The Debt Collector (28 page)

“Officer Robie, I'm tired. I've had a long day, and I don't like your haircut or your round and nasty face. Now, look, look down there at the floor.” She pointed and he glared, then looked.

“So?”

“That's the floor I'm going to wipe with
your
ass, if you don't lose the attitude and take me to Captain Whitmore. Are you keeping up with me, pal? Do I need to say it again, maybe slower?”

They stood toe to toe, glaring. Sonora knew this man well, as she knew all the small-time, hard-on, low-brain Robies of the world. He didn't give.

The other officer was getting upset. “Ma'am, I'll be glad to take you to Captain Whitmore. He's upstairs on five. If you'll just—”

“Back up, Robie, and get the hell out of my way.”

He did. One step. A small one. She took what she could get, following the dark-haired officer, Darnell, heard Robie muttering.

“
Ohio
bitches.”

She would have laughed if she'd been in a better mood.

“Sorry about that,” Darnell said.

She followed him down the corridor to a bank of elevators. She shrugged. “Too many cops, not enough crime.” According to the statistics, Lexington had more police officers per capita than anywhere else in the country.

Darnell looked hurt. Sonora felt guilty.

“Tell me, Officer Darnell. Any particular reason for the fifth floor? Better security, or was that just where they had a room available?”

“Well. Number four is maternity.”

She laughed.

“Five is the psych ward, ma'am.”

The elevator door opened to Whitmore and Detective Yagamochi, another one of Sonora's favorite people. Yagamochi seemed anxious to get on the elevator.

“Sonora. Hey.” Whitmore, suit more wrinkled than ever, took her by the arm. “Glad you could make it.”

“Thanks for the heads up.” Officer Darnell looked unsure of himself. He started for the elevator. “Hold,” Sonora said. “Whitmore, I had a problem with one of your guys downstairs.”

Whitmore frowned. Mai stepped on the elevator, punched the button. The doors closed, stranding Darnell.

“By the way, hello,” Sonora said to the door as it shut. Typical Mai behavior.

“What kind of problem, Detective Blair?”

Detective Blair now.

“It was Robie, sir,” Darnell told him.

“Robie? What, again?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Want some overtime, Darnell?”

“Yes, sir.” Darnell, from the look on his face, did not want some overtime.

“You tell Officer Robie that Captain Whitmore said to go home and that I'll be in touch with his lieutenant.” Whitmore looked at Sonora. “I'll take care of it. Guy's a cowboy.”

“Guy's an idiot.”

“That too.”

“Tell him if he ever needs a job, don't come looking in Cincinnati.”

“He'll be a security guard, somewhere, before the year is out. Come on, we got other things to think about. Let me show you what I got.”

Sonora followed him down a wide, clean corridor, wrinkling her nose at the medicinal gym-sock scent found only on a hospital ward, thank God. The psych floor was different from the usual. Potted plants. People in street clothes, not scrubs. Orderlies carrying leather restraints.

Rubber rooms, buff attendants, fake smiles, and Thorazine. Sonora felt queasy.
Don't let them see that you're crazy
.

“Sorry about your partner.”

“Thanks.” She was tired. She'd had a long drive and a shit day. “Shooter got Aruba through the window?”

“Tore the damn thing right off. He was up here in the nuthouse because the security is better. No civilians.”

“Really?” Sonora looked up and down the hallway.

“Staff. They all wear street clothes on this floor, to keep the patients from getting upset. Good setup for Aruba, 'cause they got the drugs and experience to handle a head case. Which he was, from what I could see.”

Sonora did not comment. She'd wanted Aruba in jail, not an institution, which was a moot point now.

Whitmore turned a corner, and Sonora had to do a shuffle step to follow. “We kept two guys on it, instead of the usual one.”

“Inside or out?”

“Out. Aruba was in bed, under restraint. He never had a chance.”

“It was this or the chair,” Sonora said. But she felt cheated. She wanted the trial, and so did the DA, so did all of Cincinnati. Aruba, the bastard, had taken a short cut.

