Camouflage (Nameless Detective Mysteries)

by Bill Pronzini

  “Not think it, know it for a fact.”

  “How?”

  Crabtree gestured to an empty chair, then leaned back and laced his fingers at the back of his neck. Big man, very dark, with a shaved head and, as if by way of compensation, a thick, bristly mustache. Neatly, almost nattily dressed in a brown pin-striped suit, salmon-colored shirt, brownish gold tie.

  “Francine Whalen wasn’t killed in a struggle with Mrs. Darby,” he said. “Evidently wasn’t killed by Mrs. Darby, in self-defense or otherwise. Preliminary lab tests are in. Three identifiable partials on the handle of the knife, another partial on the kitchen counter. None of them belong to her.”

  That was the last thing Runyon expected to hear. He digested the news before he asked, “Who do they belong to?”

  “We don’t know yet. Could be anybody’s. Even yours.”

  “I never touched the knife. You think my story’s a lie, too?”

  “Is it? Any part of it?”

  “No. All I know about what happened is what I told you yesterday. So what now? Drop the homicide charge against Mrs. Darby, release her?”

  “Depends on what she has to say to my partner. He’s up talking to her right now. If she doesn’t come clean, we’ll keep right on holding her and let the DA decide. He may want to pursue an obstruction charge at her arraignment.”

  Runyon was silent.

  “She’s protecting somebody,” Crabtree said. “That’s pretty obvious. You were there—you’re the logical first choice.”

  “And the wrong one. I had no reason to harm Francine Whalen.”

  “Who do you suppose it is, then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  But he did know. There was only one person Bryn would lie to protect, the most important person in her life.

  Her son, Bobby.

  * * *

  Bobby. Nine years old, quiet, shy. Not a big kid, but wiry, strong. Capable of plunging a knife into the woman who’d been abusing him?

  His Saturday wish that he had a gun like Runyon’s to “keep for the next time” she hurt him … wishful thinking, a mistreated kid’s fantasy, but maybe symptomatic of a genuine dark urge. Like the look on his face when he’d said, “I hate her, I hate her, I hate her!” just before jumping out of the car and running into the house. A boy his age might think about firing a handgun at an adult, but even if he had the opportunity he wasn’t likely to go through with it unless he’d been taught how to use one, something Bryn would never have permitted. It took nerve, a steady hand, and a certain callousness to deliberately blow somebody away.

  But it didn’t take any of those things to make a killing thrust with a sharp kitchen knife. Self-defense weapon, the kind even a nine-year-old might snatch up if it was close at hand and he’d just been hurt again, was bleeding from a blow to the face and jammed up with fury, hate, humiliation. One quick blind jab, then the reactive shock when he realized what he’d done, and the guilt-ridden retreat within himself.

  Was that the way it happened?

  Bryn must think so. There was no other reason why she’d have taken the blame. It explained her sudden emotional shift: the immediate reaching out to the only man in her life she trusted, while still in a state of shock, then her protective maternal instincts taking over, calming her down so that she could fabricate her story; that was why the story had struck him as rehearsed. It also explained why she’d gone against his advice and volunteered information at the crime scene: trying to keep the focus on her. The other thing that had been bothering him was clear now, too—the words she’d been saying to Bobby in the boy’s bedroom. It’s going to be all right, baby. It’s going to be all right. You didn’t do anything wrong, it was all just a bad dream. Don’t think about it, forget it ever happened. It’s going to be all right. She hadn’t only been reassuring her son; she’d also been absolving him and urging him to keep quiet.

  But did she know for a fact that Bobby had done it? Had she found him in the kitchen with the body and his hands stained with Francine’s blood, listened to him tell her he was responsible? Or was the boy already in shock and uncommunicative when she got there and she’d just assumed he’d done it because nobody else was in the flat? Could’ve happened that way, too. Bobby could be innocent. And if he was, then who was guilty?

