Savages: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Novels)

by Bill Pronzini

  “It shouldn’t be too long. He asked me to show you into his office.”

  Mathias’s sanctum was big, windowed on two sides with views of lawn and trees, but as spartanly furnished and functional as the waiting cell. Just the type of no-frills office you’d expect a phlegmatic, dedicated, ambitious business exec to have. Drax indicated a chair to one side of a broad gunmetal gray desk, and when I sat in it he said, “I’ll keep you company until Mr. Mathias comes in, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all.”

  He plunked himself down in a matching chair on the other side. I watched him cross one leg over the other and rest both hands comfortably on his knee. He wasn’t what I’d expected, given Nancy Mathias’s diary entry and Tamara’s phone comment earlier. The Dracula comparison was an overheated exaggeration. Tall and lean, all right, with sharp incisors and piercing eyes, but his swarthy skin didn’t seem particularly leathery and there was nothing sinister about his appearance or his manner. Rising young executive type, suit and tie, shoes polished to a gloss, fingernails manicured, thinning hair neatly barbered and combed. I didn’t much like those eyes—they looked through you, rather than at you, and the irises were a kind of subterranean black—but you can’t judge a man on that basis alone.

  Pretty soon he said, “Terrible, what happened to Mrs. Mathias. Just terrible.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “I imagine you see a lot of that sort of thing in your business.”

  “What sort of thing is that?”

  “Fatal home accidents.”

  “We see a lot of alleged accident claims, yes.”

  “Alleged? I don’t understand.”

  “Not all of them turn out to be accidents.”

  The black stary eyes narrowed. “You’re not suggesting Mrs. Mathias’s death wasn’t accidental?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything,” I said.

  “The woman was alone behind locked doors when she fell,” Drax said. “The police were satisfied.”

  “The police don’t get paid to be skeptical. I do.”

  “Why are you skeptical?”

  “I didn’t say I was. I said I get paid to be.”

  “Then why are you here? What do you want with Mr. Mathias?”

  “The answers to a few questions. Clarification of facts.”

  “What questions? What facts?”

  “That’s between Mr. Mathias and me.”

  “He wasn’t even in the state when his wife died. You must know that. He was at a business meeting in Chicago.”

  “So we understand, yes.”

  “Do you doubt it?”

  “I have no reason to doubt it.”

  “Then why are you here to harass him?”

  “Ask questions, Mr. Drax. I don’t harass, I investigate.”

  “He’s under a terrible strain as it is,” Drax said. “Ring-Tech is expanding, we’re about to go public with our stock, and the death of his wife has made a difficult time even twice as bad. Can’t you understand that?”

  I understood that he’d put the IPO first, Nancy Mathias’s death second. I said, “What would you have me do? Rubber-stamp a claim because a man I don’t know is going through a difficult time?”

  “Brandon Mathias is not just any man. You don’t seem to realize that.”

  “No? Suppose you enlighten me.”

  “He’s a major player in the computer software business and one day he’ll be a major player in corporate America.” Drax’s voice had reverence in it, the kind that is usually accorded to kings and popes. Or to Donald Trump by his underlings.

  “A VIP,” I said.

  “Yes. Exactly. Much too important to be subjected to inconsequentials.”

  “You consider his wife’s death inconsequential?”

  “I didn’t mean that,” Drax said. “I meant your investigation. It’s unnecessary and intrusive at such a difficult period in his life.”

  “That’s your opinion.”

  “It’s the opinion of everyone at RingTech.”

  “But not necessarily mine or Pacific Rim’s.”

  Basilisk stare. Those piercing eyes had a hypnotic quality when emotions ran strong in him. “Are you trying to insinuate that Mr. Mathias had something to do with his wife’s death? So you and your company can void his claim?”

  “I don’t insinuate any more than I harass, Mr. Drax.”

  “That’s what it sounds like to me.”

  “What you think is irrelevant. Your opinions don’t matter.”

