Fatal Debt

by Dorothy Howell

  This surprised me because last I knew, Leonard lived with the Sullivans off and on. He changed jobs a lot, returning home through periods of unemployment. Plus, Mr. Sullivan expected him to come to the house yesterday and help out with the Mid-America payment so he could keep the television.

  “I’m sure Leonard hasn’t heard about what happened to his grandpa,” Mrs. Wiley said. “He’s got a new job somewhere, and an apartment. Got himself a new silver Lexus, too. If he’d heard what happened, he’d be here. I know he would.”

  “I’m sure he would,” I agreed, though I thought it odd that Leonard hadn’t heard the news.

  “It would make Gladys feel so much better to see the boy,” Mrs. Wiley said. “I know you’ve got ways of finding people, you know, through your job. Can you find Leonard? Tell him to come home?”

  “Of course,” I said. “Do you know where Leonard’s working now, or where he’s living?”

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t. But find him, okay?”

  “Sure, Mrs. Wiley. I’ll find him,” I said.

  She squeezed my hand and went back into the house. I drove away.

  Part of my job as asset manager at Mid-America was to find customers who’d moved, leaving no forwarding info. As it turned out, I had a natural ability to find people—call it a gift, a superpower, whatever—but I was really good at it.

  I kept this a secret—as all super heroes do—and used it as I saw fit, regardless of Mid-America’s expectations.

  Mostly they were folks who were hiding because they couldn’t afford to pay their bills. I understood that. So once I located my customer, I’d talk to them and see what the problem was, and if their situation was legit—unemployment, medical bills, emergency expenses—I kept the info to myself with a promise from the customer to settle up with Mid-America when they could.

  Unfortunately, not every customer who’d skipped out on their payments had a real, understandable reason for doing so. With them, I had no sympathy. Families were struggling to get by; I couldn’t get behind somebody who didn’t pay their bills just because they didn’t want to.

  Relieved, now, that I had something to do that would help Mrs. Sullivan, the knot of guilt in my stomach over my own shortcomings the night of the murder eased a bit. Then I remembered that I had to go see Nick, and that knot morphed into something different. I didn’t know what, exactly; I decided not to contemplate that situation right now.

  All I wanted to do was get to the police station, look at mug shots, spot the killer, and let that be that. End of my involvement with Nick—except to trash his payment when it came in, of course.

  I sighed heavily in my silent car. Even that didn’t seem like as much fun as it used to.

  * * *

  At the police station, Nick greeted me with a smile. Not his women-melting smile, just a pleasant, glad-to-see-you smile. This, of course, threw me off immediately.

  “”How are you doing?” he asked.

  He seemed genuinely concerned, something else I hadn’t expected.

  I told him I was fine, even though I wasn’t, and he took me to a little office off the squad room where a computer was set up on a table.

  “Take your time,” he said, as I sat down. “There’s no rush.”

  “Any idea who the killer is?” I asked.

  “We’re working on leads,” he answered, obviously his standard detective answer.

  I’d heard that cops only liked to talk about a case to other cops, and I could understand that—up to a point. Given the circumstances, I didn’t see why I couldn’t know about developments in the case.

  “Look,” I said. “You must have learned something by now. I’ve come all the way down here to help out, when I should be at work—time I’m not getting paid for, by the way.”

  Okay, that was an out-and-out lie. So what? I wanted to know what was going on.

  Still, Nick wasn’t moved.

  “Do I have to know some secret code word? Some mysterious hand shake?” I asked.

  He stewed for a few minutes, then said, “We canvassed the neighborhood again this morning. Nobody saw anything. We’re running prints, waiting for autopsy results, searching the area for the murder weapon. So far, nothing.”

  Okay, that was disappointing, and it made me feel a little silly for insisting on knowing.

  Nick gestured to the computer. “I’ll be outside if you need anything.”

  I watched him go to his desk and sit down. He looked comfortable, like he belonged there, wanted to be there. I guess you have to like what you’re doing if you’re a homicide detective in the Murder Capital of America.

