Vixen (20 page)

The three of us had worked out exactly what we would and wouldn't be free to say, and for once Tamara held herself in check and followed instructions. Runyon's private conversations with Kenneth Beckett were one of the off-limits topics; our suspicions that Margaret Vorhees' death was premeditated murder was another. This is what we admitted to:

That Runyon and I had spoken to Andrew Vorhees in his office the day before he was killed, at his request. That he'd wanted to know what we knew about his wife's death, which was nothing more than what Runyon had told the police after his discovery of Margaret Vorhees' body. That it was common knowledge Vorhees had been involved with a woman named Cory Beckett, who had at one time been our client, and her name had come up during the course of the conversation. That a former friend and campaign worker of his, Frank Chaleen, was reputed to also be having an affair with the Beckett woman, and that Vorhees had been upset about it. And that Vorhees had called in person the following day with the stated intention of hiring us, saying he would explain what he wanted us to do when he met with Runyon that evening on his yacht.

There was enough inference in all of this to put the inspectors onto the Cory Beckett cabal, if they weren't already headed in that direction and whether or not either she or Chaleen was involved in the Vorhees homicide. The two of them would tell different stories than we had, of course, but it was their word against ours and we were on pretty solid ground. For all we could tell, the closemouthed inspectors seemed to think so, too. There had not been a suspicious or adversarial edge to the interview with me, nor to the ones with Jake and Tamara.

That was the way things stood through Friday. No more visits from the police. No new information leaked to or revealed in the media. And no word from Cory Beckett, her brother, or Frank Chaleen.

*   *   *

On Saturday, Kerry and I had a small argument over her mother's cremains. It started when I suggested that it would be a good day, the weather being clear and sunny, for the three of us to drive over to Marin County and honor Cybil's wish to have her ashes scattered in Muir Woods.

“I don't think that's a good idea,” she said.

“Why not? Too soon?” She'd gotten the box of cremains from the Larkspur mortuary on Wednesday.

“No, not exactly.”

“What then, exactly?”

“I'm not so sure we ought to do it at all.”

“Why not? It's what Cybil wanted.”

“I know that, but … Muir Woods, a national park full of people on nice weekends.”

“We can find a private place off one of the trails.”

“Even so. You know as well as I do it's against the law to scatter human remains in a public place.”

“A misdemeanor that a great many people don't happen to believe should be a crime at all. Loved ones' ashes are scattered in natural surroundings every day with no harm done.”

She gave me one of her sidewise looks. “You've always been such a stickler for following the letter of the law,” she said. “This bizarre business with Andrew Vorhees and the Becketts, for instance. And now you want to step over the line.”

“A stickler professionally, yes, for the most part, especially when a case involves a couple of homicides and the integrity of the agency. But I freely admit to having bent and stretched points of law a few times, and even to committing a couple of small felonies when it seemed necessary.”

“So you're honest and law-abiding only when it suits you.”

I said gently, “Kerry, I'm going to make an observation. Think about it before you snap back at me.”

“What observation?”

“That you're reluctant to scatter Cybil's ashes for the same reason you have her personal belongings displayed in your office and you're determined to get all her fiction back into print.”

“What are you saying? I'm trying to keep her with me even though she's dead and gone?”

“Yes, and there's nothing wrong with that. Up to a point. But buying an urn for the ashes, putting it in your office with the rest of her stuff—”

“I wasn't going to do that.”

“The box is in there now, isn't it? On the bookcase?”

She had no answer for that.

“I'm not criticizing you,” I said, “and I'm not saying this to hurt you. I know how important it is for you to keep Cybil's memory alive; I'm in complete agreement there. But holding onto her cremains is not only borderline morbid, it goes against her express wishes and your promise to honor them. You never defied your mother when she was alive. Don't start now.”

She moved away from me without answering, out onto the balcony where she stood stiffly outlined against the sweeping view of the city and the bay. I had the good sense not to follow her. She was not out there very long. And when she came back inside, it was without any trace of anger or resentment.

“I thought it over,” she said, “and you're right. You know me so well it's scary sometimes.”

“Not as well as you know me. Which is even scarier.”

That earned me a wan smile. “You fetch Emily while I get ready. Then we'll head over to Marin.”

We spent two hours in Muir Woods, part of it wandering the network of marked trails among the groves of giant coast redwoods in search of a suitable spot. When we found one, we slipped off among the towering trees—another small law respectfully broken—and once we were sure we were alone and unobserved, Kerry opened the mortuary container and carefully scattered Cybil's ashes among several of the tall trees. Then the three of us held hands and murmured words of remembrance to one another and thought our private thoughts. Kerry was solemn throughout; I imagined she might cry a little, but she didn't. She gave me another small smile, this one sad, wistful, on the walk back to the car.

All in all, it was a private, peaceful, dignified ceremony.

We agreed that Cybil would have approved.

*   *   *

I treated Kerry and Emily to Sunday morning brunch, and afterward we went to the park for a leisurely walk around Stowe Lake, then home to our individual pursuits. Normal, quiet, relaxing day that I expected would continue through to bedtime.

But it didn't.

Because this was the day the Cory Beckett powder keg suddenly and lethally blew up.

 

23

JAKE RUNYON

Most wage earners look forward to time off on weekends, one or two days of freedom to rest, putter, engage in recreational pastimes. Runyon wasn't one of them anymore. Not after the long, empty months in Seattle following Coleen's slow and agonizing death, not after the move to San Francisco and his failure to end the long estrangement with Joshua, not even after he'd become involved with Bryn. Work was his primary focus, the one thing he was good at, the only activity that gave him any real satisfaction.

