The Debt Collector (11 page)

There was something about the man.

There were people who had theories about Karma, people who believed you dealt with the same souls over and over. Sonora was cynical and pragmatic and she thought Karma would make a great name for herbal tea. A new line from Celestial Seasonings.

“Nice to meet you,” she said. His hand was warm in hers, nice grip, before he pulled away.

So this was the famous Detective Van Owen.

If Sam was the cowboy in the tan pants and blue chambray shirt, a sweat-stained Stetson and a ready smile, Jack Van Owen was the man in the silk flowered vest. She pictured him smoking a fat cigar, thinking shrewd thoughts, immaculate in tailored black pants, smelling of expensive cologne, the best bourbon on his breath.

Women would watch him and men would be wary. But Van Owen would slap them on the back, and whatever it was he wanted them to do, be it illegal, unethical, or immoral, there'd be a wink and a grin and a piece of the pie, as long as they did what they were told and didn't cross him.

He frowned, then gave her a half smile that bunched up his cheeks, like a squirrel with a pouch of nuts. “I'm sorry. But what kind of perfume do you wear?”

“Escada,” Sonora said, aware that Crick and Sam and Gruber were looking slightly stunned by the turn of conversation. She felt a sense of dread. The guys would never let her get away with this one.

Van Owen was nodding. “I'm sorry, that was personal. It's just that my wife loved that scent, God bless her.”

There was the kind of pause in the conversation where the living were brought up short by memories of the dead.

Sonora felt annoyed. Disabled in the line of duty. Dead wife. He'd get the sympathy vote.

Crick inclined his head. “Mickey's in Interview Three, with some preliminaries. Sitting in?”

This last was to Van Owen, who hesitated, glanced at his watch. “If you think I can be of help.”

“A little background would be nice, if these turn out to be the guys. You know 'em.”

“That I do.” Van Owen picked up the can of Coke. “Let's see if I still remember the way.”

19

Sonora sat beside Sam, who leaned close and whispered in her ear. “What kind of perfume is that you're wearing, anyway? Eau de Horse?”

“Leave me alone.”

He pushed her chair sideways with his size twelve-and-a-half foot.

Gruber pushed her chair back in place and sat on her other side. “What's that perfume you're wearing, Sonora?”

This was just the beginning, she thought. Stupid Jack Van Owen. She hated these retired guys Crick was always dragging in.
It'll be you someday
, said the rude voice in her head.

“It's deodorant, Gruber, you should try it.”

“She shoots, she scores.”

Mickey was looking at her. “We haven't identified the prints yet, but we've got some good ones. Including a few of yours, Sonora.”

“Me? Where?” Her face was going red.

“The bed.”

“Well excuse me for trying to save a life.”

Crick held up a hand. “What else you got, Mickey?”

“Prints everywhere, like I said, except on the caller ID box, which was wiped clean.” Mickey, a short man, barrel-chested with dark hair showing on his arms beneath the short-sleeved striped shirt, rested his backside on the edge of the table. “The little gray pebbles, as you called them, Blair, are olive pits, as per my early suspicions.”

Van Owen was nodding.

“We found them in the mailbox, on the body of the father, and one in the hair of Joy Stinnet.”

Sonora winced. She hadn't known about that one.

“Anything on the missing Jeep?” Crick asked Gruber.

“Nothing yet.”

“What did you get from the next of kin?” Crick looked from Sam to Sonora.

“We've only talked to Joy's people.”

Sam loosened his tie. “Nothing but average, ordinary folk.”

“Any drug paraphernalia in the house?”

Sam was shaking his head. “And we were looking for it, believe me.”

“What'd you get from the neighborhood canvass?” Crick was back to Gruber again.

“Seemed fairly well-liked. Nobody noticed anything unusual about the people who went in and out. Sometimes painter guys that Stinnet used in his business as a contractor, some of them were a little rough-looking. The worst complaint I got was some of Tammy's friends played their car stereos too loud. But she was well-liked, baby-sat for some of the neighbors when she wasn't training or competing with the swim team. No strange people coming in at night. Next-door neighbor said the lights were usually out by eleven, but you could see that the TV was going in the master bedroom. Her theory is they went to bed with Letterman every night, cause she and Joy used to go over the best of the top-ten lists.”

