“Simmering under the surface all along.”
“That’s possible, sure. All firebugs are potential murderers, so the experts claim, whether they fit the profile or not. But here’s another thing. Belsize comes from a solid home and has always gotten along with his folks. Seems to’ve gotten along with Manuel Silvera, too. Doesn’t make sense to me that he’d beat and hang a man in his own backyard. Psychos don’t do it that way, unless they’re the kind that take out their entire families and then themselves. They set their fires and make their kills somewhere else.”
“If Belsize is innocent, those kerosene cans and the timer material were plants. Who’d want to do him that much harm?”
“Good question. On the surface, he’s an unlikely target. Everybody I’ve talked to likes the kid.”
“Except Kelso,” Runyon said.
“Yes. Except Kelso.”
“Sounded to me as if he’s got it in for Belsize.”
“I think maybe he has. There’s a personal angle—he’s a single father with a daughter not too long out of high school. Ashley’s the rebellious type. She went against his wishes and dated Belsize on the sly for a while last year. Kelso caught them in some heavy breathing one afternoon and literally kicked the kid out of his house. Slapped him around in front of Ashley and two of their neighbors. If Belsize is guilty, why didn’t he torch Kelso’s house or the substation instead of a couple of public buildings and a barn?”
“Afraid of the man, maybe. Vented himself on others’ property instead.”
“That’s a stretch, seems to me.”
“Is Kelso as hard-nosed as he seems?”
“And then some. Runs his office with an iron fist. He wouldn’t give his own mother a break if he caught her jaywalking.”
“Maybe he was hassling Belsize. Or the real perp, if the kid’s innocent. Hound somebody enough, he might just go off the deep end.”
“I’d hate it if that’s what’s behind these crimes. Don’s hard and stubborn, but he has a good record. If he overstepped himself, the entire sheriff’s department will suffer for it.”
They’d reached the Gray’s Landing exit. As they rolled along the road into town, Rinniak said, “Might as well stop at the station and pick up your belongings now. Be quicker if I’m along.”
The substation was in an old Spanish-style building across from an oak-shaded park. There were no security barriers when you walked in, just an open office with a countertop bisecting it a few paces from the door. Runyon wondered if Kelso knew how good he had it up here in the country. Probably didn’t care, if he did. This was his town, his world. He wouldn’t worry about anybody breaching it; if anything, he’d dare it to happen.
He was seated now behind a desk that had a polished top and everything on it neatly arranged, talking to a stringy middle-aged man dressed in a suit and tie. The older man was bareheaded, but from the way he stood, his entire demeanor, he might have had a hat in his hands. Oozing deference, as if he was there to beg a favor.
There was a hinged flap in the countertop; Rinniak lifted it and Runyon followed him through. “Hello, Mayor,” Rinniak said to the stringy man.
“Joe. I just came to see if there was any word yet.”
“We’ll get him,” Kelso said flatly. “Don’t you worry about that.”
“It can’t be any too soon. The media is already sniffing around . . . there’s a reporter and camera crew from Redding in town. . . .”
“I know. They were waiting for me when I got back a little while ago.”
“Negative publicity. My God, it’s just what we don’t need.”
Rinniak saw to introductions. The stringy man was Carl Battle, owner of a local hardware store and mayor of Gray’s Landing. His handshake was damp and so brief his palm barely touched Runyon’s. Battle oozed sweat as well as deference; his scalp, visible beneath sparse caramel-colored hair that had a dyed look in the overhead fluorescents, glistened with it. If ever a man didn’t fit his name, it was this one.
He said to Runyon, “I’m sorry about what happened to you last night.” As if he felt compelled to take personal responsibility. “Gray’s Landing is normally a quiet, peaceful town. No crime or violence to speak of until . . . well, I guess you know about the fires. And now a murder, and the assault on you . . .”
Runyon said nothing.
“I understand your concussion isn’t serious. You’re feeling all right now?”
