Camouflage nd-36

by Bill Pronzini

  “You said he was all right.”

  “Jake…”

  “We stay right here, all three of us. I’ll request an EMT unit for Bobby.”

  “I should’ve taken him to the doctor myself. But I was so upset, I wasn’t thinking clearly…”

  “Bryn, listen to me.” He waited until her eyes focused on him. “You’re certain Francine was the one who picked up the knife?”

  “Yes, I told you. She would’ve stabbed me if I hadn’t grabbed her wrist.”

  “All right. Then you acted in self-defense. Bobby can verify that she hit him in the face-”

  “No. I don’t want him involved.”

  “He’s already involved.”

  “He won’t talk about the abuse, you know that.” Bryn sucked in a breath, released it. “Will the police arrest me?”

  Yeah, they would. This was Francine’s home, there was no witness to corroborate what had happened in the kitchen, and the fact that Bryn had delayed reporting the crime by calling Runyon instead of 911 all mitigated against her; the cops wouldn’t have any other choice. They’d book her on a 187 PC-the unlawful killing of a human being with malice aforethought. The initial charge in a case like this was almost always the most severe, justified or not.

  Runyon said, “Don’t worry about that now. When they get here, be polite but don’t volunteer any information. Tell them you’ll answer all their questions when you have your lawyer present. Understand?”

  “Yes, but my lawyer only does family law-”

  “I’ll get you a criminal defense attorney. When you see him tell him everything you told me, exactly as it happened. Don’t withhold anything.”

  “All right. Whatever you say.”

  “Sit down while I make the calls.”

  “I have to check on Bobby.”

  “Go ahead then.”

  Runyon watched her disappear through a doorway on the other side of the room. Then he flipped his cell phone open. He knew a couple of SFPD’s homicide inspectors, and Bill’s longtime poker buddy, Jack Logan, was an assistant chief whom he’d had some dealings with as well. But it wouldn’t be a good idea to try personalizing this; that kind of approach could backfire. Better to just make a standard 911 call. He identified himself to the operator, briefly explained the situation, and requested an EMT unit for a child with minor injuries.

  The best criminal attorney he knew from his short time in San Francisco was a tough old veteran named Thomas Dragovich. Runyon called Dragovich’s law office, caught him in, and explained the situation in clipped sentences. Dragovich agreed to represent Bryn and reiterated what Runyon had told her, that she wasn’t to answer any questions without him being present; said he’d be at the Hall of Justice to consult with her as soon as she was processed through the system. There wasn’t much else Dragovich could do until she was arraigned, and that wasn’t likely to happen for seventy-two hours. The police could hold her that long while they investigated and turned whatever evidence they’d gathered over to the DA’s office.

  After Runyon clicked off, he went quickly through the hallway door and down to where the bedrooms were. Bryn’s low-pitched, crooning voice led him to the last of them: “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.”

  The door was open; Runyon stepped through. Boy’s bedroom overstuffed with the kind of material possessions a busy and overindulgent father lavishes on his son in place of quality time and genuine affection. Bryn was sitting beside Bobby on the double bed, the boy lying on his back with one hand limp on his middle, the other holding an ice pack to the center of his face. The T-shirt and Levi’s he wore were clean, blood free. His eyes were open, starey, looking ceilingward while his mother talked to him.

  She didn’t hear Runyon come in, didn’t know he was there until he made a small noise at the door. The noise startled her. She stopped crooning, bit her lip, glanced at him, then reached up to smooth a palm across Bobby’s forehead. He took no notice of the gesture; the starey eyes were motionless, the lids unblinking.

  Runyon said, “Your attorney’s name is Thomas Dragovich. One of the best. You’ll see him later at the Hall of Justice.”

  “Thank you.” Solemn, formal.

