Jenny Noakes.
Employed from June 1984 to April 1988.
The salary record gave no address. He rummaged through the rest of the papers in the desk, hunting for an address book, social security and tax records—anything that would tell him where Jenny Noakes had lived during that period, her age, something of her background. Nothing. Nor was there any document that gave a clue as to why her employment had been terminated.
Frazier was still hanging around, watching him to make sure he kept his word about not taking anything and putting the alcove back in order. Runyon asked if the name Jenny Noakes was familiar to him. It wasn’t. He replaced the cartons, offered to pay for the rummaging privilege. Frazier shook his head. “Not necessary,” he said. “But if you’re hungry, my wife makes the best deli sandwiches you ever tasted.” Runyon wasn’t hungry, but he bought a deli sandwich anyway.
Jenny Noakes. Up to Tamara now. All she needed to track anybody living or dead was a name.
His cell phone didn’t work in the mountains; it wasn’t until he was down near the coast that he was able to pick up the satellite signal so he could call Tamara. A few minutes later he was back in the old lumbering and fishing town of Fort Bragg. He hadn’t had much breakfast; he found his way to a seafood restaurant under the long, new bridge that spanned the harbor entrance. He was sipping hot tea, waiting for a bowl of clam chowder, when Tamara called. He went outside to talk to her.
“Took a little longer than I thought,” she said. “You’ll see why.”
“What’ve you got?”
“Jenny Noakes. Born Jennifer Torrance 1962 in Ukiah, married to Anthony Noakes June 1981, son Tucker born early 1982. Father listed on the birth certificate as Anthony Noakes. Looks like you were wrong about the kid’s old man being Lloyd Henderson.”
“Unless she was screwing around as a newlywed.”
“Been known to happen. But she and the husband were living in Ukiah when the baby was born.”
Ukiah was a long way inland across the mountains, the county seat at the eastern end of Mendocino county. Small chance she would have met Henderson there. He said, “When did she move to Harmony?”
“No record of her ever living in Harmony. But she and Anthony Noakes split up in eighty-five and she got custody of the kid. Aunt of hers lives in Deer Run. That’s where she went after the breakup—same Deer Run address as her aunt’s from late eighty-four to August eighty-eight.”
Deer Run was about a dozen miles from Harmony. He’d passed through it going up and coming back.
“Where does she live now?”
“She doesn’t. She’s dead.”
“When?”
“August of eighty-eight.”
“What happened to her?”
“She was murdered,” Tamara said. “Body found in the woods off a side road south of Deer Run three months after she died. Strangled and dumped.”
Runyon digested that before he said, “Case solved?”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
“Suspects?”
“Can’t tell you that. Online information’s pretty sketchy.”
“County sheriff’s department the investigating agency?”
“Yep. I don’t have a name for you, but whoever handled the investigation was probably mentioned in the Fort Bragg and Santa Rosa papers. Their online files don’t go back as far as eighty-eight.”
“What happened to the ex-husband?”
“Dropped off the radar in eighty-eight. Probably moved somewhere out of state. Could be significant, maybe—the date, I mean. Same year Jenny Noakes was killed.”
“What about the son?”
“No record anywhere in the state of a Tucker Noakes. Unusual first name. Maybe it’ll help track him down.”
She had nothing more to give him, except for the address of the aunt, Pauline Devries, in Deer Run—177 Hill Road. He went back inside, looked at his cold tea and cooling bowl of clam chowder, left some money on the table, and took himself out to the car.
15
Gregory Pollexfen sounded pleased to hear from me when I called him Wednesday morning. “You have something to report, I hope?”
“Not yet, no.”
“Well, it’s early in your investigation. What did you think of Angelina?”
“Very attractive woman,” I said carefully.
“On the outside. Did you track down Jeremy?”
“We had a talk.”
“Arrogant bastard, isn’t he? Guilty as sin.”
“I don’t have enough information yet to make that kind of judgment.”
“Meaning you still think I could be guilty.”
