Repo Madness by W. Bruce Cameron Page B

wife. It didn’t seem to bother the townspeople all that much when the story came out, but Strickland immediately apologized and quit the office. He explained that he’d brought dishonor to the position. That was the sort of man I knew him to be—he had the strength and integrity of a steel beam.
    The councilman’s wife went back to her husband, and Strickland, long a widower, went to his cottage on the shore and now, ironically, did a little work for Milt, helping us find people who had disappeared with debts owed to banks and credit unions. He still had a lot of friends in law enforcement after thirty-five years working as a cop all over the state, and was dogged and patient as an investigator.
    Patience wasn’t exactly part of my own investigative technique.
    Business had expanded, all due to ex-sheriff Strickland, and now anybody skipping out on their debts north of Grand Rapids had Milt’s recovery service looking for them.
    â€œRuddy. Come in,” Strickland greeted me after I knocked on his door. “Coffee’s fresh. Sorry I didn’t make it to the Bear after the funeral.”
    I told him it was okay as I stomped the ice off my boots and accepted a mug from him gratefully. We sat in chairs near the fire. Hard to believe he wasn’t still sheriff; he sure looked the part—his eyes were blue and clear, his hair a metal gray.
    â€œBeen a beautiful day, but clouds are rolling in,” he remarked. “Going to bring some precipitation.” In the other room, the Weather Channel was running, sound off.
    This was what happened when you lost everything due to a mistake: You wound up alone and miserable. I knew very well what Strickland must be going through. I’d had something very similar occur in my life.
    Except now, of course, I had a shot at a second chance.
    I handed over a slip of paper with Amy Jo’s plate number on it. If her name even was Amy Jo. He accepted it with interest, but when I explained why I needed the girl’s address, what she had told me, his expression grew flat.
    â€œOh, Ruddy,” he said mournfully. “Why would you believe something like that?”
    I’d given that a lot of thought. “I’m not sure I do believe it. But I’ve racked my brain and you know what? It’s possible. I didn’t check under the blanket when I got back in the car that night. I didn’t even look at her, and if I talked to her, she didn’t answer. I can’t say for sure she wasn’t in the backseat, but I can’t say for sure she was, either.”
    â€œWhat difference could it make? No one is going to reopen the case. She died, and you pleaded guilty and did your time.”
    I shook my head. “I’m not thinking that far ahead. I just want to know .”
    Strickland regarded the paper with distaste. I knew just how much he hated this sort of thing. This had nothing to do with our skip tracing business; it was just Ruddy McCann chasing ghosts.
    â€œPlease, Sheriff. This girl was not a medium, I’ll tell you that. I’ve been to about half a dozen, and none of them acted like her. I think what she said is because she knows something. Because she saw something.”
    Strickland grunted. “I’ve asked you not to call me Sheriff.”
    â€œOh. Sorry. Barry.” It sounded odd on my tongue, like calling your father by his first name.
    In the end he agreed to get a friend of his to run the plate because, I think, he was too damned bored not to. He walked me to the door, and we both peered at the sky, which was filling with the expected clouds. He told me how sorry he was about Milt. We left it with that sentiment, though I thought I caught something in his expression that must have been mirrored in my own.
    Looked like we both might need new jobs.
    *   *   *
    While I’d been talking to Barry, I’d gotten a phone call and a voice mail. I didn’t recognize the