Fever nd-33

by Bill Pronzini

  He didn’t want anyone else, he wanted Colleen. You’re lonely. And you think I’m lonely. Kindred spirits. All right. He was lonely, there was no denying it. Companionship, love? All the things he’d had from and with Colleen? Not that, either. You can’t replace the love of your life, the center of your universe. Maybe you could move on to someone else after a while, on a limited basis-and maybe you’re just not made that way, no matter how much you hurt and how much you need. He wasn’t, and it seemed Bryn Darby wasn’t. Kindred spirits in that way, too.

  So now he fully understood why he’d come here. Looking for something unattainable; looking for humiliation to purge himself of the idea. But he didn’t feel humiliated; even the momentary shame was gone. All he felt now, limping through the cold night to his car, was empty-as if the hole inside him had been scooped out even wider.

  T hat night, Colleen came to him in a dream.

  She walked into the bedroom and leaned over the bed. When he opened his eyes and saw her, he made a joyful sound and reached out for her. She stepped back, avoiding his embrace. “Don’t do this,” she said.

  She was vivid to him in every detail; her whole body shimmered and glowed as if she were encased in a kind of haloed bubble. He sat up and reached for her again, whispering her name. And again she backed away.

  “Don’t do this,” she said.

  “I won’t,” he said. “No one else. Just you.”

  “Please don’t do this.”

  “You’re the only woman I’ll ever love.”

  “No more,” she said, “no more.”

  “I don’t need anybody but you.”

  “Don’t keep doing this to yourself, Jake. Promise me-please!”

  He said, “I don’t know if I can,” and as soon as the words were out the shimmery glow began to fade, she began to fade until he couldn’t see her clearly any longer. He jumped out of the dream bed, his arms clutching emptiness. By then she was gone.

  He woke up shaking. All the bedclothes were on the floor and the room was like a cavern of ice. He got the blankets up and over him and lay there afraid to close his eyes again, because when he did he knew he would see her in the same soft, fading focus as before.

  “I don’t need anybody but you,” he said aloud. “I don’t need anybody.”

  Lies.

  Don’t keep doing this to yourself, Jake. No more, no more.

  21

  JAKE RUNYON

  In the morning he had himself under control again. Emotions in check, his professionalism hard-wired back into place. The fever of last night, the past week, had burned itself out; the disturbing sense that he might be cracking up was gone. There wouldn’t be any more episodes, he’d see to that. He’d keep on functioning as he had been for nearly two years now, doing the job he’d been trained to do, existing in the moment. There was no other way. Opening himself up the way he had last night was like opening a vein and watching himself bleed to death.

  The order of business today was the Youngblood pro bono case. He hadn’t been paying enough attention to it. Focus on it, get it wrapped up, move on to the next. Youngblood’s mother, sitting alone in that empty house of hers after her work, worrying, waiting for word-he owed her a quick resolution.

  On the way up Nineteenth Avenue and through the park, he thought about what Bill had told him yesterdy. Youngblood’s ten-thousand-dollar borrow from Nick Kinsella, and the eighty-five hundred he’d laid on Kinsella three days ago to cover two-thirds of what he owed. Where’d it come from? Not from another loan shark; Bill was right about that. A friend? None of Youngblood’s friends seemed to have that kind of money lying around. His mother? Same thing. Brandy?

  Find out more about Brandy. He should’ve done that by now. Drag it out of Youngblood, if he couldn’t get the information anywhere else.

  First things first: Verna Washington.

  The Lake Street apartment building where she lived was old San Francisco-cornices, bay windows, ornate stucco facade painted a pale salmon color. Three stories, four apartments each on the first two floors, two big flats on the top floor. Verna Washington lived in one of the apartments, second floor rear. When he rang the bell this time, he got an intercom response.

