The Debt Collector (24 page)

“Sit and think, Belinda. I'll give you some time.” Mai got up and headed for the door. She glanced backward at Sonora, who waved her on. It was clear from Mai's expression that she did not care to be waved on.

As soon as the door shut, Belinda began to sob. She seemed exhausted, eyes bloodshot and bleary, nose red and puffy. The black eye seemed even more swollen than it had before. Belinda put her head in her arms, crying into the oak-veneer table.

Sonora had a sudden memory of the conversation she'd had with Quincy David, the expert on check-cashing sharks. Thinking that they were using pretty much the same techniques.

She rubbed her face in her hands. Maybe she was just tired, but it was getting hard to tell the good guys from the bad.

Sonora scooted her chair closer, spoke in a low tone. “Belinda? They can't put your kids up for adoption. Not unless they prove you're an unfit mother.”

“If I go to jail, I'm unfit, aren't I?” Belinda looked at her with a stunned woefulness that signified a loss of hope.

“No, it doesn't.” Sonora leaned forward. “You're afraid of him, aren't you?”

“Who?”

“You know who. Your brother. Aruba forced his way in, threatened your children. Gave you that black eye. You didn't have a choice, did you, Belinda? Did you?” Sonora looked at her.
Say yes
, she willed the woman. Say yes, please say yes.

Belinda opened her mouth, swallowed painfully. “Step-brother.”

“Step-brother. You were afraid. He threatened you and your children. You didn't have a choice. Yes, Belinda?”

She nodded slowly. “That's right. I didn't have no choice.”

Sonora repeated it one more time. Belinda nodded and said yes again. Sonora let her breath go, relaxed. It was on videotape, exactly what Belinda Kinkle needed to say to keep clear.

She leaned across the table. “Belinda, I want you to just listen for a minute. You don't have to say a word, okay, just listen, will you?”

It was hard to know if she was getting through, from the stunned look, the haunted eyes. But Belinda nodded and leaned toward her.

“Lanky isn't getting out of this one. I know you've heard it before, but this time, he's really going down. This is a death-penalty issue, do you understand that, Belinda?” Sonora watched her, trying to read her thoughts.

“He could get out,” Belinda whispered.

“No, he couldn't. But if he did? Somehow? I promise I would call you and warn you.”

“No phone,” Belinda said. Still whispering.

“I would see that someone came and told you. I'd make sure. I would come myself if I had to.”

The woman looked at her as if she were insane.

“There's something I need to know,” Sonora said. “I need to know if your brother and Barty worked with somebody, a third man. I think there was somebody else, and I need to know who he is. Did Lanky or Barty mention anybody else? Someone they worked with? Anyone at all?”

Belinda put a hand on Sonora's arm, and it seemed, for a moment, as if she would speak, but no words came.

Sonora patted the hand that gripped her arm. “It's okay, Belinda. I know you're scared. Tell you what, I'm going to give you my card, okay? If you ever want to talk to me, just call, anytime. You can call collect; I'll accept the charges. And Belinda? We boarded up that door we broke and locked your house. And I left your dog some food and water.”

She grimaced, remembering the twine Sam had tied to the bathroom door so they could let the dog out of the bathroom from outside the house. How many times the twine slid off and they had to start over. Mai's amused looks.

Sonora stood up and headed for the door. She could not remember being this tired, ever. “Take care of yourself, Belinda. If anybody wants to talk to you, ask for Detective Whitmore. If you can't talk to Whitmore, don't say word one till you get a lawyer.”

Belinda looked like a woman whose last hope was walking out the door. “He forced his way in,” she whispered. “He hit me. He scared my babies.”

Sonora gave her the thumbs-up sign and left, wondering if she was losing her way or finding it.

50

Kinkle's attorney arrived at a relaxed nine-fifteen the following morning, and by ten-thirty word had gone out that Barty Kinkle was ready to deal.

Sonora sat in the small interrogation room with Sam, Whitmore, and Drew Manson, Attorney-at-Law. Manson was a large man, with well-oiled black hair, thickly brushed back from a square, handsome forehead, and a broad, sad puppy-dog face that said,
We've seen it all, haven't we, folks?

