His words sounded softer, too—or maybe that was my imagination.
He left. I closed the door and slid the security chain into place, then squinted into the peephole. Nick stood in my hallway grinning smugly and waving.
That dog. He knew I’d look at him.
I went to bed.
Chapter 9
My headlights cut through the pre-dawn darkness as I turned onto the long, gravel road that led to Quality Recovery and my opportunity to elicit some justice from the small world in which I lived.
After the last few days, I figured I was due.
If I hadn’t known where to find this place, I’d have driven right past. Quality Recovery wasn’t the kind of company that advertised.
Abandoned cars littered the overgrown fields on each side of the narrow road, along with some dilapidated sheds tagged with graffiti. Quality came into view, lit up like a football stadium. Banks of security lights beamed down on a couple of tin roofed buildings that were surrounded by a twelve-foot chain link fence topped with razor wire; two big German shepherds prowled the lot.
Inside sat rows of neatly parked cars—Mercedes, Beemers, Caddies, Chevys, Fords, most every make—all “recovered” by Quality Recovery.
A tow truck idled outside the gate, gray exhaust rolling out the back. I parked, grabbed my things, and climbed into the passenger side of the truck; even though I was officially on company business, I had on jeans and a sweatshirt.
“Morning,” I said, settling into the seat.
“Hey.”
The voice that spoke from the semi-darkness on the other side of the truck belonged to Slade, one of Quality Recovery’s agents, known less politically correct as a repo guy.
Slade was ex-Air Force Special Ops. Big—well over six feet—and muscular. His blond hair was cut short. I guessed his age at around thirty, but it was hard to tell. He had an earring. Tattoos, too, I guessed, but I’d never seen any. Not that I hadn’t wished I could look.
I’d known Slade since I started the job at Mid-America. Strictly professional, of course. This was the first time he’d taken me out with him to pick up a vehicle. It was the first time I’d ever asked to go along, the first time I’d ever wanted to go along.
Some things in life you’ve just got to be there for.
Quality Recovery was a part-time gig for Slade. Nobody seemed sure what he did when he wasn’t picking up vehicles, but drug cartels in Mexico and terrorism in the Middle East came to mind.
“I brought coffee and doughnuts,” I said.
“Cool.”
I passed him a cream-filled—keeping the chocolate for myself—and one of the coffees I’d picked up at Starbucks.
“Got the docs?” he asked, finishing off the doughnut in two bites.
I waved the file folder, then read off the street address. He punched it into his GPS and we drove away.
“What’s the story?” Slade asked.
Around a mouth full of doughnut, I explained about Jarrod Parker’s girlfriend who’d skipped, and that Parker had refused to pay.
“Dumb-ass,” Slade mumbled. “What are we looking for?”
“A Mustang convertible,” I said. “Yellow.”
“You spotted it?” he asked.
“At his house a few hours ago,” I said.
I’d seen Jarrod Parker at a club last night. After Nick left, I’d tried to sleep but couldn’t, so I called my BFF Jillian Brown—we’ve know each other since high school—and we decided to go out.
It wasn’t unusual for me to see one of my Mid-America customers somewhere. The company had thousands of clients and Santa Flores wasn’t that big.
“Jarrod was drinking last night, really pounding them down. He’s probably out cold,” I said.
Slade glanced at me. “You performing services above and beyond?”
“No way.”
“Just checking,” Slade said. “Don’t want to walk into some domestic thing.”
A few minutes later we turned onto Emerald Avenue. Slade killed the headlights and pulled over to the curb. The street was only a couple of blocks long, lined with tract homes, a nice middle-class neighborhood that had been around for over twenty years.
“Got it,” Slade said.
Squinting into the darkness, I spotted the yellow Mustang parked at the curb in front of Jarrod Parker’s house. Anger flew through me. People were out of work, upside down on their houses, struggling with high gas prices, accepting whatever jobs they could get just to put food on their tables. Families were making hard decisions about what they could do without. Christmas was coming and some parents weren’t going to be able to put a lot of gifts under their trees.
