Demons

by Bill Pronzini

  Downstairs to her office. On two walls were framed posters, one advertising a computer trade show, the other a local company that specialized in exotic varieties of coffee. Both were distinctive, striking, with accents on sharp angles, unusual typefaces, and splashes of primary color. Unsigned, but no doubt Nedra Merchant’s work. The rest of the office was expensively but functionally furnished: desk in some kind of dark, burnished wood, leather armchair, computer terminal and printer, file cabinet and catchall table in the same dark wood as the desk.

  Propped against the table was a drawing board, and on its top were some loose sketches, an artist’s portfolio case, and two small cardboard boxes. I flipped through the sketches: more work in the same style as the wall posters. The contents of the case were samples of business brochures, company and trade magazines, posters of various sizes to be shown to prospective clients.

  The cardboard boxes had been put there by Victor Runyon, evidently, because they contained her accumulated mail for the past three and a half months. One was filled with catalogs, flyers, and unopened letters; the other contained opened mail, a sheaf of papers clipped together, and two tiny cassette tapes.

  I went through the larger box first. Junk mail, for the most part, plus several trade journals that she subscribed to or maybe had had a hand in designing, plus two packages from the Book-of-the-Month Club. Almost all of it had been addressed to a post office box downtown, near her office; she seemed to get little mail here at the house. There were no personal letters or postcards. No unpaid bills. The only items of interest were three Wells Fargo envelopes: her monthly checking account statements and cancelled checks. I slit each of those envelopes with my pocket knife. The oldest of the statements, dated the end of May, held some fifteen checks, most from late April and early May, none dated after May 7th. The statement for June contained a lone cancelled check, written on May 6th, to a wine shop in SoMa, and cashed too late to be included on the May statement. The statement for July had no cancelled checks. And none of the three showed any ATM cash withdrawals. Nedra Merchant’s checking account balance had been $1,672.61 as of May 7th, factoring in the one late-cashed check, and it was still $1,672.61 three-plus months later.

  All but one of the checks had been made out to banks, companies, stores. The exception was a check in the amount of $500 payable to Philip C. Muncon and endorsed on the back in a bold hand. Muncon, I thought. Muncon, Muncon… Duncan. Nedra’s therapist? The names sounded alike; easy enough after five years for Lawrence April’s memory to transform an uncommon name into a common one.

  I moved over to the box of opened mail. No personal letters there either. And just one card, a birthday card signed “Aunt Louise.” Plain card, without much sentiment. There was no return address on the envelope, but the postmark told me it had been mailed in Lubbock, Texas, on June 15. So Nedra Merchant’s birthday was sometime around that date, and only one person in her life had cared enough to send her greetings.

  The rest of the opened envelopes were Walter Merchant’s three uncashed alimony checks; and bills, two and three each from utility companies, credit card firms, Saks Fifth Avenue and two expensive women’s clothing shops. I checked the itemized charges on the credit card and store bills. None had been made after May 5th. The clipped-together papers were customer receipt portions of the most recent bills, with an inked notation on each of the date and amount paid by Victor Runyon. Careful records of his faith, to be presented to her like an offering on the day of her resurrection.

  The cassette tapes would be for her telephone answering machine, I thought. All her messages preserved intact. I put those next to the machine for the time being and went to work on the desk.

  Only one of the drawers, the largest on the bottom, had anything for me. Little hooks had been screwed into the wood along one side; keys hung from all but the last in line. Rectangles of adhesive tape, words written on each with a felt-tip pen, were affixed above each hook: front door, side door, car, IID. Spare keys for all the doors and locks in her life. The piece of tape above the empty hook said Thorn., capital T and with a period after the last letter. Abbreviation of somebody’s name-another lover, maybe? Or of a place?

