Hardcase

by Bill Pronzini

  “So you think he’s running.”

  “Not much doubt of it,” Talley said. “He’s already been at his bank account.”

  “When?”

  “Early this morning. Three different ATM machines— Marysville, Yuba City, Live Oak. No movement pattern there, because all those towns are in the same area.”

  “How much did he pull out?”

  “As much as he had in. Not quite six hundred dollars.”

  “That won’t take him far.”

  “No, it won’t. But you and I both know he can get more if he’s desperate enough. Convenience stores grow everywhere these days—and they’re just one easy target.”

  “He have a gun registered to him?”

  “No. But we figure he’s got an illegal piece.”

  “Victim reports in some of the rape cases?”

  “Right. But it won’t do him any good when the squeeze comes. And that won’t be long. He’s bound to make a mistake before long—his kind always does. They’ve never had to run, so they don’t know how. I’ll be surprised if he isn’t in custody within seventy-two hours.”

  DeFalco had been hanging over my shoulder, breathing on my neck as he listened in. “Damn whoever tipped the bugger,” he said when Talley and I were done. “I don’t know how much more of this waiting I can stand.”

  I said, “You think it’s bad for you? Some of his victims have waited twenty years.”

  I CONFIDED THE FULL STORY to Kerry that evening. It made her angry at first and then bitterly reflective. “Men like that . . .” she said, and shook her head. “I’ve always been ambivalent on the issue of castration for repeat rapists . . . you know, cruel and unusual punishment. But in this case I’d vote for it in a minute.”

  “So would I. Without anesthetic.”

  After a little time she asked, “Do you want to cancel Cazadero?”

  “Cancel it? Why?”

  “Well, with that pig on the loose . . . Don’t you want to stay close to home? In case you’re needed?”

  “Babe, Cazadero is close to home. And there’s nothing I can do to help catch him. I won’t be needed again until his trial.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure. I need to go away this weekend. Be alone with you, forget for a while that there are men like Stephen Chehalis in the world. We’re leaving tomorrow noon, as scheduled.”

  AS IT TURNED OUT, I was wrong on two counts. The authorities did need me again, much sooner than I’d expected, and so we didn’t leave Thursday noon as planned.

  At ten past nine, Vivian Talley telephoned from Los Gatos. Chehalis was still at large, and as a result a meeting had been scheduled for noon: the chief, herself, Butterfield, representatives of four other police agencies, and the FBI. The feds were nosing into the case, she said, because Chehalis had allegedly committed his crimes in two states and so there was the possibility he had transported one or more of his victims across state lines. The FBI requested that DeFalco and I be present at the meeting to tell our stories firsthand. Would I notify him and the two of us drive down together?

  Typical FBI methodology. Horn in on what was essentially a state and local matter, disrupt things with unnecessary meetings, make requests that were really demands and not quite reasonable besides. The agents who would be in Los Gatos at one o’clock were probably out of the Bureau’s San Francisco field office; but could they interview DeFalco and me separately, here in the city? No, they could not. They had to travel sixty-plus miles to Los Gatos, so we had to travel sixty-plus miles to Los Gatos. Ask not what government bullshit can do for you, ask what you can do for government bullshit.

  I caught DeFalco at his desk at the Chronicle. The prospect of FBI involvement in the case made him happy. From his news-jaded point of view, it added an element of national interest to his exclusive. I said, “You’re so pleased to be showing off for the feds, you can do the driving. Pick me up at ten—we wouldn’t want to be late.”

  Kerry took the last-minute change in stride. “I half expected something like this,” she said. “Tell you what. I’ll drive to Cazadero myself, as soon as I finish what’s on my desk. You come up whenever you can later.”

  “Why don’t you just wait for me?”

  “I don’t have anything to do this afternoon and I don’t feel much like sitting around; I’m all packed and raring to go. Plus it’s a nice day for a drive in the country. Plus we’ll need some groceries and I don’t mind stopping for them. Plus I’m a fairly good cook, as I don’t have to tell you, when I have time to plan a special menu....”