“Passable.”
“We’ll pay your hospital costs, of course. The county, I mean. We can authorize that, can’t we, Joe?”
“I doubt it,” Rinniak said.
Runyon’s Magnum, license case, car keys, and flashlight were in a tagged plastic evidence bag; Kelso produced them from a file cabinet drawer, demanded that Runyon sign a release form before he turned over the bag. The deputy wore a tight, fixed expression the entire time. He wanted Runyon gone—Rinniak, too, for that matter—as much as Battle did. The difference between Kelso’s reasons and the mayor’s was that the deputy didn’t care about negative publicity. He didn’t like outside investigators, county or private, invading his territory or questioning his conclusions or taking the spotlight off him. Runyon had known cops like him before. Minor tyrants and righteous glory hounds. What Kelso wanted more than anything else was to arrest Jerry Belsize himself—be the hero, cement his authority, bring in a promotion.
Outside and moving again, Rinniak said, “You wouldn’t know it from that display in there, but Carl’s a good man. Civic-minded and honest. It’s just that he doesn’t know how to deal with a situation like this.”
“He seemed afraid of Kelso.”
“I don’t know about afraid, but Don makes him nervous, that’s for sure. Part of it’s the iron fist and Carl being mild mannered. Part of it is that his son, Zach, is dating Don’s daughter.”
“Kelso doesn’t like Zach any more than Jerry Belsize, is that it?”
“He doesn’t think any man’s good enough for Ashley, but he tolerates Zach. I think what worries Carl is that his son will get Ashley in trouble. There’s no telling what Don would do then, given his temper and his moral and religious stance.”
As they bounced along the uneven access lane to the Belsize farm, Runyon had flashback images of last night’s ambulance ride. He held himself rigid on the seat to keep the ache in his head to a minimum. The place looked the same as it had yesterday, everything wilted and shimmery from the heat; the only signs of what had happened there were tire tracks on the dry ground stretching to the large barn. He felt nothing, seeing it all again. In Seattle he’d known police officers who were place sensitive—refused to revisit scenes where they’d been subjected to violence, suffered in one way or another if they did—but he’d never been afflicted with the syndrome. Places were just places to him. Now more than ever, with Colleen gone.
His Ford was parked where he’d left it, next to the dust-streaked pickup. Rinniak pulled up alongside. The farmhouse door had opened as they approached, and a slat of a man in his fifties, gray haired and gray bearded, had come out to stand on the porch, waiting. John Belsize, probably. He’d been just a voice behind the white flashlight glare last night.
Belsize stayed on the porch as they got out of the car. Rinniak said, “I want to talk to Mr. Belsize. You sure you’re okay to drive?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be in touch if there’s any news. I made a note of your cellular number. If you don’t hear from me by tomorrow night, you’re free to go back to San Francisco.”
“I may want to hang around a little longer. Depends on how much I’m needed at my agency.”
“Your call. Try to stay out of Kelso’s way if you can.”
“If I can.”
He found his way back to Gray’s Landing. The Ford didn’t have air-conditioning—he hadn’t needed it in Seattle—and even with all the windows open, the heat was a weight on him by the time he reached the motel. The pain throb in his head had grown intense; his vision had gone a lit
tle smeary again at the edges.
In his room at the motel, the message light on the phone was blinking. Reporter from the Redding paper, requesting an interview. He erased the message; no mood for the media. He swallowed two of the Vicodin tablets they’d given him at the hospital, then cranked up the air conditioner to high cool, drew the drapes over the single window, stripped, and got into bed. This kind of enforced downtime grated on him, but the EMT last night and the doctor today had been adamant that you didn’t mess around with head injuries. He mistrusted the medical profession on principle, even though the Seattle doctors had done all they could to save Colleen, but he believed Dr. Yeng’s warning well enough.
