The Debt Collector

by Lynn S. Hightower

  It was not in her to snub him, not tonight, not after they’d all worked together to bring home the Stinnet Home Invaders, according to a headline that Sonora had heard not more than ten minutes ago on CNN. She gave Molliter the thumbs-up. Turned the lamp off over her desk. Headed for the bathroom to comb her hair and put on lipstick and refresh her entire scheme of makeup. She found a jeans skirt in her locker, a pair of black tights, and a sweater. She’d been looking for that sweater. She put the lipstick on, not the purple stuff, the Angel Red that had been getting such rave reviews.

  She slid out of the bathroom door, hoping not to be noticed.

  But they were waiting for her, all of them lined up and down the sides of the walls, whistling and making catcalls, and she decided that it had been much too long since she’d had a date.

  “Thank you, thank you, to all the little people.” She tried and failed at dignity, walking past the gauntlet and through the swing doors, took the stairs because just now she did not like being trapped in elevators, and made it out the front door to the sidewalk below.

  Darkness had come softly while she’d been doing paperwork. Gillane was waiting for her, parked illegally, standing by the beautiful white Caddie. She saw him before he saw her. He wore a white shirt, simple but incredibly expensive-looking, medium starch, bright white cotton, sleeves rolled back twice, accentuating the strong, tan wrists. It hit her quite suddenly how attractive he was. She felt nervous suddenly, and then he saw her and smiled. She glanced up at the fifth floor, wondering if that was really Sam peering out the window.

  “I’ve got the top down.”

  “I noticed.”

  “Do you think you’ll be too cold?”

  “No, I’ll be fine.”

  He brought a black leather bomber jacket out of the backseat and handed it to her. “Just in case.”

  He opened the car door and she settled back into the cushion and closed her eyes. Fabulous car. Fabulous night. Tonight the Cincinnati Police Department was made up of heroes, and she was one of them. Tonight she was not going to celebrate alone.

  He started the engine. “Don’t let me forget to tell you that you look pretty.”

  “Don’t forget to tell me I look pretty.”

  The engine caught. Sonora leaned back against the seat and the car jerked forward. He was speeding, right in downtown Cincinnati in front of a whole slew of cops going off shift.

  Of course, knowing her coworkers, they’d leave Gillane in the dust given half a chance. Cops were closet speed freaks, no matter what they said to your face.

  “Margarita?” Gillane asked, loudly, over the noise of the wind.

  “Yes, please.”

  “Music?”

  “Loud. Can we dance?”

  “We’d be fools not to.”

  Heat. Bright colors flashing on a dark, smoke-hazy dance floor. The pulse of music in her ears and blood in her veins. Sonora was feeling the margaritas, and the lack of sleep, and she smiled at Gillane, feeling herself melting away, a heavenly sensation after the week she’d had.

  It came to her like a memory, like something she had known by heart in years gone by, something that was coming back in little bits and pieces. Happiness. Sufficient unto the day. The music was party stuff, familiar, rhythms she had grown up with, and what woman could resist dancing to “YMCA” with a man as handsome as Gillane?

  He almost carried her to the car. “Do you always go under this fast?”

  “How many drinks did I have?”

  “One and a half, sweetie.”

  “Tired, Gillane.”

  “When is the last time you slept? Or ate, for that matter?”

  She curled sideways in the car, trying to think and having no luck whatsoever. These questions were just too hard.

  “You’re cold. Let me put the top up.”

  “No, don’t, I’m not cold.”

  She felt the leather jacket being tucked over her shoulders. Heard the squeak of Gillane’s car door, the sound of the engine as it caught. Then he leaned across the seat, took her chin in his hands, and kissed her.

  He smelled good, and tasted of lime and club soda and breath mints, and her head was spinning with tequila, fatigue, and him. She opened her eyes. He had a way of looking down at her, with a sort of world-weary attentive kindness that stripped the cynical defensive veneer she showed to the world, making her feel young. And yet.

  He could not be that much older than she was. He had a non-judgmental quality she found very attractive. She had seen it before, in cops who had been on the job a very long time. A quality they would acquire at the end of their tour, a quality that seemed to come with a stillness, too often tempered with a look in the eyes that let you know this state of mind had come at a cost, this state of mind had inflicted damage.

