Runyon said again, “What did you think? That the woman he was supposed to meet was more than just a casual lay? That they were involved in a relationship?”
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
“I do. The other times your friend Dennison borrowed this cabin—was it to meet the same woman each time?”
“… I don’t know.”
“You do know. Was it the same woman?”
Hansen did some struggling with himself. At length he said, “Well, shit. Phil’s dead; he as much as killed himself here and ruined the cabin for me; why should I bother to cover for him now. Yes, it was the same woman.”
“Her name?”
“Lucia something. I don’t know her last name.”
“Sure about that?”
“I don’t think Phil ever mentioned it.”
“Where does she live?”
“San Francisco. Owns or runs some kind of boutique downtown. He went in there one day to buy something; that’s how he met her.”
“Where downtown?”
“He didn’t say and I didn’t ask.”
“How long had the affair been going on?”
“I don’t know,” Hansen said, “a long time. Off and on. Best lay he ever had, he said, he couldn’t get enough of her. I could believe it, the way she looked.”
“He show you a picture of her or did you meet her?”
“Met her, once. She was with him the second time he came to my office for the cabin key. Silky black hair, olive skin, great legs. Seemed nice, too, kind of shy.” Hansen nibbled at his heavy underlip. “I was a little jealous, you want to know the truth. I don’t cheat on my wife, but if I had the chance with a woman like Lucia, I’d be real tempted.”
Runyon said, “You said it was an off-and-on affair. Meaning?”
“Well … he was stringing her along—you know, the old bit about promising to divorce his wife and marry her—and now and then she’d balk and break it off. But then old Silver Tongue would talk her into coming back. I felt sorry for her. His wife, too.”
“Then why did you keep on aiding and abetting him?”
Hansen spread his hands, palms up—a self-defensive gesture. “He was an old friend, that’s why. We were roommates for three years at Sac State; we had a lot of good times together. Hell, it was none of my business if he had a woman on the side or how he treated her. That’s what I kept telling myself, anyway.”
Runyon had had enough of Lloyd Hansen. He’d found out as much as he needed to know about Philip Dennison’s love life, and considerably more besides. Other things to do now, a different kind of important business to attend to.
Before he left he said, “Don’t be surprised if you see me again today. I expect to be back fairly soon, with company.”
“Company? Who?”
“You’ll find out when the time comes.”
12
JAKE RUNYON
On his way back to the village he put in a call to Tamara at the agency. Got through all right; the cell phone service today was reasonably clear. She’d run the checks on the numbers from Philip Dennison’s address book he’d e-mailed her, but none belonged to either a downtown S.F. boutique or a woman named Lucia, or to anyone with a name that resembled Lucia. Tamara said she’d see if she could make a connection, get back to him later.
She’d also done the background check on Patricia Dennison and e-mailed him the data. He asked if there were any facts of particular interest that pertained to her relationship with her husband; Tamara said she didn’t think so. The specifics, then, could wait until later.
He went straight to the sheriff’s substation. Rittenhouse was on duty today, but out with another deputy investigating a road accident. The dispatcher didn’t know when he was likely to return.
So then Runyon drove to Eagle Lake Clinic, asked to speak with Dr. Wolfe. Better luck there; Wolfe was present and available for a brief consultation. He came out to meet Runyon at the admittance desk in the lobby—a middle-aged, heavyset man with bulldog jowls and a gruff manner. The gruffness was offset by mild blue eyes and an air of professionalism.
“My name is Runyon, Doctor. I was here yesterday with Deputy Rittenhouse and Mrs. Dennison.”
“Yes, I remember. What can I do for you?”
“Answer a few questions about Philip Dennison. I understand he was intoxicated when he died.”
“No question about that,” Wolfe said. “The body still reeked of alcohol when it was brought in.”
“What can you tell me about the wound that killed him?”
“The basilar part of the occipital bone was crushed.”
“That’s at the back of the skull.”
“Yes.”
“Were there any other wounds or marks on the head or body?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“I assure you, it’s not idle curiosity.”
“The man died in a drunken fall inside a locked cabin. His death was a simple, if tragic, accident.”
“I’d still like to know about other wounds or marks.”
Wolfe looked as though his competency was being called into question. He said through pursed lips, “There was a contusion on the left cheekbone.”
“What sort of contusion? Large, deep?”
“Neither. Are you suggesting the man’s death was not accidental?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. Just looking for information.”
“In my opinion,” Wolfe said stiffly, “the contusion occurred postmortem, a result of the body, after the fatal blow had been struck, rebounding sideways so that the cheek was lacerated and the malar bone slightly damaged by the hearthstones. Does that answer your question?”
It did, but not in the way Dr. Wolfe thought.
Rittenhouse still hadn’t returned to the substation. But he’d radioed in, the dispatcher said, and expected to be back within the half hour. Runyon took a seat in the visitors’ area, spent a little time mentally clarifying what he’d learned and what he suspected, and then utilized the knack he’d developed of shutting his mind down during periods of waiting. He sat so still he might have been asleep with his eyes open. The dispatcher apparently thought so; from the way she kept glancing over at him, she’d never seen anyone sit unmoving for such a long time while still awake and alert.
