The Debt Collector (7 page)

Sonora looked at Sam. “Do something.”

Sam glared at her, stood up, held a hand out for the phone.

Ward looked at him. “Just let me try her again. Maybe you better dial it for me.”

“Mr. Ward, this is about your niece.”

Ward looked at Sam as if he'd threatened him. “I better sit down.”

Sam hung the phone up gently and pulled his chair close to the couch. “Mr. Ward, when was the last time you talked to your niece?”

The man licked his lips. “Yesterday afternoon. And she called me this morning, asked me to put some corn oil into Abigail's feed. Abigail is her mare. Joy used to board her out, but she and Carl have been having some troubles and I said I'd take the horse for a while.”

“What kind of troubles?” Sonora asked.

Ward did not want to tell her. “Money troubles. Carl's business—he's a paint contractor, and one of his major clients went bankrupt and Carl never got paid. They had some unexpected bills with the baby, and everything just kind of hit them at once. It happens to people. They're good people. Please tell me what all this is about.”

“Mr. Ward, I'm sorry to have to tell you that your niece has met with a serious accident.” Sonora wondered why it was habit to say “met with.” As if Joy Stinnet had been introduced to a sociopath and a knife.

“Is she dead?”

“Yes, sir, she is.”

“Well, well …” Ward took off his glasses and polished them again with the flannel belt. “You are police officers? Was it an automobile accident? Is Carl at home?”

“Sir. Your niece was murdered.”

“Murdered?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How could that be?”

“Someone broke into their home.”

“Are you sure you got the right people? She had a nice new house in that new subdivision … oh, darn, I can't think of the name, but the street was …” He reached in a drawer, took out a Bible, the King James version, and removed a stack of papers that were wedged in the middle. His fingers moved like thick sausages through the papers. “Here it is, it was on Edrington Court, there in Cincinnati proper.”

Sonora sat forward. “Mr. Ward, we have the right house.”

“What about the babies? What about Carl?”

“Mr. Ward—” Sonora looked at Sam. Why was she doing this again? “Mr. Ward, none of them made it.”

“None of them made it? You mean … all of them were killed?”

“All of them except the baby. A daughter. About two months old.”

“But I just can't—I just can't believe this.” Tears leaked from the man's eyes. “What on earth happened?”

“We're piecing that together right now, Mr. Ward. Someone broke into the house and killed everyone except the baby. Your niece managed to hide her under the bed and save her. Sir, is there anyone else we can call to be with you right now?”

“Joy. She's the only family that I have.”

“We can get a social worker.”

“Mrs. Cavanaugh lives down the road. She looks in on me and gets my supper three times a week. I can call her if I need someone.”

“We'll stay until she gets here. If you could tell me her number—”

“I don't remember. It's posted on the wall in the kitchen.”

“I'll make the call,” Sam said. Escaping.

“Mr. Ward, may I get you a glass of water? Or make you some coffee? Or … anything.”

He did not answer.

A curious blankness settled over him, as if he were unable or unwilling to connect. The news had been too much for him. It was the kind of news that would be too much for anyone.

Sonora's first inclination was to think that his age would make him fragile, but she wondered now if the opposite was true, if life experience made him more able. He transformed right then and there. He was another person, a distanced person, his eyes like empty windows, his body a tense, tough shell. Endurance mode. Pain mode. No screams and wails, no denial, but a tortured acceptance. He had been there before. The only soft thing about him were the tears that gushed over the new-forming beard stubble on his chin and cheeks.

He was the last remaining one in the clan. Except for the baby. Down to two.

So many questions. She would have to come back. She gritted her teeth against impatience and the familiar feeling that time was slipping away.

13

The fifth floor of the Board of Elections building was lit like a torch, the parking lot behind the loading dock was full. Cincinnati's finest out in force.