  “Okay, I’m convinced. Go ahead, start the honeymoon without me.”

  “Well, the nonessential parts anyway.”

  “No telling how long this damn meeting will last, but with any luck I should be back in the city by five. A quick shower and change and I’ll be on my way north by six. Dinner at eight-thirty?”

  “Let’s make it nine. And call me if you leave any later than six.”

  “Will do.”

  THE BIG MEETING TURNED OUT as I’d expected: a monumental waste of time. A lot of talk, a lot of questions, some prickly sniping by the state and local cops, who didn’t like the idea of the feds trying to steal their thunder, and no particular resolution. DeFalco and I were onstage for all of fifteen minutes, and relegated to background seats for the two-hour balance. He loved it, though. He wasn’t supposed to be taking notes by pen or machine, but none of the assembled brass had bothered to check him for a recorder or tell him to his face that he couldn’t use one; he had his little pocket Casio turned on the whole time, as he gleefully reported to me afterward.

  It was nearly three-thirty when we left Los Gatos. Chehalis was still on the loose, but nobody who’d attended the meeting seemed worried except for DeFalco and me. The law’s philosophy was: We’ll get him sooner or later. Our worry was: If they didn’t get him soon, later could be weeks or months—and more victims added while he was on the loose.

  Rush-hour traffic jammed us up coming out of San Jose, and jammed us again entering San Francisco, so it was five-fifteen when DeFalco dropped me at my office. I took a quick run up to see if I had any messages. Two, but they weren’t on my machine; Tamara Corbin had been in as promised, taken the calls, and left a computer printout on my desk containing names, numbers, times called, and verbatim messages. Her, I’d liked almost from the beginning. Now I even liked her Apple PowerBook and laser printer.

  Home, then. Ten of six when I let myself into the flat: running a little later than anticipated. I showered, toweled off, and was putting on a clean pair of slacks when the phone rang.

  Kerry or DeFalco, I thought, but it was neither one. Even before the word hello was all the way out of my mouth, a woman’s voice—so clotted with anger that I didn’t recognize it—said in my ear, “Why did you lie to me?”

  “... Who is this?”

  “How could you do that? Why?”

  I got it then. “Ms. Aldrich?”

  “You had no right to lie to me. No right.”

  “Calm down. What’re you talking about?”

  “You know damn well. My father, my birth father.”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s alive and you know it!”

  Oh, Christ, I thought. I sat down on the bed. The good feeling of anticipation I’d brought home with me was gone now. In its place were strong stirrings of unease.

  I said, “How did you find out?”

  “You talked to him, you even had a drink with him.”

  “Answer me. How do you know all that?”

  “He told me so, how do you think?”

  “Told you? You’ve spoken to him?”

  “Oh yes we had a nice long chat.”

  “When?”

  “Just now.”

  “On the phone or in person?”

  “What difference does that—”

  More sharply: “On the phone or in person?”

  “On the phone.”

  “He called y
ou?”

  “Well, how could I call him? You told me he was dead.”

  “Who did he say he was?”

  “My father, of course. Who do you—”

  “I mean what name did he give you?”

  “His name. My name. Chehalis. Stephen Chehalis.”

  Bad, very bad. “Why did he call you?”

  “He wants to see me.” She had her anger under control now; her voice was acid calm. “He wanted to see me from the first, as soon as you told him he had a daughter.”

  “Ms. Aldrich, listen to me—”

  “No. Not unless you’re going to tell me why you lied, when I paid you good money to—”

  “Did you invite him to your apartment?”

  “It’s none of your business what I did.”

  “Is Chehalis coming to your apartment?”

  “I told you—”

  “Is he coming to your apartment?”

  “No! Don’t you dare yell at me!”

