Fortunes of the Dead (15 page)

Up until four years ago, Rick worked as a skip tracer for debt collectors; his “moonlighting” job, as he called it. He was good at it—actors are. If Rick couldn't find what he wanted on the computer—easier and easier every day—he could charm someone in a home office into parting with information no matter how confidential. His genius was in knowing exactly what persona to take on to get what he wanted.

The problems started when his sympathies began to sway toward the prey. Rick was a bundle of continual money problems—he simply wasn't born with the budgeting gene. Like any really good actor, Rick paid close attention to the people he met, and no matter how much he tried to gloss things over and pretend otherwise, he learned day by eye-opening day that the majority of people he collected information on, unlike himself, worked hard, tried to make ends meet, and got ground down smaller every day.

His defection started simply—a matter of withholding a bit of information here and there when he felt sorry for the prey. It escalated into direct phone calls made to the hunted giving them tips—often nothing more than pointing out their rights under consumer protection laws. Naturally these calls were made on company time at company expense, and this sort of double game amused Rick so much that he might never have quit if it hadn't been for a brutal home invasion in Cincinnati.

Cincinnati is a mere ninety-minute drive from Lexington; a quick trip across the bridge over the Ohio River. The blood-soaked slaying of an entire family who happened to cross the path of a psychotic check-cashing operator (or as Rick calls them, the Gambino chain-store loan sharks) changed Rick's life. He decided to play on the other side of the fence.

Rick now runs a debt rescue business called You're in the Right Place. Unlike debt counselors, he has no chummy relations with the credit card companies. He negotiates debt settlements for a percentage of the settlement, arranges payment schedules, and has two bankruptcy attorneys on part-time retainer.

Because Rick has spent most of his life in debt over his head, and has dealt with every possible variety of debt collector as he used to be one himself, and because, frankly, he is Rick, his clients have a high level of customer satisfaction. Rick is nonjudgmental, inventive, and occasionally kind. Most of his clients consider him family.

Although it was entirely unintentional, Rick makes a lot more money now than he used to. His office is next door to the Atomic Café—a Caribbean restaurant where he treats me to jerk chicken at least twice a month—and except for the constant parking problem is a dream workplace in a small house built in 1793. Rick and his beloved Judith live upstairs.

As always on Mill Street, parked cars lined both sides of the road. During the day, the cars belong to students who attend Transylvania University, which is in walking distance of Rick's office. At night, the cars come from restaurant patrons, late-night students, and fraternity overflow.

I drove the Miata up over the curb onto the small lawn. It was colder today than yesterday, but at least it wasn't raining.

The front door of Rick's building was unlocked. A sign beside the brass bell button said You're in the Right Place. The hallway was bare, the wood floors dusty; the walls and woodwork were freshly painted. A sign read Elephant Rides 5¢—I was with Rick when he bought it at a garage sale for a dollar. Rick's private office was the first room off the hallway on the left. Even with the door only partially open, Rick's voice flooded the hallway.

“No, my sweet thing, no, do not pay them a cent. The time is not yet right. I know, they call and call and call, that's what they do. Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly, collectors gotta call.” Rick paused, head nodding. He made a clucking noise. “It's just the phone, my dear Vidalia, it can't hurt you. Do you have the little speech I gave you? No, it's in the folder you got on your initial interview. Right, the first time you were here. Yes, that's it.”

I gave the door a little shove, and it opened far enough for me to see Rick pacing majestically, in the way of royalty, if royalty were to pace. He wore a headset and held a tape recorder.

Other voices floated in from across the hall, the gentle gurgle of a brook compared to Rick's crashing ocean. There were three U-shaped desks in what used to be the living room. One man and two women tended the phones. They were dressed in business casual—no jeans and T-shirts. Now that Rick runs his own business these details matter. He keeps a fine balance—employees dressed professionally enough so that a client feels respected, but not so formally a client feels intimidated.

