The Debt Collector

by Lynn S. Hightower

  He looked to be about seven or eight, wore huge white and black tennis shoes and a Chicago Bulls cap, and struggled down the walk with an aquarium, too large and heavy for his arm span. Sonora could not contain the internal mommy cringe. A woman, large and pear-shaped in navy blue sweatpants, closed and locked the front door and followed the boy down the sidewalk, passing him by and opening the back gate of the red Honda Civic in the concrete driveway.

  The boy reminded her of Tim, years ago. God, he’d grown up fast. She felt like crying all of a sudden, why she did not know.

  Short on sleep, or going crazy.

  She, who was usually lost on her own street, found her way to the Stinnets’ house like a bee to the hive.

  The gray stone ranch had taken on that hollow impersonal air—once a home, now a crime scene. Sonora was relieved to see Sam sitting in the Taurus, parked in front of the house. She double-parked beside him in the cul-de-sac. The Saturn was still in the driveway. The LeBaron, by virtue of that open door, was a possible crime scene and had been towed away by CSU for scrutiny.

  “You’re late,” Sam said, stepping out of the car and handing her a cup of coffee. It was a mocha-chocolate mix, no whipped cream, a hint of nutmeg. Precisely her favorite. He leaned against the car door, sipping from his own cup, which would, Sonora knew, contain a straight black Italian roast, provided he’d been able to get it. He looked tired but crisp, showered. He gave her a lazy smile. “Sleep in, did you?”

  Sonora took a tentative sip from the white plastic top that rested on the thick cardboard cup. “You’ve been here all of five minutes.” She headed up the sidewalk. He hadn’t gone in without her. She didn’t blame him. She wouldn’t have gone in without him.

  He walked behind her, closer than usual. “Five minutes? Says who?”

  “Says me. Coffee’s still hot.”

  He whistled. “What a detective. Ever—”

  “Think of going into police work?” It had come to this. Finishing each other’s sentences. “Maybe when I give up the exotic dancing.” Sonora broke the tape across the front door, unlocked the Cincinnati PD padlock. She glanced back over her shoulder. Three of the crocuses had been flattened. Probably when the EMTs had wheeled the bodies out.

  She went inside, paused in the living room, waiting for Sam.

  It was warm in the house, too warm. The air seemed oddly thick and expectant, and there was a heaviness to the room, as if the walls had been saturated with emotion. Sonora went to the phone, checked the caller ID. When they’d left last night it had been suspiciously clear—no calls showing on a caller ID box that had the capacity to store sixty-five names and numbers. Between last night and this morning there had been six calls, one from Franklin Ward, made from his living room while she and Sam were there to break the news, and five unavailables.

  The answering-machine light flashed red. Two messages. Sonora hit play.

  Please call American Express at 1-800 …

  Please call Star Bank Visa at 1-800 …

  Sonora looked at Sam. “I stopped at her great-uncle’s place on the way in.”

  “Ward’s place? How did they take a cop on the doorstep at that time of the morning?”

  “They fed me biscuits.”

  “Some people have all the luck. Get anything useful?”

  Sonora shrugged. “Not much. The family was in a serious money crunch.”

  “You think?” Sam pointed at the answering machine.

  “And there was an ex-husband, but so far back in the picture the odds are pretty remote. Not much else, just that the Stinnets were exactly what they looked like. Average middle-class family.”

  “Average middle-class families don’t get butchered, Sonora.”

  “This one did.”

  “What have you got on the ex?”

  “Teenage marriage. The girl, Tammy, was hers from that marriage, but the guy had cut out by the time she was born.”

  “Tell me one I haven’t heard.”

  “Last seen at a Taco Bell in Kansas City.”

  “Serves him right. Anybody bothering them? Lawsuits, affairs, feuds with the mailman?”

  “Just Visa.”

  “If that could kill you, we’d all be dead. Start in here, then?”

  “It’s where we are.”

  Sonora sat at a kitchen desk, looking through bills and paperwork, all piled up in no particular order, just like at her own house. She wished people would get their lives organized.

