Bill Pronzini: Schemers

“Has he contacted either of you in any way? E-mails, letters, anonymous phone calls?”

“No. Just that sign at the cemetery.” Henderson’s fingers clenched and unclenched, as if he were flexing them around the perp’s neck. “Crazy. No damn reason for any of it.”

“And you know of no one who might have a grudge against you and your brother?”

Mrs. Henderson said, “No, absolutely not. That’s what’s so frightening.”

Runyon asked, “A business deal where a third party felt wronged in some way?”

“We thought of that,” Henderson said, “but that can’t be it. He’s after both Damon and me and we’ve never done a business deal together with anybody, not even each other.”

“What does your brother do for a living?”

“CPA. Small practice, mainly local businesses. Never a hassle with any of his clients. Never a hassle with anybody I’ve worked with, either.”

“The cemetery vandalism was two and a half weeks ago, you said. Did anything unusual happen around that time, or in the month or so before? An accident of some kind, an altercation, even a few harsh words with somebody-anything that might have triggered this man’s rage?”

“No. I’ve racked my brains, we all have, and there’s nothing. Nothing. We live quiet, do our jobs, go to church, raise our kids the best way we know how, don’t get on anybody’s wrong side. A faceless enemy like that… I don’t know, I just don’t know.”

“We have two daughters, nine and thirteen,” his wife said. “Damon has a son, twelve. What if this lunatic decides to go after one of them? We’re at our wits’ end.”

“The cops have sent out patrols to keep an eye on our homes and businesses. But they can’t watch twenty-four seven.”

I said, “If you’re looking to hire bodyguards…”

“No. Not yet, anyway, not unless there’s a threat to the kids. We’ve made our own arrangements to protect them for now. An investigation’s what we want. Thorough, not the kind the cops are giving us.”

“A fresh perspective,” Mrs. Henderson said.

“I understand. But I have to be honest with you. There may not be a great deal we or any other private agency can do.”

“Are you saying you won’t help us?”

“Not at all. We’ll investigate, but in a case like this, with so little information to go on…”

“We don’t expect miracles,” Henderson said. “Just do what you can, that’s all we’re asking.”

I laid out our standard fees, as well as the probable expense account charges, and the amount required as a retainer. The figures didn’t seem to faze them. I had them sign an agency contract, and Tracy Henderson wrote out a check. Then I took down two pages of names, addresses, phone numbers, personal information-everything we’d need to open an investigation.

Runyon’s body language said that he wanted the job, so I told the clients he’d be handling it. Henderson asked when we’d start. Runyon said he’d drive up to Los Alegres this afternoon.

Solemn handshakes, and they were gone.

Runyon said then, “Phantom stalkers are the worst kind. And this one sounds unstable as hell. Okay if we make the investigation a priority?”

“I think we’d better. Can you shuffle your schedule for the rest of the week? Alex can cover for you if needs be.” Alex Chavez, our part-time operative.

“Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Okay. I’ll photocopy my notes before you head for Los Alegres. And when Tamara gets here I’ll have her get started on deep background checks on the Henderson brothers.”

“Where is she anyway?”

“Took the morning off.”

“That’s not like her.”

“No, it’s not,” I said. “She must have a good reason.”

G ood reason? Yes and no.

Tamara showed up at one minute past noon. Bounced straight into my office, high color in her cheeks, big cat-ate-the-canary smile, and announced, “Well, I finally got my groove back.”

“Come again?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said, grinning.

“Huh?”

“I finally got laid.”

Well, what do you say to that? If she’d been a man, I might have made a mildly bawdy observation. As it was, all I could manage was a lame “Oh.”

“Four times altogether,” she said. “Last night and this morning.”

“Uh.”

“That’s why I took the morning off. Been so long, I figured I was entitled.”

“Mm.”

“Almost a year since the last time, can you believe it? I’d almost forgotten what it feels like.”

“Ah.”

“His name’s Lucas Zeller,” she said. “I met him at Vonda’s wedding reception, knows her brother James. Not exactly a brother himself, though.”

“No?”

“Fudge swirl,” she said.

“Huh?”

“Mostly dark with a little white mixed in. Like fudge swirl ice cream. Hot fudge sundae!”

The conversation was making me uncomfortable, as personal conversations with Tamara sometimes did. As outspoken and uninhibited as she was, she was liable to launch into a blow-by-blow-literally, God forbid-description of her evening and morning activities with the fudge swirl, and that was information I had no desire to tune in.

“Anyhow,” she said then, sparing me, “nothing clicked between us that day at the reception, not for me, but Saturday he called up out of the blue, said he had tickets to the Zombie Boys concert yesterday-”

“The which?”

“Zombie Boys, they’re a hard-rock blowout band, very cool, usually you can’t get tickets.”

“Ah.”

“So I said sure. We went out to dinner first, then the blowout, then back to my place and the rest is sweet history. That man is something fierce in bed, you know what I’m saying?”

I said quickly, “Serious, you and this Lucas?”

“Doing the nasty is always serious when you haven’t been doing it.”

“You know what I mean. Potentially serious relationship.”

“No way. I had enough of that with Horace. All I’m looking for is some fun, a little action. Lucas feels the same. Besides, I think maybe he’s Mama’s boy.”

“Uh?”

“Thirty-four, salesman for a company that sells electronic equipment, still lives with his mother. Can you believe it? She was all he talked about at dinner, what a great person she is, all that-almost spoiled the mood. But once we got between the sheets, Mama wasn’t there anymore.”

“I should hope not.”

“Whooo! That man’s a real dawg when it comes to-”

The telephone rang just then. Thank you, Lord, I thought.

The call was for me, a minor matter I disposed of in less than a minute. Tamara was still standing there, grinning and glowing, when I hung up. To forestall any more discussion of her sex life, I said, “Busy morning here, too, while you were playing. One new case and one surprise call, both oddball.”

“How so?”

I told her, the Henderson business first, then about the call from Barney Rivera’s assistant.

“Rivera, huh?” she said. “You think maybe he’s up to one of his little tricks, for old times’ sake?”

“I wouldn’t put anything past him,” I said. “Whatever he’s up to, I’ll know in about an hour. And it better be legitimate business. If it isn’t, he’ll be ingesting those peppermints of his through a different orifice than his mouth.”

Barney the Needle hadn’t changed much in half a decade. He kept me waiting for fifteen minutes before he sent his assistant out to fetch me, and as soon as I walked into his office he showed me his salesman’s grin, pumped my hand, clapped me on the shoulder, and said I was looking pretty good for an old fart-all as if it had been five days instead of five years since we’d last laid eyes on each other.