Pretty soon she said, “Where are you calling from?”
“Shelter Hills. I can be at your home in forty-five minutes or so.”
“All right, then. I’ll be in the house, not the studio.”
It took me forty minutes because I parked close to her home, illegally, instead of wasting time driving around hunting a legal space. She took her time answering the door, a half-chewed sandwich in one hand. Turquoise streaks in her hair today, a somewhat different but no less jangly load of jewelry on fingers, wrists, ears, bare feet. Jeans and a pink sweatshirt with black lettering that read FREE HUGS.
“You drive fast,” she said. “I haven’t even finished my lunch.”
“We can talk while you do.”
She shrugged, led me into a kitchen decorated with half a dozen old-fashioned clocks and colorful art deco food posters that clashed with old yellow-flowered wallpaper that had begun to peel in places. A fat orange-and-white tomcat sat in the middle of a Formica-topped table, eyeing the remains of his owner’s lunch.
“Get off the table, Garfield,” she said. “You know you’re not supposed to be up there.”
The cat looked at her and yawned.
She shoved him off. “You’re just like your namesake, you know that?” Then to me, “All I’ve got to drink is milk.”
My stomach still hadn’t settled. “Milk would be fine.”
“Peanut butter sandwich to go with it?”
“Just the milk, thanks.”
She got a carton out of the refrigerator, a glass for me, then poured some into a saucer for Garfield, who sniffed at it, gave her a disdainful look, turned his back, and sauntered out of the kitchen. I didn’t blame him; the milk was fat-free. But what the hell, it was cold and relatively fresh.
“Okay,” she said, taking a bite of her sandwich as she sat down, “so here we are. Ask away.”
“I’m going to be blunt, Ms. Woodward. I think you weren’t completely forthcoming with me the last time we talked.”
“Is that right? What do you think I held back?”
“Information about Alice Cahill.”
“Oh, really?”
“You told me she never spoke of the plagiarism accusation to you. Was that the truth?”
“Sure it was. Why?”
“Because the accusation was valid. She was a plagiarist. Possibly a multiple plagiarist.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“It’s true. The morning she was killed, she agreed to pay Grace Dellbrook two thousand dollars to avoid a scandal and a possible lawsuit.”
“… How do you know that?”
“Grace Dellbrook told me. Alice’s e-mail to her proves it.”
“Jesus.”
“She did tell you about the accusation, didn’t she.”
Fran Woodward brushed bread crumbs off the front of her sweatshirt, wiped her hands on a dish towel. “All right, so what if she did? She’s dead now; it doesn’t matter anymore.”
“It matters that she was a thief. Or didn’t you care?”
“I cared; sure I cared. She said she only did it because she had a deadline to meet and she couldn’t come up with an idea for another book of her own. She wanted my advice on what to do. I told her to own up, admit she’d made a stupid mistake, and pay the woman off.”
“When was this?”
“The last time I saw her.”
“And she agreed paying off was a good idea.”
“Not then, she didn’t. She threw one of her fits. Said suppose she did pay and the woman came back and demanded more money to keep quiet? She couldn’t go on paying without Jimmy finding out.”
“Obviously she changed her mind.”
“Yeah, well, what other choice did she have? If the Dellbrook woman outed her to her publishers her career would be over, and what else did she have except her fucking writing?”
I didn’t say anything.
“God, she was screwed up in so many ways. The agoraphobia, the plagiarism, the—”
“The what? The reason she quit sleeping with her husband six months ago?”
Fran Woodward nibbled at a corner of her lower lip, rotated an etched copper bracelet on her left wrist, brushed again at the FREE HUGS emblem even though there weren’t any more crumbs.
I said, “Come on, Ms. Woodward. You admitted that Alice told you they were no longer intimate.”
“Yeah, she told me.”
“And the reason why.”
Another nibble, at the other lip corner this time. Then a tug at one of the dangly hoop earrings she wore.