  Runyon didn’t blame Bryn for trying to shield her son. Or for lying about it; she’d known he wouldn’t go along with the cover-up. It was a relief to know that she hadn’t had a direct hand in Whalen’s death, but Christ, all she’d succeeded in doing was complicating an already-difficult situation, making things difficult for herself. A charge of obstruction wasn’t nearly as serious as a homicide charge, but if she was prosecuted and convicted, she’d still face prison time.

  All of this went through Runyon’s mind while Crabtree put him through another ten minutes of Q & A, checking points in his statement, maybe looking in vain to trip him up. But he didn’t confide any of it to the inspector. Let him and his partner figure it out on their own, if they didn’t already suspect it.

  Farley’s appearance put an end to the questioning. The two inspectors left Runyon sitting there and went into a huddle nearby. When they came back, Farley—shorter, thinner, and lighter skinned than Crabtree, with drooping eyelids that gave him a deceptively sleepy look—confirmed what Runyon had expected: Bryn had denied she was covering for anybody, kept sticking to her story. Claimed no knowledge of whose prints were on the knife.

  Crabtree said, “Maybe you can convince her to cooperate, Mr. Runyon. Want to give it a try?”

  “Can I talk to her alone?”

  “Along with her attorney, sure.”

  “I don’t mean in an interrogation room with you listening behind glass. I mean just her and me, in private.”

  “You know we can’t allow that while she’s in AdSeg,” Crabtree said.

  Runyon knew it, but he had to ask. He didn’t want to bring Bobby’s name up to Bryn in front of an audience if there was a way around it. In order to get through to her, he had to know what she knew and was hiding about the murder. If she was certain Bobby was guilty, she’d never give him away.

  “So what do you say, Mr. Runyon? Do it our way?”

  “I doubt it’d do any good. If she was going to confide in me, she’d’ve done it at the crime scene.”

  “Maybe she did,” Farley said mildly. “Maybe you’re the one she’s protecting.”

  Blowing smoke, the same as Crabtree had. They weren’t all that suspicious of him—they’d have checked his record and found it clean—but they were good cops covering all the bases. He’d have handled it the same way when he carried a police badge.

  He said, “You’ll find out soon enough those prints on the knife aren’t mine.”

  “So then you shouldn’t mind helping us get to the bottom of this. Save Mrs. Darby a lot of trouble if you can convince her to open up. Are you willing to give it a try?”

  “I’ll have to talk to her attorney before I give you an answer.”

  “You want to call him now?”

  “Yes. He hasn’t been informed about the prints yet, has he?”

  “Hasn’t been time.”

  “I’ll tell him, then.”

  Runyon went out into the hall to make the call. But Dragovich wasn’t at his law office; his secretary said he’d gone to a meeting on another case and that he wasn’t scheduled back in today. Runyon tried the attorney’s cell number. Crap. Voice mail.

  He went back into the Homicide Division. “Unavailable,” he said to the inspectors.

  “So the talk will have to wait,” Farley said. “Just don’t let it wait too long.”

  “I won’t.”

  “And don’t let yourself become unavailable, meanwhile.”

  “I was on the job for fifteen years myself, remember? I know the drill.”

  “Sure you do. But sometimes even ex-cops get careless.”

  “Only if they have a reason,” Runyon said. “If you want me before Dragovich or I get i
n touch, I’ll be where you can find me.”

  * * *

  He was at loose ends, now. Nothing to do, nowhere to go, until he heard from Dragovich. He’d promised Bryn he’d try to find out how Bobby was doing, but there wasn’t any way to accomplish that short of asking the boy’s father, and Darby wouldn’t be forthcoming. Dragovich might know; she’d asked him to check as well. Again, nothing to do but wait for the lawyer’s return call.

  The agency or his apartment? After five now and South Park was closer to the Hall of Justice, but Tamara would probably still be at the agency. She meant well, he was fond of her, but she’d ask a lot of questions that he was in no mood to answer. Home, then. If you could call a four-room, cheaply furnished apartment home.