The doorway to the room was crowded. Two folding chairs in the hallway, an overturned foam cup. Crime-scene guys and uniforms. People made way for Whitmore, looked Sonora up and down.

“Had a guy sitting outside the door, another guy in the room—”

“I thought you said they were both outside.”

“He'd gone in to take a leak. Better in here than leaving his post.”

Sonora walked inside. Aruba was still there, strapped to the bed, arms in the leather restraints, even the one in the cast. That must have hurt. But not as much as the bullets that had perforated his chest in a close torso cluster. He could have been a police target at the firing range.

His eyes were open, pupils yellow, a snarl on his face. No way he'd seen it coming. He'd died quickly.

Sonora was a tiny bit glad he was dead already, just for the sake of the world. Things went wrong sometimes in a courtroom; there were never any guarantees. But she still felt cheated.

“He was going to confess,” Sonora said. Stepped sideways around an IV pole connected to nothing that had crashed over the bed. Aruba, in his death throes.

Whitmore motioned to a door, next to an empty closet. “Our guy was in there, taking a leak. Safer than leaving his post.”

“He fire his weapon?”

“No. Killer used a Remington bolt-action shotgun. Same as your guy, that right?”

“Yeah, probably the same weapon. Soon as your ME digs those bullets out—”

“I hear you.”

Sonora took a camera out of her purse. “Okay by you if I take a couple of pictures? For the case book?”

“Sure, go ahead. We can send you what we get—”

“I know.”

“I hear you already have somebody in custody. How's he look?”

“He'd've had to hustle to get those both, but it's possible. Eddie Stinnet, brother of one of Aruba's victims.”

Whitmore looked at his watch. “Mind if I come up, sit in on some questioning?”

“Door's open.”

“Listen, you staying the night?”

“No.” She was broke. Didn't want to spend the money, didn't want to leave the kids alone.

“Sure? I can get you a place to crash.”

“No, but I appreciate the offer.”

He put a hand on her shoulder. “Watch yourself, driving home through Boone County.”

Sonora actually smiled. “Don't worry, Whitmore. One cowboy a night, that's my limit.”

58

The house creaked in the four
A
.
M
. hush, all quiet except in the living room, where Sonora, sleepless, restless, laid on the couch with a book open on her stomach. The television volume was at a low murmur, an old western with a young John Wayne,
In Old California
.

It should have worked for her, it should have been the video equivalent of comfort food, but the cinematography was too jerky, the black-and-white images flat and dull, the musical score perfunctory to the point of annoying, the script and characterization a joke, and the viewer too jaded and too distracted.

Sonora took a drink from an open can of Coke. She'd tried cutting back on Coke and coffee, wondering if it was just the caffeine that was keeping her awake, but four
A
.
M
. was a good time to abandon that particular theory.

Gunfire erupted on-screen, and Clampett lifted his head and barked.

“It's okay,” Sonora said. “They're just circling the wagons. Don't worry, they'll get those supplies to Bearclaw—unless The Duke catches the fever.”

Clampett went back to sleep.

He slept very well, Sonora thought, looking down at him. Was there such a thing as a dog who couldn't sleep? Could it be the dog food?

She stood up, took the newspaper clipping she'd dug out of her dresser drawer off the top of the television set where she'd left it an hour ago. An old shot of Keaton, walking out of a courtroom, four years ago. He looked sad.

He still looked sad, Sonora thought. Even after four years.

She went into the kitchen, found a box of matches from Bogart's, and lit the newspaper.

It was dry and old and the flame caught quickly, catching her by surprise. She dropped it in the sink, and the rubber mat over the garbage disposal flared. The oily dark smell of burning rubber filled the kitchen, just as the smoke alarm went off.

Sonora opened the back door, waving smoke out of the kitchen. The phone rang. She shut the door, alarm blessedly off, and turned off the water over the sink. The rubber mat was ruined, but the disposal would still work. She hoped.

