Epitaphs

by Bill Pronzini

  “Yeah, Eb and I had a talk,” he said. “He came into the office on Monday, said he was thinking about going into business for himself. He wanted me to keep him in mind if I heard of anybody who needed private work done.”

  “He tell you why he was thinking of going out on his own?”

  “Just that he needed a change.”

  “Mention me at all?”

  “No. I figured he must’ve talked it over with you, got your blessings. That’s not the way it is?”

  “No. How definite was he?”

  “Pretty definite.”

  “Already a done deal in his mind?”

  “Sounded that way to me.”

  “He mention having an office yet, an agency name, anything along those lines?”

  “I got the impression he hadn’t gone that far,” Plutarski said. “Asked me to call him at home if I had anything for him.”

  “Meaning right away? Anytime?”

  “That’s how I took it.”

  “Okay, Frank, thanks.”

  “What is it with you two?” he asked. “You have some kind of falling out?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Some kind of falling out.”

  I punched up Barney Rivera’s number. He was home alone for a change; he bemoaned the fact as soon as I identified myself. Twenty-four hours without a woman is a lifetime to guys like Barney, who walk around with perpetual erections. He and JFK would have made good partying buddies.

  “Eb’s thinking about going solo?” he said, sounding surprised. “No, not a word to me about it. When’d he make this decision?”

  “Not too long ago. But I guess he’s been building to it ever since the wedding fiasco.”

  “Hell, maybe he’s not serious....”

  “That’s what I thought at first. But he’s serious, Barney. You’ll see that when he gets around to you.”

  “Don’t think he’d try undercutting your fees, do you?”

  “I hope to Christ he doesn’t. What’ll you do if he suggests it?”

  “Ream him out good. I don’t do business that way.”

  “I didn’t think you did.”

  “Fact is, though,” Barney said, “he’s an old friend just like you are. If he’s straightforward about it, I’d have to throw a bone his way now and then too.”

  “Sure, I know that.”

  “Not that there are all that many bones to throw, this damned economy. Eb must know that. Alone, just starting out, he’ll be in for some lean times.”

  “He’s either ignoring the fact or it doesn’t matter to him,” I said. “You know how stubborn and shortsighted he is. He always thinks he can beat the game.”

  “Which is why he’s such a patsy at the poker table, drawing to inside straights and three-card flushes. Nine times out of ten he winds up losing his ass.”

  “It’s his ass,” I said. “I got enough worries looking out for my own.”

  “Don’t we all,” Barney said. “Don’t we all.”

  Kerry’s number again. This time it was free; she picked up on the second ring. “I just got off the line with Bobbie Jean,” she said.

  “She call you or you call her?”

  “She called me. She said you’d stopped by to talk about Eb. She also said she called him after you left, to try to pin him down. He wouldn’t discuss it with her.”

  “Wouldn’t say anything at all about his plans?”

  “Not a word.”

  “Another bad sign.” I told her about my conversations with Marty Klein earlier in the day and Frank Plutarski a few minutes ago.

  “Even so,” she said, “couldn’t he just be testing the waters? I mean, if he was really going to go through with it, wouldn’t he have told you straight out by now that he was leaving? And when?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “I can’t believe he’d just walk out cold.”

  “I wouldn’t have believed it either, last week. Now ...”

  “Maybe if I talked to him,” Kerry said.

  “And said what?”

  “Asked him point-blank if he’s leaving. And if he admits that he is, appeal to him as a friend not to do it.”

  “Uh-uh. If he won’t discuss it with Bobbie Jean, he won’t discuss it with you. Besides, he’d think I put you up to it. That’s the way his mind works.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “The only person who can get this settled with him, one way or another, is me. I’ll handle it.”

  “When?”

  “Soon.” I did not want to talk about Eberhardt anymore tonight; I’d had enough aggravation for one day. I changed the subject to why she’d called earlier.

  “To tell you that you’re in solid with Cybil again,” she said. “Now she’d like you to come with us to Larkspur on Saturday.”

  “Chauffeur and another strong back to help with the move?”

  “No, it’s a family thing with her—she considers you family again.”

  That touched me and I said so.

  “So will you join us?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it. What time?”

  “Nine,” Kerry said. “The moving company is due from L.A. at noon and Cybil wants to be ‘settled in’ by then.”

  “Nine it is.”

  “Just do me one favor. No marriage talk. If Cybil brings the subject up, don’t encourage her. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  I COULDN’T SLEEP.

  I lay staring up at the dark, with Eberhardt in my head—chasing him round and round in there. Thirty-five years of friendship, five years of partnership, plenty of good times and not too many bad ones. Big memories: the day we graduated from the police academy, the day he married Dana and I was his best man, the day I quit the force to open my own agency and we got drunk together on English pale ale to celebrate, the day we were both shot and seriously wounded in his house in Noe Valley, the day he confessed to me—the only person he’d ever told—that he’d taken a bribe after thirty years of being a dead-honest cop, the day he took his early retirement and I brought him into the agency as a full partner, the day I returned from the Deer Run kidnapping after three long months and tears came into his eyes when he saw me, saw that I was still alive. All of that and so much more ... and now, all of a sudden, he wanted to end it, throw it all away. Because of a few angry words and a stupidly impulsive punch in the belly that I had apologized for a dozen times? It didn’t make sense to me. Worse things than that had happened between us in thirty-five years, uglier things, and much harsher words, even other blows, had been exchanged—and none of them had snapped the bond of our friendship. If anything, to my mind and in the long run, they had made it stronger. Why, then, would he let this thing rip us apart, this minor, foolish disagreement?