  The drive up over Twin Peaks and down to Ortega took nearly half an hour. Still no word from Dragovich by the time Runyon got there. The apartment had a faintly musty odor he hadn’t been aware of before: too long without an airing. He turned up the heat and then went to open the bedroom window partway, letting the chill evening breeze come swirling in.

  On his way back past the bed, his gaze automatically went to the framed photograph of Colleen on the nightstand. He stopped for a few seconds to look at it. Not a day went by that he didn’t think about her. But the thoughts were no longer morbid, heavy with the crippling grief that had obsessed him for so long; only sadness remained to darken the memories of their two decades together. Bryn was in his life now and he’d keep her in it no matter what happened with this Whalen crisis, but not as a replacement for Colleen. Different kind of relationship, different emotional needs. A mortal version of life after death.

  He brewed himself a cup of tea. Some still edible cheese in the fridge and half a box of crackers, but the prospect of another small, tasteless meal like all those he prepared when he was alone made his stomach churn. In the living room he started to turn the television on, changed his mind, and left it dark. No stomach tonight, either, for the company of talking heads and flickering screen images.

  He let himself go dark, too. Sat in his waiting mode on the couch, the tea untouched. He would have sat there like that for hours if he’d had to, but he didn’t have to; it was no more than ten minutes before he finally heard from Dragovich.

  Runyon ran down the latest developments for the lawyer, including his suspicion that the person Bryn was covering for was her son.

  “Good news on the one hand,” Dragovich said, “not so good on the other. I can mount a strong argument at her arraignment that the homicide charge be dismissed for lack of evidence, but the district attorney is likely to pursue an obstruction charge unless she recants her false story and admits she’s protecting her son. In that case, the judge will surely rule in their favor. Most judges take a dim view of any detained suspect who willfully makes a false statement that hinders a police investigation, no matter what the reason.”

  “And if Bryn does recant and cooperate?”

  “Then given the extenuating circumstances I doubt there’ll be any further charges. The judge might declare her a material witness, but even if he should, she’d be released from custody. But I gather from my face-to-faces with Mrs. Darby, and from what you say, that convincing her won’t be easy.”

  “Not as long as she believes Bobby is guilty.”

  “Do you believe he is?”

  “No, but it is possible. If I could talk to him … but I don’t suppose there’s any way you can make that happen?”

  “Not with Robert Darby in his present state of mind.”

  Runyon said, “What about me talking to Bryn without the conversation being monitored? Or the three of us in private?”

  “I’ll talk to Farley and Crabtree, but they have every reason to stand on protocol. If you’re allowed to see her, I’m afraid it will have to be with an official audience. Of course, I can consult with her alone and try to persuade her.”

  “No offense, but I stand a better chance of getting through to her and finding out what she knows. How soon can you arrange the meeting?”

  “Tonight, if they’re agreeable.”

  * * *

  Runyon brewed another cup of tea while he waited for Dragovich to call back. Too strong, bitter; he dumped it out. For the first time in a long time, since the rock-bottom night shortly after Colleen’s death when he’d sat with a bottle of bourbon in one hand and his .357 Magnum in the other, he felt like having a drink of hard liquor. There was none in the apartment, but even if there had been, he wouldn’t have given in to the momentary craving. He’d never been much of a drinking man, and Angela’s alcoholism and his near suicide had turned him dry except for an occasional beer. Booze for a man like him was a problem, not a problem solver.

  It was fifteen minutes before his cell vibrated again. And only the first part of what Dragovich had to tell him was what he wanted to hear.

  “Preliminary reports on the fingerprints have come in,” the attorney said. “You’re off the hook and so is Robert Darby.”

  “ID match?”

  “None yet. It’s possible whoever wielded the knife was never fingerprinted. They’re still checking.”

  So it could still be Bobby. Wasn’t likely Darby would’ve consented to the boy being printed, even if Crabtree and Farley had thought to suggest it; later, if it became necessary to Bryn’s defense, Dragovich could get a court order to compel the father to allow it. The fact that a child’s fingers were small didn’t necessarily mean anything, either. Plenty of adults had hands and fingers not much larger than a nine-year-old’s. You could get an ID match from bloody partials, but without a full clear latent and a comparison source, the lab techs would make the same assumption as the investigating officers: the prints belonged to an adult.