  “You can’t talk to me like that. How dare you!”

  Nobody had ever said “how dare you!” to me before. I didn’t like it much, coming from Drax. I didn’t like him much. I told myself it was time to ease off, but I might have pushed him a little further if Brandon Mathias hadn’t picked that moment to walk in.

  Drax had been leaning forward in his chair, glaring at me; as soon as he saw his employer, he stood up straight as an arrow and drew his shoulders back, the way a soldier does in the presence of big brass. I got up, too, more slowly—more reflex than anything else. As soon as I was on my feet, I wished I’d stayed seated.

  The thing was, people would generally snap to attention when Mathias showed up. He was the kind of man who owns a room as soon as he enters it, who expects deference and demands obedience. One good look at him and you knew that. It wasn’t a matter of stature—he was an inch or so under six feet, narrow shouldered, small hands and feet, unprepossessing features, with a mop of Ted Kennedy—like brown hair. It was an air of supreme self-confidence, a kind of radiating magnetism. High-level politicians have it. So do what Drax had referred to as major players in corporate America. It can’t be faked or manufactured; those who have it are born with it.

  Mathias greeted me with a grave smile, an apology—“I’m sorry to be so late; I was detained in a meeting”—and a firm handshake, maintaining eye contact the entire time. The eyes, a deep blue-green, might have had sadness in them, but he didn’t look like a grieving widower. Or a businessman under a terrible strain. He looked fit in a dark Armani suit, reasonably well rested, at ease, and in charge. Politicians’ charisma, and that was something you could fake. He wore his like a tight-fitting mask. So tight and so seemingly genuine that the iceman underneath was completely hidden.

  He dismissed Drax, who left without a word, aiming another glare at me on his way out. Mathias went around behind his desk, sat down when I did. He placed his hands flat on the desktop and leaned forward slightly, letting me have his full attention, waiting for me to open the conversation.

  I said, “My condolences on your loss, Mr. Mathias. How are you bearing up?”

  “As well as can be expected, thank you.”

  “I won’t keep you long. I just have a few questions.”

  “Of course.”

  “Were you and your wife having any problems prior to her death?”

  Fastball, high and tight. He didn’t even twitch. “Problems?”

  “Personal difficulties.”

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “Part of my job. Do you mind answering?”

  “No, of course not. Nancy and I were devoted to each other. Our four years together were the happiest of my life.”

  “So you’d say she was happy, too. Content.”

  “Very much so.”

  First lie. And not a small one.

  I said, “I understand she was something of a recluse.”

  “Nancy? Lord, no. She was a very warm, outgoing person.”

  “But she didn’t go out often, stopped seeing all her friends.”

  “Did her sister tell you that? Celeste Ogden?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  “Well, you really should take anything that woman says with several grains of salt. Mrs. Ogden disapproved of my marriage to Nancy, disapproved of our lifestyle. She made such an intrusive annoyance of herself that Nancy stopped having anything to do with her.” He paused for dramatic effect. “The woman is also a
trespasser and a thief.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Oh yes. After Nancy’s accident, she illegally entered my home and rummaged through my wife’s belongings and removed a number of private papers.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I discovered the items missing the following day. Found out later she talked the housekeeper into giving her a key. Simple addition.”

  “Did you confront her?”

  “No. She would only have denied it.”

  “Notify the police?”

  “No. It was more an annoyance than anything else and my time is budgeted to the max as it is. The stolen items weren’t important.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Absolutely. Household bills and the like. Nancy kept nothing of value in her office.”

  “I think I’ll have a talk with Mrs. Ogden.”

  “Do that,” Mathias said. “But remember those grains of salt. And the fact that she’s a thief.”

  “Let’s get back to your wife. What was her mental state in the days prior to her death?”

  “I don’t understand the question.”

  “Was she worried about anything? Upset, distracted?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Was she given to mood swings, bouts of depression?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “You left for Chicago the day before she died,” I said. “Something might have happened that you’re not aware of.”

