Nightcrawlers: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Mystery)

by Bill Pronzini

  But in essence it remained the seat of Gay Power. The huge rainbow flag that flew permanently at the corner of Market and Castro attested to that. So did the annual Gay Pride Parade that drew thousands from all over the West Coast. So did the big celebration that had taken place there recently, when the U.S. Supreme Court finally struck down the antiquated Texas sodomy law and proclaimed that gay Americans had a constitutional right to private sexual relationships.

  None of its ambience had much impact on Runyon as he walked through it. Nor would it have in its early gay-ghetto days. A vice cop he’d known when he was on the Seattle PD had referred to the gay district up there as a “polyglot of perversion,” but he’d never seen it that way. The gay scene, diluted or not, was no different from the straight singles scene—the gay clubs no different, for that matter, from women’s clubs or garden clubs. A little more dangerous late at night, a little more desperate because of the threat of AIDS, but otherwise just people with common interests and outlooks gathering together for companionship, camaraderie, pleasure. Trying to make their lives a little easier, to put a little joy into them. Trying to keep their hurts at bay.

  All pleasure was, when you got right down to it, a staving off of pain. The pain of living, the pain of dying. The ones who could manage it were the lucky ones. He wasn’t one of them. There had been no pleasure for him since Colleen died, just the pain. Work was the only thing that dulled the ache, allowed him to go on, and then only for brief periods. Establishing some kind of connection with Joshua might help some, but in the heavy baggage between them there was no room for joy. Understanding, a father-son detente, was the best he could hope for.

  So he walked here alone, a misfit among the straights, a misfit among the gays. The proverbial stranger in a strange land. Funny thing was, there was a kind of small, cold comfort in being part of Joshua’s world, his misfit son’s strange land, if only for a little while.

  The Dark Spot turned out to be no different from fifty, a hundred other bars he’d visited, gay or straight, on business or otherwise. Blue lights and blue neon so dark it was almost black. Loud music, loud laughter. Men packed along the bar, men dancing, men with their heads together at tables and in dark corners. The few who glanced at him glanced away again immediately. Cop written on his face and the way he moved. Straight cop at that: avoid at all costs.

  He stayed just long enough to scan the crowd and satisfy himself that neither Gene Zalesky nor a young, angelic-faced blond nor a redhead with freckles was among them. He spoke to no one. There was nothing for him here alone, no answers to any of his questions. The only way anybody would talk to him in The Dark Spot was if he came with a guide, a member of the fraternity.

  Joshua?

  Under different circumstances, he could at least ask. But after what Larry Exeter had told him, no. He’d have to find somebody else. Or some other way to get the information he needed.

  9

  TAMARA

  Here she was, back for another fun evening in San Leandro. All set to rock ‘n’ roll.

  Yeah. Right.

  All set to abuse her tailbone again.

  Nobody home at 1122 Willard.

  Nobody home at 1109 Willard, either.

  Almost eight o’clock and both houses were dark, driveways empty, no cars parked in front of either one. Sure, somebody might be in a lighted room at the back that she couldn’t see from here. Or how about sitting in the dark like a humongous spider? There goes that imagination again, girl. Keep it up and you’ll start scaring yourself, be rolling your eyes and shaking your booty like Mantan Moreland in one of those crappy Charlie Chan flicks. Feets, do your stuff.

  Well? Gonna just sit here or gonna move?

  She got out of the Toyota—parked in the same puddle of tree-dark as last night, her own little reserved space—and locked the door and crossed the street to 1122. Through the gate, up on the porch, ring the bell, wait, ring the bell again, wait some more—just like last night, déjà vu all over again. DeBrissac wasn’t home. Wasn’t answering the farty doorbell, anyway. Dag. Wasn’t anything worked out easy for her these days, seemed like.

  Go round the side and up the driveway, look for a light at the rear? Not much point. She retreated to the sidewalk instead. The dark brick face of 1109 drew her gaze, held it and held her still for a few seconds. Front yard still empty, shades still pulled down tight over the front windows. So what? So nothing. Then how come the slithery sensation on her neck, like some bug had crawled under the collar of her blouse?

