The Debt Collector (12 page)

“
No.
”

Sonora read yes. “Listen, Sanders, this guy is your partner. You see him every day, you're working with him, where can this go but down?”

“I really like him, Sonora.”

“Yes, hon', and he really likes you.”

“You think so?”

“Don't even
start
. It's a wreck in progress, and you know it. But keep me informed.” Not that she would need to be told. She knew exactly how it would go, it would just be a matter of damage control on down the road.

“
Wait
just one minute. Are you telling me you never slept with Sam?”

“Certainly not,” Sonora lied. “See ya.”

She scooted out of the bathroom and ran right into Sam. He grabbed her elbow.

“Keep moving, girl, I got a home and work address for Barton Kinkle.”

“But—”

“Come on, oh good, you've got your purse. We'll get lunch on the way. I called—that's kind of red, isn't it?”

“What? The lipstick?” She followed him down the hallway. “You don't like it?”

He stopped. Backed away. Cocked his head to one side. “Give me some time to get used to it. I like it better than the purple stuff.”

“Did I
ask
you—”

“As I was saying, I called the locals down in Kentucky, Lexington—talked to some woman, Detective Mai Yagamochi—”

“Sounds like your typical steel magnolia.”

“She's going to do a drive-by past the sister's place—Aruba's—look for the Jeep, or anything else, kind of just scope it out. She checked for me, the address is definitely Fayette County, so it's their jurisdiction.”

“How does she sound?”

“Pretty good. Kind of excited. Must be on the quiet side down there, right about now.”

“Yeah, what a shock.”

He headed through the swing doors and she had to run to keep up.

“I figure we'll do Kinkle's apartment, grab some lunch, then hit his place of employment.”

Sonora slung her purse over her shoulder. “Where's he work?”

“Night auditor at the Hampstead Inn over on Montgomery.”

“Over on Montgomery? Over where on Montgomery? That road's about a hundred miles long, give or take a kilometer.”

“Exit seven.” Sam pushed the down button on the elevator.

“Oh yeah, where the exit goes six, eight, seven?”

“I bet that's hell on out-of-towners.”

“No rule that says numbers have to be numerical.”

“Not in Cincinnati.”

The elevator door opened. Sam stepped in, looked at her. Sonora took a breath, stepped in. There, she was being brave and taking the stupid elevator.

“Sam, let's do lunch first, I'm hungry.”

“Oh come on, the apartment won't take that long.”

“Unless he's
there
. Then we could have a gun battle or something, who the hell knows what could happen.”

“It's better to get shot on an empty stomach, Sonora.”

21

“You want to hear my prediction?” Sonora said.

Sam pulled into the parking lot of the Kilmar Arms. He squinted at the four-story, weathered red brick building. “First stop on our tour, the Heartbreak Hotel.”

“What?” Sonora said.

“This is the first place every divorced guy in Cincinnati goes, right about when he first separates from his wife. It's cheap, close to downtown, in walking distance of three small dark bars, a McDonald's, Arby's, and Arlene's House of Laundry, which has a drink machine, pinball games, and a coin changer.”

Sonora slammed the car door. “And you know it well because why?”

Sam slid into his tan raincoat, yesterday's sunshine a memory. “A lot of my buddies wind up here, during the transition. We go down the road to grab a beer and watch football.”

“It's good that you've got so many happy memories associated with this place, Sam. I'm glad to know that your friends' depressions and life-shattering events don't, you know, spoil it for you.”

Sam locked the Taurus. “Hey.” He opened his arms. “I keep them cheered up. Move them in, move them out. Part of the cycle of life, Sonora. Might as well enjoy it.”

She followed him up six brick steps bordered on each side by an ornate, black, wrought-iron railing, and through a wide, heavy door with a fanned glass window over the top, like a transom. Sonora paused in the foyer, craning her neck to study a dirtencrusted chandelier that would have been at home in the ballroom of an old-style Chicago hotel, brightening wedding receptions and New Year's Eve parties.

“What the hell,” she said.