  I took the key off the hook marked IID, put it in my pocket, then went to the file cabinet. Personal records, exclusively: paid bills, receipts, cancelled checks and bank statements, income tax returns dating back several years. No business records; she probably kept those at Illustrative Image Designs. Not a single item of correspondence either. Apparently she wasn’t a saver, even of what few cards and letters she did receive. If she wrote any letters, it was either by hand or on her computer; and if she’d saved any copies, they were on the discs stored in the bottom file drawer. If it turned out I needed to go through the PC files, I would have to bring in help. I don’t know a damned thing about computers and I’m too old and too stubborn and too much of a technophobe to want to learn. My loss. Maybe.

  One thing I did get out of the file cabinet: Philip C. Muncon was her therapist, all right. Had been for close to ten years. There was a thick file with his name on the tab-bills and cancelled checks dating back to the early eighties. That seemed a hell of a long time to be consulting one particular psychologist, but some people become dependent to the point of necessity-patients and doctors both. Muncon had been at the same address on Sacramento Street the entire ten years, which was a point in favor of his reputability. I copied the address and his phone number into my notebook.

  Half-hidden by the answering machine was a Rolodex. I sat down in Nedra’s leather chair and thumbed through it. Lots of names and addresses, but nearly all of them appeared to be business-related. There were no cards for Victor Runyon or Dean Purchase or Lawrence April or Glen Grigsby or Walter Merchant; lovers past and present either weren’t acknowledged this way or were erased completely from her life after they stopped being a part of it. Under L was one marked Aunt Louise, no last name, with an address in Lubbock, Texas, and a telephone number. Only one other card bore a female name: Annette Olroyd, with a local phone but no address. The information for both Aunt Louise and Annette Olroyd also went into my notebook.

  Now the answering machine tapes. I rewound and played back the one that was already in the machine. Only two messages, both from prospective clients. Neither of the filled tapes was marked; I picked one and put it in to play. It was the older, dating back to early May. Clients who grew progressively angrier at not hearing from her; a charity solicitation; a soft and somewhat jittery female voice that identified itself as Annette; a husky male voice that said he was Philip Muncon and wanted to know if everything was all right, since she’d missed her appointment and it wasn’t like her not to call. More business messages, the first dun call from a credit card company, another call from Annette-Annette Olroyd, I presumed-and a second from Dr. Muncon, both expressing concern because Nedra hadn’t gotten in touch with them. End of tape.

  I switched it for the second full one. Philip Muncon had telephoned a third time, urging Nedra to call or visit him as soon as possible because he was “quite worried” about her. But that was the last message from him, left in early June; I knew the approximate date because a client who rang up afterward gave the date of his call as June 13th. Why nothing more from Muncon? And why no further messages from Annette Olroyd? Had Nedra contacted one or both of them, offered an explanation that put their minds at ease?

  The last half of the tape had some interesting messages. Two were from Walter Merchant, who had told me about calling his ex-wife. Both were straightforward, businesslike, and didn’t say much other than that he’d appreciate hearing from her. Then…

  “Hello, Nedra. You know who this is, baby?” The man must have assumed she did know, because he didn’t identify himself. He didn’t have to as far as I was concerned; Eddie Cahill’s voice was reasonably distinctive. “I’m back and I’m gonna be around for a long time now. I just wanted you to know I’ll be seeing you. Soon. Real soon. Bye for now.”

  Cahill had cal
led again, just how soon afterward I couldn’t tell; but it was the last message on the tape. His tone in the first had been smarmy; his tone in the second had an edge of anger. “I know all about you and Vic the architect. You better get rid of him, sweetheart. And you better not sic that lawyer on me again. I’m warning you on both counts.”

