Schemers: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Novels)

by Bill Pronzini

  “I just told you our wives never went along, didn’t I?”

  Same evasive response. “What about after Lloyd’s divorce?”

  “Now what are you asking?”

  “He didn’t remarry. I assume he had women friends over the last twenty years of his life. Did he ever take one of them to the hunting camp?”

  “No.”

  “Was he involved with any particular woman after his divorce?”

  “If he was, it’s none of your business.”

  “You won’t give me a name?”

  “I will not. Why should I?”

  “The more people I can talk to …”

  “People who know Cliff and Damon, yes. Not those who knew Lloyd.” Brock leaned forward so abruptly his chair back made a sharp cracking noise. “I suggest you concentrate on finding the link between the two sons and the maniac responsible for harassing them. You won’t find it with their father.”

  “If you say so, Mr. Brock.”

  “I do say so. Now suppose you get on with your business so I can proceed with mine.”

  End of interview. Runyon stood up.

  “Just remember what I said about looking for dirt,” Brock said. “It won’t get you anywhere you need to go.”

  Second time Brock had used the phrase “looking for dirt.” Protesting too much. If there was no dirt to dig up, why keep mentioning it?

  George Thanopolous lived in a large ranch-style home on three or four acres atop one of the west-side hills. The elderly woman who answered the door identified herself as Mrs. Thanopolous, and when Runyon told her who he was and why he was there, she said, “It’s awful, isn’t it? Just awful. Those poor boys. But there isn’t anything George or I can tell you. If we knew anything that might help, we would have told the police.”

  “I’m sure you would have. But I’d still like to talk to your husband. Is he home?”

  “Out back with his bees.”

  “Bees?”

  “His hobby, you know. Beekeeping and making honey. Just go on around the side of the house and across the terrace. You’ll see the apiary and bee house from there.”

  Runyon followed her instructions. The terrace was broad and flagstoned, with a sweeping view of the town spread out below, part of the valley and the bordering hills to the east. Beyond the terrace was a wide grassy field sprinkled here and there with low white boxes that must be the beehives. Nobody was working among them except bees.

  A flagstone path led through the field above the hives, to a shedlike building painted the same bright white. The door was open, and as Runyon approached he heard a hammer banging away inside and then spotted the man using it. He stopped outside and called, “Dr. Thanopolous?”

  George Thanopolous was well up in his seventies, his face mostly free of wrinkles—small, energetic, brighteyed. He didn’t seem to mind having a stranger turn up unexpectedly at his bee house. Particularly a stranger with Runyon’s credentials and purpose.

  The drop-lit interior was cramped and crowded. Workbench, shelves, Peg-Boards of tools and beekeeping equipment—bee veils, smokers, elbow-length gloves, strips of lathe, glue pots, brushes, a bunch of other items Runyon didn’t recognize. The place had a faint odor, partly sweet like melons and partly sour like decaying flesh. Bee venom? Probably. It sure wasn’t clover honey.

  Thanopolous indicated the wood strips that he’d been nailing together into a frame. “Don’t mind if I finish making this comb while we talk? Good. Want to get a few more done today. Stool over there if you care to sit down, just move the bee escapes to the bench here.”

  “I’ll stand, thanks.”

  “Suit yourself.” Thanopolous drove another nail with his tack hammer. “Don’t know what I can tell you,” he said. “Cliff and Damon are both good boys, but Ellen and I don’t see much of them anymore. Why anybody’d want to stalk them … don’t have a clue.”

  “Both family men. Faithful husbands, honest in their business practices.”

  “Absolutely. Their father was strict with them, growing up. Single parent, you know.”

  “Yes. There doesn’t seem to be anything in their lives that triggered the attacks. I’m looking into the possibility that the motive may have something to do with Lloyd Henderson.”

  “Lloyd? Oh, now, that’s not possible. He passed away some years ago.”

  “I know. But the first act was the desecration of his grave.”

  “True. That struck me, too. Just so damn senseless.”

