The Debt Collector (30 page)

She held up the key ring that had been confiscated during Kinkle's arrest in Kentucky. A chain, dangling a small plastic Wile E. Coyote, left ear missing. For herself she would have chosen Rocky and Bullwinkle.

There were keys for the Monte Carlo ignition, one for the trunk. A key for the Heartbreak Hotel. Leaving two keys unaccounted for. One fit a dead bolt, one looked made for a spring lock. Sonora fingered them, wondering. Where do you guys go? she thought.

Anybody who could tell her was dead.

62

Sonora was sitting in the Sonic parking lot, looking at a menu to see what she didn't want for lunch, when the cell phone rang. She flicked a glance at the clock on the dash. Yeah, probably the kids; they'd been home from school long enough to be tracking her down. She'd had more freedom as a teenager.

“Would this be Heather or Tim?”

“Hi, Mom, it's Tim. You had a call.”

Gillane? “Man or woman?”

“Some woman—”

The side speaker crackled and a voice asked her what she'd like to order. She closed the window. “It wasn't Martha Brooks, was it?” She had kept the phone faithfully by her side, but the only calls she'd gotten were for bourbon balls.

“No. She said her name was Belinda and you would know who she was.”

“Belinda? I don't know any Belindas.”

“Okay. Bye.”

“Wait, hold on, what did she say?”

“There's no need to yell at me, is there?”

“
What
did she say?”

Pause. “She said to tell you that one time she was with Lanky and Barty up in Cincinnati—”

Lanky and Barty? Of course. Belinda Kinkle, Lanky Aruba's sister. Step-sister. Word was out, Lanky was dead. Belinda was safe now. Sonora's heartbeat picked up.

“—and that she and Lanky sat in the car one time while Barty got out and went inside some big warehouse-office-building thing. She said it was old brown brick with a big window in the front that had paper over it so you couldn't see inside. She thinks Barty might have been meeting that man you wanted to know about.”

The third man. Sonora dug her fingernails into her palm. “She say where the building was?”

“She said it was big.”

“That's helpful.”

“Oh, and it was next to the Olden Brewery. It may have been part of the brewery a long time ago, but she thinks it looks empty now.”

“That it?”

“That's it. She called collect, was that okay?”

“Yeah. What made you take it?”

No answer.

“Tim?”

“I met this girl in jail, and her name was Belinda. I thought it might be her.”

“Well, jeez.” She wondered how to field this one. Didn't have a clue.

“
Mom
, don't hang up. Heather wants to know if she can have one of your shoe boxes.”

“What for? I have shoes in them.” One of the few areas of her life where she was organized. Certain high-heeled dress shoes stayed in the box. High heels and Reeboks, no in between. Except there were barn boots now. Life grew ever complicated.

“She needs it for James Bond.”

“James
Bond?
”

“Mom, she's adopted one of the mice.”

Sonora cruised by the warehouse parking lot, counting four cars. One looked abandoned, had a sticker on the window for pickup. She parked in the Olden Brewery lot next door, up along the curb, so she could watch. Belinda was right, the first-floor windows were opaque with yellowed curling sheets of paper, plastered up from the inside so nobody could see in.

She picked up her cell phone, called Franklin Ward, brought him up to date. Then she had a sudden thought. “One other thing,” she said, before he could hang up. From what Mrs. Cavanaugh had told her, Ward could use the money, and she could use the place. “Mr. Ward, don't hesitate to turn me down if you don't like the idea, but you remember that I told you I have a horse of my own? I don't know what you're planning to do with Joy's horse, sir. If you're even thinking you'll keep her. But I need a place for Poppin, and I would pay you full board if you want to take on a buddy for Abigail. He can stay out quite a bit, so you don't have to clean a stall every day. But you may not want to take this on. I just—”

“How about we give it a try? A month or two, see if it works out?”

“You don't think it would be too much for you?” What was the matter with her, the man was ancient.

“No, I like the idea of you bringing your kids out to ride, having people around the place. And Mrs. Cavanaugh's granddaughter likes to come down and ride Abigail; she'll do those stalls. Hardly be much work for me, and that old mare is awful lonesome.”