  I touched the keyboard—and nearly bolted from the room.

  Before me was one scary mass of humanity. True, people weren’t at their best after being arrested. No hair combing was permitted prior to the snap of the camera, apparently.

  But still, bad hair or not, some really frightening faces stared back at me. They made me want to rush out and buy a dozen dead-bolt locks for my front door, or get an in-home job and never venture out in public again.

  I paged through the pics and after a while I got used to them. I compared every face to the mental snapshot of the man who’d run into me last night. I hadn’t seen much of him. He’d had on a jacket with the hood pulled up, allowing only a glimpse at the side of his face, the tip of his nose, his cheek bone and chin. Not much to go on.

  Still, I flipped through all the photos. Nothing. The guy wasn’t there, or if he was I hadn’t seen enough of his face to recognize him.

  I stood and stretched. Nick came to the doorway. His gaze dipped to my legs. A quick dip, but I saw it.

  “Find something?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “Sorry.”

  He seemed to take it in stride. I guess dead-ends came with the job.

  We stood there for a minute looking at each other.

  “Thanks for coming down,” Nick said. He didn’t move.

  “Sure.” I didn’t move either.

  Another awkward moment passed, then we both realized we were having a junior-high moment. Nick moved aside and I walked out of the room. He escorted me to the lobby, thanked me again, and I left.

  Since Manny had given me free time out of the office, I saw no reason not to abuse his generosity. I headed for my parents’ house.

  This whole thing about Mom wanting to leave my dad seemed crazy to me. They’d been married for over thirty years. What could my dad possibly have done—that he hadn’t already done at least once in all their years together?

  I let myself into the house and found Mom at the kitchen counter. She gave me a hug, holding out her floured hands.

  “What are you making?” I asked, pointing to the mixing bowl full of dough.

  “Cookies. Another bake sale at church.” She paused, then gave me her mom-look. “What’s wrong? Something’s wrong. You’re upset. What is it?”

  How does she do that? How does she always know?

  Despite my initial reaction last night to run home for comfort, I’d come to my senses enough today to know I shouldn’t tell Mom about the murder I’d walked in on. I didn’t want her to get started on my job again, or on me moving back home and allowing her and Dad to pay my college tuition. They’d offered before, but I refused to put that financial burden on them.

  “It’s you and Dad,” I said, which was a partial truth.

  “Oh.” She turned back to her dough. “Did you get a truck?”

  “What’s going on with you and Dad?” I asked.

  “That father of yours, honestly,” she grumbled. “I just can’t live like this anymore. Do you know what he wants now? Did he tell you?”

  She didn’t wait for me to answer.

  “Satellite TV.” Mom flung out both hands. “Satellite TV with all those sports packages, and old movie channels. And for what? So he can watch television—more television.”

  My dad was a couch potato. His idea of exercise was taking another lap around the salad bar. Bu
t he’d always been this way, so I wasn’t sure how an upgraded TV package had escalated the situation to this extreme.

  Mom turned back to the dough. “We used to do things, your father and me. Now all he does is sit and watch television. It’s like he’s rooted to that recliner. If he gets more channels to watch, we’ll never go anywhere.”

  I couldn’t disagree with Mom on this one.

  “Have you talked to Dad about it?” I asked.

  “Why should I have to talk to him? Can’t he see I’m bored? Can’t he see that he’s wasting his life—and mine?” she asked.

  Having Mount Rushmore parents was a wonderful thing. They were stable. They could be counted on. The drawback was that nothing carved from stone could talk.

  “I need that truck,” Mom said. “I’m not staying in this house.”

  “Where are you going to go?” I asked.

  “I’ll find an apartment somewhere,” she said. Her face brightened. “Oh, I know what I’ll do.”

  I saw this one coming like a star ship jumping to light speed.

  “Wait, Mom—”

  “I can stay with you.”

  “No, Mom—”

  “You have that second bedroom,” she said.