Crick leaned back in his chair, rubbed the bridge of his nose. “This isn't adding up.”

“They were in a severe money crunch,” Sonora said.

Crick frowned. “You get the impression they were borrowing from the mob or something?”

“No, sir. Visa and American Express.” Sonora looked at Sam, knew he was thinking about the Blockbuster Video joke. He narrowed his eyes and shook his head, ever so gently.

As if she would.

“Okay.” Crick pushed his chair away from the table. “Jack, how about you give us what you know on this olive-pit wacko.”

Van Owen turned so he could see them, that half smile spreading across his face. Sonora found that it was not in her to resist that smile.

He was an average-looking man, speaking objectively, a hard thing to do if you spent more than five seconds with him. Sonora tried to figure it out. Decided a lot of it was the smile. It made him attractive, to men and women. There was something knowing in his eyes, something that saw you and gave the impression that he knew all about you and liked you anyway.

“This guy I'm thinking about—”

“He eats olives.” Gruber. Interrupting.

“Yeah. Green olives, with the pits. Not a pimiento man. You a pimiento man, Detective?”

“I am at that,” Gruber said.

“This guy's not. His name is Lancaster, aka Lanky, Aruba. Probably got a picture here, in the file.” This to Crick, who nodded and opened a manila envelope. “There you go. Take a good look, and go carefully with this guy. He's really out there, paranoid and dangerous. On all the Secret Service and FBI lists, just can't quite get his shit together well enough to assassinate anybody, thank God.”

Gruber handed the picture over to Sonora. She frowned, thinking that there was something peculiar about the mug shot. She chewed the inside of her cheek, decided it was the total absence of self-consciousness. People in mug shots showed emotion—they were sheepish, angry, bewildered, intensely annoyed. Either that, or they went to the other extreme, ranging from a look that was blankly stoic to the prison-yard stare.

But this guy—might as well snap a Polaroid; he seemed indifferent to the camera. The shot caught him looking up, to the left, squinting his right eye, as if something on the ceiling puzzled him. His hair was curly, cut close to his head, and he needed a shave. Cleaned up, with normality in the eyes instead of that puzzled coldness, he might have been attractive, but he had an alien out-there quality that would never get him on
Suddenly Single
.

“Six two or thereabouts.” Van Owen looked at the file. “Six one. Blond hair, blue eyes, scar down the right side of his chin since that mug shot was taken.”

“You remember that?” Sonora asked.

Van Owen gave her a crooked half smile. “I gave it to him. He went after the girl in reception when we were walking him out. She wasn't behind glass back then.” Van Owen showed her an open palm. “Totally unexpected, came from nowhere. Guy was cuffed, had two uniforms to baby-sit him. I was following them out—talking to him, just trash talk. I have no clue what set him off. What was it he said?” Van Owen looked up at the ceiling. “Something about Hopi Indians voting the straight Democratic ticket, as I recall. No rhyme or reason. Weird guy.”

Crick tossed a file from his lap to the desk. Took out another envelope with a picture. Passed it to Sonora.

“This is his nephew or cousin or some kind of relation.”

“Step-nephew, I think,” Van Owen said. “One Barton Melville Kinkle.”

Gruber snorted. “Lanky Aruba and Barton Kinkle. What a couple of losers.”

Van Owen kept talking. “Never been convicted of anything except possession of marijuana, twice, misdemeanor both times. Juries feel sorry for him. Hell, I feel sorry for him. He's a weak link. Falls into things. Easily manipulated, easily intimidated. Possibly the lowest self-esteem on the planet.”

Sonora gave the picture another look before she passed it to Sam. Damn if she didn't feel sorry for him. Maybe because he looked so scared. He had light brownish hair in something resembling a bowl cut, a bald spot in the back, like a monk's tonsure, showing from the side view. His eyes were like small brown buttons, his brows sparse and arched. His skin looked unhealthy. He was the kind of guy whose palms were always moist and sweaty.

“What's he drive?” Sonora asked.