Sonora felt lightweight all of a sudden. “That's great, really great.” Poppin, that devil, was saved. For the moment anyway. “How soon can I bring him out?”

“Anytime, Detective. Come on out here whenever you like.”

“He, um, he can be kind of a pig, I better warn you.”

Ward seemed amused. “I'm not worried. We run into a problem, I'll call George.”

“George?”

“George Smock. Horseman from Kentucky. If there's trouble, George will sort it out.”

Sonora rang off. Watched the lot a while longer. Took down the license numbers of all the cars and called them in to her favorite clerk at the DMV.

Decided, after a while, she was wasting her time. She had that old bad feeling. This case was over. This was one of the ones that was getting away.

63

Inside the bullpen, on the board, Sonora saw the Stinnet homicide listed as solved. She turned away, almost ran into Crick coming out of the men's room, drying his hands on a paper towel.

“You're up, Sonora, for the next corpse that comes in. Partner up with Molliter.” He held up a hand. “I know you don't like it, but try to get along. We've released the Stinnets' bodies to Amber something or other—”

“Wexford.”

“Yeah, Wexford. She's making the funeral arrangements. Give her a call, and be sure you're there, be the PR piece for the department.”

“What about Eddie Stinnet?”

Crick tossed the paper towel into the trash can by the coffeepot. He snatched a junk memo off the bulletin board and crumpled it up like it was an enemy to his peace of mind. It followed the towel into the trash. “Had to cut him loose, but I've got Gruber and Sanders working it.”

“Gruber and Sanders? You're cutting me out?”

“You're off it.”

“I'm off it? Aruba and Kinkle were mine; why am I off it?”

“Whitmore's following Aruba up in Kentucky—”

“But aren't we coordinating—”

“We as in Gruber and Sanders, Sonora. It's your partner that got shot, you're too close to this. Makes for bad police work. You're off, let it go, and get back to work.” He headed for his office without a backward look.

Sonora looked for Gruber, but he wasn't there, desk abandoned. Off working her case, she guessed. Molliter walked over to the coffeemaker and filled her favorite mug, adding cream and a scoop of chocolate flavoring from his personal stash. “Here, looks like you could use this.”

Molliter being kind? What was the world coming to?

She thanked him stiffly, moved like a zombie, heading for her desk but never making it.

Crick's door slammed open and he took a step into the bullpen, tight-lipped and focused. “Detective Blair?”

“Yes, sir?” What now, dammit?

“
In my office.
”

In she went, stiff-legged and wary. Everyone in the bullpen staring.

“Shut the door,” he told her before she was halfway in. He turned and faced her. Studying.

Sonora watched him back, all instincts sizzling. He might be a stranger, the feelings she was getting, her internal reality shifting, the nerves up and down her spine going tight and prickly. Something was off here. Nothing felt right.

“Is this yours?” His voice was low and icy hot.

“What are you talking about?”

“You tell me.” He handed her a computer printout. A fax, from the DMV, the license plates she'd run from the warehouse lot.

Was that all? Her knees went soft with relief. “It's just some plates I ran, some stuff from—” And then she focused, took in the names on the printout. “Jack Van Owen's name is on here.”

“That it is.”

Sonora took a step backward, studied the sheet in her hands.

“Why are you running Jack's car, Sonora?” The voice was so soft, so angry.

“I didn't know it was his car.”

Crick settled ever so slowly in his chair, voice going all at once gentle. “Sit down, please, Sonora. I think you better explain.”

She obeyed. “It's my third-man theory, sir.”

There was no explosion, which surprised her. So she told him. About Kinkle's reaction under interrogation. Quincy David's rumors about an angel who forgave debts, about a check-cashing service run by an enigma, and an angel was nothing if not an enigma. And finally, a break in the wall around the man behind the scenes. Aruba's step-sister, Belinda. Sonora was proud that she had established rapport with the woman, that it had paid off. She had led her to the warehouse.

“Why did you run the cars?” Crick asked offhanded.

“Routine.”

