Mourners nd-31

by Bill Pronzini

  “And hung around, watched her?”

  “In a worshipful way. He never bothered her.”

  “How many other times did she see him?”

  “Once or twice more at the tavern. And once or twice when she was out jogging.”

  “Following her?”

  “She didn’t get that impression,” Risa said. “She thought he might live in the neighborhood.”

  “Did he give her any idea where?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “This went on, him turning up, for about a month?”

  “No more than that. Then he must have lost interest or moved away.”

  “And your sister never saw him again?”

  “I’m sure she’d have told me if she had.” Risa paused before she said, “Two years is a long time.”

  Runyon said, “There aren’t any time limits on sexual obsession.”

  “But why would he go away and then all of a sudden come back and attack her without provocation?”

  “People disappear for any number of reasons. And there may have been provocation that night-a more aggressive approach, rejection, sudden rage and loss of control.”

  “My God.”

  “Just speculation at this point,” Runyon said, “but worth looking into. What’s the name of the tavern on Geary?”

  “McRoyd’s Irish Pub.”

  “And the name of the girlfriend who was with Erin at Stow Lake?”

  “Sally Michaels. Sally Johnson now. She got married about six months ago and moved to Morgan Hill.”

  “Do you have an address and phone number?”

  “Yes, but not here. At home.”

  “Call me on my cell phone when you get there. Number’s on the card I gave you. All right?”

  “All right. And… thank you, Jake.”

  Jake, not Mr. Runyon. With almost the same little catch in her voice Colleen had when she said his name No. Bullshit, Runyon. What’s the matter with you?

  He said gruffly, “There’s nothing to thank me for yet,” and broke the connection.

  Nobody at McRoyd’s Irish Pub knew a three-hundred-pound, ponytailed man or remembered anyone like that from more than a year ago. The bartender said, “Check back after six o’clock. The boss comes on then, Sam McRoyd. He’s owned this place thirty years-he’s got a memory like an elephant, knows just about everybody who ever lived around here.”

  “Thanks. I’ll do that.”

  A woman’s deep voice said, “Yes? This is Justine.”

  “Is your husband home, Mrs. Linden?”

  “No, he isn’t.” Then, suspiciously, “Who is this?”

  “My name is Runyon, I spoke to him this afternoon-”

  “I know, he told me.” Cold now, as if her voice had been quick-frozen in dry ice. “You should have come to me instead of Ralph.”

  “Would it have made a difference?”

  “It might have. I’m not as easy to intimidate as he is.”

  “There was no intimidation. We had a conversation, that’s all.”

  “You threatened him.”

  “Wrong. I don’t make threats. He offered cooperation and I accepted, that’s all.”

  Humming silence for several seconds. Then, “I suppose that’s why you’re calling. You want the key.”

  “If you’re willing to put it in your mailbox and leave it there for the next couple of days, then you won’t have to deal with me in person.”

  “And then what? You keep calling up and coming back whenever you feel like it?”

  “Chances are you’ll never hear from me again.”

  “What does that mean, ‘chances are’?”

  “Just what I said.”

  “How do I know you won’t keep hassling us?”

  “I’m not hassling you now,” Runyon said. “I’m accepting your husband’s offer. Unless you’d rather rescind it.”

  “Oh, sure. And then you’d go straight to the Housing Authority.”

  “No, I wouldn’t do that.”

  “So you say.”

  “You have my word on it.”

  “Your word. How do I know you’d keep it?”

  “You don’t. You’ll have to trust me, either way.”

  Heavy sigh, exaggerated. “You’d better not do any damage to our property.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that.”

  “And if Mr. Troxell finds out you were snooping around, I won’t take any abuse from him. I’ll lay it all on your head.”

  “Or about that.”

  “The key will be in the goddamn mailbox,” she said, and broke the connection.

