Savages: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Novels)

by Bill Pronzini

  One of two property tax bills solved the CV question. The Mathiases owned a second home in Carmel Valley, valued for tax purposes at $350,000. Some second home. But it was a piker compared to their primary Palo Alto residence; that one was worth a million two. Both homes were held jointly. Not that it would have made a difference if she’d been sole owner; they’d have been part of the inheritance package in any case.

  There were three Ds among the canceled checks—Delborn Florists, Denise’s Designs, Drovnik Gardening Service. The second was an exclusive dress shop in Atherton—exclusive because of the prices they charged for an “evening suit” and an unspecified lingerie item. Didn’t seem to be any possible connection between any of them and the pleading urgency in the note.

  “Is this all of Nancy Mathias’s personal records?” Kerry asked when we were done.

  “Everything that was in her office desk, evidently.”

  “Poor woman. Her sister was right—she really did lead a closed-off life. No letters or photographs or scrapbook items, nothing to indicate she had any friends. Not even a calendar or datebook.”

  “Even if Mathias forced reclusiveness on her, that doesn’t mean he had her killed.”

  “There might be something in her diary.”

  “It would have to be pretty compelling,” I said. “So far I just don’t see motive or anything else to justify the kind of investigation Celeste Ogden wants.”

  6

  JAKE RUNYON

  Except for a headache, a swollen ear, and a dry mouth, he was all right in the morning. Unscrambled, in command of himself again. He could remember everything that had happened at the Belsize farm up to the moment he’d been assaulted. The rest of it was blurred and fragmentary, like images from a particularly vivid dream.

  A nurse came in and the first thing he asked her, in a croak that didn’t sound much like his own voice, was how soon he could get out of there. Not until Dr. Yeng examined him, she said. When would that be? On Doctor’s regular rounds this morning. She gave Runyon some water, took his temperature, checked his pulse. He asked if he had a concussion and she confirmed it. How serious? He’d have to speak to Dr. Yeng about that. The only information Runyon could get out of her was that three stitches had been necessary to close the wound on his temple. He asked where his clothes and belongings were. Clothing in a locker, valuables in a lockbox. He talked her into fetching the valuables bag. The subpoena was there; so were his wallet and cell phone. The .357 Magnum and his license case were missing. Sheriff’s people had them, likely. Better have.

  The doctor didn’t show up until after eleven, and by then the antiseptic white walls were beginning to close in on him. Young, Asian, efficient. Dr. Yeng studied the chart, then asked questions while he shined a light in Runyon’s eyes and examined his bandaged temple and cauliflower ear. Had he suffered loss of consciousness after the blow to his head? No. Nausea? Some. Disorientation, dizziness, clumsiness, slow to respond to questions? All of the above, but all gone now.

  Yeng seemed satisfied. “Your concussion appears relatively mild,” he said. “The X-rays showed no skull fracture or brain hemorrhage or evidence of blood clots. You’re fortunate you weren’t hit any harder.”

  “I guess I am.”

  “Have you had any kind of head trauma before last night?”

  “No.”

  “All to the good. Do you know anything about concussions?”

  “A little, not much.”

  Dr. Yeng took that as an invitation to deliver a brief technical lecture. After such a trauma, he said, the arteries in the brain constrict, reducing blood flow and lowering the rate at which oxygen is delivered to the brain. At the same time the demand rises for sugar glucose to provide energy to the brain for healing, but the narrowed arteries are unable to meet the demand; this creates a metabolic crisis, requiring time for the brain to correct the chemical imbalance and the damaged cells to repair themselves. How much time varies with the severity of the trauma, and the individual person’s health and how well he takes care of himself during the healing process. In Runyon’s case, if he was careful and no complications developed, the time should be relatively short.

  “Avoid strenuous activity; get plenty of rest,” Yeng said. “If any symptoms should recur—severe headaches, dizziness, double vision, a blackout lasting even a few seconds—you need to see your physician without delay.”

  “Understood. Can I get out of here now?”

  “I don’t see why not, as long as you’re feeling up to it. After you’ve seen your visitors.”