  She was willing to talk to him. Buzzed him in, looked at his license through the peephole in her door, took the chain off, and let him inside. The apartment was cluttered, the furniture a weird mixture of old wood, fifties tubular chrome, and sixties bean-bag. One wall was painted black; the others were different shades of blue. Posters hung everywhere, most of them the restaurant-and-food variety, a few music-related. Rap music played, not too loudly, from an iPod on a glass-topped table. He tuned it out.

  She stood with her hands on her hips, looking him over, smiling a little. Dre Janssen had called her “funky”; it was as good a word as any. She was small and round-faced, her hair done in uneven cornrows and colored an off-red, a small gold ring looped through one nostril, rings on all her fingers, and jangly bracelets on both wrists. Some kind of patterned caftan-type garment, African probably, covered her body from her neck to her bare feet. Her toenails were painted a violent purple. If she ever walked out of the kitchen at Bon Chance looking like she did now, there’d probably be a riot.

  “Brian’s in some trouble,” he told her. “Could be big trouble. That’s why I’m here.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “I’m trying to find out.”

  “Well, you won’t find out much from me. I haven’t seen or talked to the man in more than two years.”

  “In touch with any of his friends?”

  “Nope. Only met a couple and we don’t hang in the same places.”

  “You know a woman named Brandy?”

  “Who? Brandy?”

  “The name’s not familiar?”

  “Never heard of her.”

  Nobody seemed to have heard of her. Mystery woman.

  His capsule description of Brandy made Verna Washington laugh. “Putting me on, right? Brian with a sister looks and acts like that?”

  “Not his type?”

  “No way. I can’t even picture it.”

  “How was he when you dated him? Seem to have everything together financially, personally?”

  “Oh yeah, pretty much. Real serious about everything. And real religious.”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary about him or his life?”

  “Nope,” she said, and then grinned and said, “Not on the surface.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “What you see ain’t always all there is.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Everybody got quirks. Underneath, you know?” she said. The grin again, and a laugh as if at some private joke.

  “Look, Ms. Washington…”

  “Verna. Never did like my last name, guess why.”

  Runyon ignored that. “What kind of quirk does Brian have?”

  “Uh-uh. Personal stuff. Doesn’t have anything to do with whatever trouble he’s in.”

  “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

  “Uh-uh,” she said again.

  He let it go. “Other people I’ve talked to say he’s changed drastically in the past year or so. Started keeping to himself, spending large amounts of money, borrowing heavily to pay off debts, that kind of thing. Any idea what could’ve caused the change?”

  “No clue. Brian I knew was Mr. Yup.”

  “Or where he might’ve gotten a large sum of money?”

  “How large?”

  “Several thousand dollars.”

  “Whoa. Not from anybody I know, that’s for sure.”

  “I understand you and he weren’t together very long.”

  “Not very. Just a casual thing, you know? He was never my boo.”

  “Boo?”

  “Boyfriend. We only did the nasty once.” She smiled again at the memory of it, a wry smile this time. “Brian wasn’t a bed animal, you know what I’m saying?”

  “Is that wh
y you stopped seeing each other?”

  “One reason. Total opposites, you know? We connected at Bon Chance, that’s the restaurant where I work. Good-looking dude, real polite, bucks in his pocket… different from anybody else I’d been with. But the differences… too strong, man. No way we could’ve stayed hooked up.”

  A few more questions bought him nothing useful. He tried once more to get her to talk about this “quirk” of Youngblood’s, but she stonewalled him again. Whatever it was seemed to amuse her.

  What you see ain’t always all there is.

  Underneath, you know?

  Cryptic phrases meaning what?

  B rian Youngblood’s address: no response.

  Aaron Myers’s address: no response.

  He didn’t like that. Something wrong in all this elusiveness; if he’d been tracking normally, he’d’ve sensed it before now. He rang the other doorbells in Myers’s building, talked to two of the other tenants-one through the intercom, one in person. Neither of them had seen Myers in the past few days. Neither of them knew him very well. What kind of neighbor was he? Quiet, friendly enough but kept pretty much to himself. Brian Youngblood? Didn’t know him, never heard the name before.