  Back across the street again. Neighborhood seemed quieter than it had last night. Distant hum of traffic, salsa music pulsing a long ways off, no sounds close by. Lights, people in most houses on the block, all kinds of things going on behind closed doors, and yet those two dark houses somehow made it seem empty, lifeless. No, just that brick job there—1109. Kept messing with her mind, kept bringing back what she’d seen last night, the SUV with tinted windows and the big furtive dude and whatever it was kicking and struggling inside that blanket.

  A gust of wind put a shiver on her as she unlocked the car. Inside, with the doors locked again, she pressed her cold hands between her thighs. And kept right on looking at 1109. Couldn’t seem to stop looking at it or thinking about it.

  Robert Lemoyne. Name of the registered owner of a 2002 Ford Explorer with the license plate 1MQD689; name of the man who’d leased 1109 Willard from Avenex Realty in Union City nine years ago. A half-and-half—African-American father and white mother. Age: forty-seven. Born in Stockton, lived there until high school graduation. No additional education. Carpenter and construction worker—three years, East Valley Construction, Turlock; twelve years, Hollenbeck & Son, El Cerrito; eight years, High Country Construction Co., Grass Valley; six years, Brinson Builders, Fremont. Married twice. First, to Dinah Elvers of Oakland, 1977; lasted ten years, divorce obtained by the wife on grounds of irreconcilable differences, no children. Second, to Mia Canfield of Rough and Ready, 1994; lasted seven years, divorce obtained by the wife on same standard no-fault grounds. One child, a daughter, Angela, born in 1995; sole custody awarded to the mother. Financial status: debts like everybody else, but kept most of them current. One felony arrest, in 1986 on a charge of reckless endangerment. No big deal, because the charge had been reduced to leaving the scene of an accident, a misdemeanor. No other brushes with the law, not even an unpaid parking ticket. And no record of nonpayment of child support.

  Didn’t seem to be much in any of that. Unless sole custody of the daughter awarded to Mia Canfield Lemoyne meant something.

  One other thing that might mean something: Robert Lemoyne apparently lived alone now, all alone in that big house there.

  Whatever’d been in that blanket last night was alive, no doubt about that. Animal? If he had a dog, it didn’t bark or make any other noise when he came home at night. And he hadn’t bothered to license it with the city of San Leandro.

  Child?

  Well, could be he didn’t live alone, was shacking with some single woman that had a son or daughter. Possible. But then where was she last night? Didn’t come home with him, wasn’t in the house before he got there unless she was waiting for him in the dark. Wasn’t there now, either.

  Besides . . . why bundle up a girlfriend’s kid and bring it home stuffed in the back of an SUV? Why do that to anybody’s kid?

  One reason. One big ugly word that explained the SUV and the blanket and the struggles and the furtive looks and the run to the house.

  Kidnapping.

  Crazy. No damn basis for that kind of speculation. Except that kind of thing happened, more and more often these days. Kids snatched off the streets on their way to or from school, off playgrounds, in malls, from dozens of other places. Kids taken for ransom, for even more inhuman crimes. Kids that disappeared and were found dead or never found at all; faces on police reports and posters and milk cartons. And the sick fucks that preyed on them came in all shapes and sizes and races, from all kinds of backgrounds, and held
all kinds of jobs and lived in all kinds neighborhoods including quiet ones just like this.

  It was possible. Anything was possible. Working for Bill the past five years had taught her that.

  Bill. She wished she’d talked to him about what she’d seen. Started to this afternoon and then both of them got distracted. Too much for her, trying to handle this kind of thing all by herself—she just didn’t have enough experience. But he’d know what to do. Call him right now? Better do it. He—

  Her cell went off.

  The sudden rackety noise startled her enough so she banged her knee on the bottom of the steering wheel. Another ring. She must’ve forgotten to switch it off. What if it’d cut loose while she was out on the street, or wandering around the property at 1122? Stupid, Tamara. Got to be more careful.