  I rewound the tape, replaced it with the mostly blank one, and then got up for another look in the file cabinet. Her attorney’s name was James Keverne; I’d glanced through his file earlier. All the papers had seemed to pertain to her divorce, but I should have paid closer attention: At the rear was a handful of documents that dealt with Edward R. Cahill, including a copy of a restraining order issued by a San Francisco judge two years ago. Evidently Cahill had spent six weeks harassing Nedra Merchant with telephone calls, several of which she’d taped, in which he’d made “overt sexual advances and veiled threats”; and on two occasions he’d accosted her in public before witnesses, the second time “causing her to fall while attempting to flee, the result of this fall being minor injuries requiring medical attention.” Going by what Richard Rodriguez had told me, the restraining order had been issued around the time Cahill was arrested on the unrelated charge of felony assault that sent him to Lompoc.

  James Keverne’s name, phone number, and Fremont Street address made a fourth notebook entry. After which I put everything back the way I’d found it and went to sift through the rest of the downstairs rooms.

  I came up empty-handed there. But there was no disappointment in that. The leads I’d turned up in Nedra’s office had already exceeded my expectations.

  ***

  ILLUSTRATIVE IMAGE DESIGNS, INC. was housed in a two-story brick building above a printing company on Third and Harrison. You went up two flights of stairs from the street and down a short hallway, to where two doors faced each other like a couple of old adversaries. A pair of converted lofts, I thought. The front one, facing Third, belonged to a combination art school and gallery that specialized in something called post-1900 Russian constructivism. The door to the back loft bore the name of Nedra Merchant’s company and yielded to the key I’d taken from her desk.

  Nobody had been here in a long time. It smelled of dust and disuse, like a closed-up attic room; dust coated the furnishings, swam in wedges of sunlight that penetrated through a pair of mesh-screened skylights. She’d set the loft up to serve as a show-place as well as an office and workroom. Posters, two- and four-page brochures, magazine covers, and design layouts papered the walls, and there was a big artist’s file with long, flat drawers that contained a great many more samples of her handiwork. Also present were a computer, several drawing boards, a table loaded down with pens and brushes and paints and other tools of her trade. A cabinet held all of her business records: invoices, correspondence, preliminary plans and sketches for various projects. There wasn’t a whisper of her personal life in any of it. Nor in any other part of the loft. This place was strictly for business. And if there was any connection between Illustrative Image Designs and her disappearance, I couldn’t find it.

  I locked up again and went over to the art school and gallery, where a young guy wearing a bushy beard and a ponytail gave me a big rush until he found out I wasn’t interested in buying post-1900 Russian constructivism or in taking lessons in how to create it. Then he lost interest. My questions about Nedra Merchant-I used the insurance background check dodge to explain myself-didn’t revive it much.

  “I hardly know the woman,” he said with a faint, arrogant sneer. “We say hello when we run into each other, that’s all. We have little in common. I’m an artist and she… well, she’s very successful, I’m sure, with her commercial pap for the indiscriminate eye.”

  Whereas his discriminate eye had not even noticed that she’d been absent and her office closed up tight for nearly four months. Real artists are so sensitive, so in touch with the world around them. Yes they are.

  ***

  JAMES KEVERNE WAS STILL OUT to lunch, even though it was after two o’clock. Feasting with his secretary, maybe; the only person in his office was a harried-looking paralegal. Yes, he was due back at some point, but she wasn’t sure just when. Yes, she would give him my card and ask him to call me as soon as it was convenient. Yes, she would tell him it concerned a client of his and a two-year-old restraining order.

  I drove from his office to mine. Three messages: Joe DeFalco, one of Dean Purchase’s secretaries, Barney Rivera. DeFalco wanted to know how things were going with Kay Runyon; and why didn’t we get together for a drink tonight, he had a funny story to tell me about Eberhardt. To hell with him and to hell with his funny story. Purchase’s secretary said Mr. Purchase would be free from 3:45 to 4:00 this afternoon and would see me then in his office; if that was convenient, would I please call back to confirm? I thought about it, asking myself again if I really needed to talk to Dean Purchase. The answer was the same as before. After all, he was willing to give me fifteen minutes of his valuable time, wasn’t he? I called his secretary back and confirmed.