  13

  RIST NILAND

  The past two months had been hard, so hard. She couldn’t have gotten through them without the support from Mom and Dad, friends, neighbors, the people she worked with, and the customers at Get Fit. She’d’ve broken down completely and ended up in a hospital or institution. As it was she’d barely survived the first couple of weeks. Sleepless nights, depression, sudden crying fits. Nothing she tried, not Ambien or pot or vodka, made her days and nights any easier.

  Time had accomplished that, finally. Some days now, for short periods, she was able to function more or less normally, without feeling the grief and anger and bitterness, without thinking of Erin at all. But other days were bad, like the ones in the first weeks-Erin in her mind almost every minute at the apartment, the health club, anywhere she happened to be. Scores of little reminders, constant flood of memories. Erin’s room with her unmade bed and her clothing and cosmetics strewn every which way and Mr. Floppy, that grungy one-eyed stuffed dog she’d had since she was six, propped on its tail on her dresser; Erin laughing, Erin grumbling, Erin tipsy, Erin fresh from the shower and prancing nude around the apartment, Erin in all her moods from loving and generous when she got her way to spiteful and bitchy when she didn’t. The time when she was twelve and they’d had their first long talk about sex, and the night when she was fifteen and she’d done it for the first time and was so excited and scared and couldn’t wait to share all the gory details. The weird fun summer they’d spent on little Nicolet Island off the Wisconsin mainland. The Whitewater rafting trip on the upper Colorado River three years ago with Jerry and that friend of his Erin called Needle Dick behind his back. So many things…

  Today had been different from any of the others. Strange. Good and bad, both. Good because of that detective, Runyon, and his offer to help, and the reborn hope that someday there might be justice after all. Bad because the hope was so small, and because of the other man at the cemetery, not knowing who he was or why he’d bought the headstone and sent all the flowers. And because it seemed that everybody she came in contact with had also lost Erin or somebody else close to them. Each in turn made her feel her loss that much more intensely.

  The headstone man, the flower man. If he wasn’t the guilty one, then whoever he was and whatever the relationship he’d had with Erin, she must have been very important to him. And that meant he’d lost her, too.

  Jake Runyon. Widower for ten months, his wife a victim of cancer. That must be just as terrible as losing a sister to sudden brutal violence. God, she’d looked into his eyes and it had been just like looking into her own in the mirror-all the suffering, all the sorrow, right there on the surface.

  Scott. He’d really loved Erin, she hadn’t realized how much until she saw how torn up he was. Erin had loved him, too, the first guy she’d ever been serious about. They’d probably have gotten married eventually, had kids despite Erin’s hollow “no squalling brats for me” disclaimer. Had a good life together, a normal, uneventful, mostly happy life. A life that never would be.

  Kate. Only three months since Noreen walked out on her after nine years, no warning, just announced one morning she was leaving. Losing a lover that way was a kind of death, too, and for a while it hurt almost as much. She knew that kind of loss, too, because she’d gone through it herself when she and Jerry split up. Kate was her friend as well as her boss,
but she still had days when she was depressed and hard to deal with and this had been one of them.

  Dave. Like Scott, he’d lost a woman he loved deeply-some kind of accident he couldn’t talk about beyond hinting he was the cause of it. Came to the club two or three times a week and worked out on the machines for hours until he was exhausted. So quiet and sad, hardly talked to anyone but her. Broken birds of a feather. He’d been in such pain today, his buff body radiating it even from a distance, that she couldn’t stand to be near him.

  And Jerry. She was his loss, as he was hers, thirteen months ago. The blame was all his, one hundred percent-just couldn’t keep that thing of his zipped up in his pants. Called again this afternoon, second call this week, about the twentieth since the funeral. He wanted her back, he’d come right out and said so-lousy timing as usual. So sorry, Risa, I never stopped loving you, Jana was a stupid mistake, I swear I’ll never do it again, just give me another chance and I’ll be there for you from now on, yada yada yada. She still loved him at some level, she supposed, no use lying to herself about that; if all the love was gone she wouldn’t have kept his name. But how could she trust him again? For God’s sake, he’d even hit on Erin a couple of times, practically drooled on himself the day he showed up at the apartment without calling and she walked out of the bathroom naked. He swore the hits weren’t serious, he was just joking around, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t have screwed her or tried to screw her if she’d shown him any encouragement. No. They were divorced and they were going to stay divorced; he’d lost her and she’d lost him. One more loss that couldn’t be undone, ever.