  She fumbled her purse open, rummaged around, came up with the phone in the middle of a fourth ring. “Yeah, hello?”

  “. . . Tam? Is that you?”

  Oh, great. Vonda. “Who else’d be answering my cell?”

  “You sound funny. Out of breath.”

  “What you want?”

  “Well, you don’t have to jump down my throat.”

  “I can’t talk now. I’m on a job here.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but I really need to talk to you. I just saw Ben, and he—”

  “Who? Oh, your white horndog. Listen, Vonda—”

  “He’s not a horndog. And he’s not gonna be anybody’s white man if he doesn’t pay attention. Got it in his head he wants to meet my folks, tell them about us. I told him what they’re like, the black-white thing, but he thinks he can handle it, he says—”

  “Black, white . . . mercy! Got a half-and-half I’m trying to deal with here myself, all right?”

  “What? You met someone?”

  “No, and I hope I don’t meet him.”

  “Huh?”

  “What I’m saying, race doesn’t always have to be an issue. Knamean?”

  “It does in my family, you know how they are—”

  “Later, okay? Are you home? I’ll call you later.”

  “I’m home, but—”

  Tamara’s thumb came down hard on the disconnect button. And then just as hard on the off button.

  Lord! Of all the damn times!

  She jammed the cell back into her purse. Thirty seconds of back-and-forth babbling . . . Vonda probably thought she was stoned or something. Never mind, explain it to her later. Right now she was so creeped out, so twitched she couldn’t sit still, thoughts running around inside her head bumping into each other like when you were on a speed rush. Don’t keep trying to think it out, do something. Yeah, but what? Call the boss man, call Jake Runyon . . . no, not yet. Any more words coming out her mouth would just stumble and bump together like her thoughts, same kind of babble as her conversation with Vonda. Too wired to make sense. Too wired to keep on sitting here like this worrying about how wired she was.

  Do something!

  Next thing she knew, she was out of the car again and locking the door. And then up on the sidewalk, heading straight for 1109.

  Oh, listen now, you better not do this, you don’t know what you might be walking into . . .

  Random thought, bumped away by all the others. Didn’t even put a hitch in her stride. Up the front path, remember to go slow and look straight ahead like she belonged here. Climb the porch steps, step up close to the door. Quiet inside, nobody moving around that she could hear. Thumb on the bell . . . here we go.

  No answer.

  Again.

  No answer.

  Relief and disappointment in equal measures. She left the porch, hesitated at the foot of the steps to look both ways along the street. No cars, no people walking around in the dark. She sidestepped to her right, into the empty drive. Between the house and the garage was a narrow, shadowed areaway that led to the rear of the property. Her legs carried her that way, into the areaway and halfway along to where a side door opened into the garage. She paused long enough to turn the knob: locked. Relief and disappointment again, and another random thought—Don’t go any farther!—that got bumped away. She kept on going into the backyard.

  Big shade tree, heavy shadows that moved and rustled in the breeze. Shrubs, dead grass that crunched under her shoes. Crooked board fence at the back end. Lights in the house on the other side, but no lights in the one here. Her mouth felt dry as toast; she tried to work up some spit, but her saliva glands wouldn’t cooperate. Man oh man.

  She went a few steps to her right, across more dead grass toward a platform porch tacked onto the rear of the house. She wasn’t thinking at all now, and too deep into her prowl to quit on instinct. Half a dozen warped steps led up to the back door; she stopped at the foot of them, squinting, holding her breath. Door was sure to be locked, and even if she could get inside she didn’t dare do it. Breaking and entering, criminal trespass—

  What was that?

  Noise inside somewhere. Sounded like . . .

  There. Again.

  She moved away from the steps, in close to where a window made a black rectangle down low in the pale white wall, almost at ground level. Stood still again and flapped her ears, hard. And the hair went up on her neck, her scalp crawled, her pulse kicked and fluttered.

  Crying.

  Child crying in there.