He slept, but it wasn’t a good sleep—fitful, sticky in spite of the air conditioner, dream ridden. The dreams were mostly an episodic succession of ghost images, distorted wanderings among hanged men, vehicles with flashing lights, dark-shadowed places filled with disembodied voices. But one, the last one, was clear and vivid in every detail, as were all of his dreams about Colleen.
In this one they were on their first date in Old Town. Old-fashioned Italian place, candles in Chianti bottles, checked tablecloths. Both of them a little nervous, but only because they didn’t know each other well yet and each wanted to make a good impression. At ease in each other’s company otherwise. Colleen leaning forward, her face lighted like a madonna’s by the candle flame, saying, “I never thought I’d be going out with a cop.” Him asking why not and her saying, “I’ve always been afraid of policemen, ever since I was a little kid. No reason, just that they seemed so . . . don’t know, authoritarian, dangerous.” Him saying, “You never have to be afraid of me.” And her saying, “I know. It’s just the opposite with you; you make me feel safe.” And the feeling that came over him in that moment, sudden and sharp and overwhelming—the revelation that he was in love with Colleen McPhail and the certainty that he would marry her and they would be together until death did them part.
He awoke dripping wet. Even the pillow was sodden—sweat, drool, tears. But his headache had dulled and except for a desert mouth and throat he felt better. A thin strip of fading daylight showed where the window drapes didn’t quite overlap; his watch said it was twenty of eight. In the bathroom he drank three glasses of water, checked the bandage in the mirror, then took a long, careful shower. He was hungry by the time he finished dressing. Another good sign.
Still hot when he stepped outside and crossed to the coffee shop. Cool enough inside, though. Noisy. He sat at the counter, ordered iced tea and a sandwich. He was just finishing up when somebody sat down beside him and said, “Mr. Runyon? Can I talk to you?”
Young woman, early twenties. Short ginger blond hair. Pale blue eyes. Pretty enough in a conventional way. Wearing shorts, a tank top, and an intense, nervous expression.
He said, “Depends on who you are.”
“Sandra Parnell. Jerry’s friend . . . Jerry Belsize.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Not here. You’re staying at the motel, right? Can’t we go to your room?”
That made him wary. She didn’t look cheap or duplicitous—just an average small-town young woman worried about her boyfriend—but it paid to be cautious. One of the most vicious jackrolling hookers he’d encountered in Seattle had been a sixteen-year-old with a face like an angel. “I don’t think so.”
“Outside, then. My car’s in the lot. Please?”
There was still some daylight left and there were plenty of people around. He was still wary but curious enough to say, “All right.”
Sandra Parnell went out first, stood waiting until he paid the check and joined her. “Over here,” she said, and led him to a beat-up Chrysler at least as old as she was. Convertible, with the top down. He waited for her to get in before he went around to the passenger side.
She said, “Jerry’s father says you’re a detective. That you came up here to see Jerry about that mugging in San Francisco.”
“That’s right.”
“He’s not a bad person, Mr. Runyon. I mean, he shouldn’t have lied about getting a good look at the man with the knife, but he was scared. He’s scared a lot; he just can’t help it.”
Runyon said nothing.
“He and Manuel, they always got along. He just couldn’t’ve done what they’re saying.”
“Why tell me?”
“Nobody else will listen. The cops . . . Deputy Kelso. You know him?”
“We’ve met.”
“He kept trying to make me tell him where Jerry is. He hates Jerry because . . . never mind why; he just does. If he ever gets his hands on him . . .”
“What do you think would happen?”
“He’d beat him up. Maybe even kill him.”
“He’d have to be the one to catch Jerry first.”
“You think he couldn’t? He knows this county like nobody else.”
“Does that mean Jerry’s still in the county?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you do know where he is.”
“No!” Too quick, too emphatic. She knew, all right.
“The best thing for him to do,” Runyon said, “is to walk himself into the county sheriff’s office and talk to Joe Rinniak. He’s the man in charge, not Kelso. The longer Jerry stays away, the worse it’s going to look for him.”