“I won’t lie to you, Mr. Pollexfen. From my perspective you’re as likely a candidate as anyone else in your household.”
“I’m not offended,” he said. “You’re cautious and thorough—I admire that kind of detective work.”
“I’d like to come by again, if you don’t mind. Another chat, another look at your library.”
“Would you? When?”
“At your convenience.”
“Well, I have some work to do and there’s a book auction at Pacific Rim Gallery I’m planning to attend this afternoon. Some rare Edwardian items I don’t have in my collection. Would you be available late afternoon?”
“If it’s not too late.”
“Excellent. I’ll check my schedule and call you back.”
Tamara had been busy at her desk when I came in. Now she appeared in the doorway linking our offices. “Well, that’s a relief,” she said.
“What is?”
“He’s not married.”
“Who’s not?”
“Lucas Zeller.”
It took me a couple of seconds to identify the name. “The man you, ah …”
“Right. Never been married. Lives with his mother, just like he said.”
“Checking up? He give you reason not to trust him?”
“Man’s kind of closed off, you know? Doesn’t like to talk about his job or himself, but he’ll give you a tenminute riff on his mama.”
“And you thought maybe Mama was his wife, not his mother?”
“Occurred to me, so I decided to check. No big deal, just curious. I mean, he’s a lover, not a marriage candidate.”
“Clean bill, eh?”
“Pretty clean, yeah. Works for Dale Electronics over in El Cerrito, been with them twelve years. He and Mama live in the Marina.”
“So you’re satisfied now?”
“Yep. Man’s good for my bed as long as it lasts.”
Modern young women. Outspoken about their sex lives. Don’t worry too much about having an affair with a married man as long as he doesn’t try to hide the fact from them. Don’t see anything wrong in checking up on a lover, invading his privacy on the sly, to put their minds at ease.
There were times when the chaotic, permissive new world we live in seemed a little too much for a man of my old-school sensibilities. Inexplicable, too, in so many ways. Not to mention infuriating and depressing when the larger issues—insupportable wars, terrorism, rampant political chicanery, global warming, vicious anti-gay and anti-immigrant sentiments—came into play. It worried me sometimes, how out of touch and inadequate the modern world made me feel. Born a generation too late, past my prime, and too old and too set in my ways to make the necessary adaptations to connect with the evergrowing mess of changes and challenges.
Well, the hell with it. I’d made it a lifelong policy not to judge others’ behavior or attitudes or lifestyles or political or religious beliefs, so why start now? And what did I have to complain about, anyway, when you got right down to it? I was still good at my now part-time job, a pretty fair husband and father, reasonably healthy and happy and content. There were a lot of people, whole nations of people, who were the real victims of the new millennium.
Pollexfen called back inside of fifteen minutes. “Would four this afternoon work for you?”
“Fine.”
“Excellent
. I’ll send Brenda to the auction early and join her there after I finish with another matter. It shouldn’t last past three, but if it does, I’ll send Brenda to meet you and let you in. You won’t mind waiting a bit if one of us isn’t there right at four?”
“I’m used to it.”
“Yes, I imagine a real-life detective would be. Mystery book sleuths all seem to have infinite patience.”
“Mine’s not infinite. Not even close.”
He laughed. “Four or shortly after, then.”
Strange bird, Pollexfen. I couldn’t quite get a handle on him. His wife and brother-in-law were odd, too, but I had a better idea of who they were and what motivated them. Pollexfen was all shadows and smoke. His intimates kept calling him a manipulator and I had the same feeling about him. But what I couldn’t figure out was exactly who and what he was manipulating, and for what purpose.
I pulled up in front of the Pollexfen home in Sea Cliff a few minutes early. I hate to be late for appointments, so as usual I overcompensated. At the curb ahead of me was a sleek silver Jaguar sedan; in the upslanted driveway, a new, dark red Porsche Boxster. I went up and rang the bell. No answer. Uh-huh. Back to the car, where I sat waiting and trying not to look at my watch.