“No license. He can't pass the written test,” Van Owen said. “He told me it was graded by Democrats.”

“Not Aruba, the kid. What's he drive?”

Crick looked at her. “We ran it, nothing showed up. So he probably doesn't pay his car insurance. Imagine that.”

Van Owen looked at his watch. “Got to go.”

Crick was on his feet quickly for a man who bulked out like an ex-fighter. He shook Van Owen's hand. “Thanks for coming in, Jack.”

“Anything to help.” Van Owen nodded to all of them. Headed out the door.

Gruber wheeled around in his chair. “Hey, one more question, a quick one.”

Van Owen looked backward, the expression on his face reminiscent of a parent asked for one too many drinks of water at bedtime. “And what would that be, Detective?”

“How'd you get this guy to talk to you? He did talk to you, didn't he?”

“Yeah, he did. Couldn't stop him once he got started. Got a confession that held. It convicted him.”

“It's that old Van Owen magic,” Crick said.

Van Owen smiled. “I just took the guy a jar of olives.”

“So if I get this guy a jar of olives, no pimientos, he'll tell me everything I want to know?”

Leave it alone, Sonora thought.

Van Owen shifted his weight. “Let me tell you a quick little bedtime story. Aruba disembowels his landlady on the second-floor landing right outside his apartment. Goes straight to his kitchen, gets a bunch of stuff to clean up the mess. Gets caught mopping up by one of the neighbors, whom he also kills. Now, the way old Lanky remembered it, the way he told it to me, is one minute he and this lady are arguing about whether or not to replace the linoleum, the next thing he knows he's mopping up the blood. Doesn't remember a thing about grabbing her from behind and cutting her open.”

“He actually told you that?” Gruber asked.

Van Owen nodded. “And if you catch this guy, Detective—and if he's your man I sure hope you do—make sure that whatever you do, his wrists are cuffed, his legs are shackled, and the bastard's chained to the floor.” He waved a hand and headed out the door. “Stay safe, fellas.”

20

Sanders stood with her back to the sink in the women's bathroom, watching Sonora put on lipstick.

“It's too red,” Sonora said.

“I think I like it better than the purple. Here, let me see that.” Sanders held out a hand.

“What's wrong with the purple stuff?” Sonora asked.

“MAC? Is this new?”

“Yes, it's new. What's wrong with the—”

“I just didn't like it, you asked me to be honest.”

“No, I didn't.” Sonora looked at her watch. Eleven-thirty. “Want to go to lunch—and by the way what did you think of that Van Owen guy?”

“I thought he was cute. Can't do lunch. I'm on that Jenny Craig. I have to eat this little can of chili and a salad. But I get half a pear this afternoon.”

“
Half
a pear? Not the whole pear?”

“You know what? I'm losing weight on this plan, so shut up.”

“Give me back my lipstick.”

Sanders took a comb off the back of the sink, let it glide through her fine, silky hair. “Listen, don't tell, but I think you may have something with your third-man theory. Did you cut your hair?”

“My hair? Yeah. Three weeks ago, you just now noticed?”

“Looks good. Kind of kicky. Kind of Marilyn.”

“Manson?”

“Monroe.”

“Who told you about my third-man theory?”

“I overheard Sam talking to Gruber. They both said you were overcomplicating, and overthinking, the implication being
just like a woman
. That woman meant somebody when she said two men and an angel. Although, don't laugh, but did you ever think—”

“Don't even say it.”

“Consider it unsaid. Look, Sonora, I need your advice.”

Sonora put the lipstick back in her purse. Straightened her tie, muttering, “Oh my God, not again.”

“No, no, this one isn't married.”

“So she does have a brain.”

“It's Gruber.”

“
Gruber?
”

“I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't say his name like it was something on the bottom of your shoe.” Sanders ran a finger along the edge of the sink. “You don't think he's attractive?”

Sonora took a breath. “No, I do. So do most women in greater Cincinnati, or the whole East Coast, if you get my drift.”

“It's just dinner.”

“Tell me another one. Hell, Sanders, he's your partner, why do you want to have
dinner
, you eat with him all the time.” Sonora looked into the mirror, catching Sanders's reflection. “You slept with him?”