“They’d just arrest him and convict him and send him to prison. They wouldn’t keep looking for the real criminal.”
“Is that what you believe?”
“It’s what Jerry believes.”
“You need hard evidence to convict a man of arson and murder, Sandra. There’s no hard evidence against him.”
“What about those kerosene cans and the stuff in his room?”
“Circumstantial. No direct links to any of the fires. Or to the murder of the hired hand. Can he prove where he was when that went down?”
“He was with me.” Too quick again. A lie this time.
“All day yesterday? Why didn’t he go home when he was supposed to?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Why can’t you?”
“I just can’t.”
“Let’s quit playing around. You think he should turn himself in. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be here talking to me.”
She made a snuffling sound, rubbed at her nose, her eyes. “It doesn’t matter what I want. I can’t make Jerry do anything—he’s too scared.”
“Neither can I, if that’s what you’re after.”
“But maybe you—”
What caused her to break off was the roar of engine exhaust as a car came fast-wheeling into the lot. It racketed down the aisle behind them, a low-slung yellow and black Trans Am; slowed, and then slid into the empty space close on Runyon’s side.
Sandra said, “Oh shit.”
The Trans Am’s driver, a girl about Sandra’s age, shut off the noise and managed to squeeze herself out of the car without her door scraping the Chrysler’s. Slender, with oversized breasts in a tight bra under a loose blouse; midnight dark hair flowing down silkily to the curve of tightdenimed buttocks. Her passenger was slower to emerge. He stood peering over the cartop, a lanky kid with a mop of caramel-colored hair.
“Hey there,” the girl said to Sandra. “New boyfriend?”
“Shut up, Ashley.”
“No, he’s that detective, right? I can tell by the bandage. How’s your head?” she asked Runyon.
“Sore.”
“I’ll bet. I’ll bet if Jerry hit you any harder with that two-by-two, he’d’ve taken your head right off.”
Runyon said nothing.
“Jerry didn’t do it,” Sandra said, wearily this time. “Not that you care one way or the other.”
“That’s right, I don’t.”
Sandra looked over at the lanky kid. “Why do you let her drive your car, Zach? She’ll wreck it someday. She’s a menace.”
“She likes to drive fast,” he said.
“She won’t like if
it her father catches her.”
“Hah,” Ashley said. She tossed her head, putting the long hair into a dark swirl. Habitual gesture, from the way she did it, showing it off. “You look all blotchy and red eyed, Sandy. Does that mean they caught Jerry?”
“You know they haven’t.”
“But they will. I’ll bet it won’t take long.”
“Why don’t you go squat on a sharp stick?”
“Oo, nasty. You hear what she said, Zach?”
“Yeah, I heard.”
“You going to do anything about it?”
“What do you want me to do?”
Ashley laughed. “Nothing. Come on, let’s go eat. I’m starving. Bye, Detective. Bye, Sandy. Try not to cry too much tonight—your complexion’s not so good as it is.”
The two of them went off, the girl trailing more laughter.
Sandra said, “Kelso’s daughter. But I guess you figured that out.”
He nodded. “And the mayor’s son.”
“Yeah. She’s a bitch and he’s a wimp. He lets her lead him around by his dick.”
“She doesn’t like Jerry much.”
“Not anymore. She doesn’t like anybody much except herself.”
“Okay. Now tell me what you want me to do about Jerry, straight out.” He put a hand on the doorknob. “Otherwise I’m leaving.”
“No, don’t. Please.”
He waited.
“. . . Suppose I do know where he is,” she said.
“I’m listening.”
“Would you talk to him? If the right person . . . you know, somebody he could trust . . . I think that’s all it would take.”
“Why me? What about his father?”
“Jerry won’t talk to him.”
“Why not?”
“He’s afraid to. Afraid his dad won’t believe him.”
“Does he know you came to see me?”
“No, it was my idea.”
Savages: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Novels) Page 6
