Nightcrawlers: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Mystery)

by Bill Pronzini

“Stand up,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Stand up, give me your car keys.”

  She didn’t do it right away, so he took the gun out and showed it to her again. Then she did it. Got up on her feet, good and scared now and not trying to hide it anymore. Fished the keys out of her coat pocket.

  “Toss them over here.” He caught the ring left-handed, dropped it into his own pocket. “All right, now move. Door to the kitchen over there.”

  “Why? That where the phone is?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Listen, man, if you—”

  “I said shut up!”

  He gave her a shove through the door into the kitchen, crowded her over to the basement door and made her stand to one side while he unlocked it one-handed. He pushed it open, switched on the staircase light.

  “Go on down there,” he told her.

  “Why? What’re you gonna do?”

  “Shove you down the stairs, you don’t walk down by yourself.”

  She walked, quick, without looking back at him following behind her. Cold and damp down there usually, even in nice spring weather, so he’d left the furnace turned up to seventy for Angie’s sake. Warm now, she’d be warm. Good. But as they started across the concrete floor he could hear her crying and that took the good away and made him feel sad. He hated it when she cried. He wanted her to be happy, laughing. Crying cut into him like a knife. But not as deep as when she started yelling, screaming, making his head hurt. And when his head hurt he got mad and the pain got worse.

  The former owners had built the room down there, next to the alcove where the washer and dryer were, for some relative of theirs. It had a toilet and shower, and a bed and other furniture that they’d left behind. He hadn’t had to do much except close off the window, put a door and lock on the closet, reinforce the other door and add a hasp and padlock. He rattled the padlock getting his key into the slot, and the crying stopped inside. He slid the lock off, pushed the door open. Dark Chocolate went in this time without being told. He put the Saturday night special away in his pocket before he followed her, so Angie wouldn’t see it.

  Angie was sitting on the bed, the sheet and blanket pulled up to her neck, her pretty little face all scrunched up and wet with tears. The big round eyes stared at him, at Dark Chocolate, and he saw the fear in them. It put an ache in him. He couldn’t stand to see her scared and unhappy. He loved her so much.

  “Don’t be scared, honey,” he said. “Daddy’s here now.”

  “You’re not my daddy.”

  “Sure I’m your daddy. Didn’t I give you a nice present?”

  “I want to go home.”

  “You will. Pretty soon we’ll go home, see your mama.”

  “You promised I could go home if I didn’t wet the bed again and I didn’t, I didn’t!”

  Dark Chocolate gave him a murderous glance. She hadn’t been surprised to see Angie. Oh, she knew, all right—she knew too damn much.

  He said to her, “The closet. Inside.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Inside the closet.”

  She hesitated, her body tensing, her face pulling tight. He moved in on her, gave her a two-handed push that banged her into the wall next to the closet door. She let loose a hurt sound and that started Angie wailing again. He shoved Dark Chocolate into the closet, slammed the door, and snapped the lock on it. Angie was still wailing. The sound of it sawed across his nerves, started the red hurt behind his eyes.

  “Stop that! Stop screaming!”

  “I want to go home, I want my mama!”

  “Stop it or I’ll put you in the closet too. It’s dark in there, you want to be shut up in the dark with that strange lady?”

  “No!”

  “Then be a good girl, be quiet. You hungry? Want something to eat?”

  Sobs but no more shrieks. “. . . Yes.”

  “I’ll get you something pretty soon. You just sit there nice and quiet and play with your coloring books or your pretty new doll.”

  “I don’t like her, I want my own doll.”

  “What’s the matter with this one? Her name’s Kimberly, she’s got a nice pink and white dress—”

  “She’s white, Mama doesn’t like me to play with big white dolls.”

  “Your mama’s full of shit. That doll cost me seventy dollars at Toys‘R’Us. Seventy dollars, Angie, that’s a lot of money.”

  “I’m not Angie, my name’s Lauren.”