“Blair,” she said into the phone. She glanced at the hallway. No sign of the kids. What was the matter with them? Hadn't they heard the alarm?

“Hey, it's me.”

It was a universal thing with men. In their hearts, they were all named “me.” But she knew the voice.

“Gillane. Hey. What are you doing up?”

“I didn't wake you, did I? The nurse up here on five told me you called about half an hour ago, checking on your partner.”

“Yeah, I did. How is he? Everything okay?”

“Oh yeah, he's doing okay, all things considered. You don't need to worry.”

“Thanks. What are you doing up?”

“Working the graveyard shift. Did you get my messages?”

“What messages?”

“The ones I left with your kids.”

“You've been talking to my kids?”

“Frequendy. Didn't they tell you?”

“Nobody tells me anything.”

“So what are you doing right now?”

“Ummm.” She looked over her shoulder at the sink. “Not much, really. Watching a John Wayne movie.”

“Is it
The Sons of Katie Elder?
”

“No.”

“I love
The Sons of Katie Elder
. Dean Martin—”

“I think I've seen it.”

“I get off in an hour. How about breakfast? The Waffle House'll be open; you can always count on the Waffle House. And who else but me can you talk to at this time of night?”

“Nobody else is up.”

Sonora leaned over Heather's bed and shook her daughter's shoulder. “Hon', it's Mom.”

Heather's eyes rolled backward and she snuggled deeper in her bed.

“Heather. Come on, I need to talk to you, just for a minute.”

The little girl sat up suddenly. Blinked. “Is the house on fire?”

“No, sweetie, of course not.”

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing, hon'. I'm just going to meet someone for breakfast, then I'm going on in to work. There's lunch money in the box, and Tim will take you to school if you miss the bus, but don't miss it. Will you be okay if I go?”

“Who're you going with?”

“You don't know him.”

“Is it Mark Gillane?”

“How—”

“I forgot to tell you, he's called a lot.”

“Heather, will you please write my messages down?”

“Sorry. Mom?”

“What?”

“You know if you want to ever get married again, it's okay with me. I wouldn't mind, so long as he doesn't try to boss me around.”

Sonora gave her daughter a hug. This was the third time they'd had this conversation. Sonora was curious about Heather's criteria.

“Thanks, hon', but I don't have any wedding plans right now. And you might not like some strange guy in the house.”

“If I knew him, he wouldn't be strange. And he might cook me an egg in the morning, or give me a ride to my friend's house.”

“I'll cook you an egg.”

“No, Mom, go on and go.” Heather kissed Sonora's cheek and pulled the covers back over her head.

59

The Waffle House was well lit and almost crowded. Gillane was waiting for her in a booth near the back, sitting so he could watch the door. Something out the window had caught his attention. She'd expected him to be in scrubs, straight from the hospital, but he'd taken time to change into jeans, hiking boots, and big socks, and an oversized gray sweatshirt that looked spotless but comfortable.

He turned then and saw her, stood up and held out his arms. She did not have to tell him that yesterday had been horrible.

He took her jacket and folded it next to him on the seat. “I've got coffee for you, and a menu whenever you're ready. How are you, sweetie?”

Sonora settled into the booth, thinking she felt surprisingly well. It was warm inside, and familiar, plenty of construction workers, farm laborers, students, and hospital employees going off shift. She decided she liked the five
A
.
M
. ambience, now that she was sampling so much of it. Still dark out, and quiet, nobody around, but morning on the way. She could not quite put her finger on what she liked about it, but she liked it.

And she was glad to see him. Scary, that.

“I checked on your partner before I left. He's in some pain, but that's about par. I made sure they gave him something before I left, and he's probably sleeping it off right now.”

“Thanks, Gillane.”

“My first name is Mark.”

“Thanks, Mark.”

She looked down at the menu, saw him peeping at her over the top of his. “What?”

“Nothing. You know what the best thing is to get here?” He pointed to a section on the plastic menu. “You get everything with that. Waffle, bacon or sausage, eggs. Hash browns, which are by the way a specialty of the house.”