  “You and Lloyd Henderson were close friends?”

  “That’s right. Thirty years … no, thirty-five.”

  “Went hunting and fishing together regularly.”

  “Up to his camp in the mountains. With his boys and my son sometimes.” A pain shadow crossed Thanopolous’s face, made him pause in his work. “David’s gone now, too. Desert Storm.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “Wars like that, like the Iraq mess … stupid. Young men are the ones who pay the price.”

  “And their families.”

  “Yes. Well,” Thanopolous said, and shook himself, and resumed his hammering. “You were asking me about Lloyd.”

  “He have any enemies that you know about?”

  “Not Lloyd. No, sir. Everybody liked him. Especially the women.”

  “Ladies’ man, was he?”

  “Lord, yes. Had more than his fair share.” Thanopolous chuckled—a dry sound, almost a cackle. “One thing he used to say. He was a dentist, you know, and he’d say, ‘I fill cavities all day, and when I’m lucky I get to fill one at night.’ My wife doesn’t think that’s funny, but it always made me laugh.”

  “Did he always have a roving eye?”

  “You asking if he was a faithful husband? That’s not for me to talk about. Nobody’s business, now, anyway.”

  “Was he involved with any particular woman after his divorce?”

  “Not that lasted more than a few months.”

  “So he never came close to marrying again?”

  “Wanted nothing more to do with marriage. Divorce soured him on it.”

  “His lady friends. I’d appreciate a name or two.”

  “Can’t oblige you. Sleeping dogs.” The dry chuckle again. “Not that they were, any of ’em. Dogs. No, sir, he had good taste, Lloyd did.”

  Runyon asked, “Did he brag about his conquests?”

  “Some, but he wouldn’t give names or details. Gentleman about that.”

  “Brag to his sons, too?”

  “No, never to the boys. Strict with them, as I told you. Kept his private life and his kids’ lives separate.”

  “He ever bring a woman along on one of the hunting trips?”

  “No, sir. Men only. Only time a woman ever showed up at the cabin, he chased her off quick.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “Oh, a long time ago.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “My memory’s not so good anymore. Why?”

  “I’d like to know who she was.”

  “Woman from Harmony, nearest place to the camp where you could buy supplies. Worked at the general store there, if I remember right.”

  “Can you recall her name?”

  “No. Don’t think I ever knew it.”

  “Why did she show up at the cabin?”

  “Well, I’m not too sure about that,” Thanopolous said.

  “Lloyd’s the one who went out and talked to her. Said something later about her being a nosy female.”

  “Long conversation?”

  “Not too long, no.”

  “She leave right away?”

  “Pretty quick. Lloyd could be forceful when he had cause.”

  “How well do you think he knew the woman?”

  “She worked at the general store, as I said.” Chuckle. “You mean in the biblical sense? I doubt it.”

  “Why? Was she unattractive?”

  “Just the opposite, as I remember. But much younger than Lloyd. He
wasn’t a man to chase younger women.”

  Runyon asked, “Did he go up to the camp alone very often?”

  “Not often. Once in a while. Liked to get away by himself, same as we all do.” Thanopolous finished tacking fine wire mesh across the frame he’d constructed. “Why so interested in Lloyd’s private life and his hunting camp, young man?”

  Runyon told him about the stolen photo album. “A lot of snapshots were taken on those trips, I understand.”

  “Oh, sure. Lloyd was a camera bug.”

  “Did he take any snapshots of the woman from the store?”

  Thanopolous frowned. “Now why would he do that?”

  “Just wondering.”

  “Well, I never saw one if he did.”

  “Showed them off, then, did he?”

  “Sure. Just about every roll he developed. Camera bug. But there wasn’t anything special about any of them. Why anybody’d want to steal an album full of pictures of fish and dead deer …” Thanopolous sighed, wagged his head. “Pretty frightening, when you think about it.”

  “What is?”