  You have to tell me that, Eb. If you go ahead and bust us up, you owe me that much explanation at least.

  Why this thing, out of all of them? Why now?

  Chapter Fourteen

  ON FRIDAY MORNING I left the city just before eight-thirty, traveling against the sluggish flow of commute traffic on the Golden Gate Bridge. Twenty minutes and I was in downtown San Rafael. I stopped at a café on Lincoln Boulevard, the industrial part west of the freeway, and ate a light breakfast and drank three cups of coffee. It was just nine-thirty when I walked into the newish, block-wide building that housed Jeffcoat Electric.

  Dick Morris was in, but he didn’t want to see me—not even on what I told the receptionist was an important personal matter. He sent word back with her that he was too busy; perhaps this afternoon. No, not this afternoon—now. I volleyed the receptionist back to him with that message, and the fact that my visit concerned the Gianna matter in San Francisco. Gianna was the magic word: It bought me quick entry into Morris’s private office.

  Physically he was a well-dressed, white-collar version of the farmer in Grant Wood’s “American Gothic.” Tall, lean, knobby, with a sharp nose, a long face, long wrists and hands, and a protuberant Adam’s apple that made his tie look as if it wer
e tied with two knots instead of one. He stood ramrod stiff alongside his desk, one hand on the telephone, and gave me a fast, hard once-over. His pale eyes were morgue cold.

  Without preamble he said, “If you’re here to try to extort money from me, I’ll call the police. I mean that. I won’t pay you or anybody else a dime.”

  “Good for you. Blackmail’s an ugly business.”

  That didn’t relieve him any. “Well?”

  “The answers to some questions is all I want, Mr. Morris.”

  “What questions?”

  “About Gianna Fornessi, the people you and she know. She’s missing and I’m trying to find her.”

  “Why? Who are you?”

  I opened my wallet and poked it up under his nose. He stared at the license photostat for half a minute before he raised his cold eyes to mine again.

  “Who told you about me?” he said.

  “What makes you think somebody told me? I’m a detective; detectives have all sorts of ways of finding out things.”

  “Who are you working for?”

  “Gianna Fornessi’s grandfather. My turn now.”

  “... What?”

  “To ask the questions. Your turn to answer them.”

  “I don’t admit to knowing Gianna Fornessi.”

  “We’ll get along better if you don’t deny it.”

  “Maybe I should call my lawyer, have him come over.”

  “Go right ahead.”

  We held a stare-down. There was a fan on a table under the office’s single window, turned to a low speed; the motor made little ticking, pinging noises in the stillness. I was prepared to stand there listening to that motor for ten minutes or more. Morris wasn’t, so he lost the contest. Abruptly he turned, went around behind his desk, sat down, and rested his bony hands edgewise on the blotter as if he were measuring something approximately eight inches in length and invisible.

  “Ask your questions,” he said stiffly.

  “When did you last see Gianna?”

  “Three weeks ago.”

  “Where?”

  “In San Francisco.”

  “Talk to her since then?”

  “No.”

  “She had a date last Friday night,” I said. “A weekend date, at least two days, with somebody she referred to as the Old Cocksman. That name mean anything to you?”

  “No.”

  “How about Jack Bisconte?”

  “No.”

  “Bolinas resident named Chet?”

  “No,” Morris said.

  Faint eye flick on each of the last three negatives. Lies? I thought so; he wasn’t the nervous type.

  I said, “Who told you about Gianna?”

  No answer to that one.

  “You didn’t get her name out of the Yellow Pages,” I said. “Somebody put you on to her. Who, Mr. Morris?”

  “I don’t have to tell you that.”

  “Right, you don’t. Would you rather tell the police?”

  “Why should the police be interested in me? I didn’t have anything to do with her disappearance, if she really has disappeared. No one can say I did.”

  “How about the murder of her roommate? You have anything to do with that?”

  His mouth came open about an inch; otherwise, no reaction.

  I said, “News to you? It was in yesterday’s papers.”

  “I don’t read crime news. When did it happen?”

  “Wednesday afternoon. The police think Jack Bisconte was responsible; they’re looking for him.”

  Morris didn’t ask why—maybe because he already knew who and what Bisconte was.

  “Did you know Ashley Hansen?”

  “Who?”

  “Gianna’s roommate.”

  “No.”

  “Never met her or talked to her?”

  “No.”

  Eye flicks again on both negatives.

  “How long have you been seeing Gianna?”

  “About four months.”

  “Regularly?”

  “Once or twice a month.”

  “Who gave you her name?”

  Silence.