Weekends when he had no business to occupy his time were nothing more than a string of hours of enforced waiting, to be endured and gotten through. He had no hobbies, no particular interest in sports or cultural events; he was constitutionally incapable of sleeping more than five or six hours a night, or of sitting around the apartment reading or staring at the tube or just vegetating. An active diversion more job-related than pleasurable was the only sure way he'd found to deal with those empty Saturdays and Sundays: close himself inside the Ford and burn up long miles and tanksful of gas on the highways, back roads, streets, and byways of the greater Bay Area and beyond, familiarizing and refamiliarizing himself with the territory and what went on in each part of it. The better he knew his turf, the better he could do his job.

This weekend was not one of the empty ones. This Saturday and Sunday he'd been working a field case, acting on a hunch. It was one of the few jobs he disliked on general principle, involving stakeouts and spy photography, but he didn't mind it so much in this case because the subject was the sort of scofflaw it would feel good to take down.

The stakeout was in Belmont, near a fairly affluent tract home owned by a businessman in his forties named Garza. Garza had a large accident policy with Northwestern Insurance and had put in a claim citing an on-the-job injury that prevented him from doing any sort of manual labor. He had a doctor's report to back him up. Northwestern smelled fraud and hired the agency to investigate, with Runyon being given the assignment.

Fraud was what it was. He'd found out that Garza and the doctor were old high school buddies who played golf together now and then, conducted a couple of drive-bys at Garza's home and business, and finally readied his digital camcorder and began the stakeouts in the hope of proving the subject wasn't anywhere near as incapacitated as he claimed.

The Saturday stakeout had been a bust; Garza had spent most of the day at the small plumbing supply company he owned, supervising his handful of employees and doing nothing contrary to his injury claim. The hunch that had drawn Runyon to the subject's house today was the fact that Garza was having a new driveway put in. The man was too smart to do any heavy work at his place of business, but there was the chance that he'd decided to cut costs by doing some of the driveway renovation himself.

Most of the day it had looked like another bust. But then a little past three-thirty, Garza figured it was safe enough to put in a couple of hours of work on the driveway. The garage door went up and there he was, coming out with a shovel in hand. He looked around without spotting Runyon in the Ford, then started shoveling and spreading gravel. No strain, no pain, not even a wince while he worked.

Runyon had recorded three full minutes of damning video when his cell vibrated. He put the camcorder down before he checked the phone. And then he forgot all about Garza.

The caller was Kenneth Beckett, with his third and final cry for help.

“Help me, Mr. Runyon. Please. I don't want to do it.”

The naked desperation in the kid's voice put Runyon on instant alert. He could feel himself going tight inside and out. “I don't understand. What don't you want to do?”

“The gun … I couldn't, I couldn't…”

“Cory's gun?”

“She said I had to do it because of what happened to Mr. Vorhees.” The kid's shaky voice changed, rose in the falsetto imitation of his sister's. “‘He's out of control, Kenny, we can't let him hurt us, too.'”

Chaleen. Vorhees' killer after all, for some reason as yet unclear. And Cory found out about it. And now, in her warped mind, it was payback time.

“But it's not right,” Beckett said. “Even a bastard like him, even if he did what she said … it's not right. I tried to do it like she told me to but I
can't
.”

“Then don't. Don't! You understand me?”

A kind of moan and then silence.

“Ken? Where are you calling from?”

“His place. She let me have my cell, so I could call her when it's over, but I…”

“You haven't called her?”

“No, I couldn't. Just you.”

“Chaleen's place, you said. His home?”

“He's in there. Cory put something in his drink when they were together before. He…” The falsetto again. “‘It'll be easy, all you have to do is put the gun to his head and close your eyes and squeeze the trigger.…'”

“Ken, listen to me. Chaleen's home, is that where you're at?”

“… No. The factory.”

“And you're where now, exactly? Inside? Outside?”

“In my van, out front.”

“All right. Stay there. Don't leave the van, don't call Cory, don't do anything. I'll be there as soon as I can. You understand?”

Runyon was talking to himself. The line hummed emptily.

*   *   *

It took him twenty-five minutes of fast driving to cover the distance from Belmont to Chaleen Manufacturing in the city. Nearing dusk by the time he reached Basin Street. The industrial area was quiet, Sunday deserted. When Runyon entered the last block, drove past the factory grounds, the ropy muscles in his shoulders and back drew even more taut.

The street was empty of vehicles of any kind, and the only one inside the chain-link fence, parked in the shadows next to the detached office building, was a newish black Cadillac. There was no sign of the blue Dodge van.

The kid hadn't waited.

Drawn back to the flame again.

Runyon braked in front of the closed office gates. Before he got out he unlocked the glove compartment, removed the .357 Magnum from its chamois wrapping, holstered it, and clipped the holster to his belt.

A chill bay wind played with scraps of litter, swirling them along the uneven pavement, forming little heaps against the bottom of the fence; a fast-food bag slapped his leg as he stepped up to the gates. The two halves were drawn together, but not locked: a big Yale used to padlock them hung by its staple from one of the links. He pushed through, his steps echoing hollowly on the uneven pavement.

Somebody had torn the W
E'RE
E
CO-
F
RIENDLY
! poster off the office door; one corner of it was all that was left, the loose piece flapping in the wind. The doorknob turned freely under Runyon's hand. He pushed the door inward, looked into the outer office without entering. Lighted, but empty.

He called Chaleen's name. No answer.

Once more, shouting it this time. Still no answer.

He went in then, leaving the door standing open behind him, one hand on the Magnum. The two inner doors were closed. The one on the far left would lead to a bathroom or storage room. He cracked the one in the middle. The large room beyond was also lighted. He called out again, heard nothing but the faint after-echo of his own voice, then widened the crack so he had a clear look inside.

Chaleen's private office, large enough to take up most of the back half of the building. Desk, chairs, wet bar, couch, a shaded lamp on the desk supplying the light.