Savages: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Novels) (8 page)

“Yes.”

“I’ll be in touch if there’s any news. I made a note of your cellular number. If you don’t hear from me by tomorrow night, you’re free to go back to San Francisco.”

“I may want to hang around a little longer. Depends on how much I’m needed at my agency.”

“Your call. Try to stay out of Kelso’s way if you can.”

“If I can.”

He found his way back to Gray’s Landing. The Ford didn’t have air-conditioning—he hadn’t needed it in Seattle—and even with all the windows open, the heat was a weight on him by the time he reached the motel. The pain throb in his head had grown intense; his vision had gone a little smeary again at the edges.

In his room at the motel, the message light on the phone was blinking. Reporter from the Redding paper,
requesting an interview. He erased the message; no mood for the media. He swallowed two of the Vicodin tablets they’d given him at the hospital, then cranked up the air conditioner to high cool, drew the drapes over the single window, stripped, and got into bed. This kind of enforced downtime grated on him, but the EMT last night and the doctor today had been adamant that you didn’t mess around with head injuries. He mistrusted the medical profession on principle, even though the Seattle doctors had done all they could to save Colleen, but he believed Dr. Yeng’s warning well enough.

He slept, but it wasn’t a good sleep—fitful, sticky in spite of the air conditioner, dream ridden. The dreams were mostly an episodic succession of ghost images, distorted wanderings among hanged men, vehicles with flashing lights, dark-shadowed places filled with disembodied voices. But one, the last one, was clear and vivid in every detail, as were all of his dreams about Colleen.

In this one they were on their first date in Old Town. Old-fashioned Italian place, candles in Chianti bottles, checked tablecloths. Both of them a little nervous, but only because they didn’t know each other well yet and each wanted to make a good impression. At ease in each other’s company otherwise. Colleen leaning forward, her face lighted like a madonna’s by the candle flame, saying, “I never thought I’d be going out with a cop.” Him asking why not and her saying, “I’ve always been afraid of policemen, ever since I was a little kid. No reason, just that they
seemed so . . . don’t know, authoritarian, dangerous.” Him saying, “You never have to be afraid of me.” And her saying, “I know. It’s just the opposite with you; you make me feel safe.” And the feeling that came over him in that moment, sudden and sharp and overwhelming—the revelation that he was in love with Colleen McPhail and the certainty that he would marry her and they would be together until death did them part.

He awoke dripping wet. Even the pillow was sodden—sweat, drool, tears. But his headache had dulled and except for a desert mouth and throat he felt better. A thin strip of fading daylight showed where the window drapes didn’t quite overlap; his watch said it was twenty of eight. In the bathroom he drank three glasses of water, checked the bandage in the mirror, then took a long, careful shower. He was hungry by the time he finished dressing. Another good sign.

Still hot when he stepped outside and crossed to the coffee shop. Cool enough inside, though. Noisy. He sat at the counter, ordered iced tea and a sandwich. He was just finishing up when somebody sat down beside him and said, “Mr. Runyon? Can I talk to you?”

Young woman, early twenties. Short ginger blond hair. Pale blue eyes. Pretty enough in a conventional way. Wearing shorts, a tank top, and an intense, nervous expression.

He said, “Depends on who you are.”

“Sandra Parnell. Jerry’s friend . . . Jerry Belsize.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Not here. You’re staying at the motel, right? Can’t we go to your room?”

That made him wary. She didn’t look cheap or duplicitous—just an average small-town young woman worried about her boyfriend—but it paid to be cautious. One of the most vicious jackrolling hookers he’d encountered in Seattle had been a sixteen-year-old with a face like an angel. “I don’t think so.”

“Outside, then. My car’s in the lot. Please?”

There was still some daylight left and there were plenty of people around. He was still wary but curious enough to say, “All right.”

Sandra Parnell went out first, stood waiting until he paid the check and joined her. “Over here,” she said, and led him to a beat-up Chrysler at least as old as she was. Convertible, with the top down. He waited for her to get in before he went around to the passenger side.

She said, “Jerry’s father says you’re a detective. That you came up here to see Jerry about that mugging in San Francisco.”

“That’s right.”

“He’s not a bad person, Mr. Runyon. I mean, he shouldn’t have lied about getting a good look at the man with the knife, but he was scared. He’s scared a lot; he just can’t help it.”

