed potatoes, and green beans. And tea.” That should sit well in her stomach.

“Got your mind all made up!” The woman's tone said congratulations and we appreciate you not holding up the line. Sonora felt complimented.

The food came on heavy Chinet plates, overwhelmed beneath generous portions and pools of gravy.

“Find us a table,” Sam said, reaching for his wallet. “I'll get the drinks and the bread.”

“Okay, but I've changed my mind, I want Coke.”

“Gotcha.” He leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Just for authenticity,” he murmured, so only she could hear.

She headed for the booths, blood-red leather, much mended with steel-gray duct tape. Sonora felt conspicuous as she navigated the thin spaces between the tables and tried not to look at Kinkle.

He was looking at her, though, but so were several others, and she was relieved to settle into the booth after walking the gauntlet. But it was a man–woman thing, not a cop–killer thing. It was annoying to feel this vulnerable.

She salted her green beans, hand hovering over then rejecting the pepper shaker. She unrolled her silverware as Sam slid into the seat across from her, trampling her new white Reeboks with his shiny black shoes.

“Ouch, Sam.”

“Sorry, move your feet.”

“Move yours.”

He handed her a large, yellow-gold yeast roll. “It was this or the garlic toast.”

“How well you know me.”

“Not exactly. It's bad stakeout etiquette, eating garlic.”

“Really, Sam? Could we please stretch this rule to apply to chili?”

He waved a hand. “No. So.” He leaned close. “What's happening?”

“He's eating a sandwich and reading a … looks like a comic book. One of those Japanimation ones.”

“What kind of sandwich?”

“It looks like a BLT. Why?”

“Just curious.”

“Okay. What now?”

“We could arrest him in here, but there's a lot of people around. I told Whitmore we'd let the guy have his lunch—make sure he doesn't duck out the back—and grab him in the parking lot when he goes for the car.”

“Fine. Pass the Worcestershire sauce.”

“Are you ever going to learn to pronounce that right?”

“Are you ever going to hand it over?”

“Remember our first stakeout? You were so nervous you couldn't eat. We must've sat there twelve hours.”

Sonora reached across his plate for the Lea & Perrins. “We grow old and jaded.”

Sam took a huge bite of garlic bread, crumbs falling onto his tie. “Hey, how did Tim sound?”

“Surprisingly well.”

“Caught by the Boone County Cowboys.” Sam chuckled, shook pepper on his mashed potatoes. “Jeez, Sonora, didn't you ever warn him about those guys?”

“Many times.” She poked the green beans with her fork. “Damn, Sam, I think the beans are bad.”

“What?” He reached his spoon across the table and took a bite. “They're fine. They're good.”

“But they're … limp.”

“That's how you're supposed to cook green beans.”

“But they don't crunch.”

“No. But they taste good.”

“But they're not crisp.”

“No. They
taste
good. Don't they?”

She carefully ate one bean. “Yes.”

“That's the point, here in the South. It's supposed to taste good.” Sam swiped crispy brown shrimp, red sides showing through the batter, through a plastic cup of cocktail sauce. “This place is a helluva find. Don't you think?”

Sonora nodded, the yeasty roll sweet and fresh in her mouth. She took a bite of homemade mashed potatoes. “Remind me later to thank Kinkle.”

“Stop staring at him.”

“I'm not staring.”

“Does he look like his picture?”

“I can't tell, with that stupid ball cap on his head. Want me to go peel it off him?”

“Maybe later. When we thank him for leading us to the Meadowthorpe Grill.”

Sam sat with his elbow on the table. “Pass me the rest of that chuck steak, if you're just going to leave it.”

“It's not chuck steak, it's Salisbury steak.”

“It is not, I know chuck steak when I see it.”

“Look on the menu, Sam. S-A-L-I-S-B-U-R-Y.” She checked her watch. “Come on, dammit, let's take him.”

“Let him finish his pie. He'll head out of here in a minute or two. You have no patience, Sonora, anybody ever tell you that?”

“You, every day.” The restaurant was beginning to clear. She checked her watch.

“Will you quit with the watch? Is that all you're going to eat?”

“No and yes.” She shoved her plate across the table. “We better grab him, Sam. Get him squared away. We got the briefing at five, then I'll go and grab Tim, be back in time for the raid—”

“Girl, you are type A to the max.”

“—and I need to call home and check on Heather.”

“Why not call her now? It'll look natural.”

“I can't concentrate on my kids and a perp at the same—”

“Good point. Maybe you should go outside with Whitmore.”

“Oh, and that won't look suspicious?”

“We could stage a fight.”

“We don't have to stage one, we're—whoa, whoa, here we go.”

Sam forked the final chunk of Salisbury steak into his mouth. He wiped his lips with a napkin. Took her hand across the table and looked lovingly into her eyes. “Don't be impatient. Give it a second. Make sure he's not headed for the men's room.”

“By the way, Sam, I am positive that Sanders is sleeping with Gruber.”

“I cannot believe he's not stopping to pee. That kid had three refills on his Coke, he must have cast-iron kidneys.”

“You're getting old, Sam.”

“You've been to the ladies' room twice.”

“You're not supposed to
count
, Sam. A gentleman isn't even supposed to notice. A gentleman—come on, dammit, he's getting away.”

42

“Getting away” was something of an exaggeration. Kinkle kept his elbows in tight to his body and he slid sideways between the tables, heading for the door. He kept his head low, a man accustomed to not being noticed.

He was thinnish, his Wrangler jeans did not fit well, too loose in the seat, too long at the bottom, hem flaring in an unattractive cut reminiscent of a style popular in the unattractive seventies, a style making an inexplicable resurgence. He wore a mud-brown, polyester-filled vest, stained on the back, a red ball cap, and wire-rimmed glasses. Sonora got a quick glimpse of his face, one side mottled with whitish scar tissue. He seemed young—she would have guessed early twenties, not thirty-one. For some reason, she felt sorry for him.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Whitmore flick a cigarette onto the pavement, squashing it into the asphalt, smoke streaming out of his nose.

Kinkle, unaware, went straight for his car.

Sam moved in behind him, hand in the small of Kinkle's back, shoving him hard into the side of the car. “
Police
. Hands on the roof.
Hands on the roof.
”