  “I meant what I said about the police, Mr. Morris. If they get into it, you’re not going to be able to keep a lid on your involvement with Gianna. Maybe you don’t care if your family finds out. But if you do care, I suggest you cooperate with me. I’m a whole lot more discreet than the law.”

  His eyes were glacial now. He was one cold bugger. I’d come here to make him sweat a little; all I was getting was frost.

  “Call your lawyer,” I said, “ask him what he thinks. Or let me lay it out for him. My guess is he’ll tell you to cooperate.”

  Morris put his hands flat on his desk, lifted himself slowly to his feet. With the same slow movements he paced the width of the room, twice, making almost military turns at both ends, not looking at me in the process. It wasn’t until he came to a standstill that he laid his icy gaze on me again.

  “John Valconazzi,” he said.

  “Who would he be?”

  “Rancher. West part of the county.”

  “Cattle rancher?”

  “Dairy cattle, horses, other things.”

  “Exact location?”

  “Petaluma-Marshall Road, three miles west of Hicks Valley Road. But it won’t do you any good to go out there.”

  “No? Why not?”

  “He doesn’t see strangers.”

  “Why not?” I asked again.

  “He has his reasons.”

  “Which are?”

  “He’s reclusive, fanatical about his privacy.”

  “How is it you know him?”

  “He’s a customer of ours.”

  “Good friend too?”

  “Of mine? No, I barely know him.”

  “Then why would he give you Gianna’s name?”

  No response.

  “Well, Mr. Morris?”

  “He ... didn’t give me her name.”

  “How did you get it, then?”

  He was standing so stiffly now, it was as if the coldness in him had frozen his joints. “No one gave it to me,” he said. “I met her at the Valconazzi ranch.”

  “Uh-huh. Under what circumstances?”

  “At a ... gathering out there.”

  “Gathering. You mean a party of some kind?”

  “You could call it that.”

  “I thought you said Valconazzi was reclusive.”

  “He is. Where strangers are concerned.”

  “So it was a party for his friends.”

  “That’s right, his friends.”

  “Funny you were invited, then.”

  “Funny?”

  “You hardly know him, so you said.”

  Silence.

  “What was the occasion?” I asked.

  “I don’t ... occasion?”

  “The party. Must have been a reason for it.”

  Cold silence.

  “Does Valconazzi have these gatherings often?”

  More of the same.

  “Did he have one last weekend?”

  “I don’t know. If he did I wasn’t invited.”

  “Sex parties, are they?”

  “You ... what?”

  “The kind Valconazzi throws. Orgies?”

  “Good Christ, no.”

  No eye flick that time.

  I said, “But Gianna was at the one you attended. As a guest or what?”

  “A guest, yes.”

  “Was she with Valconazzi? His date?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “He introduce you to her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any other hookers there?”

  The cold stare.

  “Mr. Morris?”

  “I don’t know. I only met Gianna.”

  “Was Ashley Hansen there?”

  “I’ve never met Ashley Hansen.”

  “But was she there?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “Gianna attend any of Valco
nazzi’s other gatherings?”

  The stare again.

  “You’ve been at more than one, right?”

  No reply.

  “Who else attends these parties? Give me the names of some of Valconazzi’s friends.”

  “No,” Morris said. “No, by God. I’ve said enough—I’m not going to tell you another damn thing.”

  It wasn’t bluff; he meant it. You can prod a man just so far, no matter how much leverage you happen to have. I’d pushed Dick Morris smack up against something—some kind of secret—that he was more afraid of having revealed than his paying for high-priced sex. Another, tawdrier vice? Some illegality connected with John Valconazzi? Whatever it was, I wasn’t going to find it out from him.

  Even so, I gave him back some of his own cold silence. Just to see if he had anything else to say. He did, but it wasn’t much.

  “I don’t know where Gianna is,” he said. “I haven’t seen or talked to her in three weeks. I don’t know anything about her disappearing or the death of her roommate. That’s the truth. Go ahead and sic the police on me if you think I’m lying, create a public scandal, harm my family—it’ll be on your conscience if you do.”

  Right. My conscience. I pitied his wife as much as I pitied Big Dave Edwards’s.

  I let him have a little more of the silent treatment, but he was all through talking. He was not going to squirm or melt any either. He just stood there waiting for me to go away.

  OUTSIDE, IN THE CAR, I called Eberhardt’s line at the office. Not without reluctance and half hoping I would get his machine. I got him instead, on the third ring.

  “It’s me,” I said. “You got a little time?”

  “What for?” Civil, but just barely.

  “I need you to do something for me.”

  “I’m busy,” he said.

  Anger rose in me; I put a cap on it. Business, damn it, this is business. I took a couple of deep breaths before I said, “Eb, I’m on the road and in the middle of a job and I’ve got to have background on a Marin County resident. You know a guy in the Marin sheriffs office; I don’t. Barker, is that his name?”

  Five seconds went by; six, seven, eight—

  “Barkley,” he said.

  “Right, Barkley. Call him for me, will you? Get him to run a check on a West Marin rancher named Valconazzi, John Valconazzi. Lives on the Petaluma-Marshall Road. You got a pencil? I’ll give you the probable spelling.”