  “All the crazies running around. Random violence. No wonder people are paranoid these days.” He sighed again. “No paranoia in this case, though, is there? Some loony really is after the Henderson boys.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “You strike me as a smart fellow. Find out who and why, put a stop to it before something even more terrible happens. The police in this town never will. Incompetent, the lot of them.”

  Typical citizen’s complaint. Thanopolous didn’t expect a response and Runyon didn’t offer one.

  As he was about to leave, the old man opened a cabinet above the workbench, took down one of the jars it contained, and handed it to him with the air of a man bestowing a prize.

  “Clover honey,” he said, “best you ever tasted. No charge.”

  10

  Jeremy Cullrane was a hard man to track down. When I called the Pollexfen residence to confirm my lunch date with Angelina Pollexfen, Brenda Koehler said that Cullrane wasn’t there and she didn’t know where he could be reached. He wasn’t at the Bayview Club, or at least he didn’t answer the page I requested. He wasn’t at Nicole Coyne’s apartment; an answering machine picked up there. Another machine answered my call to his mail-drop business number. I left messages everywhere, but by the time I quit the agency to keep the lunch date I still hadn’t heard from him.

  The restaurant one or the other of the Pollexfens had chosen was called L’Aubergine, a celebrated French bistro just off Union Square. Catered to the wealthy and to dealmakers with unlimited expense accounts—high prices, designer food. Not the kind of place I’d have chosen, but then I was not going to pay for the privilege of eating there. If I had to pick up the check, it would go straight onto my expense account and Barney Rivera had damned well better authorize reimbursement.

  Angelina Pollexfen was already there when I walked in at five minutes to twelve, in a cozy little rear booth with a martini in front of her. She wasn’t alone. The man sitting with her wore a three-piece Armani suit and the kind of smooth, ultrawhite smile I distrust on sight. They made a nice pair. She was the blond, willowy type, gray eyes, creamy complexion, fashionably dressed; the diamond wedding ring on her left hand glittered and sparkled and had no doubt drawn envious looks from the other female diners. He was about her age, late thirties, his olive complexion darkened by heavy beard shadow, his black hair sprinkled with gray at the temples.

  She gave me her hand, took it away again, and introduced her companion as “Paul DiSantis, our attorney.”

  “Do you feel you need an attorney present, Mrs. Pollexfen?”

  “It’s nothing like that,” DiSantis said. His handshake was firm without trying to prove anything. “I’m not here in a legal capacity.”

  “Paul and I are old friends. We already had plans to have lunch today, so I asked him to join us.” She favored him with a brief, crooked smile as she spoke, got another look at his dental work in return—touching each other with their eyes. Uh-huh, I thought. Friends. Right. All those daylong “shopping” trips.

  He made room in the booth, keeping himself between me and Mrs. Pollexfen, and I squeezed in next to him. His leather-scented cologne was noticable up close, but it didn’t stand a chance against the expensive French perfume that came drifting across the table from Angelina Pollexfen. I decided to breathe through my mouth. By the time the waiter came around, she’d finished her martini and was ready for another: “Double Bombay Sapphire, dirty, up, no olive.” Two doubles before lunch—the lady was a boozer, all right. DiSantis seemed content with his glass of Pellegrino. I settled for black coffee.

  Nobody said much by tacit consent until the drinks were served and we’d made our lunch choices. Mrs. Pollexfen knocked back a third of martini number two, licked the residue off her pink mouth, and said to me, point blank, “Well, did my husband accuse me of stealing his precious books? Is that why we’re here?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Really? Then he must have accused my brother Jeremy.”

  “Not exactly accused. Strongly implied.”

  She said, “Greg is full of shit,” and knocked off another third of the gin and olive juice.

  DiSantis laid a hand over one of hers, not being too familiar about it, and said, “Angelina,” in a tone of mild rebuke.

  “Well, he is, and you know it. Brimful to the top of his head.”

  I revised my estimate of how many doubles she’d had. What was left of the one in front of her was at least her third. No speech slur, but her eyes had a bright little glaze on them. Under the glaze, when she spoke her husband’s name, something much darker shone hard and feral.