  “Be good, now. Don’t make Daddy mad.”

  He smiled fondly at her and moved over to the closet door. “You in there, listen to me. You be quiet too. You can’t break through this door and you can yell your head off and nobody’ll hear you, the walls are too thick. Understand?”

  No answer.

  “You better understand if you know what’s good for you,” he said, and smiled at Angie again, and went out and set the padlock on the door.

  Upstairs he looked at the woman’s car keys. Wouldn’t you know it: Toyota. Damn Jap car. He hated Jap cars. Sure, they were well engineered but they weren’t American. GM was American, he was American, he loved this country body and soul. He just didn’t see how any good American could buy foreign cars, any other kind of foreign shit, when loyal Americans were busting their asses building quality merchandise right here at home.

  Didn’t take him long to find the Toyota. Parked right out front, practically within pissing distance of the house. Dark Chocolate had balls, he had to give her that much. He unlocked the passenger door, found her purse right there on the floor on that side. He slipped it under his coat, took a look around after he shut the door again. Nobody in sight. Wouldn’t pay any attention to him if there was, not in this neighborhood. People minded their own business on this block. Country’d be a lot better off if everybody minded their own business the way the folks here did. Except when it came to watching out for fucking Arab terrorists—you had to be vigilant about that like the president said.

  He went back inside and dumped everything in the purse out on the kitchen table. Wallet first. Driver’s license . . . Tamara Corbin, age twenty-six, San Francisco address. And another one issued by the State Board of Licences that proved she really was a private investigator. Young black woman like that, a private cop. Women these days, didn’t matter what color they were, they had all kinds of jobs you’d think were just for men. That was all right by him. He didn’t have any prejudice against women earning a living so long as they didn’t take jobs away from family men. But a private cop . . . he didn’t like that. Not one bit.

  He rummaged around among the rest of the stuff. All women’s purse junk except for a folded piece of paper. He unfolded it, saw that it was a computer printout. Then he saw what it said and his head started to throb again, that heavy throbbing ache behind his eyes. He squeezed them shut and jammed the heels of his hands against the socket bones and pressed and pressed until the pain began to ease some. He looked at the paper again, read everything that was printed there.

  His name, his address, the kind of car he drove, where he worked, where he was born and the places he’d lived and who he’d been married to . . . his whole life! The hell she was after some deadbeat father hiding out on this block, the hell she’d made a mistake about the address. It was him she was after. Her car parked right out front, prowling around the property, listening for Angie and wasn’t surprised to see her. That was why she was here, why she was after him. Take Angie away from him.

  But how? How’d she find out?

  Nobody’d seen him take the girl, he was sure of that. Nobody could know, but Dark Chocolate knew. How could she know?

  Who else knew?

  Not the police, they’d’ve taken Angie away from him by now if they did. Just Dark Chocolate, or somebody else at that detective agency of hers?

  He’d find out. He’d get it out of her, one way or another.

  No matter what, he couldn’t stay here, couldn’t wait until the weekend like he’d planned to head east.
Not him, not Angie, not Dark Chocolate. Leave now or wait until morning? He wasn’t thinking clearly anymore, couldn’t make up his mind. The pain was like fire behind his eyes. He jammed his hands against the socket bones again, pinched his eyeballs. It didn’t get any better, it wouldn’t go away.

  Oh God, the things he’d done when he couldn’t make it go away . . .

  13

  TAMARA

  Bad minute or two after he locked her in the closet and she heard him leave. Alone, trapped in the dark . . . it brought on another scare rush. Shortness of breath, cold sweat, a crazy impulse to beat on the door with her fists, bang her head against it, punish herself for being so fucking stupid. Prowling around where she had no business, letting herself get caught like this. He’d never let her go now that she’d seen the kid. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

  The little girl was crying again in the room. Deep, wracking sobs. She’s more scared than I am, got more to be scared of. The thought brought anger back, and the anger brought calm. She made herself take slow, shallow breaths until the tightness in her chest eased; last thing she needed was to start hyperventilating. All right. Better. Hot, stuffy in there; she shrugged out of her coat, used the hem to wipe sweat off her face and neck, dropped it on the floor and kicked it to one side.

