Bill Pronzini - Camouflage

Frowning, she opened the envelope. The frown deepened as she scanned through the Church material; her mouth got tight, loosened and bent a little, then tightened again. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“No, ma’am.”

“The Catholic Church can really do this kind of thing?”

“If all the paperwork is in order and the Marriage Tribunal votes in favor.”

“And enough money changes hands, I suppose.”

I had nothing to say to that.

“Why does he want an annulment now?”

I told her why.

“Well, I think it’s ridiculous,” she said. “I’d never be a party to anything like this. I want nothing to do with him or the Catholic Church.”

“That’s your prerogative.”

“And don’t try to talk me into it.”

“Not my job.”

“All right, then. Take this back to him and tell him to leave me alone. Don’t you bother me again, either.”

Her voice had risen slightly, no more than a couple of octaves, but it put the Rottweiler on alert. His ears pricked up and he popped up onto all fours and made a low rumbling sound in his throat, his hot-eyed gaze still fixed on me. The muscles in my shoulders and back bunched. I’ve had run-ins with dogs before; I don’t care how well-trained they are, they can still be unpredictable.

But nothing happened. The woman said, “Quiet, Thor,” not as loudly or as sharply as Jane Carson had but with the same effect. The dog subsided immediately, squatting again with that long tongue hanging out.

When she handed me the envelope, I said, “You won’t see me again, Ms. McManus. Thanks for your time.” And after another detour around Thor, I was out of there.

The day was gray and chilly, but that wasn’t the reason for the prickly cold feeling on the back of my neck. Chalk it up to those damn yellow eyes.

In the car I called David Virden’s cell number. The call went to his voice mail; I left a brief message, saying that we’d found his ex-wife and asking for an ASAP callback.

It came sooner than I expected, just as I was turning off Third Street onto Army. Never fails. I’m in the car driving and that’s when my cell rings. I could let it go to my voice mail, but I’m one of the people who can ignore a ringing phone only in extreme circumstances. Kerry keeps telling me I ought to get one of those Bluetooth things that let you talk on the phone while keeping both hands on the wheel, but I’ve seen enough drivers who appear to be having animated conversations with themselves and the image is always one of a mental case babbling to a carload of imaginary friends. Better a hands-free device than breaking the law by talking with a phone glued to your ear, as too many people still do despite the recent state law. Or sending text messages or e-mails on laptop computers while driving, two of the crazier techno-surfing, machine-juggling addictions people have been known to indulge in these days.

I’m law-abiding, so I did what I always do, and hardly anybody else seems to, when my cellular goes off: I found a place to pull over and stop and took the call on the fourth ring.

“Fast work finding Roxie,” Virden said. “Alive or dead?”

“Alive. Living right here in San Francisco.”

“No kidding. Well, that simplifies things, doesn’t it.”

“No,” I said, “it doesn’t.”

“… What do you mean? Did you see her, deliver the envelope?”

“I just came from talking to her. She wouldn’t take it.”

“What? Why the hell not?”

I told him why not.

Long pause this time. Then, hard and angry, “Well, shit! How can she still hate me that much? It’s been eight goddamn years.”

I had nothing to say to that. Not my area of expertise.

Virden said, “Too bad you didn’t find her in a cemetery instead.”

Or to that, because it wasn’t worth a civil comment.

“She’s got to sign that document,” he said. “It’s all that’s standing in my way. Nothing else you can do?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Then it’s up to me. I don’t like the idea of seeing the bitch again, but I’ll just have to bite the bullet.”

“Do you want us to mail the envelope to you?”

“No. I’ll pick it up before I go talk to Roxie. Too late to do it today, I’m meeting Judith at five, and I have a business appointment in the morning. Say one o’clock at your office?”

“Fine. I’ll have a report ready for you with her address and the other particulars of the investigation.”

“How much more do I owe you?”

“There’ll be a final invoice with the other material.”

“I’ll bring my checkbook.” Five or six seconds, and then he said, “Ex-wives. Christ, what a pain they can be.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said.

“Take my word for it. Even when they’re being cooperative, they’re a pain in the ass.”

Ex-wives weren’t the only ones.

TAMARA

All day Tuesday, as on most days, she had the office to herself. Bill was out on an interview for an insurance fraud investigation; Jake was following up with the hit-and-run witness. And Alex Chavez was working a pro bono hate-crime case for a black family that was being victimized in Monterey Heights-one more example, as if anybody needed one, that racism was not only alive but running rampant like crap through a sewer.

Fine with her, working alone. She liked being in charge, handling her end of the agency in her own efficient, organized way. Plenty to handle these days, too; business was booming, despite or maybe because of the tanked economy. Two other insurance-related cases, a missing-person investigation, a b.g. check for a rich dude in St. Francis Wood who believed his daughter’s brand-new fiance was after the family fortune… plus client reports on closed and in-progress cases, invoices, bookkeeping, and, as a favor to Jake, a deep backgrounder on a woman he suspected of abusing his lady’s kid.

All that was liable to keep her here long past five o’clock closing. Had the night before and probably would the rest of the week. Was a time when she’d’ve chafed at that much overtime because it cut into what little social life she had. Now, she welcomed it. After what’d happened a couple of weeks ago, being alone in the office was a lot more comfortable than holing up alone in her flat on Potrero Hill. The flat just didn’t feel the same as it had when she moved in. Maybe never would again. But she was stuck there for another ten months, like it or not; the lease was ironclad and she’d lose a bundle if she broke it. Besides, she was just too busy to go hunting for another place to live.

Antoine Delman, aka Lucas Zeller. That son of a bitch. Nearly ruined her life… nearly took her life. Not enough time had passed for her to get over her outrage every time she thought about him and what he’d tried to do to her and a whole long list of other brothers and sisters. Happiest day coming up was the one she’d spend in court testifying against him and his freaky mama.

Something else he’d done to her was sour her on men. The way she felt right now, she didn’t care if she ever had another relationship, ever even got laid again. Use it or lose it? Well, maybe it was better to lose it than risk losing everything else because of it.

The morning went by quickly, with only one phone call to interrupt her work. Just after one o’clock the annulment client, David Virden, showed up to collect his envelope and the report she’d typed out for him. He didn’t look at the report, just asked her if his ex-wife’s current address was in it. Well, of course it was; what did he think they’d do, hide it from him? He didn’t look at the invoice, either. Demanded to know what he owed, wrote a check for the full amount, and stalked out without bothering to say thanks or good-bye. Mr. Personality. No wonder none of his first three marriages had lasted. Another of those slick dudes, like that bastard Antoine, who were all surface charm when they wanted something or somebody, but cut them open and what you’d find inside was a mess of dirty ice and a festering ego.