  Long, strange, good-bad day. She was relieved when her shift ended and she could leave the club and escape home. The emptiness, all the reminders of Erin, made the apartment claustrophobic sometimes, but tonight it was preferable to facing all those other hurt and damaged lives.

  Her building was only a dozen blocks from Get Fit; she’d been fortunate to find a job with such an easy commute. She seldom drove to work, usually either walked or took the 38 Geary bus depending on the weather and how tired she was. Tonight, despite an early blowing fog, she walked. Lost inside herself and paying only minimal attention to her surroundings, yet without really thinking about Erin or anything else: bolstering herself against the night ahead with exercise and the few minutes of freedom.

  The apartment was more good-bad: a sanctuary, but a cold, empty one. She really ought to move to a new place. Or at least clean out Erin’s room, keep a few mementos and send the rest of her things to Mom and Dad or give them to Goodwill. People kept advising her to do one or the other, and she knew they were right, but she just couldn’t face either chore. No use kidding herself-it probably would be a long time before she could.

  She poured herself a vodka and lime juice, and took it with her into the bathroom. The drink and a hot shower helped a little. Dressed again, she looked up Sally and Kevin Johnson’s phone number in her computer address book and then called it, thinking that if Sally knew anything about Fatso that she didn’t, it would be easier for her to get the information. But all she got was their machine. She decided against leaving a message, tapped out Runyon’s cell phone number instead.

  He had an odd sort of voice, gruff and gentle at the same time, but without much inflection. This morning, the whole time he’d talked to her at the cemetery, he’d worn a sort of neutral expression, what Jerry called a poker face, so you couldn’t be sure of what he was thinking behind those pained eyes. She wondered again, talking to him now, what kind of man he was. Honest and caring, she was pretty sure of that much. And if he had the usual male ideas he kept them under control-she’d believed him when he told her he didn’t expect anything in return for his help. But aside from that, who was he deep inside? Her interest was both personal, because of Erin, and impersonal. Or maybe detached was a better word. Acts of kindness were few and far between these days. A man like Jake Runyon almost made her believe again that most people were good and God was good and the world wasn’t always a rotten, ugly place. Almost.

  When she told him she’d tried to call Sally, he said, “You think she might not talk to me?”

  “No, I don’t see why she wouldn’t. I just wanted to save you some time and effort.”

  “Thanks, but there’s no need. I know what questions to ask.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Thing is,” he said, “this isn’t much of a lead yet. I don’t want you to get your hopes up prematurely.”

  “That won’t happen,” Risa said.

  “All right. Have you remembered anything else about this man Fatso, anything that might help identify him?”

  “No. It was a long time ago, and it just didn’t seem important then. To Erin or to me.”

  “Well, if you do…”

  “Yes, I’ll let you know right away.”

  He said he would be in touch and broke the connection.

  But he wouldn’t have anything to tell her when she heard from him, she thought fatalistically. How could Erin’s murderer be a man she’d hardly known two years ago and who’d done nothing more menacing than show up at McRoyd’s a couple of times while she was there? It had to be a total stranger, some faceless psycho who’d picked her at random. He might be caught one day for some other crime, in two or five or ten or twenty years, and a DNA test would link him to Erin’s murder and he’d confess or not confess, and then it would be over. Or he might never be caught and then it would never be over.

  Grabbing at straws. That was all Jake Runyon was doing. Like everybody else, herself included, just grabbing at straws.