  “I spoke to her on the phone the afternoon of her accident. She would have told me if any problem had come up. She was in very good spirits, looking forward to my return.”

  “Was she expecting a visitor that night?”

  “Nancy didn’t have nighttime visitors.”

  “Would she have told you if she was?”

  “Certainly. We had no secrets from each other.”

  Smooth, lying bastard. Looking at him, listening to him, made the palms of my hands itch. “Who else has a key to your house, besides you and the housekeeper?”

  “No one else.”

  “And your wife always kept the doors locked at night when she was alone?”

  “Of course she did,” Mathias said. “What is the purpose of all these questions? Do you have reason to suspect that Nancy’s death was anything other than a tragic accident?”

  “No concrete reason.”

  “But you do suspect it?”

  “I suspect the possibility. That’s the nature of my job, Mr. Mathias.”

  “Suicide? That’s preposterous, you know. No one in their right mind would attempt suicide by throwing themselves down a flight of stairs—the actuarial probabilties of that happening must be incalculable. My wife was nothing if not sane.”

  “Suicide isn’t the only explanation.”

  “Foul play? That’s just as preposterous, for heaven’s sake. The doors and windows were locked; there were no signs of an intruder and nothing missing prior to Celeste Ogden’s visit. Nancy would not have opened the door to a stranger or even to someone she knew late at night, and I’ve already told you that all the keys are accounted for. The Palo Alto police were satisfied. Why aren’t you?”

  I said nothing. Maybe a silent stare would tweak him a little.

  It didn’t. He said, “Is it an attempt on the part of your company to deny the insurance claim? If it is . . .”

  “Pacific Rim doesn’t operate that way. Neither do I.”

  “Not that I care if the claim is denied,” he said. “I already have more money than I will ever be able to spend. I might even withdraw it, to save myself any more anguish, but I won’t if you intend to persist in an investigation that has no basis in fact or logic.”

  “The decision is Pacific Rim’s, not mine.”

  He pretended not to hear that. He was on a roll now. “I’ve just lost my wife, the only woman I ever loved. Is it too much to ask a little human compassion?”

  Anything I said to that would have sounded lame or defensive or both. Mathias knew it as well as I did.

  “Yes, I thought as much,” he said. He looked pointedly at the slim platinum-gold watch on his wrist. “I have another meeting in five minutes. If you have any more questions, please be brief.”

  The only thing I had left was thinly guised accusation, and all that would buy me and Pacific Rim was trouble. Mathias figured to be the litigious type; push him too hard and he’d lawyer up fast and furious. Besides, you could interrogate him for days and he’d never admit to anything that wasn’t in his own best interest. Like a damn modern politician in that sense, too: never admit wrongdoing, never allow yourself to be held accountable, just stonewall and misdirect and obfuscate.

  “Nothing further,” I said. “For now.”

  He stood up in one fluid motion, came around the desk to stand next to my chair. It wasn’t to offer to shake hands again; it was to look down on me, literally as well as figuratively. He said, with some of the iceman in his voice, “My secretary will take you out,” and left me sitting there as if I were a large piece of trash awaiting removal to the Dumpster.

  15

  JAKE RUNYON

  There wasn’t much left of the abandoned migrant workers’ camp. Scorched earth, the naked black bones of trees, burned-out cinder-block and metal husks. The fire trail extended in a wide swath from the side road deep into the surrounding orchards. Here and there faint wisps of smoke drifted up and faded, like fog dying in the hot morning sunlight. A handful of uniformed firefighters were still on the scene to watch for hot spots, their trucks and equipment strung out along the roadside. The usual rubberneckers were there, too, small knots of them standing off at a distance with looks on their faces that were half-hungry, half-disappointed, because the main show was over.

  Joe Rinniak said, “It could’ve been a hell of a lot worse. Not much wind last night. If there had been and the fire had jumped the county road . . . well, there’s a big farm over there, more than a dozen buildings.”