  What was that smell? Mold? Okay, now she was a mouth-breather.

  The closet was small and tight, not much bigger than one of those portable toilets. No matter which way she stood, she couldn’t lift her arms up and out more than halfway before her hands touched wood. Nothing in it except a metal clothes rod that grazed and knocked her head until she got used to where it was. She wasn’t claustrophobic, but being shut up in a box like this did funny things to your head. No wonder some people had a horror of waking up in their own coffin, being buried alive. Suppose he kept her locked up in here until she suffocated or died of starvation or went batshit crazy—

  She bit her lip, hard enough to hurt. None of that crap, Tamara, you quit that right now. Worrying, running your imagination just gonna make you lose it big time. Stay cool. You didn’t panic last Christmas and that was a worse scene than this, that dude was an out-of-control psycho and he had more fire-power than a SWAT team. This Lemoyne’s not anywhere near as whacked out and all he’s got is one ugly little revolver, looks like those Saturday night specials the gangbangers in the ‘hood carry. You can get out of this if you stay cool, use your head.

  Yeah, sure. He outweighs me by seventy-five pounds. And he’s got that gun. And he’s out there somewhere and I’m locked up in this closet. Man’s a kidnapper, maybe worse—and crazy and dangerous no matter how near normal he looks. The way he went off on me, violence boiling up in him sudden like that. The way he kept saying he was that little girl’s daddy, calling her Angie as if he really believes she’s his daughter. Wasn’t an act, he meant it, and that’s no way sane.

  Was that why he picked her, because she looks like his daughter? What’s he intend to do to her, what’s he already done?

  The room out there, this closet, the locks on the doors . . . all just to hold this one kid? Or had there been others? How many others?

  Now that her eyes had adjusted, she could make out faint strips of light at the bottom of the door, around the edges. She tried to get her fingers into the cracks, couldn’t do it; the door was tight in the jamb. Wouldn’t’ve done her any good anyway. No knob on this side, probably bolted on the outside. She felt all the way around the walls, squatted and felt the floorboards. Solid wood. No lie when he’d said there was no way out of here.

  The little girl was still crying in rackety sobs. Tamara could hear, almost feel her terror. There’d never been much of a maternal streak in her, but she felt one now—a mothering urge to protect and comfort so strong it surprised her. What’d the child say her name was? Laura? No, Lauren.

  She put her mouth close to one of the cracks. “Lauren, you hear me? Come on over here, honey.”

  Had to say it again twice before the crying stopped. Faint squeak of bed springs, hesitant footsteps. Then, low and teary, “I don’t like it here, I want to go home.”

  “I know you do. So do I, Lauren.”

  “You know my name.”

  “Sure I do. Mine’s Tamara.”

  “That man calls me Angie. Why’s he do that?”

  “He had a little girl named Angie once. Maybe you look like her.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe her mama took her away somewhere, a long way away where her daddy can’t find her.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” But I can sure guess.

  Sniffling sounds. Then, “Why’d he put you in the closet? It’s dark in there.”

  “He’s a bad man, that’s why.”

  “He keeps saying he’s my daddy. He’s not my daddy.”

  “He’s not anybody’s daddy anymore.”

  “He said I could go home if I didn’t throw up or wet the bed again.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “I’m scared. Why can’t I go home?”

  “Where’s home? Where do you live?”

  “Vallejo.”

  “Where in Vallejo?”

  “On Patterson Street. Our house is number one-sixty-three.”

  Went all the way up there to snatch the kid. Why?

  “You know him, honey, the man who brought you here?”

  “No. I was playing in the park. Mama was there but she went to the bathroom and then he was there.”

  “Never saw him before he took you away?”