  “If you feel that way about him,” I said, “why stay married?”

  “Why do you think?” She waggled the diamond for emphasis.

  DiSantis said her name again, not quite so mildly.

  “I’m just being honest,” she said. “Greg doesn’t love me and I don’t love him. All that’s holding us together is his money. What I can get of it, that is.”

  I asked, “Prenuptial agreement, Mrs. Pollexfen?”

  DiSantis told her she didn’t have to answer that.

  “Why shouldn’t I answer it? Yes, there’s a prenup. And yes, that’s why I’m still sharing my husband’s house, if not his bed. If I divorce him, I get a small settlement and nothing else.”

  “You know you’re no longer the beneficiary of his insurance policy?”

  “Oh, he made a point of telling me when he changed it. He’s written me out of his will, too, except for what I’m entitled to by law if I stay married to him.”

  “That could be construed as a motive for a half-million-dollar theft.”

  “Construe all you like. I didn’t steal his damn books. Not that I wouldn’t like to steal the whole lot and move to Brazil on the proceeds. That’s all he cares about, his stupid collection.” She drained her glass. “He’s impotent, you know.”

  “Angelina.” Sharp warning from DiSantis this time.

  She ignored it. “For years now. Not even Viagra does him any good. He couldn’t get it up with a splint for a pair of naked Hollywood starlets.”

  “Keep your voice down, for God’s sake.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do, Paul. You know I don’t like it.”

  DiSantis was angry now. I watched him make an effort to hold on to his lawyerly cool. Pretty soon he said to me, “It’s the gin talking.”

  “It’s the truth talking,” she said. “And yes, I believe I will have another.”

  “I think we’d better order lunch.”

  “Don’t worry, it’ll be my last. I won’t embarrass you by puking in the soup.”

  “It’s yourself you’re embarrassing.”

  She signaled to the waiter. The filet of sole and another dirty martini, please. DiSantis ordered one of the specials—in French, no less. The only thing on the menu that appealed to me was a shrimp salad.
Excuse me, salade de crevette.

  When the waiter went away, Mrs. Pollexfen said to me, “My husband says you seem to be a very competent detective. Tell me, how do you think the books were stolen?”

  “No idea yet. How do you think it was done?”

  “Oh, that’s simple. Isn’t it simple, Paul?”

  DiSantis had no comment.

  “Greg took them,” she said, “and hid them someplace.”

  “Why would he do that? He doesn’t need the insurance money, does he?”

  “Of course not. Money had nothing to do with it. He’s a nasty, manipulative son of a bitch, that’s why.”

  One of the women diners at a nearby table directed a glare our way. Angelina Pollexfen stuck her tongue out in response. “Where’s that damn martini?” she said.

  DiSantis had given up on her for the time being. He sat in a silent, tight-lipped sulk. His body language said he’d make her pay for her bitchy and boorish behavior. By withholding his favors, maybe.

  Her martini came and she nibbled delicately at this one, to make it last. The glaze on her eyes now was as thick as frozen syrup. “What were we talking about?” she asked me.

  “Why you believe your husband hid his own books and filed a false insurance claim.”

  “To torment Jeremy and me, that’s why.”

  “With false accusations, you mean?”

  “Any way he can. He likes to hurt people he despises.”

  “You don’t mean physically?”

  “Oh, he’s never laid a hand on me. Control, that’s his thing. Hurt people by jerking them around, for his own gratification.”

  How much of that was truth and how much an exaggeration fueled by gin and hate I couldn’t tell. “Why does he despise you?”

  “Because I don’t give in to him. I fight him every way I can. Don’t I, Paul?”

  DiSantis said, “I’m not going to let you drag me into this.”

  “Don’t mind Paul,” she said to me. “He doesn’t approve of liquid lunches.”

  “Why does your husband despise your brother?”

  “Why? Jeremy’s an asshole, for one thing.”

  “Why do you say that?”