  Runyon moved over to the bed, leaned down for a closer look at the boy. Bobby’s nose, visible under the ice pack, didn’t look too bad-a little swollen, but not bleeding anymore. A Band-Aid covered the cut on his left cheek. The brown eyes flicked toward Runyon, but only for a moment; a single blink and they went starey again. Aware but nonresponsive. Reaction to the new abuse, Bryn’s fight with Whalen-a retreat into himself, his own private hiding place.

  Bryn said, “Don’t try to talk to him, Jake. Please.”

  He nodded. “You want to wait in here?”

  “Yes. Just the two of us.”

  “Okay.”

  Runyon left the room, went back down the hall. He was nearing the doorway to the living room when he heard the sounds-the front door opening, somebody coming in. He quickened his step, passed through into the living room. And pulled up short, because he wasn’t looking at police officers or EMTs.

  “You,” Robert Darby said, staring back at him. “What the fuck are you doing in my home?”

  14

  JAKE RUNYON

  Lousy timing, dammit. Another few minutes and the law would be here and they’d be the ones to break the news to Darby. Now Runyon would have to do it. And it was bound to make a bad situation even worse.

  Runyon made a slow advance, his hands spread in front of him. “Take it easy, Mr. Darby. Bryn’s here, too-she’s in with Bobby.”

  “Bryn? She has no more right in my home than you do.” Glowering, glancing around. “Where’s Francine?”

  “There’s been some trouble.”

  “… What do you mean, trouble?”

  “An accident, pretty bad. The police are on the way.”

  Darby was a big man, jowly and going soft around the middle, but he had one of those faces that make some lawyers better than others in a courtroom: smooth, tight, unreadable, his feelings hidden behind a pair of piercing gray eyes. He stared at Runyon as if he were a hostile witness who had just made an outrageous statement on the stand.

  “What kind of accident? What are you telling me?”

  “Maybe you’d better sit down-”

  “Answer my question. What’s happened here?”

  No way to soften it. “Your fiancee’s dead, Mr. Darby.”

  “Dead.” As if the word didn’t compute. “Francine?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  “How, for God’s sake? What happened?”

  “An accident. Stabbed.”

  “Stabbed.” Another word that didn’t seem to compute. Then, in a sudden angry flare, “ You, you son of a bitch?”

  “No.”

  “Who, then? Who stabbed her?”

  “She’s been abusing your son. Hit him in the face today, bloodied his nose, cut his cheek-”

  “Who stabbed her!”

  “She did it herself, accidentally. She-”

  Dark blood suffused Darby’s face. He came up on his toes in a forward lean, his lips peeled back from his teeth. Runyon set himself; no matter how upset the man was, he wasn’t going to get anywhere near Bryn. But Darby didn’t charge him. Stood breathing hard, struggling with his control.

  Half a dozen beats. Then, “Where? When?”

  “Here. Less than an hour ago.”

  “You see it?”

  “No. I’ve only been here a few minutes.”

  “Then how do you know what happened?”

  “Bryn told me. Francine attacked her-”

  “I don’t believe it. She’s lying.”

  “No. I told you, Francine has been abusing your son. She fractured his arm, among other-”

  “Where is she? Where’s Francine?”

  “Ki
tchen. But you don’t want to go in there.”

  “The hell I don’t.”

  Darby moved then, jerkily, heading for the swing door. Runyon called after him, “Don’t touch anything,” an automatic warning that he regretted as soon as the words were out. Insensitive. And Darby wasn’t listening anyway. Runyon could have followed to make sure the warning was heeded, but he didn’t; he was enough of an intruder already.

  A sound behind him turned his head. Bryn was standing in the hall doorway. “I was listening,” she said. “Why did he have to come home now?”

  “Go back in with Bobby.”

  “Where are the police? Why don’t they get here?”

  “Any minute. Stay in the bedroom.”

  Too late. Darby reappeared, walking in a flat-footed, not quite steady way; his face was ashen, the only outward indication of what he was feeling. When he saw Bryn, he said in a thin, strained voice, “You crazy bitch, what’ve you done?” and this time he did come stalking forward.