  And she began to wonder about Gillane, a man who could have such a look in his eyes, and be so young, and self-confident, and kiss so well.

  “Did I forget to tell you that I find you unbearably attractive and that I am fascinated by the tornado you call everyday life?”

  She traced the line of his jaw with an idle finger, so tired she could barely form the words. “I love your chin … and I love your car.”

  He laughed. Kissed her on the forehead and buckled the seat belt around her waist. “Come on, Cinderella. Let’s get you home.”

  And your voice, she thought. I really like that too.

  53

  Sonora inhaled the musky sweet scent of alfalfa hay, the dark fragrance of grain. She had bought a hay bale from Franklin Ward and was making an overdue visit to Poppin. She felt a flash of guilt. She hadn’t liked the way he looked the last time she’d been out.

  She checked her watch: 7:04. The sun was new and her body was still awash in the stunned discomfort of early-morning fatigue, though she had actually slept the night before.

  The coffee was waking her up, even the harsh brew of McDonald’s that she could never drink without wincing, no matter how many little buckets of half-and-half she poured in through the opening along the side. The plastic lid caught her lip. But still. It was coffee. And the warmth eased the tightness in her chest and charged the synapses in her brain, and she started to feel better.

  She turned off the rutted two-lane road onto a gravel one-lane grass-pitted stretch that raised a fine white cloud of dust. No sign of life from the farm owner’s yellow brick house, mud-stained at the base. The barn doors were closed.

  It was an old tobacco barn, sagging sideways, with an uneven dirt floor, overflowing trash cans, rusty farm tools with blades and odd shapes in a pile by the door. Grass and weeds grew up through the rusty metal. Poppin always danced around the mound of farm implements, feeling one of those mysterious horse threats that comes from unexpected places and seems to involve no logic whatsoever.

  Sonora pulled the Pathfinder to a stop along the fence line. Poppin had his back to her. He gazed longingly over the fence at the two mares in the next paddock, then put his head down in search of grass with the undying optimism of a horse on very bad pasture.

  He had been here for two months. All the weight Sonora had managed to put on him was steadily dropping off. She was paying for full care and, from the looks of the horse, getting no care at all.

  He looked up, saw her or the car or maybe smelled the hay, limped over. He was in no hurry—a good indication that he was not in the habit of being fed. Sonora waited till he made it to her side of the fence, let him rub his nose on her arm and lick her wrist before she stroked his neck, and moved to the back of the Pathfinder. Under Poppin’s curious eye, she cut the orange string that held the hay flakes together and scooped a third of the bale into her arms, tossing it over the fence. The hay fanned out into five flakes, and Poppin bent his head close to smell them.

  Sonora, brushing alfalfa leaves off her shirt, watched Poppin cautiously lipping the hay. He might be two hundred pounds underweight—you could see the shadow of his ribs and the bony thrust of his hips—but he was a hay connoiss
eur, and he would make up his own mind.

  He snorted and began to eat, fresh sweet alfalfa and grass mix, with more enthusiasm than he had ever shown for mere timothy. He lifted his head and considered her while he chewed. She was going to have to move him. Again. And there would be no guarantee that the next place would be better than the last.

  Selling him was not an option. No one would buy this horse, no one with good intentions. She leaned over the fence to rub his neck, but he moved away and concentrated on the hay, ungrateful as always.

  She headed for the water trough, to make sure it was clean and full. She was going to be late for work.

  54

  Sonora looked into Interview One. No sign of Sam. She went back to his desk. No Sam. Checked her watch. Looked out the window. The streets were Sunday morning quiet.

  She glanced over at Gruber, who was hanging up the phone. “Yo. Dude.”

  “Me dude?”

  “You dude. I need to drive across the street and grab Kinkle. Sam was supposed to go with me, but I can’t find him. Want to go stretch your legs?”

  “Did you know you have twigs in your hair?”

  Sonora patted her hair, found a wadded stick of hay. “Those aren’t twigs, Gruber, that’s alfalfa.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “About five dollars a bale.”