Sonora noticed a smear of blood on the toe of her Reeboks as she walked past the glass booth, through the swing doors into the bullpen. She frowned, replaying the scene in Ward's living room. She did not think he had noticed. But Molliter, her least-favorite coworker, was giving her a second look. He seemed preoccupied. His hair, orange-red, had been clipped in a burr that would bring tears of joy to a marine recruiter, and his skin, parchment thin, was webbed at the eyes and mouth with a stamp of finely etched wrinkles that overlaid as many freckles as there were grains of sand. He held a file close to his chest as if he were pledging the flag. Sonora could see a fur of fine, red-gold hair on the backs of his hands. She had always wished he would use Nair or something.

He stopped abruptly. Looked her up and down. “I'm praying for them,” he said softly.

Sonora looked over his shoulder, saw Crick with his back to her, deep in conversation with Sanders, and headed his way. Felt Sam's bulk at her back as she headed down the hall.

Crick turned and looked at her, and she felt a knot in her stomach as she waited for him to ask why they had been gone so long.

“Anything?” he asked.

Anything?
she wondered.

“The woman is dead,” Sam said. “Joy Stinnet died on the table in the ER.”

Sonora nodded. “I was right there, she never regained consciousness.”

Crick rubbed the back of his neck. “Damn. Okay. Sit down, right now, Sonora. Write down exactly what she said to you, word for word.”

Sonora sat at her desk. Looked at the typewriter. Drew a total blank. Crick glanced her way, and she started typing Js. J J J J J J J … she glanced up. She wanted to know what the hell was happening.

Crick was talking in a low tone to Sam. “Nothing yet on the Jeep, CSU is still out there, but Mickey's in the lab, he got in about fifteen minutes ago. He'll be over soon as he can. What about that baby?”

“Not a scratch,” Sam said.

Sonora had quit typing.

“We got Sanders working on next of kin, Molliter's checking for prison breaks and ex-cons, and Gruber's coordinating the initial reports from the neighbor canvass. We've got three uniforms out there right now, working the crowd and going door to door.” He glanced up, saw that Sonora was not typing. “Got it?”

“Almost.”

“Okay, get this entered into NCIC and see if we get any hits. How many men were there, did the mother make any sense on that?”

“Two men and an angel.” Sonora noticed that Molliter had stopped and was listening.

Crick looked at her.

“It's what she said.”

“Two makes more sense,” Crick said. “Got to be two.”

Sonora nodded. Two men, egging each other on. She'd seen that synergy before, a sort of heinous performance art, two predators playing Can You Top This? A third didn't work. A third meant a gang, premeditation, a crime where money changed hands. Business. The curtain cords used to bind Carl Stinnet said crime of opportunity.

Sonora checked her watch. Wondered how much longer CSU would be out there, and if she could get back tonight. She typed more Js. She closed her eyes, put herself back in the hallway, remembered the woman's screams when the bed ruffle had been pulled away.

What the hell was it she had said?

Someone behind her called her name, right about the time her phone started ringing. She picked it up.

“Cincinnati Police Department, Homicide, Specialist Blair speaking.”

“Detective Blair or Delarosa, please.”

A man's voice. Businesslike, not unfriendly, a certain self-confidence in the tone. Not the slippery whine or cant of the typical informer.

“This is Blair.”

“I understand you caught yourself a bad one.”

Sonora sat up, tried to keep the wary tone out of her voice. “Who's speaking, please?”

“Sorry. My name is Jack Van Owen, retired, Homicide, is Crick there?”

“Yeah, I'll—”

“No, don't go get him. I want to talk to you, but I know you're busy, and you'd probably like to hang up on my ass. I used to work with Crick. I was his partner for eleven years, so after I tell you what I've got to tell you, go talk to him, he'll vouch for me.”

Sonora sat back in her chair. The name was familiar. Jack Van Owen.

“I wouldn't be bothering you right now, but … you've got a home invasion and some physical evidence that includes olive pits. That right?”

Sonora felt the knot of tension in her jaw.

“Police radio,” the voice said, with just a trace of amusement. “Old habits, you know?”

“Nobody said anything about olive pits.”

“I'm guessing. You got olive pits, that right?”

“You're spinning the scenario, you tell me.”