According to Whitmore, Manson was a semicompetent local criminal-defense attorney who was well-known among local drug dealers and homegrown wiseguys.

Kinkle wanted immunity from the death penalty. His choice of prisons. And a sentence of no more than ten years. He was a victim, like the Stinnets, of Aruba's brutality. No one was supposed to have been hurt. He had even tried to stop Aruba. He was under the man's power—he had been a victim all his life, intimidated and pushed around. He would cooperate fully and hang Aruba for the right deal.

And, as a sign of his willingness to cooperate, to work and play well with others, he would not fight extradition to Ohio.

Sonora saw that Kinkle was looking at her. He seemed more relaxed today, more suited to the role of victim wanting only to please and be a very good boy. He gave the impression of someone who would do as he was asked for a cookie.

But he looked older up close, one side of his face a pale white webwork of scar tissue, the back of both hands a match of damaged skin, ancient history. Sonora squinted her eyes, trying to remember who it was that had told her about Kinkle being dumped in an overheated bath, a three-year-old on the way to hell.

“We'll take your deal to the District Attorney,” Sam said, no hint in his tone that the guy was dreaming. They'd get him to Cincinnati first. “And whatever we do, we'll want a polygraph. You going to cooperate on that one too?”

Kinkle looked at his attorney, who nodded. “My client
wants
to tell you the truth. He wants to help. He's being traumatized by this guy Aruba, he's a victim like everyone else.”

There was not, Sonora thought, looking at the faces of her fellow detectives, much flow of sympathy in the room.

“Can I ask a couple of quick questions?” she said.

“No,” from the attorney.

Kinkle balled his hands into fists on the table. He wanted to speak. But he would not disobey Manson's command. Sonora could see the lawyer relax just a little. He seemed to be enjoying his morning. Cop a quick fee, cut this guy loose to his representation up in Cincinnati, who would get the glory and headaches inherent in this case.

“Look, you're not fighting extradition,” Sonora said. “We appreciate being saved the paperwork. On the other hand, we've got Aruba now, and he's not fighting it either.”

Manson watched her, wary but not particularly expecting to catch her in a lie that he could so easily check.

Later.

But he didn't have the edge of a player who knows he'll have to try the case himself.

“What exactly are you saying, Detective?” Manson had a nice voice, which he clearly enjoyed the sound of. He would present well in court, Sonora thought, as long as he avoided a tendency to talk just for the pleasure of listening.

“You tell me,” Sonora said.

The invitation surprised him. But she knew from the narrowing of his eyes that he would not be able to resist taking her up on it. He put his fingertips together over the steel-gray vest, pursed the thick lips. Playing out the mannerisms, to give himself some time. It would be tedious if he used this strategy in court.

“I think what you're trying to tell us, Detective Blair, is that we're not the only ones trying to work a deal here.”

Kinkle, staring at the center of the table, raised his head slowly, like a carrion bird interrupted during a meal in the center of the road.

“Am I right?” Manson said.

Sonora opened her arms. “
You
know how these things play out, don't you, Mr. Manson?”

Kinkle watched his attorney like an acolyte before a priest. Which had its effect on Manson.

“My client and I both know that a man like Aruba will stop at nothing. But we think that Mr. Kinkle's story will be borne out by … certain forensic evidence, which you yourself have collected. Certain little gray pebbles, which are, in fact, olive pits.”

“Yeah, we got all that. And we got Aruba too,” Sonora said. If she sounded bored, she wasn't. “But what you guys need to do is find a reason for me to choose between the two of you.” She looked at Kinkle. “We've got Aruba in custody, and we're going to go talk to him right now, so …”

It wasn't true, of course. Aruba was in the ER, sedated, having his arm set. But Sam and Whitmore stood up, heading for the door, playing right along, God bless them both. Sonora, last one out, stopped and looked at Kinkle with as much understanding and sympathy as she could muster.

“I want everybody, do you understand me, Barton? The more of you there are, the more we can spread the blame around.”

Kinkle leaned close to Manson, who held up a meaty hand, as if this would shield their conversation.

“Detective, do you understand we're going to hand you Aruba?”

“Counselor, do you understand I've
got
Aruba?”

