Runyon didn’t respond. But he was thinking that she was right: Philip Dennison had not been a good man at all, and she had realized it in time to save herself even greater heartache. She was far better off with him gone from her life. And so was Patricia Dennison, whether she accepted that fact or not.
17
JAKE RUNYON
The Dennison home was a second-floor flat in a large, old-style stucco building in the lower southern corner of the Presidio, not far from Letterman Army Medical Center and the approach to the Golden Gate Bridge. Street parking in this neighborhood, as in the Marina District nearby, was at its usual premium; Runyon had to drive around for ten minutes before he finally found a spot two blocks away. It was a warm afternoon; it felt good to get out and stretch his legs a little after all the driving.
Patricia Dennison buzzed him in as soon as he rang her bell. Waiting impatiently for his arrival; one look at her when she opened the door confirmed it. She wore a dark blue outfit with a yellow scarf at the throat—no mourning clothes for her. Her dark blond hair was neatly combed, her makeup carefully applied. None of this was for him. She was the type of woman who would always dress with care and casual elegance, no matter what the occasion. Always, even on the grim mission to Eagle Lake.
“I expected you much sooner than this, Mr. Runyon.”
“Sorry. I couldn’t get here any earlier.”
“Have you anything to tell me?”
“Some things, yes.”
“Well?”
“Suppose we sit down first.”
The cornflower-blue eyes probed his, as if she was trying to read his mind. Then she turned and led him into a wide living room. Modern furnishings—big, horseshoe-shaped sofa in some sort of nubby cream-colored fabric, matching chairs, low black tables, white rugs on a hardwood floor, white drapes with black accents drawn open over windows that gave an oblique view of the Golden Gate Bridge. Framed black-and-white still-life sketches of mammals and birds on the walls; too professionally detailed to be hers, he judged, though he didn’t know enough about art to be sure. The only color in the room was from some red throw pillows on the couch, the bases and shades of a pair of arty table lamps. Everything was as well arranged and as tidy as Patricia Dennison herself.
The contour chair she directed him to looked comfortable and was. She went to the sofa, but before she sat down she said, “Do you know the woman’s name?”
“I know who your husband was with before he died. Verna Meeker, a waitress at the Lakefront Café.”
Now she sat down, smoothing her skirt over her thighs. “A waitress,” she repeated. “A pickup when his mistress canceled, I suppose.”
“Yes.”
“Attractive?”
“Some men might think so.”
She said sardonically, “I thought Philip had better taste.”
Runyon said nothing.
“Was he shacked up with her the entire time?”
“Not exactly. She lives in the next cabin down the road from Lloyd Hansen’s. Her husband was away on a hunting trip. Joe Meeker, a local handyman.”
“I see.”
“But Meeker came back earlier than expected on Tuesday night. Caught her as she was returning home, beat the truth out of her, then went storming to the Hansen cabin to confront your husband.”
“He was there when Philip died?”
“More than that,” Runyon said. “There was an argument. According to Meeker, your husband was about to hit him with a poker, he retaliated with a punch, and that was when your husband slipped and fell against the hearthstone.”
It took a few seconds for her to process that. “So this … handyman was responsible for Philip’s death.”
“Yes. He was afraid he’d be blamed for it, so he tried to cover up by creating the illusion that the cabin was sealed. If you want to know how he did that—”
“I don’t, no. I don’t care what he did or how he did it. Or how you found out about it. Has he been arrested?”
“And charged with manslaughter, yes.”
“Philip died because he was fucking some tramp and her husband attacked him.” The four-letter word sounded even more out of place in these genteel surroundings than it had when she’d used it in the car on the drive to Eagle Lake. “My God. I wish you hadn’t told me.”
“If I hadn’t, Deputy Rittenhouse would have.”
“All right. So now you’ve done your duty.”
“It’s difficult to come to terms with, I know—”
“No, you don’t. You don’t know at all. How could you? You didn’t know Philip; you weren’t married to him for ten years.”
He had nothing to say to that.
She misinterpreted his silence. “You’re thinking that I didn’t know him, either. Well, you’re right, I didn’t. Not anywhere near as well as I thought I did.”
Still nothing to say.
“I knew he was weak and deceitful, a typical male who shunned his marriage vows when an opportunity presented itself. I hated it, but I made allowances and learned to live with it. It’s hard enough dealing with his death, but this … this—”
Abruptly she stood, skirted the sofa to the window where she stood staring out. Runyon remained silent. Even if he’d had words that might offer some comfort, which he didn’t, she would not have wanted to hear them. Not from him. Not from anyone, most likely. Her reaction to the news had reinforced his take on her character: a self-contained unit, one who kept her emotions tightly in check.
The silence seemed to grow. If there had been a clock in the room, its ticking would have assumed overloud proportions. That kind of silence.
It must have been nearly five minutes before she turned to face him again. Her hands were folded together at her waist, her mouth and jaw set in taut lines. Runyon knew what she was going to say before she said it.
“What about the other woman? The one he went up there to meet, the one who stood him up?”
“Does it matter now?”