  “No question it was arson?”

  “None. First firefighters to get here said you could smell the kerosene. CDF investigator found two gallon cans in the rubble, just before I called you. Remains of a timer, too, the same kind that was used on the other fires.”

  “Pretty open out here,” Runyon said. “Not many places for a bug to wait and watch his handiwork. Who turned in the alarm?”

  “Family across the road. You thinking he doubled back to watch after the fire started? No, the son of a bitch was here the whole time.”

  “How do you know?”

  They were standing on the verge of the side road, near the blackened ruts that had led into the camp. Rinniak turned to point behind them, at a rocky hillock several hundred yards to the southeast. “Up there in those rocks. There’s a farm road back behind the hill, can’t see it from here—loops around to the county road about a mile south. Easy enough for him to slip away in the confusion, running dark, when he’d had enough.”

  “Find anything up there?”

  “Not much. Nothing that might ID the perp. Flattened grass where the car was parked, among the rocks where he hid to watch. Kelso was the first man up there, early this morning. He may have authority issues, but he’s no dummy.”

  “I don’t see him here now.”

  “Left before I got here. Where to, I don’t know. But don’t be surprised if he looks you up today.”

  “I won’t be.”

  “And it won’t be for the same reason I called,” Rinniak said. “He didn’t like you coming out here with Sandra Parnell yesterday. If you’d gone by the book, notified him Saturday night that the girl knew where Jerry Belsize was hiding, Belsize would be in jail now and there wouldn’t have been a fire here last night. That’s what he thinks.”

  “Maybe. If Belsize hadn’t already disappeared by the time I talked to the Parnell girl. And if he’s guilty.”

  “I’m starting to think Kelso’s right about that much. Why would Belsize run if he wasn’t guilty?”

&n
bsp; “If he’s the bug, he didn’t run.”

  “Not before last night, anyway. But if he’s still in the area, where? Hell, he had a good hiding place out here.”

  “Better one picked out somewhere, maybe.”

  “Could be. This is a big county, a lot of it rural. Planning to torch the camp all along, in that case.”

  Runyon watched a helmeted CDF investigator poke and prod among the rubble. “Did Kelso arrest Sandra Parnell yesterday?”

  “No. He didn’t get anything out of her, let her go with a hard warning. Laid down the law to her folks, too, not that it’ll do any good. The Parnells aren’t your all-American watchdog parents. Father’s been out of a job since the olive processors in Stander shut down a year and a half ago, spends most of his time in bars; mother works long hours at two jobs.”

  Runyon made no comment.

  “You spent some time with the girl,” Rinniak said. “Think she knows more than she’s admitting?”

  “Hard to tell. She’s hung up on Belsize, and it’s pretty obvious she hates and fears Kelso.”

  “A lot of these kids do. Price he pays for being the way he is.”

  Price the community at large pays, too, Runyon thought. But he didn’t say it.

  “I hate cases like this,” Rinniak said. “Too much going on under the surface, too much weird. You can’t predict what’ll happen next. And something sure as hell will, if Belsize or whoever the bug is stays on the loose.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Well, maybe we’ll get lucky. That’s what it’s going to take—luck.”

  Runyon said, “How much longer you going to want me around?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, you can head home right now. But it depends on Kelso. Officially I’m his superior officer, but this is his jurisdiction and his record is one of the best in the department. I’ve got to cut him a certain amount of slack.”

  “I talked to one of my bosses this morning. They need me back in San Francisco ASAP.”

  “All right. Stick around today, try not to ruffle Kelso’s feathers, and if there are no more surprises I’ll see to it you can leave tomorrow.”

  Kelso wasn’t at the substation in Gray’s Landing. The gray-haired officer manning the place didn’t know where he was, and the call he put in over the radio at Runyon’s request went unanswered. Runyon asked for the deputy’s home address; the officer said he couldn’t give out that information.