“Routine.” It was strange, the way he said it. Sad, in a way, very distant. “Okay, Detective, you can go.”

“What, you mean, that's it?”

He opened his arms wide. “What else would there be?”

“But don't you think it's strange, that Jack Van Owen's car was there?”

“Maybe yes, maybe no. There could be a million reasons.”

“How about I ask him?”

“How about you don't?”

“Well, I'm going to.”

“Sonora. What do you know, I mean really know, about Jack Van Owen?”

“Not a whole hell of a lot, sir, just that I like him, and as far as you're concerned, he's a fucking saint.”

No reaction. “Eleven years ago Jack and I walked into a domestic—a man holed up with his wife and five kids, the three still alive crying their heads off, the wife still alive but a mess: broken arm, smashed ribs, probably not a tooth left in her head.

“And in walks Jack. Two years before, his wife, Lacy, hit a coal truck head on, was killed instantly. His son, Angelo, dead too. And you could see it in his eyes, he was going in there, and he was going to bring out those kids. He talks his way in, negotiates hour after hour, trades hostages for Slim Jims and root beer; he brought those babies out one by one. And then he went in for the wife, me at his back, waiting. He fought for her, Sonora, talked himself hoarse, but it all came down to a gun at her head.

“She didn't even cry. Just lay there, waiting, almost like she wanted to die. But Jack wasn't going to let her go. Moms with kids, he couldn't stand it. He jumps the guy, the gun goes off …”

“So what happened?”

“The mother lived.”

“And the guy?”

“He didn't live. I shot him. And Jack took a bullet in the head, and the rest, as they say—”

“Is history. Anything else, sir?”

“Leave Van Owen to me.”

Sonora told Molliter she was going to lunch, and if he thought it was odd at four o'clock in the afternoon to be taking a second lunch he kept the opinion to himself. She went straight for a pay phone, got the number she needed from Information.

“Detective Blair?” If Quincy David was surprised he didn't much show it. “Haven't been arresting any of my clients, have you?”

“Not a chance. I have a question for you.”

“You got me.”

“That check business down in Indian Hill, the one on Delaney, the one where you're trying to find the owner. I give you a name and a social-security number, would that help you nail it down?”

There was a long silence. Then, finally, “It couldn't hurt none, could it?”

“Confidentially?”

“Confidentially.”

“Jack Van Owen.” She reeled off the social. Gave him her cell number. “You want to get in touch, use that number and that number only.”

64

The building was a good ten stories high, brown brick, dirty, dark windows. A light shone from the top of the building. Sonora counted windows, decided the light came from the seventh floor. A warehouse from hell. There was one car in the parking lot around back, other than Sonora's. A battered silver Mazda, 1992, registered to Jack Van Owen.

No car ego, Sonora thought. What did Van Owen care about? She had seen no sign of a woman in his life, though the vibes he gave off were strictly heterosexual. Did he take ballroom dancing every Wednesday night, race stock cars, sit around and watch the Sports Channel?

There was a padlock on the back door. Sonora tried the mystery keys on Kinkle's Wile E. Coyote key ring. Promising, but not quite. She jiggled the one in the middle that made a pretense of fitting, and the padlock clicked and sighed a rusty release. She was in.

She debated whether or not to lock the door behind her, decided not. A quick exit was a wonderful thing. She had a flashlight and turned it on. Same flashlight she'd stolen from a uniform a year and a half ago. He was a nice guy; and she'd put a word in for him. He'd never come back for the flashlight. Maybe he figured it was a good trade. She'd heard rumors that he was up for his shield.

She shut the back door, aimed her light everywhere. It was hard to get a feel for the place, dark as it was. She missed Sam.

Her heart was beating, swift and terrible. She was afraid, more of the dark empty building than of finding Jack Van Owen. And of course, if Crick found out, her ass was grass.

She moved forward, looking for a stairwell. Her Reeboks made soft little squeaks on the linoleum.

Downstairs there was a large desk countertop, like you would see in a bank, standing like an island in the center of a large empty room. She kept moving, found a bank of elevators.