And there was Jarrod Parker, a guy with a steady job, great income, not a lot of debt, and few responsibilities who refused to pay his bill because he didn’t want to. No way was I letting him get away with it, which was why I wanted to be here when Quality picked up his car.
When I’d spotted him last night he’d been drinking heavily and hanging onto every chick who passed by, completely recovered, it seemed, from the heart break of the girlfriend who’d dumped him, skipped out, and left him with Mid-America’s loan payment. While everyone else had crowded the bar and pushed their way to the dance floor, I’d run into the parking lot and found Jarrod’s Mustang. I’d considered calling Quality right then but had decided against it; too many people around, if things went sideways.
So this morning I hauled myself out of bed and drove to Jarrod’s place. Sure enough, there it sat right in front of his house. He’d been too tired or too drunk to put it in the garage.
I glanced at Slade. He studied the neighborhood, the houses, the other cars parked nearby.
These repo guys were some bad dudes. Most of them weren’t in it for the money, just the rush. Things could get crazy during a recovery. A nosy neighbor might call the police. The vehicle owner might take offense to seeing his car being towed away and come out swinging—or shooting.
Slade had a cell phone clipped to his belt. That’s how I’d contacted him this morning after I’d driven past Jarrod’s house. I was pretty sure he had a gun on him, too.
He turned to me. “Ready?”
Not as ready as Slade, but I’d probably never be that ready.
“Let’s do it,” I said.
A few houses had porch lamps burning and fewer still had lights glowing in the windows, as we crept down the street. The darkness was just beginning to dissolve into gray.
Slade swung the tow truck in front of the Mustang. The idea was to get in, hook the car, and get out quickly. Speed counted. Slade exploded out the door.
My heart banged in my chest. The adrenaline rush caused me to shake. I twisted in my seat keeping watch for a neighbor or a police car.
Slade was a madman. He zinged around the front of the Mustang hooking it up to the tow truck like the Tasmanian devil on a sugar high. I gulped a few times, thinking we’d make it. We’d pop this car, get away clean, and leave Jarrod to wonder what the heck was going on when he got up late and tried to get to work on time—without his car.
My little piece of justice loomed within my grasp when the front door bust open and Jarrod came outside.
Slade saw him first. By the time I scrambled out of the truck they were in a stand-off on the sidewalk. I rounded the truck and he turned on me.
“You bitch!” Jarrod started toward me.
Slade drove his fist into Jarrod’s chest, knocking him back a step. Jarrod wasn’t much bigger than me; dressed in jeans he must have pulled on before he ran out of the house, he looked sickly white under the security lighting.
He stumbled, then took another look a Slade, then at me. I could see he was working on one whale of a hangover. He mumbled a couple of sentences. Slade took a step closer, and that seemed to take the fight out of him.
“Ah, come on, man, you can’t take my car,” Jarrod said, whining like a little girl.
“You should have made your payments,” I said.
Slade kept an eye on us and went back to hooking up the Mustang.
“Okay, okay, I’ll pay you,” Jarrod said, raking his hands through his hair. “How much is it?”
“Call it seventy-four hundred and some change,” I said.
He let loose with another mouthful of curses, then said, “I’ll get my checkbook.”
“Forget it,” I said. “I need cash.”
“Cash?” His gaze drilled me. “You think I’ve got that kind of money lying around?”
I shrugged. No way was I taking a personal check from him.
“What’s it going to be?” Slade asked.
I looked at Jarrod. He dragged his hands down his face and started cursing again.
“We’re out of here,” I said.
I climbed into the tow truck with Slade and we pulled away dragging Jarrod Parker’s shiny yellow Mustang convertible behind us.