“The last time I was here, you said she knew how to pleasure herself sexually. The implication was masturbation, but that wasn’t what you meant. She had a lover.”
“She couldn’t leave the house—”
“She didn’t have to leave the house. Her lover came there to see her as often as he could. The man you described as probably having ‘a hell of a bedside manner.’ The man who was once accused of sexual harassment by a woman who considers him a sexual predator. Dr. Paul Nesbitt.”
“Oh, what the hell. Yes. She was having an affair with Paul.”
“He took advantage of her condition, seduced her—”
“Not exactly. She didn’t say so, but I had the feeling she made the first move. She’d been attracted to him for a long time.” Small, wry smile. “Best sex she’d ever had, she said. That’s why she stopped sleeping with Jimmy. He’d never been able to satisfy her.”
“He didn’t have any idea what was going on?”
“Not a clue. Poor Jimmy. It would’ve hurt him bad if he knew.”
“Her sister?”
“My God, no. As possessive as Kendra is, she’d have had a shit hemorrhage. Alice was very careful and so was Paul.”
“How long have you known? From the beginning?”
“No, not until a couple of weeks ago. I think Alice kept it to herself for so long because she knew how I feel about Jimmy and she was afraid I’d let it slip to him or tell him outright. I wouldn’t have and I didn’t.”
“Why did she confide in you then?”
“Paul wanted to break it off. Stop being her doctor, too. He thought they were getting too involved.”
“And Alice didn’t want the relationship to end.”
“No. Paul wanting to walk out on her and the plagiarism thing had her climbing the walls. She’d started doubling up on her meds, but they weren’t helping much.”
“Anything else you think I should know about their relationship?”
“No. That’s everything.”
“I wish you’d been this frank with me the first time we talked, Ms. Woodward.”
“I might have if I’d known Alice was dead and Jimmy was being blamed for it.” Then, defensively, “I’m loyal to my friends, even when they’re as screwed up as Alice was.”
Loyal. Right. I said, “I’ll be going now,” and got to my feet.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “What I just told you about Alice and Paul … you’re not thinking he’s the one who killed her?”
“Possible, isn’t it?”
“Anything’s possible. But I’ve known him for years. He’s a doctor, he saves lives—”
“I’m just gathering information,” I said, “not making accusations.”
“Paul,” she said, with awe in her voice. “If he did do it … Jesus. I guess you never really know anybody, do you.”
No. You never do.
* * *
Little things.
A long string of them, the few additional ones today confirming and cementing my suspicions. Added together, they pointed to one person and one person only.
The problem was that none of them, individually or collectively, constituted the kind of proof necessary to absolve James Cahill of guilt. Circumstantial evidence that might not even be enough to force an official investigation, much less an arrest.
I got the car going and started driving again. I had an idea, and so where I went was the one place
I should not have gone.
23
JAKE RUNYON
Runyon went rigid, his arms and hands flat against his sides, his innards contracting as if yanked into knots by a drawstring. It wasn’t just the gun or the unsteadiness of Joshua’s hand; it was how he looked. Three years ago he had been a twenty-two-year-old pretty boy with Andrea’s blond hair, blue eyes, narrow mouth, delicate features. He wasn’t pretty now. He’d lost weight; his face was pale, drawn, unevenly stubbled, his long hair stringy, lusterless, uncombed and unwashed. Runyon’s first thought was AIDS, the second hepatitis, the third cancer. Flashback memory of Colleen in the hospital bed, emaciated, wasting away, a shadow of her former self. He shoved free of it, quit thinking anything. Took a tight grip on himself.
“Why the gun, Joshua?”
“Don’t try to come near me. Go over by the window.”
Runyon did that in slow, careful steps, his arms still pressed tight against his sides, his eyes on the gun. Small-caliber automatic, probably a five-shot .32. Not the most accurate of weapons except at close range, but deadly enough if the clip was emptied in rapid succession. The distance between them was about a dozen feet. He might survive a fast rush, given the unsteadiness of Joshua’s hand and the probable fact that he’d had no training in the use of handguns. And he might not. It wasn’t the way to handle this anyway, not even as a last resort.
