The Debt Collector (10 page)

Then why are you feeding her alfalfa? Sonora wondered, but she kept her mouth shut. There were as many horse opinions as there were horse people, and it paid not to say what you thought, unless you liked fireworks, open warfare, and hand-to-hand combat.

If she had learned one thing in the months she'd owned Poppin, it was when to shut up. Which, when it came to horses, was pretty much always.

“Mr. Ward, I know this is a bad time for you, and if you want me to give you some time, so be it. But what I really want to do is ask you some questions.”

He nodded. “Go on ahead. If you don't mind, I'll just keep on grooming. Abigail likes it and I find it settles my nerves. You have a horse. You know what I mean.”

She did know. She studied him, just for a minute. He had the curious mix of fragility and strength found only in elderly people who had led a certain kind of life. A wealth of life experience and a well-honed and finally trusted instinct that gave them a certain magic, trapped in a body that began to fail them when they had, at long last, figured so many things out.

Was she pushing too hard? She wondered if he had a heart condition. Could a man his age
not
have a heart condition—the man had fought in the Second World War.

Sonora opened her notebook. Leaned against the rough wood wall. “I understand your niece and her husband were having money troubles.”

Ward nodded. “They'd run into a rough patch, all right, but they were climbing out.” He looked at Sonora. “It's the kind of thing can happen to anybody. Even Donald Trump runs into problems with cash flow. Anybody says they never have that kind of trouble is lying.”

“Yes, sir, I understand. How was their marriage?”

“It was good,” he said.

Somehow, she was unable to pursue that one any further. “You and Joy were pretty close, were you?”

“Fair on.”

Whatever that meant.

“Did she talk to you? Confide in you?”

“She'd talk about the kids. About Abigail. How Carl's business was going, that kind of thing. She wasn't one to bring me her worries.”

“Had she been threatened in any way? Had they been robbed? Did she talk about strange phone calls?”

“No. No, nothing like that I know of.”

“Did she or Carl have any … enemies?”

He stopped brushing. “Officer, we're talking about a simple, middle-class, Cincinnati, Ohio, everyday average American family. They rented movie videos and ordered pizza on Friday night, and Joy stayed home with the kids. People like that don't
have
enemies. They don't sell drugs or government secrets, they just go grocery shopping on Saturday and church most Sundays.”

“What about Joy's ex-husband?”

“That pip-squeak? Who told you about him?”

“He's Tammy's father.”

“No, he's not, not in my definition. Besides, he's long gone. I ran that boy off sixteen years ago, and we ain't heard from him since. And we won't hear from him either.”

“He have an address?” Sonora asked.

“Last time I heard of Bobby Purcell, he was in Kansas City, working at a Taco Bell. And overemployed, if you ask me.” He gave her a look over the back of the horse. “You much good at picking hooves, Detective?”

Sonora looked up from her notebook. “Picking hooves? Tolerable.”

“Kills my back to do it. That's the one thing Joy—”

She knew where this was going. “Got a hoof-pick?”

He pointed at a red plastic carryall. Sonora rummaged through the cotton rags, brushes, furazone ointment, until she found a black-handled pick. She stuck her notebook in her jacket pocket.

“The mare's gentle, right?” she asked.

“Hell, you own an Arab. This is just a little quarter horse.”

Sonora bent over, took the left hind foot between her hands. The mare had dainty feet, a healthy, springy frog, well-trimmed hooves. She dug packed-in manure, dirt, and gravel from the horse's foot. She supposed Sam would call this bonding.

17

Sonora made Olden in the thick of the early-morning drive-the-kids-to-school-get-to-work traffic that clogged the primary roads and almost made a pretense of traffic in the Cincinnati subdivision.

She passed the pond—no ducks this morning—headed toward Edrington Court, took a sip of McDonald's coffee that made her wince no matter how much cream she added. Cincinnati might have pro sports teams, but she wasn't going to be content till there was a Starbucks on every corner.

Children milled on the curb, waiting for a school bus. Sonora passed a house where a little boy headed down the sidewalk from an open front door.

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.