  “It doesn’t have a bed in it!” I forced myself to calm down. “Look, Mom, you can’t jump into this without knowing where you’re going.”

  She sighed heavily. “Maybe I’ll stay with Aunt Jean.”

  “Maybe you could just talk to Dad.”

  She dismissed my advice with a wave of her hand. “I need that truck.”

  I couldn’t fight her. Mom was Mom.

  “Okay, I’ll handle it,” I said.

  I drove away from the house wondering how long I could put off finding her a truck. I needed to talk to Dad and see if I could work out something between them. This wasn’t easy for me. My people skills were lacking, at times. Believe me, I’m the last person a hostage wants negotiating for their release. Still, I was going to have to figure out something.

  But first, I had to find Leonard Sullivan.

  It seemed odd to me that no one in the family—and it was a big family—had been able to contact Leonard and tell him about his grandfather’s death, even if he did have a new job and his own place, as Mrs. Wiley had said. And of all the times for Leonard to be in accessible, why now?

  Still, I was glad to do Mrs. Wiley the favor.

  A little chill swept up my spine as I pulled into the office parking lot. The last person I’d done a favor for was Mr. Sullivan.

  And he’d ended up dead.

  Chapter 6

  “I need you to do a property inspection,” Manny said, when I sat down at my desk the next morning, feeling pretty good wearing a new pair of gray pants and a sort-of new sweater.

  It seemed Manny had expended his maximum compassion for my finding a dead body while on the job when he’d let me take a long lunch to look at mug shots yesterday. Now it was business as usual.

  “It’s the Griffin account out in Webster,” Manny went on. “We’re looking at a possible foreclosure.”

  I’ve done property inspections before, but I never liked them. No way did I want to be involved with someone losing their home, no matter how small a part I played—especially now, with Mr. Sullivan’s murder stuck in my head, along with Nick Travis, of course.

  “What’s up with the Parker auto?” Manny asked, shuffling papers around on his desk.

  “Jarrod Parker, that idiot,” I mumbled.

  Jarrod Parker was definitely not one of the Mid-America customers whom I’d felt deserved my own personal twist on my job requirements. He had a solid position with an engineering firm. He made an excellent salary. He had the capacity to pay—he just refused to do so. With so many families struggling, yet still managing to pay their bills, I didn’t have a lot of patience for somebody like Jarrod.

  In the afterglow of ecstasy, apparently, Jarrod had co-signed a loan for his girlfriend and put up the title to his car for collateral. She skipped, which left him responsible for the payments. Jarrod didn’t see it that way. Since his girlfriend had gotten the loan proceeds, he didn’t think he should have to pay.

  I tried to reason with him. I’d explained that, regardless of who got what, he was legally responsible for the debt because he’d signed the loan documents. Still, he’d refused to pay. But he hadn’t stopped there. He’d made it personal. He’d crossed the line. Granted, it was my own personally drawn line, but he’d crossed it just the same. In fact, he’d blown right by it.

  I get some angry customers—although that wasn’t mentioned in my initial job interview with Mid-America—but Jarrod had escalated from anger to name calling, then cursing and threats, all directed at me. I’d ordered the repossession of his car—our collateral—in the hope it would convince him to make the payments. I didn’t want his car, I just wanted him to pay off his account and go away.

  The repo agency, however, hadn’t been able to find his car. I’d been looking for it, too. I kept the pertinent info in my car and often cruised past his house hoping to spot it. No luck, so far.

  “I’ll call and see if there’s anything new to report,” I told Manny.

  He rose from his chair, picked up his briefcase, then dropped a folder on my desk.

  “Get on this. I’ve got the district meeting in Riverside,” he said, and left the office

  I looked at the label on the file folder and saw it was the possible foreclosure on Griffin account. No way did I want to deal with that now.

  Even though most of our work was done on the computer, we had a physical file for every customer that contained their legal contract, supporting documents, and any correspondence. I pulled Leonard Sullivan’s folder from the file cabinet and took it back to my desk.