  A glance through the refrigerator and the pantry had revealed careful shopping—peanut butter, generic cereal, bologna, and macaroni and cheese. Frozen burritos. A six-pack of Miller Lite with one twelve-ounce can missing, an unopened bottle of Blue Nun. No other alcohol in the house. She and Sam had searched the usual places for joints, searched the medicine cabinets for sleeping pills and happy-face self-medications. Nothing but Excedrin Migraine, Benadryl, Chlor-Trimeton, and a wealth of children’s medicines—Triaminic, Orajel for teething infants, liquid Advil for children. Fifty-milligram tablets of diclofenac for Carl Stinnet, three times a day or as needed for pain. Probably for that broken ankle. St. John’s wort.

  “Aha!” Sam said.

  Sonora looked up from her papers. They were spending a lot of time in the kitchen, going into the bedrooms only as needed.

  “Overdue movie. What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?”

  “How late?”

  “Three weeks.”

  “That solves it. They were taken out by those blueshirts at Blockbuster Video. Any clue about library fines?”

  “Go ahead, have your fun. When we break the chain of video terrorists you’ll have me to thank for the collar, the promotion, the interviews on Montel.”

  “Maybe I’ll get a book deal.” Sonora stacked papers, yawned.

  “Anything?” Sam asked.

  “Just bills.”

  “Feel right at home, do you?”

  “Shut up.”

  18

  Sam was singing. You’re darn tootin’, I like Fig Newton.

  Sonora paused in front of the elevator of the Board of Elections building. “It’s Newtons,” she said.

  “What?”

  “It’s Fig Newtons, with an s. You’re darn tootin’, I like Fig Newtons.”

  “No it isn’t, that doesn’t rhyme.” Sam grabbed the doors before they closed, went through the familiar struggle. “Get in the elevator, will you?”

  She shook her head. “Go on up. I forgot something.”

  “What?”

  “Just go.” She dashed off, went around the corner. Leaned against the wall. What the hell was the matter with her? Why couldn’t she get on the stupid elevator that she’d ridden almost every day of her working life, which was close to almost every day of her life?

  Maybe it was a psychic thing. Maybe it was going to get stuck. She’d be able to rescue Sam. She wandered down the hallway, wondering whether the staircase was behind door number one, door number two, or door number three.

  She ran, ten sets of twelve steps, and was winded and sweating when she burst through the doors of the bullpen. Sam was at the coffeemaker with Crick and Gruber and a man she didn’t recognize. The man was punching Crick’s shoulder, the two of them grinning at each other like a couple of dogs who’ve been offered a ride in the car.

  “That was fast,” Sam said. “Did you get it?”

  Both Crick and the other man turned and looked at her.

  “Get what?”

  “Whatever it was you forgot.”

  “Oh, sure.” Sonora smoothed her hair back. The stranger was looking at her with a smile that seemed so knowing Sonora could swear he read her mind. He raised a red can of Coca-Cola in salute and took a sip. Everything about him, other than the cup of coffee that should have been grafted onto the end of his hand, said cop. Were they getting a new guy? Nobody ever told her anything.

  He put the can down. “Detective Blair? We talked on the phone. Jack Van Owen.” He reached out a hand and they shook, and Sonora
stared at him so hard that Sam gave her a funny look and Crick cleared his throat.

  “How ya been?” Crick asked him.

  Van Owen nodded like a man who’d been okay. “Look, I’m not here to get under your feet. But I heard about the olive pits and I think it’s got to be this Aruba. You don’t know him, he was before your time.”

  Crick glanced over at Sonora, shook his head at Van Owen. “Blair doesn’t think there ever was a time before my time.”

  Van Owen grinned at Sonora. “He was a cop then, hon’, he just wasn’t Homicide.” He turned to Crick. “You were on that task force, the organized-crime thing, right?”

  “Something like that.”

  What like that, Sonora wanted to know, but knew better than to ask. Crick had always seemed like the kind of man who had seen it all and never been surprised. Jaded at birth.

  “Something amuse you, Detective?”

  “No, sir.” It was the idea of Crick as a baby. She couldn’t wrap her mind around it.