Runyon asked again, “Why, Joshua?”
“Why do you think?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
“Oh, come on. You’re a detective; figure it out.”
“You hate me that much?”
“That much. Yes. You ruined my fucking life.”
“Because of what you think I did to you and your mother.”
“What I know you did to us.”
“It’s been three years,” Runyon said. “Why decide to take me out now, after all that time?”
“Who says that’s what I’m going to do?”
“What else is the gun for?”
Joshua laughed, an ugly sound with the edge of hysteria in it. His smoky blue eyes were very bright, unnaturally so. High on something to nerve himself up? Meth? One of the opioid narcotics? Hard to tell. The brightness could also be the result of an overload of anger and hatred, the kind of lethal mix that drives a person into temporary insanity.
“You don’t want to do this,” Runyon said. “Kill me and your life really will be ruined. You have no idea what prison is like.”
“I’m not going to prison.”
“You will if you pull that trigger. I’m not armed; you can’t claim self-defense.”
“They don’t put dead men in prison, do they, Daddy dearest?”
The fingers of Runyon’s right hand spasmed into a curl. Otherwise he didn’t move, showed no reaction. “Murder/suicide, is that it?”
“That’s what it was going to be. Not anymore.” Abruptly Joshua lowered himself onto the old green armchair, sitting on the edge of a ripped cushion with his legs together, his right elbow propped on his knee, his left hand gripping his right wrist to hold the gun steady. “I’m not going to shoot you. Oh, no. I’ve got a better plan now.”
“What plan?”
“Guess. Go ahead, guess.”
“No.”
“I’ll give you a hint. Bang!”
“This isn’t a game, Son.”
“Don’t call me that. I was never your son.” The ugly little laugh again. He lifted the gun, turned it, placed the muzzle against his cheekbone. “This isn’t for you, it’s for me.”
A frisson of coldness crawled up the back of Runyon’s neck. “Shoot yourself in front of me, make me watch you die. Is that it?”
“That’s it. Bingo. I knew you’d figure it out sooner or later, a great detective like you. Sherlock fucking Holmes.”
“Willing to die just to make me suffer? Or is there more to it than that?”
“Oh, there’s more. There’s a lot more.”
“Tell me what it is.”
“Why should I? What do you care?”
“I care. I wish I could make you understand how much.”
“Well, you can’t. It doesn’t matter anyway. Nothing matters anymore.”
“Why don’t you want to go on living?”
“Why. Why. The man I loved, really loved, walked out on me. I lost my job and I can’t find another. I’m living in a shithole on unemployment insurance that’s going to run out before long. And I have you for a father. What the hell do I have left to live for? Nothing.”
Runyon let a few seconds pass before he spoke again. The tension in the room was charged; he could feel it as if parts of his body were attached to low-voltage electrodes.
“So you end your life and get back at me at the same time,” he said then. “That seems right and fitting to you, does it?”
“Oh, it does. Bang! Two objectives accomplished with one shot.”
“Would you do it in front of your mother?”
“… What?”
“Kill yourself in front of her if she was still alive and I wasn’t around to blame and punish?”
Violent headshake, setting the stringy blond hair aswirl; the automatic’s muzzle made an audible scraping sound along his cheekbone. “Stupid goddamn question. I loved her, I hate you.”
“She killed herself in front of you,” Runyon said.
“… What’re you talking about?”
“Only she did it the slow way, day by day, with booze and hate. All the while feeding you steady doses of poisonous lies.”
“Don’t start that bullshit again—”
“It’s not bullshit and you know it. Down deep you know it.”
“Like hell I do—”
“She almost killed you quickly once, when you were a baby and we were still together. I told you about that three years ago, remember? The time I came home and found her in the bathtub, passed out drunk, holding you in her arms. You were asleep, your head barely above water. If she’d slipped down any further, you’d have drowned.”