“It does to me. Do you know who she is?”
He had already made his decision. Lying to a client, misleading a client, still went strongly against his grain, but there were times when you felt you had just cause to compromise your standards. This was one of them.
“Not yet, no,” he said.
“But you’ll be able to find out.”
“I don’t think so. Or that I want to.”
Her mouth tightened even more. “What kind of answer is that? It’s what you were hired to do.”
“Not so. Not part of the original agreement.”
“You promised me you’d find her.”
“No, I didn’t. I said I’d try.”
“You’re splitting hairs—”
“Let me ask you a question, Mrs. Dennison. Do you still feel the need to confront the woman?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I told you before, I have some things to say to her.”
“What things, exactly?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Berate her? Accuse her? Call her names?”
“I told you—”
“See what she looks like, what kind of woman your husband found so appealing? Then, if she doesn’t measure up, salvage your pride by feeling superior to her?”
She came away from the window, stopped in front of his chair to glare down at him. “You have no right to talk to me that way.”
“Did I strike a nerve?”
“No, you did not.”
Yes, he had. He could see it in her face. But he couldn’t tell if there was more to it than that, if some sort of revenge was also what she was after. No use trying. There was just no way to know for certain what went on inside somebody else’s head.
“Do you also intend to confront Verna Meeker?”
“… What?”
“The married waitress your husband was shacked up with. You have things to say to her, too?”
“I…” The question had caught
her off guard, taken her aback.
“Do you?”
“She’s just a cheap tramp. The other one…”
“You don’t think she’s a cheap tramp, too?”
“No, I don’t. I think she must be—”
“A decent woman who made the mistake of getting involved with a married man? Suppose that’s who and what she is. What then?”
She backed away from him. “I don’t like you, Mr. Runyon. You’re … impertinent.”
“I don’t sugarcoat the facts as I see them, if that’s what you mean.”
“I ought to file a complaint against you with your agency.”
“That’s your prerogative. Do you want me to leave now?”
“Are you going to find Philip’s mistress or aren’t you?”
“No, ma’am, I’m not. I’ve done the job I was hired to do. As far as I’m concerned, that concludes our business.”
“I’ll get another detective, then. The telephone book is full of them.”
“Also your prerogative,” Runyon said. “But I’d think twice about it if I were you.”
She retreated another step. The backs of her knees bumped against the coffee table, stopping her, making her wince.
“Take my advice, Mrs. Dennison. Bury your husband; bury the past along with him. Save yourself any more grief.”
Six-beat. Then she said, “Damn you,” but there was no heat in the words and she was no longer glaring. “Go on, leave. Leave me alone.”
He did what she asked—went to the door and let himself out, left her alone with her anger, her bitterness, her feelings of loss and betrayal: the same feelings she must have had when the college man who’d gotten her pregnant abandoned her. Maybe she’d heed his advice; maybe she wouldn’t. For Lucia Dinucci’s sake as well as hers, he hoped she would.
Out of his hands now in any event. And he still felt he’d made the right decision.
18
A lot of ex-cops and other civilians in law enforcement jobs work Sundays, but I’m not one of them. Never on Sunday, that’s my motto. Of course mottos, like rules, are made to be broken, and every now and then I’ve had cause to break mine. I had no such specific cause on this Sunday, but I worked part of it just the same. Could not have stopped myself if I’d wanted to.
I brooded Saturday evening after the lawyer Moxon’s phone call, to the point where it cost me some sleep. And I kept right on brooding Sunday morning. What kept plaguing my mind was not only Cahill’s arrest but also the brutality of Alice Cahill’s murder and disposal of her body. I had never met the woman, it had seemed probable all along that she would not turn up alive after being missing for more than a week, and yet her death depressed me. The last few years of her short life had been filled with tragedy and despair—the car accident that claimed a stranger’s life, the resultant agoraphobia, the paranoia and sudden mood swings. She’d been a plagiarist, yes, but even that may have been attributable to her damaged psyche. No matter how flawed she’d been, she had deserved a better fate.
One more shattered life among the many I’d come across in my work. One more victim. All of them combined made for a heavy burden. Ghosts are supposed to be ethereal, but not mine. Mine had substance and weight, and the capacity to inflict psychic pain.
Cahill, I was convinced, was also a victim. Of circumstances, of misapprehension. I’d dealt with plenty of his type, too, over the years, and you get so you can recognize them for what they are: pawns, scapegoats, the unjustly accused. I felt sorry for him, sorry as hell, but what could I do about it?
Something, maybe. Make an effort, at least.
I’d heard nothing from the Walnut Creek cop, Lieutenant Kowalski; obviously he felt a statement from me could wait until the start of the workweek because there was little, if anything, of importance I could tell him. I considered trying to contact him, but even if he was on duty today and available it wouldn’t buy me anything. He would not supply me with details. Why should he? As far as he and the Contra Costa County sheriff’s department were concerned, they had the guilty party in custody.
As far as I was concerned, they were wrong.
The case against James Cahill did not feel right to me.