  “I’m not even going to ask you why it’s in your hair, Sonora, but I can’t help you out. I got to go see a man about a corpse. Get some uniforms to do the pickup.”

  “No, Gruber, I want him now.”

  Sanders looked up. “I’ll go.”

  “I thought you were going with me,” Gruber said.

  “No, I got to wait for that call from the mother. She’s calling on her break. If we go now, Sonora, I’m free.”

  “Let’s move, then.”

  “Driving or walking?”

  “Driving,” Sonora said. She grabbed her purse.

  Sanders checked her gun. Closed her center desk drawer. Took out a compact and reapplied her lipstick.

  Sonora waited. “I thought you were the one in a hurry.”

  “I’m ready.”

  The Hamilton County Jail, conveniently located just across the street, was Barton Kinkle’s current though temporary home. He wore the uniform, orange jumpsuit, and his hands were cuffed in front. A guard, black, female, kept a firm but kindly hand on his elbow.

  “You want him hobbled?” The guard looked at Sanders. Kinkle looked at Sonora, gave her a hesitant smile.

  “No,” Sanders said.

  “Yes.” From Sonora. Sanders looked at her. “Yes. Every precaution.”

  Sanders nodded, unoffended. The guard wound chains around Kinkle’s ankles.

  Sonora gave him a grin. “Think of it as a sign of respect.” Sam would have killed her for saying something like that. Her radio went. “Yeah?”

  “Sonora? Where are you?” Sam’s voice.

  “At the jail.”

  “You couldn’t wait five minutes?”

  “You sure it would have been just five?”

  “Man, when I think of all the times I’ve waited on you. Gruber just called up from the back lot. There’s a press truck out there—he thinks they’re camping, looking for a perp walk.”

  “Crick says no perp walk till he gives the okay. I think he owes some favors.”

  “Yeah, well, they’re out there. You got him processed?”

  “Signing him out as we speak.”

  “Walk him over, why don’tcha?”

  “What, there’s nobody out front?”

  “Nah, Kinkle’s a badass, they figure we’ll bring him over in the car. Listen, I’ll come down, head out the front, make sure the coast is clear. Give me thirty seconds.”

  “Thirty seconds? For that elevator?”

  “I’ll take the stairs.”

  “Done.” She put the radio away. “Ready, Barty?”

  “Am I going to be on the news?” He looked apprehensive, excited.

  “Not today, but you cooperate and we’ll get you on maybe later this afternoon.”

  “Is my attorney coming?”

  “He’s coming. He’ll be here after we do the poly. You don’t want him sitting around, running up your tab, do you?”

  “No,” he said.

  Agreeable already. Good, Sonora thought, signing forms. It was an embarrassment of riches, both Kinkle and Aruba wanting to confess. But there were enough forensics that nobody was going to get anything sweet for the deal—unless they came up with the third man.

  And there she would have to be careful. The department was ever old-fashioned. A bird in the hand, in this case two, forensics up one side and down the other, the DA’s office rubbing their hands over a slam dunk. Sonora was getting hostile vibes—don’t muck with it. You got a conspiracy theory, go bother Oliver Stone. Straight and forward suits us just fine.

  But she wanted him. That third man. The Angel. The man who forgave debts, saved babies, invaded a home in the suburbs.

  “Okay, he’s ready to go.” The guard stood up, back popping. Her name tag said Stubbens, Marika.

  Sonora took Kinkle’s arm. “Sanders, look out, would you, see what we got? Sam says there’s press in the back lot, but the front’s clear, if you believe it.”

  Sanders headed to the front door. “Looks okay. What, we’re running him across in hobbles?”

  “He can hop. You can hop, can’t you, Barty?”

  “Sure, Detective. But don’t let me fall, okay?”

  “I’ll keep a hand on you,” Sonora said. Her radio crackled. Sam.

  “Looks good out here, darlin’, come on down.”

  Sonora looked at Sanders. “I keep a hand on him, you ride shotgun.”

  “Shotgun it is.”