  In the car, Runyon called Tamara on his cell. She didn’t have much on Aaron Myers; from all indications he was a model citizen. What she did have was the name and address of his only relative in the Bay Area, a sister living in Pacifica.

  P acifica was a few miles south of the city, spread along the coast and up across the western hillside below Skyline Boulevard. It was part of the fog belt that stretched south from Ocean Beach in the city to Half Moon Bay; if there was fog anywhere in the Bay Area, Pacifica was sure to be socked in. There was fog today, thick and roiling, blowing inland on a strong sea wind. By the time Runyon came to the bottom of the long, curving section of Highway 1, the mist was so wet he had to use the windshield wipers.

  Toward the middle of town, he turned down into a newish development of middle-class tract homes between the highway and the ocean. The Pacifica map he’d looked at before leaving the city indicated that the street Shari Lucas lived on was one of those nearest the highway, and he had no trouble finding it. Her house was like all the others on the block-nondescript, sea-weathered, its only distinction a front yard full of yellow and pink iceplant. There was an older-model Mitsubishi station wagon parked in the driveway.

  Single mother, Tamara had told him, lived alone with her two pre-school children, worked off and on for a firm of architects in the city. Child support from her ex-husband paid most of the bills. Like her brother, she seemed to be a model citizen.

  He went up and rang the bell. The fog here was numbing cold, like vapor off dry ice, and heavy with the smell of salt. He stood hunched, hands in the pockets of his suit coat, until the door opened.

  She was attractive in a thin-boned way, her hair clipped short, her eyes big and liquidy brown. She said, politely enough but with an edge, “If you’re selling something, you can turn right around and walk away. I’m not interested.”

  “I’m not a salesman.” He showed her his ID. “I’m here about your brother Aaron.”

  Her manner changed instantly. “Oh Lord,” she said, “is he all right?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “Has he… done something?”

  “I’m not investigating him,” Runyon said. “Could we talk inside? Pretty cold out here.”

  She let him into a living room cluttered with children’s toys. Kid voices, interspersed with shrieks of laughter, rose and fell from another room at the rear. She said automatically, “I’m sorry, it’s a mess in here.” Then, “If you’re not investigating Aaron, then who…?”

  “A friend of his, Brian Youngblood. Do you know him?”

  “Met the man, but I don’t really know him. He seems like a nice person… What kind of trouble is he in?”

  “I can’t answer that, Mrs. Lucas.”

  “But you think Aaron knows?”

  “Yes. Have you seen or talked to your brother in the past few days?”

  “No. Aaron and I… we’re not close. He has his life and I have mine. I haven’t seen him in months. But he-”

  One of the kids let out a scream. She said, “Now what? Excuse me,” and hurried out of the room. Runyon took a short turn around it, but there was nothing in there for him.

  She was back inside of three minutes. “Kids,” she said, but with a motherly affection. Then she said, “Aaron called me last night.”

  “Oh? Any particular reason?”

  “I don’t know, I wasn’t here. Nobody was here. The kids were with a neighbor and I was out with a friend and I had my cell phone on voice mail. He left a message.”

  “Did you call him back?”

  “Not last night. I… didn’t get home until very late. I tried this morning, but he didn’t answer at his apartment and he wasn’t at work and his cell was off.”

  “What did his message say?”

  “Just that he needed to talk to me. He sounded… funny.”

  “Funny?”

  “Not like himself. Upset or worried… shook up.”

  “Is the message still on your voice mail?”

  “… Should be. I don’t think I erased it. You want to hear it?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  She went and got her cell phone and played the message. It was a good quality unit; the voice and the inflections were clear.

  “Sis, this is Aaron. I know it’s been a while but… I need to talk to you. I really need to talk. If you’re listening, pick up.” A few seconds of humming silence. “Oh God. I don’t think I can stand any more of this without… Look, call me back as soon as you get this, okay? It’s really important.”

  “He does sound funny, doesn’t he?” Shari Lucas said.