  Runyon got in Darby’s way. Body block, legs spread, shoulder lifted and turned, keeping his arms down in front of him. Lay hands on a lawyer in a situation like this and it could be construed as assault. But it didn’t come to anything physical. Darby pulled up just before there was contact, so close Runyon could smell the minty odor of his breath, and glared past him at Bryn in the hallway.

  She said, “Robert, I’m sorry, I never meant for this to happen-”

  “You’ll pay for it, count on that.”

  Runyon said, low and even, “Back off, Mr. Darby.”

  Darby’s gaze shifted back to him. He drew a heavy breath, retreated a step to put a little distance between them-but only the one step. “I want to see my son.”

  Couldn’t deny him that. “All right. Bryn, come out here.”

  “No. Robert, leave the boy alone, please…”

  “Shut up, damn you. Shut up!”

  Bryn made a low, anguished sound.

  And that was when the first blue wave rolled in.

  The pair of uniformed officers, one male, one female, didn’t have time to do much except add to the tension. It wasn’t until the arrival of the team of homicide inspectors a short while later that things calmed down. Runyon didn’t know either of them, quietly professional black men in their fifties, Farley and Crabtree. They’d been partners for a long time, visited crime scenes a lot bloodier and more chaotic than this one; you could tell that from the practiced way they took charge.

  They had their look at the body, turned the kitchen over to the forensic team that had come in with them, then started their Q amp; A. Bryn first, after which her rights were read to her, then Runyon, then Darby, who settled down once he realized his accusations against her were having no effect. At first, foolishly, she disobeyed instructions by trying to explain what had happened and to justify her actions. Runyon warned her to wait until she’d consulted with her attorney, and after that she kept quiet. He answered the questions put to him truthfully but impersonally and with as little detail as possible. Otherwise he, too, kept his own counsel.

  The EMTs showed up finally, late because it hadn’t been an emergency call. The verdict on Bobby was slight cartilage damage to his nose, minor facial injury, and suffering from shock. Hospitalization not required, a visit to the family doctor recommended if the shock symptoms persisted. Darby vehemently denied that Francine had been abusing the boy; Bryn, with Runyon’s backup, just as vehemently insisted she had. One of the inspectors, Crabtree, tried to talk to the boy; so did Darby. Neither of them got anywhere.

  The whole thing took little more than an hour. End result: Bobby was allowed to remain in his father’s charge and Bryn was handcuffed and turned over to the pair of uniforms for transport to the women’s jail facility at the Hall of Justice. Runyon managed a few words with her before she was led away, to let her know what he was going to do. A short time afterward, the inspectors allowed him to leave on his promise to appear at the Hall of Justice the next day to sign a formal statement.

  There was nothing more he could do now. Bail would probably be set high at her arraignment-it usually was in a homicide case, no matter what arguments the defense attorney put forth-but whatever the amount, Runyon wouldn’t let it be a problem. Abe Melikian owed him a favor-he’d saved the bondsman a bundle on the Madison case a short while back-and he’d call it in when the time came.

  Runyon was too jittery, too jammed up inside, to face his empty apartment. He fed his Ford a tankful of gas, took himself out of the city to the south and on up to Skyline. He drove all the way down the spine of the Coast Range to the intersection with Highway 84, took 84 over to the coast and its juncture with Highway 1 at San Gregorio. Dark, winding, forest-flanked roads, fog draped, neither of them with much traffic. The kind of long, semirelaxing night ride he’d been prone to before Bryn came into his life.

  But the drive didn’t ease him down any on this night. Didn’t banish the doubts that kept crawling like bugs through his mind.

  Had Bryn told the whole truth about Francine’s death?

  He was pretty sure she’d never lied to him before; he didn’t want to believe she was lying now. Yet something didn’t quite ring true about her story. It seemed plausible enough on the surface, but when he replayed it in his mind it struck a faintly rehearsed chord, like half a hundred similar tales he’d listened to that had been proven partly or completely false during his years on the Seattle force.

