Bill Pronzini: Camouflage

“No. I rang the bell, but… no.”

“Was the door closed?”

“Yes, but not locked. It should have been.”

“When you went in, where was Bobby?”

“He… In his room.”

“Bloody. Blood all over his face and shirt.”

“Oh, God, yes.”

“Did he tell you Francine was dead?”

“Yes.”

“And when you looked in the kitchen, you could tell Francine hadn’t been dead very long. And Bobby was there alone.”

“Yes. Alone. He was…”

“What was he?”

“In shock. Not very coherent.”

“And you knew he hated Francine for hurting him.”

“I hated her just as much. More.”

“But you didn’t kill her, either.”

Silence.

Runyon said, “Bobby in shock with blood all over him, nobody else in the flat, her abuse, his hate. All of that together is why you didn’t believe him, why you thought he stabbed her. Why you decided to take the blame.”

Wavering uncertainty now. The good side of her mouth worked, but no words came out.

“Isn’t it, Bryn?”

“… Yes.” In a barely audible whisper.

The others in the room stirred. Runyon reached a hand across the table, and after a moment Bryn lifted one of hers to touch his. He let himself relax then; he’d done his part.

Halim said, “You admit you lied to the police, Mrs. Darby?”

“Yes. I lied.”

“To protect your son. Is that the only reason?”

“Yes.”

“Are you willing to tell the truth now, cooperate freely?”

“Yes.”

“Did you have anything to do with the death of Francine Whalen?”

“No, I did not.”

“Do you have any knowledge of the homicide that you haven’t revealed?”

“No.”

Crabtree asked, “Did you touch the dead woman, disturb the crime scene in any way?”

“No.”

Halim again. “Did you advise your son to lie to the police?”

“No. I told him not to talk about what happened, for his own good-that I would make everything all right. That’s all.”

There were several more questions, hammering at points in Bryn’s original statement. She handled herself well, as innocent people usually do when they’ve been relieved of a heavy burden. When the ADA, Crabtree, and Dragovich had all the answers they wanted, they exited in a bunch for another conference, leaving Runyon and Bryn alone.

She had a fleeting smile for him then, after which she sat almost primly, her hands clasped together on the table. The pose struck him as a contradictory mix of young girl and older woman, of remorse and determination, sadness and hope. He felt the same protective urge he’d felt toward Bobby the night before, but he didn’t give in to it this time, either. He sat without moving, letting his gaze tell her what he was feeling. This wasn’t the time or the place for anything more.

In a small voice she said, “What happens now?”

“That’s what they’re out there deciding.”

“I told the truth this time.”

“I know you did. They know it, too. There’s a pretty good chance they’ll let you go.”

“Jake… Bobby’s really all right? I mean, not just physically?”

“He will be. Not withdrawn anymore.”

“He won’t run away again?”

“No. He promised me he wouldn’t.”

“When can I-” She broke off, started over. “Robert will try to keep me from seeing him.”

“Once you’re out of here, he has no legal grounds for denying you access. If he tries, we’ll ask Dragovich to step in.”

She nodded, showed Runyon another, not-so-fleeting smile. There was nothing more for either of them to say, not now, not here. They sat in an easy silence for several minutes, until Dragovich and Halim came back into the room.

It was the ADA who delivered the verdict: Bryn was no longer under arrest pending the outcome of the police investigation.

It took nearly two hours for the release process to be completed. Runyon waited it out by knocking around the Hall of Justice, then taking a fast walk up and down Bryant Street. Restless again, and he wasn’t sure why. Something nagging at him, an irritant like a splinter he couldn’t quite get hold of.

Bryn was out of there and they were in his car, winding up Market Street to Twin Peaks, when he finally pried it out. He glanced over at her, sitting in that same almost prim posture with her hands folded in her lap.

“I have to ask you something about Thursday,” he said.

“Jake, please, no more questions.”

“This may be important. You told Inspector Crabtree you didn’t disturb the crime scene in any way. Is that the truth?”

“Yes. I didn’t go near the… her.”

“Last night Bobby told me he heard a crash, something breaking in the kitchen, just before she was stabbed. But when I was in there I didn’t see anything broken.”

“Oh… it was a plate.”

“A plate.”

“A plate of cookies. Broken on the floor.”

“Where? Near the body?”

“No, between the sink and the center island.”

“And you cleaned it all up?”

“Threw everything into the garbage under the sink, yes. That’s how I cut my finger, on one of the shards.”

“Why did you clean up?”

“I don’t know… I wasn’t thinking clearly. I suppose because I was afraid the mess pointed to Bobby, that the police would think he’d knocked the plate off the island when he… when Francine was stabbed. She must have been baking Toll House cookies for Robert; they’re his favorite, Bobby’s, too…”

There was more, but Runyon was no longer listening.

Cookies, he was thinking. A plate of chocolate-chip cookies.

JAKE RUNYON

He found Francine Whalen’s murderer in church. Late that afternoon, after he’d dropped Bryn off at her house and then driven immediately to the East Bay.

It was an old, well-kept nondenominational church a few blocks from Gwen Whalen’s apartment building. Guesswork and an obliging neighbor who knew where Gwen worshiped were what led him there.

She was the only person in the nave, her massive body squeezed into one of the forward pews near the lectern, her head bowed. Dressed in plain black, with black hat and black purse and neatly folded black coat next to her. Mourning clothes. Thorn-crowned Christ on a bronze cross looked down on her from the wall above the altar; so did the Virgin Mary and the twelve apostles from backlit stained-glass windows. Runyon’s steps made faint hollow sounds as he moved down the center aisle, but she didn’t seem to notice. Didn’t move when he slid onto the hard, smooth bench beside her.

“Hello, Gwen.”

Her heavy chins lifted at the sound of his voice. She blinked at him without recognition at first, then with slow, dull recollection. For a couple of beats her gaze held on his; then it shifted away to peer up at the crucified Christ image. Her rosebud mouth formed silent words of prayer.

“You remember me, don’t you?”

She finished praying before she said, “Yes,” with her eyes still canted upward. “You came to my apartment.”

“And we didn’t have a chance to finish our talk.”

“Mr. Runyon. A detective.”

“I’d like to finish now, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, not here,” she said. “Not in church.”

“Outside, then. Would that be all right?”

“I’m not done talking to my savior, Jesus Christ.”

“When you are. I’ll wait outside for you.”

She didn’t answer him. Closed her eyes, bowed her head again.

He left her, went out into the warmish afternoon. There was a small garden alongside the church, with a wooden bench and a fountain-a quiet place. But he wouldn’t have a clear view of the entrance if he waited there. There’d be at least one other way out of the church, but he didn’t think she’d use it. She wasn’t trying to hide and she wouldn’t run away.