  Van Owen, she admitted to herself, was something of a surprise. She had expected him to be a whole lot older, and she tried to remember what she’d heard about the Van Owen legend. She knew that he had retired on disability, injured in the line of duty, a bullet to the left cortex of the brain. She looked for a scar. Saw none. Well, no, there it was, just at the hairline.

  There was something about the man.

  There were people who had theories about Karma, people who believed you dealt with the same souls over and over. Sonora was cynical and pragmatic and she thought Karma would make a great name for herbal tea. A new line from Celestial Seasonings.

  “Nice to meet you,” she said. His hand was warm in hers, nice grip, before he pulled away.

  So this was the famous Detective Van Owen.

  If Sam was the cowboy in the tan pants and blue chambray shirt, a sweat-stained Stetson and a ready smile, Jack Van Owen was the man in the silk flowered vest. She pictured him smoking a fat cigar, thinking shrewd thoughts, immaculate in tailored black pants, smelling of expensive cologne, the best bourbon on his breath.

  Women would watch him and men would be wary. But Van Owen would slap them on the back, and whatever it was he wanted them to do, be it illegal, unethical, or immoral, there’d be a wink and a grin and a piece of the pie, as long as they did what they were told and didn’t cross him.

  He frowned, then gave her a half smile that bunched up his cheeks, like a squirrel with a pouch of nuts. “I’m sorry. But what kind of perfume do you wear?”

  “Escada,” Sonora said, aware that Crick and Sam and Gruber were looking slightly stunned by the turn of conversation. She felt a sense of dread. The guys would never let her get away with this one.

  Van Owen was nodding. “I’m sorry, that was personal. It’s just that my wife loved that scent, God bless her.”

  There was the kind of pause in the conversation where the living were brought up short by memories of the dead.

  Sonora felt annoyed. Disabled in the line of duty. Dead wife. He’d get the sympathy vote.

  Crick inclined his head. “Mickey’s in Interview Three, with some preliminaries. Sitting in?”

  This last was to Van Owen, who hesitated, glanced at his watch. “If you think I can be of help.”

  “A little background would be nice, if these turn out to be the guys. You know ’em.”

  “That I do.” Van Owen picked up the can of Coke. “Let’s see if I still remember the way.”

  19

  Sonora sat beside Sam, who leaned close and whispered in her ear. “What kind of perfume is that you’re wearing, anyway? Eau de Horse?”

  “Leave me alone.”

  He pushed her chair sideways with his size twelve-and-a-half foot.

  Gruber pushed her chair back in place and sat on her other side. “What’s that perfume you’re wearing, Sonora?”

  This was just the beginning, she thought. Stupid Jack Van Owen. She hated these retired guys Crick was always dragging in. It’ll be you someday, said the rude voice in her head.

  “It’s deodorant, Gruber, you should try it.”

  “She shoots, she scores.”

  Mickey was looking at her. “We haven’t identified the prints yet, but we’ve got some good ones. Including a few of yours, Sonora.”

  “Me? Where?” Her face was going red.

  “The bed.”

  “Well excuse me for trying to save a life.”

  Crick held up a hand. “What else you got, Mickey?”

  “Prints everywhere, like I said, except on the caller ID box, which was wiped clean.” Mickey, a short man, barrel-chested with dark hair showing on his arms beneath the short-sleeved striped shirt, rested his backside on the edge of the table. “The little gray pebbles, as you called them, Blair, are olive pits, as per my early suspicions.”

  Van Owen was nodding.

  “We found them in the mailbox, on the body of the father, and one in the hair of Joy Stinnet.”

  Sonora winced. She hadn’t known about that one.

  “Anything on the missing Jeep?” Crick asked Gruber.

  “Nothing yet.”

  “What did you get from the next of kin?” Crick looked from Sam to Sonora.

  “We’ve only talked to Joy’s people.”

  Sam loosened his tie. “Nothing but average, ordinary folk.”

  “Any drug paraphernalia in the house?”

  Sam was shaking his head. “And we were looking for it, believe me.”

  “What’d you get from the neighborhood canvass?” Crick was back to Gruber again.