Manson frowned. “Cards on the table, Detective. What do you want?”

Sonora smiled slowly. “I want the third man.”

Kinkle's eyes widened and he swallowed. His body took on a tense stillness, like a mouse in the paws of a cat. He looked at Manson, shook his head vigorously.

“My client has no comment at this time,” Manson said. Ending the interview.

“Whatever you say.” Sonora turned away, heading for the door. Kinkle might not have told her in words, but he had told her. There was a third man. Scarier even than Aruba.

51

The bullpen felt like Christmas morning, though technically it was the afternoon. But what it lacked in flashing lights and foil-wrapped packages, it made up for in a palpable excitement. Crick, sitting next to Mickey at the conference table, had his Sunday-go-to-meeting suit on and a brand-new tie. He'd be
Live at Five
by the end of the day and likely a presence in
Details at Eleven
.

Sonora leaned her elbows on the table, reading through the autopsy reports. A bruise on the girl's sternum—her killer had rested a knee there while cutting her throat, in the opinion of the Medical Examiner. The toddler, the boy, had died instantly of a crushed skull and the resultant hemorrhaging, no other marks on the body. Carl Stinnet hadn't been so lucky, histamine levels indicating extreme suffering.

Sonora read the reports back through for the third time. There was no reference to marks on Carl or Joy or, for that matter, Tammy Stinnet's hands, no broken or grazed knuckles. Somebody had punched Lanky Aruba in that bathroom so hard he lost a tooth; someone had crammed the blood-soaked towels on the back of the toilet.

Sam slid into the chair beside Sonora, opened a pink Dunkin' Donuts box. “Did Gruber tell you they got Clara Bonnet coming in? Grab a doughnut, Sonora, before the pack gets wind.”

“Clara's coming? Why now, after we've caught the guys?”

Sam shrugged. “She's a forensic psychologist, she's interested. Seems she's met this Kinkle before, which'll give us some insight. I thought you liked her.”

“I do. A lot.”

“Any problem if she's in on the interrogation?”

“No, she'll probably help us make our case.”

Sam rattled the doughnut box encouragingly. Sonora looked at the display—sprinkles, caramel, nuts, white-powdered, and plain. A few glazed, some with chocolate.

“No thanks, Sam. Looking at them makes my stomach hurt.”

“Sonora, have you eaten anything since lunch yesterday?”

“Yeah,” she lied. “Have you seen these autopsy reports, Sam?”

“Yeah, I read them.”

“And?”

Sam picked up a powdered doughnut. Took a huge bite. “I know what you're thinking.”

“Do you?”

“Sure.” He took another bite before he had chewed the first one. “You're thinking who punched Aruba. You're working that third-man theory.”

“Maybe I'm thinking you shouldn't talk with your mouth full.”

He crammed the rest of the doughnut in his mouth and licked his fingers.

“What's this about?” Crick had called the meeting to order, or everyone had gone quiet at the same time. At any rate, Sonora found herself the center of attention.

“We're talking about the tooth in the bathroom, if—”

“Sonora? We'll get to that. Mickey's going to do a reconstruction, theoretical, Mickey?”

“Fine,” Sonora said. “I'll just sit here and wait for the rest of you guys to catch up. What's another hour when I've been awake for forty-eight straight already?”

Crick turned his head slowly, like a bird of prey. “Did you say something?”

“No, sir, she didn't say nothing.” Gruber took a chocolate doughnut and put it on a napkin, slid it to Sanders, who slid it to Molliter, who slid it to Sam, who put it in front of Sonora.

Crick waved a hand at Mickey. “No point waiting for Clara, she said she might be late, and it looks like certain people are impatient. Get on with it.”

Mickey turned away from Crick, gave Sonora a slow wink. He put an eight-by-ten color glossy up on the board with a clip. “Looks like they came in from the kitchen.”

The picture showed the kitchen window, pane broken out, glass sprayed over the stainless-steel sink, a red and white dish towel wadded on the cabinet. The paper towels said
Bless Our Happy Home
. Mickey kept clipping pictures up. More of the kitchen. The hallways, the bedrooms, the Stinnets in the throes of their long and unhappy last hours.