  “Uh-uh. He grabbed me and wrapped me up in a blanket and put me in a car. He said I had to be quiet or else.”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “I threw up in the car. All over the blanket.”

  “Did he hurt you, Lauren?”

  “No.”

  “Take your clothes off? Touch you where he shouldn’t?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  Something, anyway.

  “What’d he say after he brought you here?”

  “He said if I was a good girl I could go home. He gave me a doll to play with, but I don’t like it, it’s a white doll. I wish I had Alana Michelle.”

  “Who’s Alana Michelle?”

  “My doll. She’s African-American. I’m just half African-American ‘cause my daddy’s white. Mama helped me braid her hair just like mine. I don’t think you can braid the white doll’s hair.”

  “What else did the man say to you?”

  “He said he loved me.”

  The words put ice on Tamara’s spine.

  “How can he love me?” Lauren said. “He doesn’t know me and I don’t know him. He’s not my daddy. I don’t want to go with him to the trailer.”

  “What trailer, honey?”

  “I don’t know. He said we were going to a trailer in the woods and there’d be a big surprise for me and we’d have lots of fun. But I don’t want to go.”

  “What woods? Where?”

  “I don’t know. There’s deer and elk around. What’s a elk?”

  “A big animal like a deer. Did he say what the surprise was? What kind of fun?”

  “No. Can you have fun with a elk?”

  “Not unless you’re another elk. Lauren—”

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” she said.

  She went away. Tamara started to straighten up, changed her mind, and sat on the floor with her back against the wall and her knees pulled up. Trailer in the woods, deer and elk around. That could be anywhere. Someplace isolated, for sure, where he could be alone with Lauren and show her his big surprise and they’d have “fun.” Warped son of a bitch.

  But he’d had her more than twenty-four hours and he hadn’t done anything to her yet. Maybe he wasn’t a pedophile, maybe he’d snatched the kid for some other whacko reason. Maybe he really believed she was his daughter and he had no intention of hurting her. Yeah, and pigs can fly and world peace is coming next Tuesday. Gearing up to it, that was all.
Or prolonging it, savoring what he planned to do.

  What was she gonna do? What could she do? Try to reason with him, that was one thing. If he wasn’t so far gone he wouldn’t listen to reason. She could be pretty persuasive. Silver Tongue Tamara. Talk at him, lay on the jive, convince him to let the kid go, let both of them go, and then turn himself in so he can get some help—

  More flying pigs.

  Have to try, though. Must be some good in him, a side she could appeal to. Use soft rap on him, don’t show fear, and make real sure not to say or do anything to push his buttons.

  The toilet flushed. Another running water sound—Lauren washing her hands. Kid was well behaved and had been raised right. Pretty soon the floorboards creaked as she came back to the closet.

  “Lady? Tamara?”

  She leaned forward. “Yeah, honey?”

  “When he comes back, that man, will you tell him to take me home?”

  “Sure I will.”

  “Tell him I miss my mama and daddy. My real daddy.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  “Thank you.” Then, “Is he gonna hurt you?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “Don’t let him hurt me either, okay?”

  Between her teeth: “Okay. You go on back to bed now, keep warm. And try not to cry anymore.”

  “My mama says big girls don’t cry.”

  “Your mama’s right,” she lied.

  She sat in the new silence, shallow-breathing through her mouth. Working out what she’d say to Lemoyne when she saw him again—a way to occupy her mind so she wouldn’t be thinking and imagining too much. She got it pretty much straight, but after a while it didn’t matter much. So hot and airless in there it was like her brain was drying up, all the cells melting and oozing out with her sweat.

  The little girl was quiet. Asleep now, maybe. Poor kid must be worn out. Being scared had a way of doing that to you, making you ache all over, so damn tired you could hardly keep your eyes open. Fear and quiet and not enough air and too much heat . . .

  All of a sudden she was out of her doze, groggy for a few seconds and then with her senses sharply alert. Noises out there—key sounds, lock rattling. He was back.