Bill Pronzini: Camouflage

The boy said nothing until they’d nearly finished making a circuit of the women’s clothing department. Then, in that shy way of his, and with a little more animation, “I know what I want to get Mom. But I only have two dollars and it’ll cost more than that.”

“Tell you what,” Runyon said. “I’ll loan you the money and you can pay me back out of your allowance. Fifty cents a week or whatever you feel comfortable with.”

“My dad wouldn’t like that.”

“He doesn’t have to know, does he?”

“I guess not.”

“Just between us. What is it you want to buy?”

Bobby showed him. Good choice. Perfect, in fact, because it was caring, thoughtful, appropriate.

Scarf. Silk scarf.

He spent five minutes making his pick, one unlike any in the collection of scarves Bryn used to cover the nerve-paralyzed side of her face. A deep burgundy color, with an interwoven silver and gold design.

“You think she’ll like this one, Jake?”

“I think it’ll be her favorite.”

Bobby was quiet again on the ride back to the house. But he didn’t fiddle with the Game Boy; he sat looking straight ahead, his mouth thinned a little, his forehead ridged. Thinking hard about something.

They were on Moraga, with only a few blocks to go, when Bobby said, “Mr… um, Jake. Are you really a detective?”

“That’s right. I was a policeman in Seattle for a long time; now I work for a private agency.”

“Do you have a gun?”

“Yes.”

“What kind?”

“Three-fifty-seven Magnum.”

“Can I see it?”

“… Why?”

“I’ve never seen a real gun before.”

“Guns aren’t toys, Bobby.”

“I know that.” Pause. “Have you ever shot anybody?”

“Yes. In self-defense.”

Another pause. “Could I see it? Please?”

Runyon almost said no, he didn’t have it with him. But he didn’t like lying, especially to kids. The weapon was locked in the glove compartment, where his permit allowed him to keep it; loaded but with the chamber under the hammer empty. There didn’t seem to be any harm in granting Bobby his request.

The house was just ahead. Runyon said as he pulled up in front, “All right, but just a quick look.” He shut off the engine, keyed open the glove box. The Magnum was in its clip-on holster; he slid it out, let Bobby have his wide-eyed look.

Runyon was locking the weapon away again when the boy said, “I wish I had a gun like that,” in an off-tone that made Runyon glance sharply at him.

“Why? What would you do with it?”

“Keep it for… the next time.”

“What do you mean, the next time?”

No response.

“The next time your dad hurts you, is that it?”

“My dad doesn’t hurt me.”

“No? Who, then?”

Silence.

“Who, Bobby?”

The boy’s mouth twisted and a name burst out of him, like a lump of something bitter that he’d hacked up from his throat.

“Francine,” he said.

“Who’s Francine?”

“I hate her,” Bobby said with sudden ferocity, “I hate her, I hate her! ” And he bolted from the car and raced up the steps to the house.

JAKE RUNYON

Bryn came hurrying out to meet him on the porch. “What happened? Why is Bobby so upset?”

“Put a coat on. Let’s go for a walk.”

“He went running into his room…”

“Better if we talk outside.”

Runyon waited until they’d gone a short way to the west, hunched against the fog-threaded ocean wind, Bryn’s anxious eyes on him as they walked, before he said, “Do you know anyone named Francine?”

“Francine? The woman Robert’s going to marry… Francine Whalen. Why?”

In clipped sentences Runyon told her about the gun episode and Bobby’s last words before he fled the car.

“Oh my God.” Bryn stopped walking, turned to face him. “She’s the one who’s been hurting him, not Robert. But that’s… why would she…”

“How much do you know about her?”

“Not very much. She’s a paralegal, worked for Robert’s firm. I didn’t like her the first time I met her. The kind of sweetness-and-light type that fool men but not women-a cold, calculating bitch underneath. I think he was sleeping with her before I had the stroke.”

“They living together now?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“He has a flat in the Marina, near the Green. Avila Street.”

“Number?”

“Four-sixteen. Upstairs.”

“She still working for his firm?”

“No. He’s already paying her bills,” Bryn said, and then added bitterly, “In exchange for her taking care of Bobby.”

“When is the marriage supposed to take place?”

“I’m not sure. Sometime this summer.” A wind gust blew up a swirl of discarded fast-food wrappers, but that wasn’t what made the visible tremor run through her. She drew her coat collar tight around her throat, held it there with one hand. “I just don’t understand any of this. Bobby’s silence, for one thing. If Robert was abusing him, yes, but Francine… why wouldn’t he tell his father, me, somebody?”

“Threats, intimidation. He hates her, but he’s also terrified of her.”

“But for God’s sake why would she hurt a little boy, break his arm, punch him hard enough to leave bruises? She’s getting everything she wants… Robert, his position, his money.”

“No way of telling until we know more about her.”

“Whatever the reason, I don’t blame Bobby for wishing her dead. I’d like to kill her myself.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“Oh yes. Yes, I would.”

“That’s not the answer, Bryn.”

She drew a heavy breath. “What is?”

“Proof,” Runyon said. “Solid proof that’ll convince your ex, Social Services, the police.”

“How do we get it? Bobby? Should I tell him we know Francine’s been abusing him?”

“You can try, straight on or roundabout.”

“But you don’t think he’ll admit it?”

“I think he came as close as he could in the car with me.”

“Saying how much he hated her… that’s a cry for help.”

“Yes. But in my limited experience with kids, fear always trumps hatred. He’s too afraid of the woman and whatever threats she made.”

“Damn her! She’ll keep right on hurting him, and the next time… the next time… I won’t let it happen. I won’t.”

Runyon said, “There may be something in her background that’ll help. I’ll see what I can find out. ‘Whalen’ spelled W-h-a-l-e-n?”

“Yes.”

“How old is she?”

“Late twenties, maybe thirty.”

“Description?”

“Bottle blonde. Five three or four, slender but top-heavy. Robert always did like big boobs… mine weren’t enough for him.”

Runyon let that pass. “Know anything about her background? Where she was born, if she was married before, has any kids?”

“I think she’s divorced, but I’m not sure. I hope to God she never had any children of her own.”

“When did she start working for Robert’s firm?”

“Three years ago. In the summer.”

“Any idea where she worked before?”

“No. Robert never told me and I had no reason to ask.”

The good side of Bryn’s face was flushed and she was still shivering. Gently he took her arm, turned her back the way they’d come. At the bottom of her porch steps he said, “Better wait awhile before you talk to Bobby, let him calm down.”

“Yes.”

“Call me afterward.”

“I will.”

He said, “It’ll be all right, Bryn. We’ll make it all right.” Hollow words and cold comfort, but for now they were all he had to give.

In his apartment on Ortega he brewed a cup of tea and booted up his laptop to run a preliminary background check on Francine Whalen. He wasn’t nearly as skilled at computer searches as Tamara, but he’d done enough of them using the agency’s search engines and a few of her hacker’s tricks to be able to pull up the basics on any known subject.