“Goddamn liar!”
“Postpartum depression and alcohol dependence. She started boozing in her teens, kept right on before and after we were married, and there wasn’t anything I could do to help her.”
“No! You never cared about her, never cared about me. You’re the one who started her drinking by abandoning us—alcohol was the only way she could dull the pain.”
“Listen to me, Joshua. Her father and mother were both alcoholics—her father died of cirrhosis, same as she did. She needed liquor to unwind, to be happy, to make love, to get through the day. I once offered to give you the names of people who could prove it to you. The offer still stands. But you don’t really need proof, do you. You lived with her nearly two decades—you know I’m telling the truth.”
“Damn you, shut up!”
Sweat pimples spotted Joshua’s forehead now. The automatic was once more pressed tight against his cheekbone, his finger in a convulsive back-and-forth slide across the trigger. Distract him—quick! There was a chair, a scarred ladderback, close to where Runyon stood; he went to it, moving neither fast nor slow, and sat down.
“What’re you doing?”
“I felt like sitting. That’s not a problem, is it?”
“No, it’s not a problem. I don’t give a shit.” The laugh. “Front-row seat. It’s almost time.”
Runyon said slowly, “You think I don’t know how you’re feeling right now? The depression, the emptiness, the desire for oblivion?”
“You don’t have a clue.”
“Wrong. After Colleen died I was literally in the same place you are, sitting in a chair with a gun in my hand, working up to killing myself. I told you before that I watched her waste away with ovarian cancer. What I didn’t tell you was that when she finally died I sat for three straight nights with the barrel of my service revolver in my mouth, sweating like you’re sweating, trying to make myself eat a bullet.”
“Why the hell didn’t you?�
��
“I couldn’t. Because Colleen wouldn’t have wanted me to. Because I wasn’t ready to die. Because I still had some things to live for. My work. You.”
“Me? You never had me; you never wanted me.”
“I tried to get custody of you after the divorce. I told you that before, too. But your mother had a smart lawyer, and she lied to the judge, made me out to be an abusive husband and father. He was an old-school disciplinarian; he believed her, read me the riot act, and gave her full custody. Right away she left Seattle and took you down here.”
“You never once tried to visit me while I was growing up.”
“Yes I did. The damn judge granted me visitation rights only at her discretion and my lawyer couldn’t get the decision overturned or modified. I tried half a dozen times to talk her into letting me see you, but she refused. I even flew down once unexpectedly when you were about six, but she wouldn’t let me in, threatened to have me arrested if I tried.”
“More bullshit.”
“God’s honest truth,” Runyon said. “I gave up finally. I shouldn’t have, and I’m sorry I did, but I’m not the kind of man who beats his head against a stone wall. I wish I was. I wish I had.”
Joshua made a spitting mouth. “That’s a lousy excuse.”
“I’m not trying to excuse myself, I’m only telling you the way things were. I didn’t think there was any hope, so I threw myself into my work. Long hours on the job, the longer the better. It was all I had until I met Colleen—”
“Colleen, Colleen.”
“Yes, Colleen. A good woman, everything your mother wasn’t.”
“Don’t start that crap again.”
“All I had for twenty years, Colleen and my work,” Runyon said, “but I never forgot you; I always intended to reach out to you once you were grown up, explain what really happened, try to regain your trust. If I’d known when your mother died, I would have tried then. But I didn’t know until later. And Colleen was sick by the time I found out—”
“That’s enough. Shut up! Shut up!”
Runyon shut up. The gun was pressed against Joshua’s temple now, his finger no longer restlessly moving across the trigger. Close to the edge, very close. In spite of what he’d said, he might not want to die as badly as he thought in his overwrought condition. But a trigger squeeze could just as easily be reflexive as voluntary. And silence only made the situation worse.
Endgame--A Nameless Detective Novel Page 17