  I had a stranglehold on the receiver. “All right, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled. Ms. Aldrich, Melanie, if he is coming there, don’t let him in. You understand? Please don’t let him into your apartment, please don’t meet him anywhere else. He’s not the man you think he is.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “He’s dangerous, violent. He’s wanted by the police for serial rape and at least three counts of murder.”

  “What!”

  “It’s the truth. The police in Los Gatos, the FBI—”

  “Liar,” she said. “Dirty damn liar.”

  “I swear I’m telling the truth. Stephen Chehalis is—”

  “My father,” she said, and hung up on me.

  Goddamn it! I fumbled my notebook out of my suit jacket, found and punched out her number. No answer. Either she was letting it ring, or she’d left to rendezvous with Chehalis somewhere in spite of my warning.

  I slammed the receiver down. Why? Why? I couldn’t figure his motives. Calling her out of the blue, giving her his real name, admitting to being her natural father, asking to see her.... Where was the purpose in all that? Why hadn’t he run clear out of the state by now, instead of risking a detour here to meet Melanie Aldrich?

  Why her, of all people?

  Chapter Seventeen

  THE CENTRAL COURTYARD at her Russian Hill apartment complex was night-lighted with red, blue, and green spots. The color mix masked its rundown aspects, gave the moribund fountain and benches and shrubbery a shadowy, two-dimensional quality that was at once whimsical and faintly menacing: witch woods in an animated version of Hansel and Gretel. The young couple that came strolling toward the security gate as I reached the top of the steps fit the illusion, at least from a distance: one boy, one girl, laughing and holding hands. I stood to one side, took out my keys, and pretended to fumble through them for one that would open the lock. The couple was as trusting as Hansel and Gretel too. The boy held the gate open for me after they passed through and the girl smiled at me and asked how I was doing tonight. I lied to her; I said I was doing just fine.

  In the outer vestibule I pushed the button above the mail box that bore Melanie Aldrich’s name. No voice came over the intercom, no unlocking buzz sounded on the door. My stomach was kicking up now, a sour burning under my breastbone—physical reaction to the anxiety her call had built in me. I fingered the button again. And again I heard silence.

  Somebody was moving around inside the brightly lit lobby. I leaned close to the grillwork-and-glass door to get a better look. Janitor. Or maintenance engineer or whatever they were calling themselves these days. He was about my age, dressed in blue overalls, and he was pushing a wet mop around the tile floor in little circles, not very energetically. I banged on the door until the noise got his attention. He peered in my direction for a few seconds, then made a get-lost gesture with one hand and went on with his mopping. So I hammered on the door some more, kept it up until it began to grate on him and he stomped over to find out what I wanted.

  He opened the door about six inches, blocking it with his body in case I was there on a mission of trouble, and scowled at me through the gap. “What’s the idea making so much noise?”

  “I need to talk to one of the tenants and there’s no answer from her apartment. How long have you been mopping in there?”

  “Half hour or so. Why?”

  “I spoke to her on the phone less than twenty minutes ago. If she left, you must have seen her.”

  He shrugged. “They come in, they go out. Try again later.”

  “I can’t do that. It’s important that I find her as soon as possible.”

  “Yeah? Why’s that?”

  “I think she’s in serious trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “The police kind.”

  “Hell,” he said, “you a cop?”

  “Private.” I proved it to him.

  He grinned, exposing two rows of yellow horse teeth. “Just like on TV.” When I didn’t respond to that he quit grinning and said, “Which one is she? Which tenant?”

  “Melanie Aldrich. Five-B. You know her by sight?”

  “Sure, I know her.”

  “Did she go out a little while ago?”

  “Fifteen minutes, maybe.”

  “Was she alone?”

  He nodded. “Didn’t look like she was in trouble to me. Didn’t talk or act like it either.”

  “She spoke to you?”

  “Little bit. Asked me a question.”

  “What question?”

  “If I knew where Duvall Road was in Pacifica.”