The intimidation is saved for the creditors. Rick, who worked the other end of the game, knows exactly what he can get and how. He usually reduces credit card debt to a settlement of thirteen cents on the dollar, as he is well aware that such debts sell for eleven cents on the dollar on the open market. He goes after any and all violations of federal consumer law. He advises bankruptcies when necessary, negotiates like a pit bull, and rallies his clients, some who arrive at You're in the Right Place so beaten down they can hardly meet his eyes across the desk. His business involves talk talk talk. He basks in the glow created by the sound of his own voice all day long. The smell of overbaked coffee hangs heavily and the heat is turned up too high for comfort. One of the women shoots a rubber band at me and waves.

Rick's voice carries, which I suppose is good unless you are a neighbor sharing apartment walls.

“Keep it by the phone, my love, and read it whenever they call. Who? Well, any of them. Make a note of it, and if they don't stop we can sue them. But yes. No, no, it's your right under the law, the federal law. Uncle Sam does not like people harassing nice ladies who are doing their best.

“No, don't cry, now, how could anyone possibly hate you, gentle and genuine as you are. I don't, my sweet, and I'm very important. I think you are very brave and you've done your best. No one can ask more of a fellow human being. Of course you did, all your life, these things get out of hand quickly when one is on the fixed income. I know you will, but until then—” Rick waved me in. “Until then you just read them the little speech. Think of it as a game. If they keep after you we can take them to court and they'll pay a fine of twenty-five hundred dollars plus legal fees, won't that be fun? If you have time, you can come and watch. Yes, it is a lot of money. No, my dear Vidalia, this is my job. Call me anytime. Be kind to yourself. Kiss, kiss.

“Lena Bina! My favorite ex-wife!” Rick took the headset off and raced across the red Oriental rug to give me a hug.

“Rick, did you say Vidalia?”

“Like the onion.”

“This rug is very thin. It was expensive, wasn't it? Is Vidalia really her name?”

“Lena, lovely as it is to follow your refreshingly scattered thought patterns, pity my poor skills of concentration and limit yourself to three subjects at one time.”

“Is this real?”

“You're standing on it. Or do you think you imagine it? Could your fantasy life be that dull? Could anyone's?”

“Yours.”

“It always excites me when you're bitchy.” Rick put his arms around me and kissed me on the mouth. He leaned back a few inches. “Tongue?”

I caught the scent of the bay rum cologne he gets from the J. Peterman catalog. He wore Levis and a white cotton shirt, with the sleeves rolled carefully back. His thick pelt of light brown hair had been carefully cut, blown dry, and sprayed.

“Not today, thank you.”

“I live in hope.”

I stood on tiptoe and looked at his hair. “Highlights, Rick? You put in highlights?”

“My dear, yes, and might one suggest that you could use just a hint of red?”

“No, one might not.”

“Sit, sit.” Rick perched on the edge of his desk, glanced out the window and stood back up. “Lena, you
didn't
. Right on the front lawn?”

“There weren't any parking places.”

Rick closed his eyes. “Is it enough to just imagine strangling her? Or should I—”

“Rick, stop playing.” I glanced down at the rug. Thin on the verge of threadbare.

“You did pay a lot of money for the rug, didn't you?”

“And if I did?” Rick sat back down on the desk.

“That shirt set you back eighty-five bucks. The rent here … Rick, you're doing very well.”

He frowned, sighed. “I can't help it, Lena. I thought I'd take a cut in income. Make maybe nothing at all, I wasn't sure. And even when I give people discounts and waive a fee here and there … I still keep making all this money.”

“It's okay to make money, Rick.”

“I always wanted to make money. Not to worry about bills …”

“Rick, you never worried about bills.”

“But I
should
have, so it's still the same. Then I told myself that there were more important things than money.”

“Rick, honey. Were you ill?”

“I know, I know, but I had conviction, Lena, plus what fun to kick fat-cat butt. You have no idea how much I enjoy what I do. But I was wrong.”

“About what?”

“The money. It does make me happy.”

“I'm glad. Spread the good will around, Rick. I need a favor. I want to know where I can find Cory Edgers.”

Rick leaned across his desk and picked up a phone book, which he handed to me. I tossed it on the floor and sat on his couch.