  Barney Rivera is Great Western Insurance’s chief claims adjustor and, like DeFalco, an old poker buddy. When a job comes up that requires investigative work, Barney as often as not calls me first-Great Western, as is the case with most small insurance companies, doesn’t have enough need or funds to employ a staff investigator. I called him as soon as I was done with Purchase’s secretary. When Barney dangles a bone you take it quick; his bosses demand fast service and there were any number of other free-lance detectives waiting in line to give it to them. Eberhardt, for one.

  The job he had to offer was routine: A married couple wanted to insure each other’s life for $250,000, with a double-indemnity clause for accidental death, and Great Western wanted to make sure there were no ulterior motives involved before they sold the policy. I said I’d handle it and Barney gave me the particulars. Then he said, “You been burning the midnight oil lately, huh? Lot of night work?”

  “Not really. Why?”

  “Neglecting Kerry, though, right?”

  “She’s the one neglecting me,” I said.

  “Yeah? Been doing a lot of night work herself, has she?”

  “Now that she’s creative director at Bates and Carpenter.”

  “Some night work’s more creative than other kinds.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I ought to know,” he said slyly. “Night work’s my specialty.”

  “You going to start bragging again?” Rivera is a roly-poly little bugger with a passion for peppermints and an inexplicable attraction for the maternal type of woman. He seldom lacks for female companionship; to hear him tell it he’s the Warren Beatty of the insurance racket. “It’s too early in the day for tales of lust and perversion.”

  “You think so? Well, I happened to be squiring a sweet young thing last night and she’s the kind that likes to be plied with dinner, drinks, and a little nightlife before she’s ready to do the nasty. One of the places we stopped in was Henry the Eighth’s, over on Clay, about ten o’clock.”

  “So?”

  “Who did I see there but your lady love.”

  “So?”

  “She wasn’t alone. She was with a gentleman.”

  Barney has his share of faults and one of them is a mildly sadistic sense of humor. One of the other regulars at our monthly poker game had dubbed him Barney the Needle. “I repeat-so?”

  “Doesn’t bother you, huh?”

  “Why should it? She was with one of her clients.”

  “Didn’t look like a business meeting to me. Looked like hanky-panky. They were snuggled up in a booth, drinking wine and gazing soulfully into each other’s eyes.”

  “Oh, Christ, Barney, cut it out, will you?”

  “Saw her kiss him once, right on the mouth,” he said. “Now that’s what I call creative directing.”

  He’d succeeded in rankling me. “All right, that’s enough.”

  “You think I’m kidding?”

>   “I think you’re full of crap, that’s what I think.”

  “Could be, but I saw what I saw. And she didn’t see me. Too busy with the, ah, client.”

  “Shut up, Barney.”

  “You want to know what he looked like?”

  “No. I told you-”

  “About her age, handsome, little silver at the temples. Complete opposite of you. Slender, for one thing. Well dressed, for another-the GQ type.”

  “You son of a bitch!”

  “Trouble in paradise, paisan’?”

  I hung up on him. Sat there for about ten seconds, not thinking anything, not feeling anything. Then I said, “Bullshit,” aloud. And picked up the receiver again and called Bates and Carpenter. Usually I put my calls there through the switchboard and Kerry’s secretary, so as not to disturb her if she’s busy; this time I rang her private number.

  She was in and she was busy; she sounded as frazzled and preoccupied as she had yesterday. “You caught me at a bad time,” she said. “I’ll call you back a little later-”

  “I won’t keep you long, babe,” I said. “I just wanted to know if we can get together tonight. I really need to see you.”

  “Oh…” And a little silence. And: “Not tonight. I just can’t. I’ve got to do some more work on the Blessing account.”

  “That the account you were working on last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened to Granny’s Bakeries?”

  “I passed the buck. It was either that or shove Granny Bridger out a window.”

  “How late did you work?”

  “Until about ten.”

  “Missed your pro-choice meeting, then.”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you do after you left the office?”

  “What do you think? I went straight home to bed.”