  Get her hopes up? God, no, that wouldn’t happen, not now and maybe never again.

  The phone rang ten minutes later, while she was mixing a second vodka and lime juice. Mom and Dad calling from Green Bay. Two more sufferers to round out the day. She told them about Runyon and what he was doing, downplaying it, but it lifted their spirits much more than it had hers. They were unshaken believers; they’d kept the faith all along. So had she, for a while, but her belief wasn’t rock solid anymore. The more time that passed without some kind of resolution, the more it would crumble until there was nothing left.

  They talked for twenty minutes, mostly about Erin even though she kept trying to steer the conversation to more mundane subjects. And the conversation left her feeling depressed. She put on a hip-hop CD, cheerful music that didn’t cheer her any. She thought she ought to eat something, and made herself a third drink instead. That had better be the last; she was feeling them already, and if she drank any more she’d have a hangover tomorrow, and she hated hangovers. She wished she had some pot. Then she could really get stoned without worrying about how she’d feel in the morning.

  Good-bad day turning into another bad night.

  She wondered, sipping vodka, how long it would be before she had a good day, a good night. Really good, the kind where everything you did or heard or saw gave you pleasure and you were so happy and content you smiled and laughed for no reason at all.

  She wondered, sipping vodka, if she would ever have that kind of day and night again.

  14

  Troxell left his house alone shortly past seven Thursday evening. Destination: Wisconsin Street. Potrero Hill. I camped at the curb three doors uphill from the Lindens’ Stick Victorian and watched him leave his BMW empty-handed and head down the path alongside.

  Then I sat in the cold, dark car and fretted about Kerry.

  You live with someone long enough, you develop a finely calibrated sensor where the other person is concerned. It doesn’t take long for the bells and whistles to go off when something isn’t right. Little things, cumulative effect. The way she’d been acting lately, the brooding silences, the declining interest in intimacy. The unsatisfactory talk we’d had last night. The fact that she’d taken most of today off work without explanation at the office and without telling me; I’d found that out from her secretary. The fact that she hadn’t been home at six thirty tonight. She mu
st have come home and then gone out again somewhere with Emily; nobody had answered my call to the condo and both their cell phones were out of service, which probably meant they were in a restaurant; we had strict rules about cells being turned off in public places. But why hadn’t she let me know they were going so I wouldn’t worry?

  If the Dancer business was what was bothering her, I couldn’t understand why she hadn’t simply brought it out into the open. If it was something else… what? Some sort of medical problem? She’d had her annual physical a couple of weeks ago, but I’d asked her about it and she’d said everything was as it should be. Why would she tell me that if it wasn’t?

  Me? General dissatisfaction with our relationship, our life together? That notion scared hell out of me. We’d always been so good together, so completely in synch. Problems, sure, every marriage has some friction from time to time, but nothing serious, nothing that we hadn’t managed to work out with a minimum of difficulty. She might be pissed at me for keeping secrets about Dancer and Cybil, but I couldn’t conceive of her being angry enough to lose faith, start falling out of love Another man?

  Well, it had happened… almost happened… once before. Paul Blessing, Blessing Furniture Showrooms, one of Bates and Carpenter’s clients. But that had been before we were married, and it hadn’t amounted to much. Strong physical attraction, a few dates, that was all. She hadn’t gone to bed with him. Said she hadn’t, and I’d believed her-I still believed her. No, it wasn’t another man. She wouldn’t cheat on me any more than I would cheat on her.

  What, then?

  Round and round…

  I’d figured I was in for another of those long, dull, butt-cramping waits, while Troxell took his time doing whatever he did in his private hideaway, but it didn’t turn out that way. He spent less than an hour in there tonight. When he reappeared he had something tucked under one arm, not too bulky; I could make out a faint gleam of white when he opened the driver’s door on the BMW and the inside light came on. Plastic sack? Might be rental videos, viewed and ready for return, but I couldn’t be sure at the distance.