Bill Pronzini: Schemers

“How much of a bonus?”

“Oh, say two thousand.”

I said without missing a beat, “Let’s make it five.”

“Man, you really have gotten greedy in your old age.”

“People change in five years. Some people.”

“Not me. Still the same old Barney.”

“Yeah.”

“So okay then. Five thousand.”

“Put it in writing and we’ve got a deal.”

No argument. He put it in writing, all cheerful and smiley.

Barney the Needle, Barney the Sly. He was so damn accommodating because he figured I’d never collect that five thousand bonus-he expected me to fail. That was the real reason he’d brought me in here after five years. To have the last laugh.

Barney the Shit.

T amara said, “Five K bonus? Sweet.”

“If I can find those first editions.”

“Anybody can, you the man.”

“Screwy case. I should’ve turned Rivera down, bonus or no bonus.”

“But you didn’t. Too much of a challenge, right?”

“There’s that. And the prospect of putting the needle right back into his tubby hide. I’d settle for that.”

“Want me to do a b.g. on Pollexfen?”

“If you have time. The Henderson case takes priority. You come up with anything there yet?”

“So far,” she said, “nothing that flies against what they told you about themselves and the brother. No criminal records of any kind, no juicy stuff. Just average folks, looks like.”

“Who are being systematically stalked. The attacks are too personal to be random. Has to be a motive of some kind.”

“Psychos don’t need much to get off on.”

“No, but they do need a trigger. Just about everybody has secrets, past problems of some kind. I doubt the Henderson family is an exception.”

In my office I went through the printouts Rivera had given me: copies of Gregory Pollexfen’s seven-million-dollar book collection policy and claim, information on his other policies, personal data. Pollexfen must be financially solid; he was putting five figures a year in premiums into the Great Western coffers. Age: two months shy of his sixty-eighth birthday. Health: subpar. Heart ailment, high blood pressure, other maladies that, combined with his age, had sent his life insurance premiums skyrocketing the past couple of years. His present wife, Angelina, number three after a pair of divorces, was thirty-two years his junior. Married to her nine years, no children by her or the other two wives. The interesting thing there was that she was no longer the named beneficiary of his life insurance policy; he’d crossed her out three years ago in favor of two major charities. And his was the only name on the general personal property and book collection policies.

Why? I wondered. If the marriage was rocky enough to cause him to change beneficiaries, then it was likely he’d written her out of his will, too, leaving her with no more than the standard spousal death benefits required by state law. But if that was the case, why were they still living together?

After I’d familiarized myself with everything, I put in a call to Pollexfen’s home. He was there; the woman who answered the phone went and got him for me.

“I’ve been waiting to hear from you. Mr. Rivera called a little while ago, gave me your name.” Froggy baritone that cracked a little here and there. “He said you’re exactly the right investigator for this case.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He also told me,” Pollexfen said, “that you collect pulp magazines.”

“That’s right.”

“For how many years?”

“More than I care to remember.”

“How many do you own?”

“Around seven thousand.”

“Rarities? The Maltese Falcon issues of Black Mask?”

“All five, yes.”

“Excellent! I know I’m going to enjoy meeting you.”

“What would be a convenient time for me to come by?”

“I’m completely free this afternoon.”

“Three o’clock?”

“Excellent,” he said again. “You have the address, of course.”

“I have it.”

“I’ll expect you at three then.”

I put the phone down. “I know I’m going to enjoy talking to you,” he’d said. Odd choice of words under the circumstances. But then, collectors, honest or otherwise, are all a little cracked. Myself included.

JAKE RUNYON

He’d been to Los Alegres before, once on business, once on one of his periodic drives to familiarize himself with his new home territory, so he had no trouble finding his way around. It was a valley town, spread out between low foothills; former agricultural center founded in the 1850s, now a combination bedroom community, site for upscale business enterprises, and haven for writers, artists, and professional people attracted by the historic downtown, big old west-side homes, the saltwater estuary that terminated in its midst. Population around fifty thousand, most of that number in sprawling developments on the east side.

The police station was on North Main, housed in a gray cinderblock building that looked more like a converted mortuary than a cop house and sided by a fenced-in yard where the patrol cars and other vehicles were kept. Runyon ID’d himself to the woman sergeant at the front desk and outlined the reason he was there. That and one of his business cards got him in to see Lieutenant Adam St. John.

St. John was in his fifties, lean and fox-faced, with tired eyes and a slow way of moving as if he were trying to conserve energy. He seemed to need to make it clear at the outset that bringing in a private investigative service on the Henderson case wasn’t his idea.

“I told them that if we can’t do anything, it’s damn unlikely anybody else can. But they insisted. Your agency’s got a good rep, so I handed out your name.” He shrugged. “It’s their money.”

“Pretty desperate, from what they told us.”

“Can’t blame them for that. If I had some whack job after me, I guess I’d be desperate, too.”

“Any new developments?”

“Not yet. We’ve done everything we can, and then some. It’s not like we’re trying to slough off on this.” Now he was on the defensive.

“Nobody thinks that,” Runyon said.

“Yeah, well, it’s frustrating for us, too. I mean, there’s just nothing to go on. Nothing in the family’s background, at least nothing we can find or they’re willing to talk about. We ran both brothers through the NCIS and even made an FBI inquiry. Zip.”

“The father, too?”

“Lloyd Henderson? Why should we run his name?”

“His grave was vandalized.”

“Vicious act aimed at the two sons,” St. John said. “Hell, the man’s been dead for years.”

Runyon consulted his file notes. “Died in 2004.”

“Right. Natural causes, in case you’re wondering.”

“What did he do for a living?”

“Dentist. Retired. Lived here all his life, served on the city council, belonged to the Rotary, Kiwanis, all the civic organizations. You won’t find a more respected member of the community.”

“Take your word for it,” Runyon said. “The brother who was attacked in his garage. Damon, is it?”

“Damon, right.”

“Anything he could tell you about the perp?”

“No. He had a flashlight, but he got hit from behind. All he saw was a shadow.”

“Size estimate?”

“Big, from the weight when he was straddled.”

“And all the perp said to him was ‘Not yet, it’s not time yet’?”

“That’s all.”

“He’s sure about the words?”

“Positive.”

“What about the voice? Anything distinctive?”

“No. Just a whisper. And he was hurting bad by then.”

“What about olfactory impressions?”

“Olfactory… smells? You mean did the guy smell?”