  He’d been expecting that. “Law officers?”

  “That’s right. They’re waiting outside.”

  “Send them in.”

  There were two of them. One brain, one brawn. The brain was in his fifties, short, compact, with sparse sandy hair and a quiet manner, dressed in a suit and tie; his name was Rinniak and he was a special investigator with the county sheriff’s department. The brawn, Kelso, wore a deputy’s uniform with knife-crease trousers and starched blouse and a Sam Browne belt so well oiled the leather gleamed in the room lights. Bulky, thick-necked, red-faced—half a foot taller and half a yard wider than Rinniak and, judging from his blue starry eyes, about half as intelligent. Kelso seemed vaguely familiar, but Runyon couldn’t place him until he took up an aggressive stance at the foot of the bed, a hand resting lightly on the butt of his service revolver. Right. The one who’d thrown questions at him last night. Deputy in charge of the Gray’s Landing substation, and the kind of suspicious, hard-nosed veteran who resented private sector investigators—the kind you could have trouble with even if you were careful around him.

  Rinniak sat in one of the two chairs. He said, “We’ll try to keep this brief, Mr. Runyon. Can you remember what happened last night?”

  “Everything before I got blindsided.”

  “That’s what we’re interested in.”

  Kelso said, “How about you start by telling us what a San Francisco private cop was doing at the Belsize farm.”

  “Delivering a subpoena. Or trying to.”

  “Who to?”

  “Gerald Belsize.”

  The sheriff’s men exchanged glances. “What kind of case?” Rinniak asked.

  “Assault and robbery. Belsize was a witness.”

  “Where and when?”

  “Three months ago, in San Francisco. He took his girlfriend down there for the weekend and the two of them—”

  “What girlfriend?” Kelso demanded. “You mean Sandra Parnell?”

  “That’s right.”

  The outthrust jaw tightened. “I should’ve known she was that way.”

  “What way?”

  “Cheap. Decent girls don’t spend out-of-town weekends with their boyfriends.”

  Add prude to suspicious and hard-nosed.

  Rinniak said, “Go ahead, Mr. Runyon.”

  “Belsize and Parnell were at a SoMa nightclub. On the way out she stopped to use the bathroom and he went on to the parking lot. Spotted two men beating up on a third, stealing his wallet. One of them came after him and he ran back to the club.”

  “Yeah, that figures,” Kelso said. “Pure coward.”

  “The mugger had a knife. You don’t have to be a coward to run from cold steel.”

  “I know him. You don’t.”

  Runyon said, “Belsize claimed he couldn’t describe either mugger, but the girl said he told her later that he got a good look at the one with the knife—he just didn’t want to get involved.”

  “That figures, too.”

  “SFPD arrested a felon named Zander as one of the perps. He had the victim’s wallet in his possession. He swears he’s innocent, claims he found the wallet half a block away. His lawyer contacted Belsize, got no cooperation, so he called my agency to check him out and deliver a subpoena. Routine business.”

  “The girl didn’t tell us about any of that,” Kelso said to Rinniak.

  “No reason for her to. It’s not germane.”


  “Still should’ve told us.”

  Rinniak asked, “How did Belsize check out?”

  “Clean.”

  “Wrong,” Kelso said. “He’s been trouble his whole life. Only a matter of time before he got into the big time.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I say so. You never met him, huh?”

  “No.”

  “Anybody else in his family?”

  “Not before last night.”

  “How about Manuel Silvera?”

  “I don’t know anybody named Manuel Silvera.”

  “Belsize’s hired hand. Man you found beaten and strung up in the barn. You did find him, right? Poking around in there where you didn’t belong. Trespassing.”

  Rinniak gave him an irritated look. The brawn had a knack for rubbing people wrong, his coworkers included. “Let him tell it, Don.”

  “Sure, sure. So tell it, Runyon.”

  He told it, leaving nothing out except for his walkthrough of the farmhouse. No point in giving Kelso something else to use against him.

  “So instead of leaving, you just started prowling around. That what you usually do when you go onto private property and nobody’s home?”