  Runyon asked, “When do we get to talk to Bryn?”

  “The best I could do is tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.”

  Damn. “Delaying tactic?”

  “Partly. If I know the DA, his intention is to keep her segregated to give her time to think over her position now that she’s been caught in her lie. He also wants an ADA present during the interview. Neither his office nor the police are in any hurry—there are still forty-eight hours left before Mrs. Darby is scheduled for arraignment. I suggest you and I meet beforehand for a strategy conference. Eight thirty in the community room, third floor at Eight-fifty Bryant?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Is there anything else we need to discuss tonight?”

  “Bryn’s son. I don’t suppose Darby returned your call?”

  “He did, as a matter of fact. Professional courtesy.”

  “How’s the boy?”

  “Well enough physically, but he still won’t talk about the alleged abuse or what, if anything, he may know about Francine Whalen’s death.”

  “Who’s taking care of him?”

  “A nurse Darby hired. He seems to be in good hands.”

  No, he wasn’t. Runyon found that out twenty minutes later.

  When the doorbell rang, he almost didn’t answer it. The only people who came around while he was home were solicitors and, once, one of his neighbors looking to borrow something. But the bell kept up an insistent ringing, and when Runyon finally responded he found himself face-to-face with Robert Darby. A distraught and angry Robert Darby.

  “Have you seen him?” Darby said. “Is he here with you?”

  “Who? You don’t mean Bobby—”

  “Damn right I mean Bobby. He ran away this afternoon and I’ve looked everywhere else. If you’re hiding him, Runyon, I swear to God I’ll make you wish you were never born.”

  21

  Tamara was beside herself over what she called “those two bitches’ escape.” Not that she blamed Alex Chavez for the lost tail. He was an experienced field man and he’d taken every precaution, but no op can maintain road surveillance when he’s been spotted and the subjects are bent on ditching him. The dangerous last-second lane change would have caught anybody in the profession by surprise.

/>   Alex felt bad about it, though. He’d driven straight back to Dogpatch to stake out the 20th Street house in case McManus and Carson decided to go back there. Chances of that happening were nil now, but Alex had insisted. And Tamara and I both knew his professional ethics wouldn’t allow him to take any overtime pay for the extended stakeout, either.

  What upset and frustrated her—me, too—was that we were still hamstrung by the lack of hard evidence necessary to convince the law to take immediate action. What I’d found in the house was plenty suspicious, but we couldn’t report it without admitting that I’d been guilty of illegal trespass and unlawful entry, and my uncorroborated testimony alone wouldn’t constitute sufficient cause for a judge to issue a search warrant. Cops and judges frown on private investigators subverting the law in any way. So does the state Board of Licenses. And never mind the rationale.

  By the time I got back to the office, Tamara had used the information The Dog Hole barfly Frank Quarles had given me to run a deep backgrounder on Gregory Pappas. The name wasn’t all that uncommon, but she was sure she had the right man. Born in Athens, Greece, in 1929, immigrated to the U.S. in 1946. Worked for a San Francisco relative who owned a Greek restaurant. Opened his own place on Polk Street, the Acropolis Restaurant, in 1959 and operated it until 1992, when it was gutted by an accidental grease fire. Underinsured, so he hadn’t been able to rebuild or reopen elsewhere—but he’d gotten enough of a settlement, and apparently had had enough put away, to live comfortably in retirement. Married, no children. Wife deceased in 1998. Never owned a home; lifelong apartment dweller. After his wife’s death, moved from the apartment he’d shared with her in the Anza Vista neighborhood to a smaller apartment in the Potrero. Lived at that address for a dozen years until the building was sold and went condo. Residence after that presumably the house in Dogpatch, but nothing to confirm it. Present whereabouts unknown. And most significantly, no death record anywhere.

  “They killed him,” Tamara said. “McManus and Carson. Just like they killed Rose O’Day and Virden and God knows how many others.”