He was on his feet as soon as the door opened and Rittenhouse came in. The chief deputy gave him a look that wasn’t quite neutral. Neither was Rittenhouse’s voice when he said, “Waiting for me, Mr. Runyon?”
“Yes. Some things I need to discuss with you.”
“I thought we covered everything yesterday.”
“Not everything. Not at all.”
“I don’t know what else I can tell you.”
“It’s what I can tell you this time. Can we talk privately?”
“As long as it doesn’t take too long. I’ve got an accident report to make out.”
“What I have to say won’t take too long. What happens after that probably will.”
Rittenhouse said, frowning, “That’s a cryptic statement if I ever heard one. All right, we’ll talk in my office.”
His office was small and unadorned except for a county seal on one wall that duplicated the one in the outer room, and a framed certificate from the California Peace Officers Association. He took off his hat, put it on an old-fashioned file cabinet, then sat behind a gray metal desk; Runyon pulled a straight-backed chair up in front of it.
“What is it you have to tell me, Mr. Runyon?”
“A request first. I assume photographs were taken in the cabin before Philip Dennison’s body was removed.”
“Standard procedure, even in cases of accidental death.”
“I’d like to see them.”
“Why?”
“To make sure I’m on the right track.”
“The right track. Meaning what?”
“Can I see the photos? Then I’ll explain.”
The deputy ran a finger over the patch of eczema
on his pink scalp, shrugged, and booted up the computer on a stand alongside his desk. He pulled up the Dennison file, located the photographs. Then he got to his feet and moved away from the desk, saying, “Go ahead and look.”
Runyon went around to sit in Rittenhouse’s chair. The first photograph showed him what he’d expected to see, and something more. There were four others, taken from different angles; these confirmed his suspicion beyond any doubt. He stood, went back around to the other chair.
“Well?” Rittenhouse said.
“What I wanted to check on was the location and position of the body. Not quite directly in front of the fireplace—back a little ways, smashed head toward the door.”
“I could have told you that.”
“If he’d slipped on the rug and fallen, drunk or sober, the body wouldn’t have been lying as it was.”
“You can see the rug bunched up under his feet—”
“Look at his arms, Deputy. When a man slips and falls, his instinctive reaction is to throw his arms out in front him to break the fall. Dennison’s should have been stretched out in front of him, but they’re not; they’re drawn back against his sides.”
Rittenhouse swiveled around to the computer, clicked through the photos. “You’re right. That never even occurred to me.”
“No reason it should have, under the circumstances.”
“So how do you explain it?”
“A few questions first,” Runyon said. “Were you the one who broke the window so you could get inside the cabin?”
“No. Joe Meeker did that with a hammer from his tool belt.”
“Did you take a good look through the glass before he did?”
“… No. There was sunlight on the glass by then and you couldn’t see inside clearly. No reason not to take Meeker at his word.”
“What time was that?”
“Nine o’clock or so.”
“Once you were inside, was any of the furniture moved? The couch?”
“No. There wasn’t any reason to move anything. What difference does any of this make anyway? The place was locked up tight, just as Meeker told us—Fred Johnson, the other deputy, and I checked first to make sure. The only way to get in was to break the window.”
“The only unshuttered window. The one Meeker said he spotted the body through.”
“That’s right. So?”
“So you can’t see the front part of the fireplace looking through that window from outside,” Runyon said. “The high-backed couch, which you say wasn’t moved, blocks it from any angle. I know because I tried myself around noon, when there was no sunlight on the glass. You’d have to stand on a ladder and look down through the top part of the glass, and even then you might not have a clear view.”
Rittenhouse sat still for several seconds. “You’re saying Meeker lied. Then how did he know Dennison was dead inside?”
“He knew because he killed him.”
“Killed him?” The deputy was incredulous. “Joe Meeker? Why, for God’s sake?”
“His wife was the woman Dennison was sleeping with—that’s pretty obvious. I think Meeker came home earlier than expected from his hunting trip, suspected or found out somehow, and beat the truth out of her—that bruise on her cheek. He went to the cabin in a jealous rage to confront Dennison. Not necessarily to kill him, but that’s how it ended up.”
“You’re forgetting that the cabin was closed up.”
“No, I’m not. The front door lock wasn’t secure, was it? The dead bolt, I mean.”
“… No. But the door was barred, I told you that.”
“Meeker rigged it to support an accident verdict. His big mistake was coming to fetch you the next morning. He might’ve gotten away with it if he hadn’t. You’ll have to ask him why.”
“How could he have rigged it? He’s no genius.”
“Doesn’t take a genius to do what he did. Just a quick-thinking handyman and maybe ten minutes of effort, start to finish.”
“Well, what did he do? Dennison could have let him in, sure, but I don’t see any way Meeker could’ve gotten back out again with that crossbar in place, the back door and all the windows locked tight.”
“Come out to the cabin with me,” Runyon said, “and I’ll show you how he did it.”
