Bill Pronzini - Schemers

Jenny Noakes.

Employed from June 1984 to April 1988.

The salary record gave no address. He rummaged through the rest of the papers in the desk, hunting for an address book, social security and tax records-anything that would tell him where Jenny Noakes had lived during that period, her age, something of her background. Nothing. Nor was there any document that gave a clue as to why her employment had been terminated.

Frazier was still hanging around, watching him to make sure he kept his word about not taking anything and putting the alcove back in order. Runyon asked if the name Jenny Noakes was familiar to him. It wasn’t. He replaced the cartons, offered to pay for the rummaging privilege. Frazier shook his head. “Not necessary,” he said. “But if you’re hungry, my wife makes the best deli sandwiches you ever tasted.” Runyon wasn’t hungry, but he bought a deli sandwich anyway.

Jenny Noakes. Up to Tamara now. All she needed to track anybody living or dead was a name.

H is cell phone didn’t work in the mountains; it wasn’t until he was down near the coast that he was able to pick up the satellite signal so he could call Tamara. A few minutes later he was back in the old lumbering and fishing town of Fort Bragg. He hadn’t had much breakfast; he found his way to a seafood restaurant under the long, new bridge that spanned the harbor entrance. He was sipping hot tea, waiting for a bowl of clam chowder, when Tamara called. He went outside to talk to her.

“Took a little longer than I thought,” she said. “You’ll see why.”

“What’ve you got?”

“Jenny Noakes. Born Jennifer Torrance 1962 in Ukiah, married to Anthony Noakes June 1981, son Tucker born early 1982. Father listed on the birth certificate as Anthony Noakes. Looks like you were wrong about the kid’s old man being Lloyd Henderson.”

“Unless she was screwing around as a newlywed.”

“Been known to happen. But she and the husband were living in Ukiah when the baby was born.”

Ukiah was a long way inland across the mountains, the county seat at the eastern end of Mendocino county. Small chance she would have met Henderson there. He said, “When did she move to Harmony?”

“No record of her ever living in Harmony. But she and Anthony Noakes split up in eighty-five and she got custody of the kid. Aunt of hers lives in Deer Run. That’s where she went after the breakup-same Deer Run address as her aunt’s from late eighty-four to August eighty-eight.”

Deer Run was about a dozen miles from Harmony. He’d passed through it going up and coming back.

“Where does she live now?”

“She doesn’t. She’s dead.”

“When?”

“August of eighty-eight.”

“What happened to her?”

“She was murdered,” Tamara said. “Body found in the woods off a side road south of Deer Run three months after she died. Strangled and dumped.”

Runyon digested that before he said, “Case solved?”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

“Suspects?”

“Can’t tell you that. Online information’s pretty sketchy.”

“County sheriff’s department the investigating agency?”

“Yep. I don’t have a name for you, but whoever handled the investigation was probably mentioned in the Fort Bragg and Santa Rosa papers. Their online files don’t go back as far as eighty-eight.”

“What happened to the ex-husband?”

“Dropped off the radar in eighty-eight. Probably moved somewhere out of state. Could be significant, maybe-the date, I mean. Same year Jenny Noakes was killed.”

“What about the son?”

“No record anywhere in the state of a Tucker Noakes. Unusual first name. Maybe it’ll help track him down.”

She had nothing more to give him, except for the address of the aunt, Pauline Devries, in Deer Run-177 Hill Road. He went back inside, looked at his cold tea and cooling bowl of clam chowder, left some money on the table, and took himself out to the car.

Gregory Pollexfen sounded pleased to hear from me when I called him Wednesday morning. “You have something to report, I hope?”

“Not yet, no.”

“Well, it’s early in your investigation. What did you think of Angelina?”

“Very attractive woman,” I said carefully.

“On the outside. Did you track down Jeremy?”

“We had a talk.”

“Arrogant bastard, isn’t he? Guilty as sin.”

“I don’t have enough information yet to make that kind of judgment.”

“Meaning you still think I could be guilty.”

“I won’t lie to you, Mr. Pollexfen. From my perspective you’re as likely a candidate as anyone else in your household.”

“I’m not offended,” he said. “You’re cautious and thorough-I admire that kind of detective work.”

“I’d like to come by again, if you don’t mind. Another chat, another look at your library.”

“Would you? When?”

“At your convenience.”

“Well, I have some work to do and there’s a book auction at Pacific Rim Gallery I’m planning to attend this afternoon. Some rare Edwardian items I don’t have in my collection. Would you be available late afternoon?”

“If it’s not too late.”

“Excellent. I’ll check my schedule and call you back.”

Tamara had been busy at her desk when I came in. Now she appeared in the doorway linking our offices. “Well, that’s a relief,” she said.

“What is?”

“He’s not married.”

“Who’s not?”

“Lucas Zeller.”

It took me a couple of seconds to identify the name. “The man you, ah…”

“Right. Never been married. Lives with his mother, just like he said.”

“Checking up? He give you reason not to trust him?”

“Man’s kind of closed off, you know? Doesn’t like to talk about his job or himself, but he’ll give you a tenminute riff on his mama.”

“And you thought maybe Mama was his wife, not his mother?”

“Occurred to me, so I decided to check. No big deal, just curious. I mean, he’s a lover, not a marriage candidate.”

“Clean bill, eh?”

“Pretty clean, yeah. Works for Dale Electronics over in El Cerrito, been with them twelve years. He and Mama live in the Marina.”

“So you’re satisfied now?”

“Yep. Man’s good for my bed as long as it lasts.”

Modern young women. Outspoken about their sex lives. Don’t worry too much about having an affair with a married man as long as he doesn’t try to hide the fact from them. Don’t see anything wrong in checking up on a lover, invading his privacy on the sly, to put their minds at ease.

There were times when the chaotic, permissive new world we live in seemed a little too much for a man of my old-school sensibilities. Inexplicable, too, in so many ways. Not to mention infuriating and depressing when the larger issues-insupportable wars, terrorism, rampant political chicanery, global warming, vicious anti-gay and anti-immigrant sentiments-came into play. It worried me sometimes, how out of touch and inadequate the modern world made me feel. Born a generation too late, past my prime, and too old and too set in my ways to make the necessary adaptations to connect with the evergrowing mess of changes and challenges.

Well, the hell with it. I’d made it a lifelong policy not to judge others’ behavior or attitudes or lifestyles or political or religious beliefs, so why start now? And what did I have to complain about, anyway, when you got right down to it? I was still good at my now part-time job, a pretty fair husband and father, reasonably healthy and happy and content. There were a lot of people, whole nations of people, who were the real victims of the new millennium.

Pollexfen called back inside of fifteen minutes. “Would four this afternoon work for you?”