“Quite a place, isn't it?” Sam grinned at her like a boy with his first car. “Built in the twenties.” He pointed up. “High ceilings, a man can breathe in here. It could be cleaner, sure, and there's no air-conditioning. Look, see, it's got those neat grill heater things along the wall, don't see those around much anymore. Hell of a place.”

“It's the fried-fish smell that makes it.”

Sam went ahead on the staircase. “I've never been able to figure that smell out. These suites—”

“Suites?”

“—don't have kitchens, there's no cooking allowed, but most of these guys don't take the kitchen stuff when they go anyway.”

“They do allow power tools?”

“Funny.”

“No elevator?” The stairs were wooden and creaky. The banisters would have been a work of art, had they been cleaned, buffed, and polished. Sonora felt a rough spot under her thumb. Someone had carved his initials. SDM.

“Nope.” Sam puffed a little. “And this guy's on the fourth floor. D-eight.”

“Sam, how can they not allow cooking?”

“They let you have a popcorn popper.”

“What more does a man need?”

“What was your prediction?” Sam said.

“My God, you were listening?”

“I always listen to you.”

“Man, it is really quiet in here. Nine-to-five guys.”

Sam shrugged. “Or night-shift day sleepers.”

“Okay, my prediction is Kinkle is home, asleep, like a good night auditor, and this Van Owen dude … I mean, he seems okay and all, Sam.” She paused on the third-floor landing to catch her breath. Her left side ached faintly, like a memory. That rib cage had been kicked in fifteen months ago by another mild-mannered low-self-esteem type who engendered pity. Sonora took her gun out of her purse. She was starting to prefer the hard cases.

“You don't like him?”

“Who?”

“Van Owen.”

“No, it's not I don't like him, but it ain't ever this easy, Sam. Give us a couple of names and we pick these guys up. Please.”

“What about that antiques dealer who dropped his business card?”

“Okay, but other than him?”

“There's the Riverfront Strangler.”

“Yeah, but, dammit, Sam, that guy confessed.”

“You don't call
that
easy? I like it when they walk into the office.”

“Me, I won't be happy till they bring lunch.”

Sam held up his left arm, gun in his right hand. They stood to either side of a battered mahogany door with a brass number six hanging over a peephole. Sam knocked and moved away.

“Hey, Sam?”

“
What?
”

“Didn't you say eight?”

“Huh?”

“Didn't you say this guy was in D-eight?”

“Oh. Yeah. I did.”

The door to six opened. A man in sweatpants and a clean white V-neck undershirt said, “Cloris?” in a hopeful tone of voice. His dark thinning hair was wet and slicked back like he'd just come out of the shower. “Oh.” He gave them a hangdog look of depression. “Yes?”

The smell of popcorn and cigarette smoke wafted from his “suite” into the hallway. Sonora saw a temporary bed, steel frame, a striped mattress, twisted blue sheets, an open suitcase, and a huge brand-new television.

“Wrong apartment,” Sonora said.

“Oh. Okay.”

“Sorry.” This from Sam as the door shut.

Sonora shook her head. “Guy didn't say word one about the guns.”

“Other things on his mind.” Sam led her around the open staircase and across the landing to number eight.

This time Sonora knocked. It was her turn.

No one came to the door. They waited. Listened. No response.

“Okay.” Sam sounded cheerful. “The Hampstead Inn it is.”

“I want lunch.”

“There's a McDonald's right down the road. Walking distance.”

“Dammit, I'm sick to death of McDonald's.”

“They have Beanie Babies.”

“Oh, okay.”

22

The parking lot of the Hampstead Inn was newly paved, newly painted, and almost empty. Sonora, turned sideways in the front seat of the Taurus, took one of the meat patties off her Big Mac and threw it back into the brown grease-stained bag.

“Hey,” Sam said. “My fries are in there.”

“Get them out.” Sonora took a bite of her hamburger, ate one french fry, and took a long drink of Coke. There was nothing in the world like fizzy cold Coke.