Brenda Koehler arrived at eight minutes past four, driving a dark blue Buick. She parked behind me, and when we were both out and facing each other, she said, “Mr. Pollexfen is still at Pacific Rim.” She looked and sounded a little harried, a little breathless, as if she’d run instead of driven from downtown. “There was one last lot he wanted to bid on. He should be here shortly.”
“No problem.”
“That’s Jeremy’s Porsche in the driveway,” she said. “And Mrs. Pollexfen’s Jaguar. Didn’t you ring the bell?”
“Twice. Nobody answered.”
“That’s odd. If they’re here, why wouldn’t they answer?”
“Maybe they saw me and don’t want to talk to me.” Or, hell, maybe they were both drunk. Only four o’clock, but cocktail hour came early to that pair—very early.
The front door was locked. Brenda Koehler used her key, and we went into a cool, gloomy hush. In the front parlor, she asked me if I’d like something to drink.
I said, “No, thanks. But I wouldn’t mind talking to either Mrs. Pollexfen or her brother, if you’d tell them I’m here.”
“Certainly.”
Away she went, and I moved over to stare out through the tall front windows. Gray outside—a wall of fog that obliterated ocean, bay, and all except the upper towers of the Golden Gate Bridge. The fog created a murky halflight that made the room seem even gloomier than the closed-in foyer.
Brenda Koehler was gone five minutes or more. When she came back she was wearing a puzzled frown. “I can’t find them anywhere,” she said.
“Neither one?”
“No. I wonder—”
There were sounds at the front door, footsteps and thumps on the tile floor, and Gregory Pollexfen hobbled in blowing on his free hand and looking ruddy-faced and much healthier than the last time I’d seen him. He said hello to me, pumped my hand, allowed as how it was cold outside, and then said to his secretary, “I see that Angelina and Jeremy are both here.”
“Well, I don’t know,” she said. “I can’t find them.”
“What’s that? Are you sure?”
“I looked everywhere.”
His expression changed, darkened. “Everywhere? Did you check to see if the library door is locked?”
“No, I didn’t think—”
“That’s right, you didn’t think.”
I said, “I rang the bell when I first got here. If they’d gotten into the library, wouldn’t it have alerted them?”
Pollexfen said, “No. The walls are thick—you can’t always hear the bell with the door shut. Come on, we’d better have a look.”
The three of us went into the central hallway, moving single file with Pollexfen in the lead, when the blast came from the rear of the house. Flat, percussive noise, like a muffled thunderclap, that jerked us to a halt for three or four beats.
Gunshot.
Large-caliber weapon, rifle or shotgun. I’d heard guns go off too often in my life, in too many different circumstances, not to recognize the distinction.
I cut around Pollexfen and broke into a run. He said something I didn’t listen to, came clumping after me. I didn’t bother looking into any of the rooms that opened off the hallway. The shot had come from inside the library. I knew that instinctively, without even having to think about it.
The library door was locked tight. I rattled the knob, beat on the panel with the heel of my hand. Silence from within. Pollexfen was beside me by then; he said, “My key,” and when I turned toward him he shoved it into my hand. I jammed it into the upper lock, turned the bolt, yanked the key out, almost dropped the damn thing before I got it into the second lock and threw that bolt. It seemed to take minutes instead of seconds until I was able to shove the door open.
A wave of burned-powder stink rolled out at me. I plowed ahead, inside, sweeping the room, and then pulled up short with gorge rising into my throat. Behind me Pollexfen said, “Oh my God!” and Brenda Koehler let out a strangled little squeak, gagged, and spun and ran away somewhere with her heels clicking on the tiles.
Bad. As bad as it gets.