Runyon said nothing.

“He and Manuel, they always got along. He just couldn’t’ve done what they’re saying.”

“Why tell me?”

“Nobody else will listen. The cops . . . Deputy Kelso. You know him?”

“We’ve met.”

“He kept trying to make me tell him where Jerry is. He hates Jerry because . . . never mind why; he just does. If he ever gets his hands on him . . .”

“What do you think would happen?”

“He’d beat him up. Maybe even kill him.”

“He’d have to be the one to catch Jerry first.”

“You think he couldn’t? He knows this county like nobody else.”

“Does that mean Jerry’s still in the county?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you do know where he is.”

“No!” Too quick, too emphatic. She knew, all right.

“The best thing for him to do,” Runyon said, “is to walk himself into the county sheriff’s office and talk to Joe Rinniak. He’s the man in charge, not Kelso. The longer Jerry stays away, the worse it’s going to look for him.”

“They’d just arrest him and convict him and send him to prison. They wouldn’t keep looking for the real criminal.”

“Is that what you believe?”

“It’s what Jerry believes.”

“You need hard evidence to convict a man of arson and murder, Sandra. There’s no hard evidence against him.”

“What about those kerosene cans and the stuff in his room?”

“Circumstantial. No direct links to any of the fires. Or to the murder of the hired hand. Can he prove where he was when that went down?”

“He was with me.” Too quick again. A lie this time.

“All day yesterday? Why didn’t he go home when he was supposed to?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why can’t you?”

“I just can’t.”

“Let’s quit playing around. You think he should turn himself in. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be here talking to me.”

She made a snuffling sound, rubbed at her nose, her eyes. “It doesn’t matter what I want. I can’t make Jerry do anything—he’s too scared.”

“Neither can I, if that’s what you’re after.”

“But maybe you—”

What caused her to break off was the roar of engine exhaust as a car came fast-wheeling into the lot. It racketed down the aisle behind them, a low-slung yellow and black Trans Am; slowed, and then slid into the empty space close on Runyon’s side.

Sandra said, “Oh shit.”

The Trans Am’s driver, a girl about Sandra’s age, shut off the noise and managed to squeeze herself out of the car without her door scraping the Chrysler’s. Slender, with oversized breasts in a tight bra under a loose blouse; midnight dark hair flowing down silkily to the curve of tightdenimed buttocks. Her passenger was slower to emerge.
He stood peering over the cartop, a lanky kid with a mop of caramel-colored hair.

“Hey there,” the girl said to Sandra. “New boyfriend?”

“Shut up, Ashley.”

“No, he’s that detective, right? I can tell by the bandage. How’s your head?” she asked Runyon.

“Sore.”

“I’ll bet. I’ll bet if Jerry hit you any harder with that two-by-two, he’d’ve taken your head right off.”

Runyon said nothing.

“Jerry didn’t do it,” Sandra said, wearily this time. “Not that you care one way or the other.”

“That’s right, I don’t.”

Sandra looked over at the lanky kid. “Why do you let her drive your car, Zach? She’ll wreck it someday. She’s a menace.”

“She likes to drive fast,” he said.

“She won’t like if it her father catches her.”

“Hah,” Ashley said. She tossed her head, putting the long hair into a dark swirl. Habitual gesture, from the way she did it, showing it off. “You look all blotchy and red eyed, Sandy. Does that mean they caught Jerry?”

“You know they haven’t.”

“But they will. I’ll bet it won’t take long.”

“Why don’t you go squat on a sharp stick?”

“Oo, nasty. You hear what she said, Zach?”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“You going to do anything about it?”

“What do you want me to do?”

Ashley laughed. “Nothing. Come on, let’s go eat. I’m starving. Bye, Detective. Bye, Sandy. Try not to cry too much tonight—your complexion’s not so good as it is.”

The two of them went off, the girl trailing more laughter.

Sandra said, “Kelso’s daughter. But I guess you figured that out.”

He nodded. “And the mayor’s son.”

“Yeah. She’s a bitch and he’s a wimp. He lets her lead him around by his dick.”

“She doesn’t like Jerry much.”

“Not anymore. She doesn’t like anybody much except herself.”

“Okay. Now tell me what you want me to do about Jerry, straight out.” He put a hand on the doorknob. “Otherwise I’m leaving.”