Sam reached across the seat and wiped dressing off her mouth with his thumb. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Take the meat off.”

“I keep one. I just don't want two.”

“Then order a Quarter Pounder.”

“That's not at all like a Big Mac. Here, take your fries. Sam, do you think Gruber is sleeping with Sanders?”

Sam stopped in the act of cramming a fistful of french fries in his mouth. “What brings this on?”

“Come on, what do you think? You're going to choke, eating fries like that.”

“They taste better this way. It's like eating popcorn—you got to shove in a whole bunch at once.”

“Pretty, too, when food falls out of your mouth.”

“Oh yeah, I lay awake at night wondering if I eat pretty.” He tapped the straw of her Coke, which showed a red ring from the new lipstick. “I decided I do like the red. It's kind of sexy.”

“You know the biggest problem with Kinkle and Aruba?”

“They're stone-cold killers?”

“No. I just don't get the connection. How did they wind up at the Stinnets' house? Why them?”

“I been thinking about that.”

“And?”

“I don't know.”

“What about Sanders and Gruber?”

Sam chewed. Wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Let's say they did sleep together once or twice. We did it.”

“Sam.”

“Well, we did.”

“That was ages ago and you're not supposed to bring it up.”

“Yeah, but we did.”

“Okay.”

“It's not like I'm going to forget.”

“
Okay.
”

He gave her a sideways smile, which Sonora decided was supposed to be sexy. She offered him the rest of her french fries, and he took the red cardboard box delicately between his thumb and forefinger.

“Why don't you like Van Owen, Sonora? Besides him hitting on you there in front of God and everybody.”

“He wasn't hitting on me, Sam.”

“He likes you.”

“Does not.”

“Does too.” Sam grabbed her hand. Brought her wrist to his lips. “What kind of perfume did you say this was?”

“The kind that appeals to you, Sam. Eau de fried potato, a musky hint of grease, the floral bouquet of iodized salt.”

“Stop it, you're making me hot.”

“Are you
still
eating?”

“No, I'm done.”

“Are you?”

“Yeah.”

“Then can we go?”

“Sure. Just freshen up that lipstick, baby.”

23

The Hampstead Inn was a minimalist suite hotel, catering to business travelers on a budget. The lobby, which smelled of Pine-Sol and overbaked coffee, was carpeted in a color that was now a slightly worn butterscotch, though for all Sonora knew, it had come that way. It was conceivable that someone had actually selected it.

A peculiar linoleum-floored anteroom off the lobby had a dairy case filled with ice cream bars and frozen burritos. A Coke machine hummed and glowed. An orange light warned that the machine was out of change. A small assortment of magazines was displayed next to a paltry selection of paperback novels, and individual packets of pharmaceuticals and drugstore sundries were displayed next to a small microwave oven.

Atmosphere sacrificed on the altar of convenience and practicality.

Beyond the front desk, the lobby spread out into an area filled with small round tables, half of them sporting circular foil ashtrays, the other half with white plastic placards displaying a burning cigarette with a red circle and a slash. A big-screen TV was tuned to the inevitable CNN, and a long empty banquet table along the wall—coffee machine mercifully up and running—hinted at bagels and croissants from seven to eleven every single day of the week. A newspaper rack that said
USA Today
came up empty next to the half-full bins for
The Post
and
The Enquirer
.

A man in a yellow shirt and brown tie stood behind the front desk, hovering over a trim woman, permed brunette hair cascading over her shoulders, long nails attacking a computer keyboard at an awkward angle.

Sam laid his ID on the countertop. “Would you ask the manager to come out, when you have a minute?”

Sonora would not have added that
have a minute
patter, but Sam was from the South and therefore polite—to a fault, by Sonora's way of thinking.

The man sidestepped the girl, who looked up in panic at the desertion, and pressed his stomach against the edge of the countertop. He was bald on the top, hair tufty and overlong at the sides, and his ears were neat and small. He had the general physique of the Pillsbury Doughboy, without the endearing smile.

“I'm the manager.” His name tag said
Kreski, Jim MGR
.