By the time Slade and I got back to Quality’s recovery yard and I wrote up my vehicle inspection report on the Mustang, I had just enough time to go home, change clothes, and get to work. For a moment I fantasized about walking into the office wearing my jeans and sweatshirt, which would likely bring Inez to a full-blown stroke. While it seemed appealing, I didn’t want to be greedy; repoing Jarrod’s Mustang was enough for me today.
I drove home, changed into khaki pants and a red sweater, fed Seven Eleven, and left. I considered phoning Nick. I wasn’t sure but something might have happened between us in my kitchen last night, and I toyed with the idea of pursuing it. Then the image of Katie Jo Miller came into my thoughts and the notion of calling Nick flew right out. Besides, he had a murder to solve—in the Murder Capital of America—and by comparison, my world was a small, which suited me just fine at the moment.
When I walked into the office Inez was already seated at her desk, just like one of those snarling dogs waiting at the gates of Hell. Everyone else was getting coffee from the breakroom and settling in for the day.
“I’m ready for re-inspection,” Inez announced.
At first I didn’t know what she was talking about, then she gestured to the multi-plug outlet under her desk.
“I bought a new fan, too,” Inez said. “No more frayed wires. The office is now safe.”
Unless Corporate authorized gun carrying.
I ripped the red sticker off her desk and said, “Your name will have to appear in my report to Corporate because of the violations.”
“Yes,” she said. “I understand.”
She would.
I helped myself to coffee from the breakroom, then stopped by Manny’s desk.
“Quality picked up Jarrod Parker’s car this morning,” I said, thinking it better not to mention my role in the repossession.
He grunted—which was about as pleased as Manny ever got over anything—and I went to my desk. I entered the info on the repossession in the computer, then decided to spend my morning on my own personal pursuits. I’d given enough to Mid-America already today.
So far, Gerald Mayhew was the only person I knew who had an actual, verifiable motive for killing Mr. Sullivan. Even Nick hadn’t uncovered a motive, according to what he’d told me last night. But Mayhew also had an alibi—or so he claimed.
I accessed the Internet and phoned the Human Resources department at Fowler Security Service. The clerk I spoke with verified that Gerald Mayhew was currently employed as a security guard assigned to the evening shift at the Stanford Medical Clinic on Dayton Avenue in Santa Flores. This type of call was routine. Mid-America, and most every other financial institution, called to verify employment as part of the credit approval process.
I hung up, a little disappointed that Mayhew’s alibi had panned out because my only remaining suspect was Leonard Sullivan. Leonard, who’d had a terrible argument with Mr. Sullivan the afternoon of the murder, an argument over something that had prompted Mr. Sullivan to threaten to call the police. Leonard, who had a criminal record. Leonard, who hadn’t been seen since the argument.
I didn’t want it to be Leonard.
I remembered Nick had told me that another set of fingerprints was found in Mr. Sullivan’s house. They belonging to a building contractor named Kirk Redmond who’d claimed he’d been at the Sullivan home to give an estimate on some painting.
This didn’t sit right with me. The Sullivans didn’t have money to pay their bills, and could barely afford to buy Mrs. Sullivan’s medicine. Would they really have wanted their house painted?
I’d only worked at Mid-America for a short while but I had occasionally run into customers who did things that didn’t make sense concerning their financial situation. But the Sullivans didn’t strike me as those kinds of customers.
Of course, I didn’t think Mr. Sullivan would have carried on with a married woman either.
I accessed the Internet once more and checked out Kirk Redmond’s web site. His office was located in Hayward, a small town just east of Santa Flores. I dug a little more and found what I figured was his home address, also in Hayward. I emailed the info to my Hotmail account. I made a phone call to the title company and learned that, according to county records, Kirk Redmond owned no property.
So now I knew where he worked and probably lived, but what good that would do, I had no idea.
“I’m going to Quality Recovery to do Jarrod Parker’s vehicle inspection,” I said, which was a lie, but a believable one.
I’m pretty sure I saw Manny nod as I breezed past his desk.