Angelina Pollexfen lay on the carpet in front of the desk—alive, her head rocking slowly from side to side, her eyes rolled up, little bubbling noises coming out of her. On the couch was a stack of books that had been pulled from the library shelves, seven or eight of them. Jeremy Cullrane sprawled supine on the floor in front of the fireplace, what was left of his head resting on the hearth, the Parker twelve-gauge shotgun that had been hung above the mantel now lying half across his bent left leg. One barrel in the face at point-blank range. Blood and brain matter and bone fragments and blackened buckshot fouled the inside of the fireplace, the hearth, the carpet. The force of the blast had splattered more blood onto the books on the lower shelves to either side; it gleamed an evil crimson on the Mylar dust jacket protectors, clashing with the gaudy colors of the jacket spines.
I quit looking at Cullrane, swallowed against the rise of bile, and went to kneel by the woman’s side. Conscious, but disoriented; her eyes still rolled up, the whites showing like pudding dribbled with flecks of blood. I’d have to get her out of here right away. No telling what she might do to contaminate the crime scene when she regained her senses.
Pollexfen said in a sick voice, “She killed him. Angelina … Jesus, she blew his head off. Why? Why?”
Yeah. Why?
16
The team of homicide inspectors who responded to Pollexfen’s 911 call was reflective of both the changes in the SFPD’s gender policies and the city’s ethnic diversity. Senior officer: Linda Yin, a forty-plus, no-nonsense Asian woman. Her partner: Sam Davis, an African-American man ten years younger, heavyset and quiet, newly promoted from the way he deferred to Yin. Both seemed tired, a little stressed, a little short-tempered. Working an extended 8:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. tour, probably, and stuck with this late squeal that would mean even more overtime. I didn’t know either of them and they didn’t know me. But when I dropped Jack Logan’s name, it bought me a certain measure of respect. Jack and I go way back to the days when we were both rookies fresh out of the police academy; he’d climbed the ladder the long, hard way to his present position of assistant chief.
While Yin and Davis and the forensics technicians worked in the library, Pollexfen and I sat in the front parlor waiting for the inspectors to get around to us. Angelina Pollexfen was in a spare bedroom downstairs, where I’d carried her and locked her in—a precaution that hadn’t been necessary; she was still only semiconscious when the law arrived. A matron and a police doctor were with her now. Brenda Koehler, sick and pale, had gone upstairs to lie down in another spare bedroom.
Pollexfen kept rubbing his hands together, a dry, brittle sound that scraped on my nerves. I wasn’t
feeling too well myself. Delayed reaction. A bloody homicide like the one I’d just walked in on always leaves me feeling queasy, tight-chested, depressed.
He said for the third or fourth time, “They were stealing more of my collection. Both of them working together. Did you see that pile of books on the couch?”
“I saw it.” The one on top, I remembered now, was The Talking Clock by a writer whose name I knew from the pulps, Frank Gruber.
“Bold as you please,” Pollexfen said. “You must have been right about a key made from a wax impression. There’s no other way they could have gotten in.”
If that was the case, the key would be on Cullrane’s body or in Angelina Pollexfen’s purse. No pockets in what she was wearing—something else I’d noted and had already mentioned to Pollexfen. I sat silently with my teeth clamped together, listening to the scrape, scrape of his hands.
“Why were they still in there?” he said. “They must have heard Brenda calling them.”
Not necessarily. They evidently hadn’t heard the doorbell.
“But why did she shoot him? An argument? You think that’s it?”
“I’d rather not speculate.”
“Deliberate? An accident?”
I didn’t say anything.
“They must have been arguing,” Pollexfen said. “One of them took the shotgun down—a threat. They struggled over it and it went off accidentally … you think that’s the way it happened?”
“Your wife says she didn’t do it, Mr. Pollexfen.”
That came from Linda Yin, who had appeared in the doorway with Davis behind her. The two of them came into the parlor. “She’s conscious now. Lucid enough to make some sense.”
“Of course she’d say that. She’s never admitted to a wrongdoing in her life.”
“She says the last thing she remembers is having drinks with you and her brother over the noon hour.”
Pollexfen blew noisily through his nose. “We had drinks, yes. The three of us. But she was fine when I left for the auction.”
Schemers: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Novels) Page 12