  “Duvall Road. You’re sure that’s the right name?”

  “Like the actor, she said. You know, Robert Duvall.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “Told her I’d never heard of it.”

  “She didn’t say where on Duvall Road she was going?”

  “Nope. Just said she’d find it and went out.”

  “What kind of car does she drive?”

  “Car? How should I know? Tenants have cars, they keep ’em in the garage down the block. What kind of trouble you say she’s—”

  But he was talking to my back. I was already running for the gate.

  BY THE TIME I REACHED Pacifica, on the coast a few miles south of the city, I thought I understood Chehalis’s motives.

  Money. He was after money.

  Vivian Talley had told me he’d got less than six hundred dollars out of his bank account. It was possible he’d put together a run-out stash over a period of time, but with his income and lifestyle it couldn’t be more than a couple of thousand. In his mind he’d need more, a lot more; a fugitive on the run nowadays wasn’t like the David Janssen character in the old TV show—he couldn’t hop around from job to job, broke or near-broke, and hope to escape detection by police and FBI with their modern, high-tech resources. A large bundle of cash was his only hope. And a better, less risky way of getting it than committing armed robberies was to reveal himself to a well-fixed daughter who knew nothing about him or his crimes, who was eager to meet him, and who might be just as eager to supply him with cash if he told her the right lies.

  What made his ploy even worse was that I was responsible. I’d opened my fat mouth at the Holiday Inn, told him Melanie Aldrich’s full name, told him she’d inherited money from her adoptive parents....

  I drove fast down the long, curving hillside into Pacifica. Clear skies here, but not for long. A thick bank of offshore fog had begun its landward assault; ragged vanguards crawled toward the miles-long public beach, toward the headlands on the south and the rows of tract homes that crowded near the ocean on the north. In another hour the town, the eastern hillsides that sheltered it, would be swallowed in mist as thick-puffed as cotton candy. A wet mist, too, from the bloated look of the fog bank: its accumulated moisture would fall like drizzle.

  I’d looked up Duvall Road before leaving Russian Hill, on the Pacifica map jammed into the glove compartment with my oth
er Bay Area maps. It was on the southern edge, near where Highway 1 begins its steep climb toward Devil’s Slide. Short street, a block and a half long, extending from the highway to the inner rim of the beach. That ought to make finding Melanie and Chehalis fairly easy. How many places could there be on a street a block and a half long?

  I wondered again if I’d made a mistake in not calling the Pacifica police on the car phone. No. By the time I finished explaining the situation, and they finished checking with Los Gatos to make sure I wasn’t a crank, I’d have beaten prowl cars to Duvall Road anyway. Better—safer for Melanie—if I went in alone first, got a handle on the situation. Then I could either take Chehalis myself or back off and let the cops do it.

  As soon as I made the turn off Highway 1 onto Duvall Road, I knew where I’d find them. Half a dozen commercial establishments along here, all dark except for the largest. A crimson neon sign rode the foggy night above that one’s entrance drive:

  SURF AND SAND MOTEL

  Seaside Cottages

  Vacancy

  The motel was down at the end of the first block, a couple of hundred yards from the beach. I slowed as I neared the entrance drive, coasted on past so I could look over the grounds. Older place, one of the leftovers from the autocourt fifties that you still find here and there among the coastal towns. A dozen one-room-and-bath cottages, set apart from each other in facing rows of six each, with a larger office building in front near the street. Fog deepened the darkness toward the rear: there weren’t any outdoor lights except for the motel sign. In the neon back-spill I could just make out the shapes of four parked cars, three of them drawn up in front of the occupied cottages. All of the other guest accommodations were lightless.

  I drove down to a parking area at the edge of the beach—two cars drawn up there—and then came back and pulled in next to the motel office. Before I got out I unclipped the .38 Bodyguard revolver from under the dash, rotated the cylinder so that a live round was under the hammer instead of an empty chamber. I slipped the gun into my jacket pocket.