I drove to Leona Wiley’s house. Gladys Sullivan answered the door. She didn’t look any better than the last time I saw her. We sat at the kitchen table and struggled through small talk before I came to the point of my visit.
“Did you and Mr. Sullivan plan to have your house painted?” I asked.
“We talked about it,” she said, apparently not wondering why I’d come by to ask such an odd question.
“Did someone come out and give you an estimate?” I asked.
“Not that I know of,” she said. Tears clouded her eyes. “But maybe Arthur wanted to surprise me.”
Oh, no. I’d made her cry. I didn’t want her to cry.
“Can I get you some tea?” I asked.
I’d heard women offer tea to each other in times of stress. I didn’t know what good it did—give me a beer anytime—but I was floundering here.
Thankfully, Mrs. Sullivan pulled herself together and sniffed back her tears.
“No, honey, I’m fine,” she said. “You run on now. I know you’ve got to get back to work.”
Leona Wiley appeared from the kitchen, so I didn’t feel too guilty about leaving Mrs. Sullivan after I’d upset her.
In my car I thought about how I’d gotten exactly the info I’d been after. I wasn’t happy about it, though.
According to Mrs. Sullivan, it was entirely possible Kirk Redmond had come to the house and given a painting estimate. Plus, he had no motive for shooting Mr. Sullivan that I knew of—or could even imagine, for that matter. Nick hadn’t mentioned one, either.
With Gerald Mayhew’s alibi intact and Kirk Redmond out of the picture, that left only one suspect—Leonard Sullivan.
* * *
When I walked into the office Carmen popped up from her chair behind the front counter.
“Guess who’s here?” she whispered.
“Jarrod Parker?” I asked, hoping he’d come in with cash to pay off his account and redeem his Mustang.
“His car was repossessed?” she asked.
“This morning,” I said. “Did he come in while I was gone?”
Carmen shook her head. Since she handled all the cash that came into the office, she’d know whether or not Jarrod had been in—and the first to know when he walked through our front door.
“When he shows his face here, I need to speak with him myself,” I said. “Don’t let Manny have him. He’s mine.”
“Oka
y, sure.” Carmen’s smile returned. “Guess who’s here.” She looked a little too happy for our surprise guest to be auditors or our distract manager.
“Slade,” she said, with a dreamy look on her face.
Thoughts of murder suspects and repossessed autos flew out of my head.
“He’s in the breakroom,” Carmen said. “With Jade.”
I felt very territorial all of a sudden. I tossed my purse on my desk and headed for the breakroom.
Not that I really needed another reason to dislike Jade, but she had two children whom she ignored. They were little. The only quality time Jade spent with them was on the drive to and from the babysitter. That’s just not right.
Definitely an issue I intend to address when I take over the world.
I stopped at the door of the breakroom. They were there, all right. Just the two of them.
Slade stood beside the water cooler holding one of those little paper cups. It looked ridiculous in his hand, a hand meant for gripping beer bottles with broken necks, and automatic weapons. Jade was beside him making really irritating girl noises.
I had to break this up—if for no other reason than that Jade would need a neck brace from all the hair-swinging going on.
“Jade,” I said in my businesslike voice. “You have a phone call.”
She glanced back at me. “Take a message, hon.”
No way was I going to let that go by unchallenged.
“It’s an emergency,” I said. “Your babysitter.”
Okay, that was a lie. But desperate measures were called for here. She had no business talking to Slade. Slade was mine. Well, not mine-mine. But more mine than hers. We’d repo’d a car together. We had history.
Jade rolled her eyes and uttered a long-suffering sigh, indicating she was so important, with so many important matters to attend to.
“See you Saturday night,” she said, and left after one final hair flip.
“Hi,” I said and walked into the breakroom.
“Hey.”
“How’s it going?” I asked.
“Cool.”
Slade wasn’t much for conversation. But we all have our strengths, and his was his looks. I’d settle for that.
Fatal Debt Page 8