Gut instinct. Based partly on my conversations with the man, my impressions and perceptions of him, and partly on the facts as Moxon had related them to me. But there were more in his possession that he hadn’t related and I hadn’t asked for.
He had given me his cell phone number. I called it, half-expecting it to go to voice mail, but he answered almost immediately. “Something you forgot to tell me last night?” he asked when I identified myself.
“No. A few more questions.”
“Can’t they wait?” Now he sounded a little irritated. “I just arrived at Diablo Hills and my foursome has a ten o’clock tee time.”
Typical lawyer. More interested in playing golf than in discussing a client in jail on a homicide charge. The only thing men like him preferred to a golf club in hand was a four- or five-figure check.
“This won’t take long. You told me Alice Cahill’s body was discovered near the nature preserve east of Martinez. How remote is that area?”
“Why do you want to know that?”
“Just answer the question please, Mr. Moxon.”
He said snippily, “Not particularly remote. The nature preserve is close to Highway 680, off the road to Avon.”
Avon. Unincorporated area on the way to Port Chicago. “Near the preserve, you said. Not inside it.”
“No. Off a dirt track beyond the entrance.”
“Within sight of the Avon road?”
“Fairly close to it. In a shallow gully behind a screen of trees.”
“Just dumped there, no attempt made to bury it?”
“Dumped in haste, evidently.”
“Because of the proximity to the road.”
“Presumably.”
“Wrapped in something—blanket, drop cloth?”
“Large trash bags,” Moxon said distastefully, “bound with duct tape. The bags were torn, the remains … damaged by small animals.”
“And the computer was inside the bags.”
“Yes.”
“Was anything else found in the gully?”
“Not that I was informed of.”
“The anonymous call. Male or female?”
“They couldn’t be sure. A deep voice, but muffled.”
“No trace on the number?”
“No. The call was probably made from a prepaid cell phone. Look, I don’t see the point of these questions—”
“There’s a point,” I said. “Any chance of you getting me an audience with Mr. Cahill?”
“Not immediately, if at all. No one but legal counsel is permitted to see him until after his arraignment.”
“Which is when?”
“Tomorrow afternoon.”
“Will you see what you can do and let me know?”
“Yes, but don’t count on permission being granted.”
“Do you have a criminal attorney for him yet?”
“Hardly. This is the weekend, after all.” There were noises in the background now, raised voice and laughter; he was probably inside the country club. “Now I really must go or I’ll be late,” he said. “I’ll notify you of any relevant developments, so I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t call me again unless absolutely necessary.”
Jerk. Or, as Tamara would say, asshole.
I sat there in my study, working my brain again. Now I really did not like the case against James Cahill.
The main reason was the dumping of the body. The only conceivable explanation for Cahill having done that, and for including the murder weapon and leaving Alice Cahill’s wedding ring on her finger, was blind panic. But if my take on his character was correct, and I believed it was, he was not the type to panic in a crisis. His love for his wife had survived the agoraphobia, her mood swings and panic attacks, his sexual deprivation; no matter what the Nesbitts believed, I did not see
him as capable of bludgeoning her to death in a rage, drunken or otherwise. If he’d killed her, it would have been accidentally, an act of self-defense. And afterward he would have been horrified at what he’d done, and remorseful, and he’d have called the police and owned up.
Then there was the anonymous call. Moxon’s explanation that it had been made by someone who did not want to become involved in a murder investigation was supportable enough. But I’m always leery of anonymous calls in such cases as these, especially those that can’t be traced back to their source. The timing was also too convenient to suit me.
And then there was the location of the body, a shallow gully where it had apparently lain undetected for a week. On my laptop I looked up a Google map of the general area. The nature preserve, Waterbird Regional Preserve, was in a semi-remote location, yes. But why had the body been dumped there, only a short distance off the Avon road with no attempt at burial or concealment? Another thing: the place was approximately a forty-five-minute drive from Cahill’s home in Shelter Hills Estates. Why risk traveling that distance when there were more isolated rural areas much closer to Walnut Creek, places where a body could be hidden away for months, years?
Well, there was one good answer to all of those questions. The person who had killed Alice Cahill wanted the body to be discovered, expected it to be more or less immediately. That explained the chosen location, the presence of the laptop and wedding ring to ensure swift identification, the anonymous phone call after a week had gone by without discovery. All done in order to frame James Cahill for the crime.
All right, then—who?
And what was the motive for Alice Cahill’s murder?
* * *
I called a halt to the brooding around noon and took Kerry and Emily to lunch at Cellini’s Ristorante, one of the best Italian restaurants outside North Beach. It’s on Taraval, out toward Sunset Boulevard, a small and unpretentious place that has been in the same family for three generations. Their specialty is Emily’s favorite, old-world-style spaghetti and meatballs. The toasted garlic bread they serve with it is good, though my version, made with a generous blend of Parmigiano-Reggiano and Pecorino Romano cheeses, is better. The ladies’ opinion, not just mine. Ah, but the spaghetti and meatballs at Cellini’s is senza pari, fantastico.
Endgame--A Nameless Detective Novel Page 14