  Leona Wiley had told me that Leonard had a new job and residence. It had been my experience that searching the past was a good way to find someone in the present. When people lost their job, they often went back to a place they’d already worked—don’t ask me why; you’ll never catch me piercing ears at the mall again—so I phoned the previous job listed on Leonard’s loan application. No luck. He hadn’t returned to work there and the guy who’d answered the phone had no idea where he was. I called his previous landlord and struck out again. Leonard had moved out several months ago and had left no forwarding address.

  I located Leonard’s personal reference sheet in the file—info customers voluntarily give us when they’re pleased with our service and are okay with us contacting friends and family to solicit their business—and saw that he’d listed a number of relatives. A few of them I knew because they’d had loans with Mid-America. Some I didn’t. I phoned them all and learned nothing new. No one had seen Leonard. No one knew where to find him.

  I was getting nowhere. Maybe I wasn’t concentrating. Maybe I wasn’t trying hard enough. Maybe I was missing something obvious.

  I sat at my desk contemplating these possibilities, wondering if—after I found Leonard, discovered Mr. Sullivan’s murderer, and got a handle on my feelings about Nick—I should consider searching for another job. A major life change might be in order. A move, maybe? Another town, another state?

  This probably wasn’t the best time to make the leap, with the economy being what it was. Still, it was nice to think about—except that, as always, I came up short on one important issue—what career did I want? Sooner or later I was going to finish my B.A. so I’d have to come up with something.

  Nothing that required extended stretches behind a desk; I can’t sit still that long. I didn’t have any technical skills. My stint piercing ears at the mall was as close as I ever wanted to come to the medical profession.

  What about something totally out-there, like the arts? I mentally took stock of my natural artistic abilities. I’d been the head fairy in my ballet recital, but that was when I was five years old, and the only dancing I’d done since then was a vague recollection of a pole and tequila shots at a bachelorette party. I co
uld sing pretty well, as long as the shower thundered around me. Unless I could find a gallery willing to sponsor a showing of Crayola Washable Marker, I wasn’t likely to make it as a painter.

  Inez walked up to my desk, shattering my perfectly good daydream.

  “I discussed your involvement in the Sullivan murder with legal,” she said. “I told them you’ll write up your statement and email it to them right away.”

  That settled it. I needed a job with a gun.

  “I’m not doing that,” I said. “Not until I discuss it with my personal attorney.”

  I didn’t actually have a personal attorney, but oh well.

  Inez pressed her lips together. “You’ll advise me when you’ve done that?”

  “As soon as I talk to my lawyer,” I said, “you’ll be the first to know.”

  She trotted away and I slumped farther into my desk, annoyed with Inez, annoyed with Nick for not giving me any info on the murder, but mostly annoyed with myself for not finding Leonard yet.

  I grabbed my purse and the two file folders on my desk, and left.

  * * *

  I drove to Webster, a rural, agricultural area about twenty minutes east of Santa Flores, and found the house Manny wanted me to inspect. It was a custom job designed to resemble an old Victorian but was really only two years old, situated on a half-acre, wooded lot. It seemed deserted, even though a red Mustang with the customized plate BN THERE sat in the driveway. According to the file, Sean and Belinda Griffin had two daughters, probably in school.

  I really didn’t want to be here, doing this, even though all I had to do was walk through the house and make sure it was in good condition. Mid-America needed that info before deciding whether or not to foreclose. If the place had been trashed and would require mega bucks to repair, then Corporate needed to know that; it might effect their decision on what to do with the Griffin account.

  I couldn’t bring myself to get out of the car just yet. The weight I’d been carrying around with me since I’d found Mr. Sullivan’s body seemed to be holding me in my seat.

  A sweeter man than Mr. Sullivan, I’d never known. Completely harmless. Old. No physical threat to anyone. So why would anyone have killed him? And not just killed him, but walked into his own house and shot him at point blank range. Twice.