  What she’d said about Francine on Saturday echoed darkly in his memory.

  I don’t blame Bobby for wishing her dead. I’d like to kill her myself…

  Damn her! She’ll keep right on hurting him, and the next time… the next time… I won’t let it happen. I won’t.

  Accident as she claimed, end result of a struggle after Francine picked up the knife? Or had Bryn been the one to pick it up, use it deliberately-maybe even gone to the flat with that idea in mind?

  Self-defense-or murder?

  15

  Friday was what the media refers to as an eventful news day. And like much of what the media reports, the news that came my way was neither pleasant nor particularly enlightening.

  The first piece came from Jake Runyon. He and Tamara were having a stand-up conference in her office when I walked into the agency. The grim set of their faces foretold the fact that I was not going to like the subject of their discussion. Right. I didn’t like it one damn bit.

  “Police are holding Bryn on a homicide charge,” Runyon told me.

  “Jesus. What happened?”

  “Party to the death of the woman who’s been abusing her son.”

  “Woman? You said the boy’s father was the abuser.”

  “Turned out I was wrong. His fiancee, Francine Whalen.”

  Runyon couldn’t seem to keep still; he took a restless turn to the door and back, stood then with his feet moving in place like a man on one of those treadmill machines as he explained the situation.

  I said when he was done, “Mother reacting to an assault on her son by a woman with a documentable history of violent abuse. Justifiable. Dragovich is a good man-he’ll get her off.”

  “That’s what I keep telling myself. But there’s only her word Whalen was the one who picked up the knife. And Whalen’s history is only documentable if one of her other victims steps forward. Darby’s still in denial-he keeps insisting Whalen never laid a hand on Bobby.”

  “So it all hinges on the boy.”

  “And getting him to talk won’t be easy. His father’s liable to do or say something to drive him deeper into his shell.”

  Bleak, all right. But still a long way from hopeless. “You need some time off to deal with this, Jake?”

  “I don’t know yet. I might.”

  “Take as much as you need. And if there’s anything else we can do…”

  Runyon nodded, his feet still moving, and scraped a hand over his slablike face. He’d shaved this morning, but it had been a hasty and probably distracted job; there were
little patches of stubble on his chin and one cheek. His eyes were blood flecked, the bags under them as gray as duffles. He hadn’t slept much last night, if he’d slept at all.

  “I’ll let you know how it goes,” he said, and he was gone.

  Tamara said, “That man’s had a miserable damn life. Everybody he cares about… bam, something bad happens.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You think he’s in love with Bryn?”

  “Hard to tell what Jake’s feelings are. But I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Then Dragovich better get her off.”

  “He will if anybody can.”

  “Life’s a bitch sometimes,” Tamara said. She let out a breathy sigh, then sat down at her desk and punched up a file on her Mac. “Might as well get back to work.”

  “Might as well.”

  “Rose O’Day,” she said.

  “Pardon?”

  “The old woman who rented a room from McManus, the one the neighbor told you about.”

  “Oh, right. What about her?”

  What about her was the second bit of the day’s news.

  “I did some checking last night,” Tamara said. “Lots of history until three years ago, but nothing since. No current residence in the Bay Area or Michigan or anywhere else. No death record. No brother in Saginaw, or other living family members.”

  “So it seems McManus lied to Mrs. Hightower.”

  “Seems?”

  “If the neighbor’s memory is accurate after three years. It’s hearsay in any case.”

  “Well, that’s not all I came up with. When the woman’s husband died five years ago, his insurance policy paid her a death benefit of fifty thousand. She also inherited some rural property his brother willed to him in West Marin worth twice that much.”

  “So?”

  “There’s no record of her investing the fifty K, so chances are she stuck it in her bank account. And that account’s still active.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Yep. I couldn’t find out how much is in the account without some serious security breaching.”

  “Always a don’t-cross line. Local bank?”