The eczema on Rittenhouse’s scalp got a fingernail workout while he thought it over. At length he said darkly, “Are you sure you’re right about this, Runyon? Absolutely sure?”
“Yes.”
“All right, then I’ve got a better idea. We’ll find Joe Meeker first and the three of us will go to the cabin. You can show me how he did it with him standing right there.”
13
The Prime Medical Group was located in a large complex on Ygnacio Valley Road not far from the John Muir Medical Center. It shared space with a number of other physicians’ practices, most of which seemed to offer specialty medical services. The waiting room was large, pristine, and about a quarter full when I walked in a few minutes ahead of my three o’clock appointment with Dr. Paul Nesbitt.
Like most people, I have an aversion to hospitals and doctors’ offices. Too many visits to both over the course of my life, all too often the result of one crisis or another. Invariably, just walking into a place like this scrapes my nerves and raises my blood pressure, so I stay out of them as much as possible. Which is why I keep putting off annual physicals. It had been eighteen months since my last checkup and Kerry had been nagging at me to bite the bullet and get it done. I’d promised her I would, and I don’t break my promises, but I still hadn’t made the damn appointment. All right, then, I told myself as I sat twitching in the Prime Group’s waiting area, if you don’t do it soon the next time Kerry brings it up she’ll do it for you and how will that make you feel? Like a promise breaker after all. Like a big baby.
Fortunately, Dr. Nesbitt didn’t keep me hanging long. A plump nurse or nurse practitioner—you couldn’t tell which these days, uniforms being a thing of the past and casual dress the new norm—came out to fetch me. She led me along a couple of interior hallways, past cubicles containing blood pressure machines and scales and the like, past open and closed consulting room doors, and finally into a medium-sized private office where she shut me in with Dr. Paul Nesbitt.
He stood waiting in front of a desk covered with papers, medical journals, X-ray photographs, and one of those handheld computers doctors and nurses use these days. He gave me a stone-faced once-over, shook my hand in a perfunctory manner as if I might be a germ carrier, and invited me to sit down. Maybe it was his manner or where we were, but he didn’t need a stethoscope around his neck or a white smock or green scrubs to look exactly like what he was. In fact, he could have played the lead role on one of those TV doctor shows, perfectly cast according to Hollywood standards. Full head of wavy brown hair dusted with gray at the temples. Kirk Douglas cleft in his chin. Symmetrical features and large brown eyes that radiated intelligence and cool competence.
I didn’t like him. He made me feel old, fat, semi-ugly, and even more of a cowardly delinquent for putting off my annual physical. Irrational reaction, but even though I knew it was first-impression nonsense, I could not seem to work through it. The words sounded pinched when I said, “Thank you for seeing me, Doctor. I wasn’t sure you’d agree to an interview.”
“No? Because of the conversation you had with my wife, I suppose.”
“She was somewhat hostile, yes.”
“Naturally she was. She doesn’t like this sort of thing any more than I do.”
“What sort of thing?”
Abruptly, “Just what is it you expect to accomplish?”
“Excuse me?”
“The police haven’t been able to determine what happened to Alice Cahill. What makes you and her husband think you can? Assuming, of course, that he isn’t responsible?”
Nesbitt’s voice was about as warm as a scoop of Italian ice. He did not like me any more than I liked him. Well, that was dandy. The sense of mutual an
tipathy banished my feeling of insecurity, made dealing with him a little easier. Supercilious, antagonistic types raise my hackles, prod me into adopting a more aggressive attitude than I usually take with strangers.
I said, “I take it you don’t believe the man is entitled to an advocate.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. Innocent until proven guilty, Doctor.”
“I suppose that means you believe his hands are clean?”
“I just stated my position. When I agree to represent a client, my job is similar to that of an attorney. Do whatever I can for him.”
“That doesn’t answer my question,” Nesbitt said. “Is it your belief that he’s innocent?”
“Is it yours that he’s guilty?”
“I don’t see how anyone else could be.”
“What do you suppose happened? He killed her in a drunken rage?”
“Hardly that. Jim Cahill is not given to drunken rages.”
“Your wife told me he drinks to excess, that he and his wife had violent quarrels when he was drunk.”
The good doctor seemed not to know how to respond to that. At length he said stiffly, “Kendra exaggerates,” and let it go at that.
“When did you last see Mrs. Cahill?”
“What difference does it make when I saw her last?”
“You’re her physician. Did she do or say anything that might help explain what happened to her?”
“No, she did not.”
“And when was that last visit?”
“A few days before she disappeared.” He adjusted the knot in his silk tie, even though it didn’t need adjusting. “Just what do you hope to accomplish with all this poking around in private lives?”
“Such as yours, you mean?”
His lips compressed so tightly his mouth resembled a scalpel slash. When he spoke again, it was with an obvious effort to maintain his composure. “You won’t find out what happened to Alice that way.”
“You sound very sure of that.”
“I am sure. You haven’t learned anything yet that might exonerate him, have you?”
“Oh, I’ve made a little headway.”
“What sort of headway?”
Endgame--A Nameless Detective Novel Page 10