“No, don’t. Please.”

He waited.

“. . . Suppose I do know where he is,” she said.

“I’m listening.”

“Would you talk to him? If the right person . . . you know, somebody he could trust . . . I think that’s all it would take.”

“Why me? What about his father?”

“Jerry won’t talk to him.”

“Why not?”

“He’s afraid to. Afraid his dad won’t believe him.”

“Does he know you came to see me?”

“No, it was my idea.”

“What makes you think he’ll talk to me, a stranger?”

“Maybe he won’t. I don’t know. I’m just desperate, that’s all.” She drew a shaky breath. “He has to talk to
somebody
before it’s too late. He doesn’t have any reason to be afraid of you. And he knows you got hurt by whoever’s trying to make him look guilty.”

“Does he have any idea who framed him or why?”

“No. I don’t, either.”

“You know that if I do talk to him and he won’t go in voluntarily, I’m legally bound to give him up. I’d lose my license if I didn’t.”

“I know,” she said in a small voice. “But it’d be a lot better that way than Kelso tracking him down.” Her pale blue eyes appealed to him. “Will you, if I can get him to talk to you?”

In other circumstances Runyon might have turned her down. The assault and the concussion gave him a vested interest, but the quickest way for a private detective to lose his license was to get involved in a major felony investigation without permission. It just wasn’t his business. But something else was his business—the job he’d come to Gray’s Landing to do. He took a fierce pride in his work; if there was one thing he hated, it was to leave a job, any job, unfinished.

“All right,” he said, “but it has to be in person, not on the phone.” And if and when he did talk to Jerry Belsize, like it or not, he’d serve him with the subpoena at the same time.

TAMARA

So here she was. All set for another wild and crazy hiphop Saturday night.

Livin’ large, partyin’ half the night and doing the nasty the other half. Down and dirty ‘cause she was under thirty. Young and sweet and full of heat. Yeah, baby. You go, girl.

Except she wasn’t going anywhere. Only hip-hop she’d be doing was sitting around on one hip or the other while she sucked down diet soda and then hopping up to go to the bathroom. Only nasty she’d be doing was in her fantasies, and she didn’t even have enough of them right now to say hello to Mr. V. Only party she’d be going to was the pity party she was throwing for herself. Young and sweet and full of defeat.

She sighed. Didn’t
have
to stay home on Saturday night. Could’ve called up Vonda or one of the other girlfriends
and gone out roaming . . . except that Vonda and Lucille and Joleen all had steady men or other plans. Could’ve gone out by herself to one of the Mission or SoMa clubs, done the singles crawl, found some other lonely soul to spend the night with . . . except that she’d tried it before and the only guys she’d met were weird, like that stockbroker dude, Clement Rawls, with his blond wig hang-up.

Six thirty already. No place to go, and the only exercise she was getting was slap-talking herself for being a lump. She didn’t feel like reading or vegging out in front of the tube or even listening to music. The only thing she did feel like was heading out to the nearest Golden Arches and stuffing herself on McGrease. Not that she would. Damn, no. Worked too hard to lose weight to start moving back into Fat City just because she was lonely and depressed and horny and about sixteen other things.

In spite of herself she wondered what Horace was doing tonight. Playing a gig with the Philadelphia Philharmonic . . . no, symphonies were dark during the summer. Out with Mary from Rochester, doing the town. Or home alone doing each other. Or maybe planning their big October wedding, making out the guest list. Tamara could just imagine him with his face all scrunched up the way it got when it was puzzling on something, saying, “What do you think, Mary, should we send my ex Tamara an invitation or not?”

Well, damn him and her, too. Second-chair cello, second
violinist—a couple of second-rate musicians who deserved each other and their second-rate lives in the City of Brotherly Love. She was well rid of that man. Sure she was. She knew it; everybody said so. So why did he keep popping up inside her head like a big black smiley jack-in-the-box?

Clue in, Tamara. You know why he keeps popping up. Takes time to get over somebody you thought was the love of your life. A lot more time than three months.

She hopped off the couch and went to pee again. World’s smallest bladder. When she came out, she detoured into the kitchen and looked in the fridge. Bottle of sauvignon blanc, nice and cold. No. Only make her more depressed, and she’d feel worse in the morning. She looked at the cans of Diet Coke, made a face, and shut the door. Well? Gonna do what now?