  “Seemed fairly well-liked. Nobody noticed anything unusual about the people who went in and out. Sometimes painter guys that Stinnet used in his business as a contractor, some of them were a little rough-looking. The worst complaint I got was some of Tammy’s friends played their car stereos too loud. But she was well-liked, baby-sat for some of the neighbors when she wasn’t training or competing with the swim team. No strange people coming in at night. Next-door neighbor said the lights were usually out by eleven, but you could see that the TV was going in the master bedroom. Her theory is they went to bed with Letterman every night, cause she and Joy used to go over the best of the top-ten lists.”

  Crick leaned back in his chair, rubbed the bridge of his nose. “This isn’t adding up.”

  “They were in a severe money crunch,” Sonora said.

  Crick frowned. “You get the impression they were borrowing from the mob or something?”

  “No, sir. Visa and American Express.” Sonora looked at Sam, knew he was thinking about the Blockbuster Video joke. He narrowed his eyes and shook his head, ever so gently.

  As if she would.

  “Okay.” Crick pushed his chair away from the table. “Jack, how about you give us what you know on this olive-pit wacko.”

  Van Owen turned so he could see them, that half smile spreading across his face. Sonora found that it was not in her to resist that smile.

  He was an average-looking man, speaking objectively, a hard thing to do if you spent more than five seconds with him. Sonora tried to figure it out. Decided a lot of it was the smile. It made him attractive, to men and women. There was something knowing in his eyes, something that saw you and gave the impression that he knew all about you and liked you anyway.

  “This guy I’m thinking about—”

  “He eats olives.” Gruber. Interrupting.

  “Yeah. Green olives, with the pits. Not a pimiento man. You a pimiento man, Detective?”

  “I am at that,” Gruber said.

  “This guy’s not. His name is Lancaster, aka Lanky, Aruba. Probably got a picture here, in the file.” This to Crick, who nodded and opened a manila envelope. “There you go. Take a good look, and go carefully with this guy. He’s really out there, paranoid and dangerous. On all the Secret Service and FBI lists, just can’t quite get his shit together well enough to assassinate anybody, thank God.”

  Gruber handed the picture over to Sonora.
She frowned, thinking that there was something peculiar about the mug shot. She chewed the inside of her cheek, decided it was the total absence of self-consciousness. People in mug shots showed emotion—they were sheepish, angry, bewildered, intensely annoyed. Either that, or they went to the other extreme, ranging from a look that was blankly stoic to the prison-yard stare.

  But this guy—might as well snap a Polaroid; he seemed indifferent to the camera. The shot caught him looking up, to the left, squinting his right eye, as if something on the ceiling puzzled him. His hair was curly, cut close to his head, and he needed a shave. Cleaned up, with normality in the eyes instead of that puzzled coldness, he might have been attractive, but he had an alien out-there quality that would never get him on Suddenly Single.

  “Six two or thereabouts.” Van Owen looked at the file. “Six one. Blond hair, blue eyes, scar down the right side of his chin since that mug shot was taken.”

  “You remember that?” Sonora asked.

  Van Owen gave her a crooked half smile. “I gave it to him. He went after the girl in reception when we were walking him out. She wasn’t behind glass back then.” Van Owen showed her an open palm. “Totally unexpected, came from nowhere. Guy was cuffed, had two uniforms to baby-sit him. I was following them out—talking to him, just trash talk. I have no clue what set him off. What was it he said?” Van Owen looked up at the ceiling. “Something about Hopi Indians voting the straight Democratic ticket, as I recall. No rhyme or reason. Weird guy.”

  Crick tossed a file from his lap to the desk. Took out another envelope with a picture. Passed it to Sonora.

  “This is his nephew or cousin or some kind of relation.”

  “Step-nephew, I think,” Van Owen said. “One Barton Melville Kinkle.”

  Gruber snorted. “Lanky Aruba and Barton Kinkle. What a couple of losers.”

  Van Owen kept talking. “Never been convicted of anything except possession of marijuana, twice, misdemeanor both times. Juries feel sorry for him. Hell, I feel sorry for him. He’s a weak link. Falls into things. Easily manipulated, easily intimidated. Possibly the lowest self-esteem on the planet.”