  “No. I had a feeling something was wrong.”

  “A feeling. Sure.”

  “Every cop I ever knew was sensitive that way,” Runyon said. “You walk into a situation, it doesn’t feel right, your instincts take over. Sixth sense. You don’t have it, Deputy?”

  Kelso scowled at him. Rinniak said, “So you went around back and looked through the kitchen window.”

  “That’s right. Just checking. Half-eaten dinner on the table, chairs pulled out—it looked as though the people had left in a hurry.”

  “They had a phone call. Anonymous. The caller said their son, Jerry, had been in an accident down by Orford and they better come immediately. You missed them leaving by maybe ten minutes.”

  “Lured away so Silvera could be attacked?”

  “That’s how it looks.”

  Kelso said, “This feeling got real strong then, huh? Led you straight to the tack room in the barn.”

  “Not quite. I went to my car for my weapon and a flashlight. It was dusk by then and I—”

  “Why’d you figure you needed a gun?”

  Runyon mustered patience, kept his face empty and his voice even. “I didn’t figure I’d need it. But I was a police officer in Seattle for a dozen years and I’ve been in enough bad situations not to take any chances. You know my background by now. You’ve got my license—you must’ve run a check on me.”

  “We ran one,” Rinniak said. “Spotless record.”

  “Yeah, spotless,” Kelso said.

  “Don, for Christ’s sake, let me handle this, will you?” He gestured to Runyon to go on.

  “I checked the hay barn first, then the big barn. No real cause to enter either one except that feeling. For all I knew somebody was hurt somewhere on the property. I was in the big barn when I heard a creaking sound. That’s what led me to the tack room and the dead man. I was on my way outside to call nine-eleven when I got clobbered.”

  “Where do you suppose the assailant was all this time?”

  “Hiding. Probably behind the stack of lumber. It was a board he hit me with, wasn’t it?”

  “Two-by-two. You didn’t have any idea he was still there?”

  “I should’ve figured he might be, but I didn’t. Window in the tack room was open and I made the wrong assumption.”

  “You didn’t manage to catch a glimpse of him before he hit you?”

  “Happened too quick.”

  “Anything that might help identify him?”

  “No. Too dark in the barn.” Runyon’s mouth was dry again. He drank from the half-full glass on the bedside table. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The motive. Why string a man up like that, a hired hand? Why lure the family away to do it?”

  “No ideas that make any sense. Silvera was a family man himself, quiet, steady, no trouble to anybody that we can find—least likely candidate for premeditated homicide you can imagine.”

  “There isn’t any motive,” Kelso said. “Psycho firebugs don’t need reasons for what they do.”

  Runyon said, “Firebug?”

  “Three fires of suspicious origin in and around Gray’s Landing this summer,” Rinniak told him. “Junior high school, old Odd Fellows lodge building, abandoned barn. No fatalities or injuries, fortunately—all empty the nights they were torched. We’ve ruled out arson for gain in each case. And three’s too many in too short a time to be coincidence.”

  “Firebugs don’t usually change their M.O. and start hanging people.”

  “They do if they’re crazy enough,” Kelso said. “It’s none of your concern anyhow, Runyon.”

  The throbbing ache in Runyon’s head said differently. But there was no gain in arguing with a man like Kelso; it would only make him more belligerent. He said to Rinniak, “If it’s all right with you, I’d like my license and my weapon back as soon as possible.”

  “No problem. You can pick them up at the Gray’s Landing substation.”

  “How about my car?”

  “Still at the Belsize farm. When did the doctor say you could be released?”

  “As soon as I talked to you.”

  “Well, if it doesn’t take too long, I’ll wait and give you a ride down. You feel up to driving to your motel?”

  “I can manage.”

  “Better plan to spend the weekend. Rest up, keep available in case we need to talk to you again.”

  “I was planning on it anyway. I still haven’t done the job I came here to do.”

  Kelso laughed, a surprisingly effeminate sound from such a cowboy. “Deliver a subpoena to Jerry Belsize? I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you.”

  “No?”