  Tamara squatted and leaned an ear against the cold glass. No mistake. And not just any kind of crying—lost, scared, maybe hurt. Little girl? Couldn’t be sure. She tried to peer through the window, couldn’t even see her own reflection, and realized that the blackness was more than just night-dark—it was paint, there was black paint all over the glass. Her fingers dug at the bottom of the sash; it wouldn’t budge. Nailed or painted shut, might also be barred in some way.

  Now what? Make some noise, try to attract the child’s attention? What good would that do? Little kid left alone this way, must be locked up in a room.

  Flash of herself breaking in, rescuing the kid. Oh no you don’t. Who you think you are, Superwoman? Movie stuff, Hollywood bullshit. No clue what’s going on, blunder in there and you’re liable to make a bad situation worse. And it was bad. She could feel the bad coming out from behind that black-painted window, negative energy as heavy as pulses of heat. Her skin tingled and crawled with it.

  Smart thing was to stay cool. Get off this property, fast. Then . . . talk to the next-door neighbors, use some pretext to make sure that kid in there didn’t belong to a new girlfriend of Robert Lemoyne’s. And then quit the neighborhood, get hold of Bill and convince him, and after that go find the nearest cop house. She’d have to talk long and hard, and downplay the trespassing thing, but with the boss man for backup she’d convince the law too. Then . . .

  Yeah, then. Better be right about this, Tamara.

  I am. Listen to that kid crying, remember the way things went down last night. Bad, all right. Bad as it can get.

  She stood and backed off from the window, retraced her route across the dry grass toward the garage. Full of purpose now. Hurrying some as she headed into the areaway.

  Car on the street.

  She was opposite the side door to the garage when she heard it. Couldn’t see it or its lights yet, but it was in this block—engine sound getting louder. She pulled back against the wall of the house, where the shadows were deepest. Nothing to worry about. Early yet, cars passing by all the time. The street brightened ahead with the approaching lights. Just stand still, wait for them to pass by.

  They didn’t pass by. Without any slowdown they arced around fast, high and bright, into the driveway.

  She went stumbling headlong back to the rear corner of the house, away from the lights. A long narrow section of dead lawn leaped into brightness ahead of her as she ducked around the corner. He saw me! No, stay cool, he didn’t, stay cool. Hide! She looked around wildly. Nowhere to hide, fences at the back and far side too high to climb; oh, Lord, nowhere to go—

  The funnel of light coming through the areawa
y vanished, plunging the yard into heavy shadow again.

  Car door slammed.

  Her breath caught in her throat. She froze, looking back over her shoulder, poised to run again. If he came back here, chased her and she couldn’t get away, she’d start screaming. She could scream like a banshee, Pop always said that, scream like a banshee and bring out the whole friggin’ neighborhood.

  Shaky-legged, she went forward again. The crunch of the grass under her shoes seemed loud in the silence. Past the porch stairs, still looking over her shoulder, her breath hot and tight in her chest.

  Another door slammed. Front door to the house?

  He didn’t see me! He went inside!

  She quickened her pace to the corner, turned it slow. On that side a ten-foot-wide section of grass and dirt and straggly plants separated the house from the lot-line fence. Dark along there, but she could see the street ahead, the shape of Horace’s Toyota parked under the curbside tree, part of a lighted house on the far side. She crept beneath two darkened windows, straining to listen. Nothing to hear except the thud of her heart. Light in that window up toward the front? Looked like it . . . yeah, pale and diffused, probably from a lamp in the room next to it. He’d gone inside, all right. All she had to do was keep easing along, be careful not to make any noise. Another minute or two and she’d be out on the sidewalk.

  She edged forward to the window with the light showing, ducked under it to the front corner. Tall, thick jasmine shrub growing there, sweet-smelling in the darkness. Nobody on the street, nobody in sight. Okay, go—

  He was waiting, hidden, along the wall behind the jasmine. He came out at her cat-fast, jammed one hand over her mouth, wrapped the other around her, and dragged her in against the solid bulk of his body.

  No!

  She couldn’t tear loose, couldn’t yell, could barely breathe. Something hard jammed against her rib cage—gun, he had a gun! Words and hot breath filled her ear.