“Look, Detective Blair. Sorry, okay, let's start over. I'm not trying to put you on the spot, and I'm not here to waste your time. I know of a guy I arrested about eighteen years ago. He used to eat olives obsessively, had a jar of them all the time, worse than a smoker. He'd spit the pits on his victims. Last I heard he was in LaGrange, but he was due out last May. I was thinking he might be your guy.”

“Really? Just like that, you got it solved?”

Deep breath on the other end. “If I told you I have friends in CSU, that's all I'd tell you, I don't want to make anybody mad. Mickey knows me.”

There was something about his voice. Baritone, self-confident, well-spoken. Not the kind of voice you hung up on.

Maybe he's the killer, Sonora thought. Getting in on the investigation.

“No, Detective, I am not the killer sniffing around for the thrill. But if this is your guy, his name is Aruba, Lanky Aruba. If I'm right, my condolences to your victims. He's a nasty boy, stone-cold sociopath, not very bright, or if he is he can't use it. Very dissociated. Dangerous as hell when you trigger the rage. Think
Sling Blade
meets
A Clockwork Orange
. You old enough to remember—”

“Yeah, I remember the movie.”

“You don't sound that old.”

“My kid rented it.”

“Got you.” He paused a beat, and there was something in his voice, just a hint that he found her sharp and he found her interesting. Or maybe she was hallucinating. “Okay. Now, our boy, Lanky, didn't specialize in home invasions way back when. He's kind of a nervous type, not organized enough to be a planner, and he lives in a whole other universe, let me tell you. Back then he was an opportunistic rapist, a petty thief, I think he had a few charges for dealing. He kind of drifts, you know, sort of an odd-job guy. By the time I got ahold of him, his crimes were escalating to murder, no matter what anybody hired him for. He's tough to keep in line, too, out there. And with a knife this guy is a pretty brutal ripper.”

“Give me specifics,” Sonora said.

Another beat, while he collected his thoughts. “Takes a woman from behind, slices her from stem to stern. Disembowelment sort of his specialty.”

Sonora took a breath. Checked the caller ID. One Jack Van Owen. “You better come in. Wait, before you hang up. Our man Lanky got any buds he likes to hang with?”

“Let me think. Yeah, maybe. There was this kid. Sort of his nephew. Kind of a sad case. Mom dumped him in a tub of hot water when he was a toddler, didn't check the temperature. Just about boiled him, couldn't have been more than two or three at the time. Not abuse, this one, just unlucky. She wasn't real bright, but not a bad sort. The thermostat wasn't working and it jacked the water temperature up to boiling. Or so the kid says. Patch on the top of his head where the hair won't grow, scar tissue on his hands, arms, and legs. Barton Melville Kinkle, everybody called him Barty. Five feet nine inches tall, light brown hair, wiry build last time I saw him, weight about one fifty-five. Real shy, nervous type. Looks like a computer nerd's computer nerd, doesn't meet your eyes, hands shake when he talks to people he doesn't know. Reasonable IQ, but can't seem to hold a job. Brown eyes, usually bloodshot, ever enthusiastic about his weed. As I recall he always had a few plants dying under a bed somewhere. Not a green thumb.”

Sonora wrote like crazy, trying to keep up.

“Last known address?”

“He'll be in the system,” Van Owen said. “Lanky's got a sister, lives in Kentucky, on the Woodford–Fayette county line, close to a small town called … let me think here. Versailles. Her address should be in his file somewhere.”

“If she's still there.”

“If she is, Detective, that's where he'll be headed.”

“Sounds like you know him pretty well.”

“I spent a little time in the interrogation room with him.”

“Anything else?”

“What, like a phone number where they can be reached?”

“Rein it in, Van Owen, I have to ask. Thank you for your brevity, your lack of questions, and your information.”

“Good hunting, Detective.” The phone line clicked.

Sonora tapped a finger on the desk. Who had he talked to in CSU? Mickey, had to be, he was the only one in, unless it was somebody in reception, but they weren't in this time of night. Better follow it up.

She stood up and headed for the swing doors that separated the homicide bullpen from the CSU lab. Thinking, as she walked through the doors, that Van Owen had shown a gentle courtesy by coming straight to her and not going through Crick. Establishing credibility with the relationship, but not taking advantage.