  Runyon said thinly, “Yes, he does.”

  “He’s involved in Brian’s trouble. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know,” he lied. “But I’ll find out. Do you have a key to his apartment?”

  She blinked at him. “A key? Why would you want-”

  “Please, Mrs. Lucas. Do you have a key?”

  “No. I never had need for one… Oh, sweet Jesus, you don’t think something’s happened to him?”

  He pasted on a reassuring smile, pressed one of his business cards into her hand. “Do something for me, okay? Call Aaron’s friends, see if you can locate him. And call me right away if you do. Will you do that?”

  “All right, but… Can’t you give me some idea of what this is all about?”

  No, he couldn’t. What he’d just begun to realize about her brother and Brian Youngblood had shaken him a little; it would knock her down. He said he’d call her later, or Aaron would, and got out of there as fast as he could without scaring her any more than she already was.

  22

  The damn cell phone started in again as I was driving to work Friday morning. I was on the curvy part of Upper Market and I had to wait for a break in traffic in order to pull over into curb space.

  I barked a hello, and a woman’s voice said, “This is Deanne Goldman. Mitch Krochek’s friend?” She made the last a question, the way some people do when talking to strangers.

  “Yes, Ms. Goldman.”

  “Mitch had to leave this morning before seven-an emergency at one of his job sites-and he didn’t want to bother you so early. So he asked me to call and let you know he won’t be available all day.”

  “When will he be available?”

  “He didn’t know. Probably not until sometime this evening.”

  “Ask him to call me when he gets in,” I said. While she was saying she would, I had a thought. “Would it be possible for you to meet with me today? For a few minutes on your lunch hour, say?”

  “… Why?”

  “A few questions I’d like to ask you.”

  “About what? I don’t know anything about Mitch’s wife.”

  “I’m sure you don’t. Just some
general questions.”

  “Well… I suppose it’d be all right.”

  “Suggest a time and a place that would be convenient.”

  It took her a few seconds. “There’s Heinold’s at the foot of Webster Street. Do you know it?”

  “I’ve been there, yes.”

  “I’ll try to be at one of the outside tables.”

  “What time?”

  “Noon?”

  “Fine,” I said. “How will I know you?”

  She described herself. I told her what to expect in return.

  When I got to the agency I filled Tamara in on what had gone down with Phil Partain. “So now we’ve got the beating cleared up, but I can’t see Partain as the person responsible for the disappearance. Two separate events.”

  “Who, then? Lassiter’s out, QCL’s out, Partain’s out. One of her gambling friends? Somebody else she owed money to?”

  “Possibilities, both. There’s another, too: Mitchell Krochek.”

  “You think?” she said. “Why would he call you if he’s responsible?”

  “Smoke screen. Make himself look innocent if the law steps in.”

  “That’d mean he killed her and did something with the body.”

  “If he did kill her,” I said, “chances are it was an accident-end product of a fight. He’s not the premeditated type.”

  “Not the violent type, either, according to his BG.”

  “You don’t have to be the violent type to lose control in a screaming argument. His wife gave him plenty of provocation and he’s been on the ragged edge. Still… What’s his first wife’s name again?”

  “Let me check the file.” I went into her office with her while she brought it up on her computer. “Right-Mary Ellen Layne.”

  “What have you got on her?”

  “Let’s see. Not too much-I didn’t go very deep. Remarried, one daughter. Lives in San Bruno, works here in the city-”

  “Where?”

  “Tarbell Jewelers, on Post.”

  Ten minutes from South Park. I said, “I think I’ll pay her a visit, see if she feels like talking about her ex-husband.”

  T arbell Jewelers opened at ten o’clock. The address was half a block off Union Square, which meant street parking was impossible; I left my car in the Square’s underground garage and walked over to Post through a thin, misty overcast. It was five past ten when I got there. The two employees, one male, one female, gave me those bright-and-hopeful, early-morning looks that disappear when they find out you’re not the first customer of the day after all.