“He won't be listed. He's a deputy sheriff on loan to the ATF. Currently a suspect in the disappearance of Cheryl Dunkirk.”

Rick swiveled so he could face me. “Yes, Lena, I do read the papers. I saw him ignoring the cameras on CNN. Why does Joel send you when he could ask me himself? Or ask CNN?”

“It's isn't for Joel, it's for me.”

Rick raised an eyebrow.

“Cheryl's family just hired me.”

“Is Joel okay with that?”

“No.”

“Ah. Sounds like fun. I'll give you a call late tonight or tomorrow—”

“I need it now, if that's possible.”

Rick waved a hand. “Are you asking me to drop everything?”

“Yes.”

“She's been missing two months, Lena.”

“I want to solve this thing before Joel does.”

“Ambitious of you, darling, considering the police have an eight-week head start.”

I closed my eyes, dozing, while Rick muttered to himself and pounded away at the keyboard.

“By the way, how do you like my laptop? It's a MAC Power Book, and it's got … Lena, did you fall back asleep?”

“What do you care?”

“Because I'm talking to you.”

“No, you're muttering to yourself, and you find yourself so amusing you can't believe I don't want to listen in.”

“Well, don't you? Lena, do you think I'm a narcissist?”

“The term is a little watered down, as far as you're concerned, Rick. Is there a higher level?”

“Not officially. No doubt I'm one of a kind.” Rick leaned close to the computer display. He slid a pair of glasses over his nose.

“Those are new.”

“Had them for months.”

“No, I mean that you need them, Rick.”

“One grows ever less able to read the fine print.” Rick raised his head over the top of the laptop to facilitate my view. “Rather dashing, don't you think? I was afraid they'd make me look old, but really, the effect is one of intelligence with just a faint hum of serious intent. Cary Grant with a Ph.D.”

“Mickey Rooney with bad vision.”

“Remind me later to hurt you, Lena Bina. Ah. Thought so. Got you, little sucker.”

“You found him?”

“I did.”

“How, maestro, how?”

“Like many cheating son-of-a-bitch husbands—I can't tell you how predictable these men are, it's like someone gives them a manual. I figured he'd have a private little account with Victoria's Secret, and he does, and luckily he's been late on a payment from time to time. That's common, too. Got to hide the outgo of monies from the wife. The address of the account is a post office box.”

“Great. I have to stake out a—”

“Hush, my love. The zip code on the P.O. box leads me to the closest Kroger, and a Kroger card with an address and phone number. Naturally, our hero is not worried about the little form he fills out for a grocery card. Caution is discarded and frugality prevails. Shall I write the particulars down for you or tattoo them on my—”

“I don't want to see it and you can't make me. Write it down on paper, and thanks, Rick.”

“It's going to cost you, Lena.”

“Cost me what?”

“Ah, that wary tone, how well I know it. I'm out of Pez.”

“Pez?”

“Yes, Lena, Pez. Don't tell me you didn't have those little Pez dispensers when you were a child? You were a child once, weren't you? My favorite flavor is grape, followed by cherry, lemon, and then orange, but only if there's no other choice.”

“Pez?”

Candies for Pez dispensers are one of those odd items that might be sold almost anywhere, but on the other hand might not. I had to go to three stores before I found them at Target. I bought Rick every flavor they had, as well as a new Spider Man dispenser in appreciation of a job well done.

Cory Edgers listed an address on Cooper Drive—a small rental house literally next to the railroad tracks. His name wasn't on the lease. Most likely a semiofficial sublet, in Rick's estimation. Most of the houses clustered here were rented, some to college students. The yard was tiny—the only one without the charm of big old trees. While every other house nearby was well kept, this one had the air of a property that spent a lot of time unoccupied and unloved. The paint was peeling, one of the windows had lost a shutter, and I could see window screens stacked by the side of the house. Newspaper darkened the bedroom windows, a depressing but economical alternative to curtains or blinds. The yard was muddy from the days of rain that had overtaken the weak sprigs of grass, and the small narrow driveway had very little gravel over packed-in dirt.