  Sonora paused at the door, looked north, west, up and down. Nothing unusual. There was Sam, heading out the front door of the Board of Elections building. No little news Pintos or trucks with antennas. No skinny girls with microphones, stoic cameramen, ponytail hanging out the back of a ball cap.

  “It’s a go,” she told Sanders.

  The guard held the door for them, and Sonora led Kinkle out. He picked up the rhythm pretty quickly, Sonora thinking he’d done this walk before. He slid his feet across the sidewalk. She took a good grip of his elbow going over the curb, but he gave a little hop and landed on the asphalt with a grace that surprised her.

  “Nice work, Twinkletoes.”

  Kinkle sniffed. “I always wanted a nickname.”

  “I wouldn’t take that one to prison.”

  Sonora glanced up, grinned at Sam. But he wasn’t smiling, he was frowning and running toward her, and it was then that Kinkle jerked, dragging her sideways, going down like a rag doll.

  “What the hell?” Sanders, crouching, spinning to the side, gun drawn. A bullet hit the curb, pocking the concrete, and Sonora, pulled sideways, twisted and landed in front of Kinkle, shielding him, hoping she wouldn’t be taking a bullet for a lowlife like this.

  Nobody was getting it.

  People on the sidewalk kept walking past, trying to avoid them, like they were homeless. Then she heard a scream, and the breath went out of her chest as Sam landed on her, smashing her into Kinkle.

  No more shots. It surprised her, the sudden silence.

  She was breathing hard. Sam wasn’t moving. Why wasn’t he moving?

  “On the roof,” Sanders shouted, taking off, and Sonora swam out from under Sam.

  “Watch the civilians,” she shouted, like somebody’s mother. “Sam?” There was blood on her shirt, and she wasn’t feeling any pain. “Sam?”

  A groan.

  “Shit,” she said. Stubbens, the guard, coming toward her. “Stubbens, we’ve got an officer down.” Sonora rolled him. Eyes shut tight, face drawn and dead white, looking like he’d never wake up, and his left leg looked like he’d been attacked by wolves.

  But breathing, please God, breathing.

  55

  Lights, camera
, action. The press edging out from behind the barricade in waves, uniforms yelling, blowing whistles, somewhere a child crying. Sonora stared down at Kinkle, strobe lights flashing across the orange jumpsuit. He looked vulnerable, crumpled over the curb, legs hobbled, wrists cuffed, entry wound in his chest like a star, an exit wound the size of a bowling ball torn from his back. Blood, still sticky, trailing from the side of his mouth. He’d have drowned in it, if he’d lived that long. Death semantics, but she did not think he had.

  She felt guilty.

  A flash snapped, as the CSU guys took more pictures. She smelled exhaust from the ambulance, motor running, saw Sam, dead to the world, IV drip, blood soaking through the sheet from the waist down.

  An EMT touched her shoulder. “You sure you’re not hurt?”

  Sonora looked at the blood that spattered her sleeve and soaked the front of her shirt. “No. Thanks. Get him moving.”

  The man nodded. She thought he looked familiar. One of the guys that had responded to the call on the Stinnets?

  Sonora went toward Crick, arms folded. She was shivering. Cold. Sanders was out of breath, face flushed, hair flying, a smudge of dirt on her forehead.

  “Anything?” Sonora asked.

  Crick turned slightly to include her in the huddle. “We got nothing.”

  “Lots of time between the shots. My guess would be a Remington II 87.” Sanders still sounded out of breath.

  “What made you decide to walk it?” Crick said.

  “Media in the back lot. Sam called, said you didn’t want a perp walk.”

  Crick ran a hand over his face. Somebody snapped it, photo op, Sonora saw the flash. Crick dropped the hand like it was burned. “Yeah, okay. How’s Delarosa?”

  “Alive,” Sonora said. This wasn’t the point where medics told you shit. This wasn’t the point where they knew.

  Crick nodded. “Okay. Angle of the shots says the guy was up on our damn roof. We got uniforms up there now, looking. Sanders, you get with the press, see who was back there, see if they saw anything, got anything on tape. This bastard … I want somebody on top of Eddie Stinnet. You saw him on the news?” He looked at Sonora.