  “No. Belsize won’t be testifying at any trial in San Francisco. He’ll be in jail awaiting trial himself once we find him. He’s the psycho who set those fires and strung up Manny Silvera.”

  7

  JAKE RUNYON

  Jerry Belsize had been missing for more than twenty-four hours. Last seen at around 9:00 A.M. yesterday, in the company of the murdered hired man, Manuel Silvera. He’d left the farm shortly afterward, supposedly for his job at a feed mill in Orford, but he hadn’t shown up there or called in with an excuse. His parents had no idea why he’d skipped work or where he’d gone. He was supposed to have been back at the farm in time for supper; that was why the Belsizes had panicked when they got the anonymous phone call. Sandra Parnell claimed she hadn’t heard from him and had no idea where he might be. According to the victim’s wife, Silvera told her by phone that he’d be home late because he had “extra work and something else to do” at the Belsize farm. He hadn’t said what the something else was.

  A search of the big barn had turned up two empty one-gallon kerosene cans hidden in the hayloft. And a search of Jerry Belsize’s room yielded all the components for the kind of simple timing device used in each of the three fires. Circumstantial evidence, but fairly damning just the same.

  Runyon learned all of this on the drive down to Gray’s Landing. Unlike the deputy, Kelso, Joe Rinniak was an evenhanded man—forthcoming, and respectful of an ex–Seattle cop with Runyon’s credentials. He seemed to need to unload to an understanding ear.

  The operating theory, the one Kelso subscribed to, was that Silvera had seen the kid setting one of the blazes and kept quiet about it because he didn’t want to get involved, or maybe for blackmail purposes. That was the alleged motive for the hanging—to make sure Silvera stayed silent. Why make his kill on his own home ground? He was a psychotic, not thinking rationally. Why disappear? Runyon showing up, almost catching him in the act, had panicked him and sent him on the run.

  “We’ve got a BOLO out on him right now,” Rinniak said. “Kelso wanted a fugitive warrant, but I don’t think we have enough for that yet. Belsize
doesn’t have any money to speak of and he’s not overly bright—where’s he going to go that he won’t be caught? Once we have him in custody and question him in detail, then we’ll see.”

  “Sounds like you have your doubts about his guilt.”

  “Doubts, yes.” He glanced sideways at Runyon. “You know much about pyromania?”

  “Some. I handled a couple of firebug cases when I was on the Seattle PD. You’re convinced that’s the kind of case it is?”

  “Where the fires are concerned, what else?”

  “Could be a grudge thing. Somebody with a mad-on for the community.”

  “That’s possible, I suppose,” Rinniak said, “but it doesn’t fit Jerry Belsize. No cause to torch the school or the Odd Fellows hall or the Adamson barn. Looks to me like they were random targets. That argues for the firebug explanation, only he doesn’t seem to fit there, either. You investigated him. What’s your opinion?”

  That was the main reason Rinniak was being so candid; he wanted Runyon’s input. “On paper he doesn’t seem to fit the profile.”

  “Except for the fact that he’s young. Most firebugs come from poor environments, broken or dysfunctional homes—adore their mothers, hate their fathers. Repressed loners with low intelligence, low self-esteem, emotional retardation, deep-seated sexual hang-ups. Setting fires is a substitute for the sex act, the shrinks say. Gets them excited, temporarily relieves the sexual tension. But it doesn’t last, so they keep on doing it.”

  Runyon started to nod. The steady throb in his head changed his mind.

  “Belsize had a normal upbringing, and seems to be anything but sexually repressed. He’s had a string of girlfriends ranging back to when he was about fourteen.”

  Runyon said, “Not every bug is a textbook case. Some have other problems, other motives.”

  “But you’d think that if Belsize was one of those, there’d be something in his background to hint at it. Sure, he’s had some brushes with authority, but it’s all been pretty minor stuff—two speeding tickets, a public scuffle, driving with an open beer in the car. He’s got a decent job; his employer likes him; he seems to fit into the community at large. So why would he all of a sudden go off on a crazy spree this summer—setting fires, committing homicide?”