Bill Pronzini: Fever

“I see.” She opened the door for him. “Come in. It’s cold out there.”

Warm inside. Electric fire burning in a small living room packed with old, comfortable furniture. Two walls adorned with framed religious pictures and a brass sculpture of two hands clutching a cross. Books filled an old glass-fronted bookcase on another wall. Rose Youngblood told him to sit where he liked, took a covered rocking chair for herself, and got straight to business. No unnecessary amenities, no nonsense.

No unnecessary or repetitive information, either; she assumed what she’d told Tamara had been passed on to him and began by providing details. She wouldn’t have known anything was wrong with Brian, she said, if she hadn’t stopped by his flat unannounced a few days ago, after work. She hadn’t heard from him in more than two weeks, which was unusual, and she’d wanted to make sure he was all right. A friend of his, Aaron Myers, had answered the door and told her Brian was ill and tried to keep her out. She’d gone in anyway and found her son on the couch, naked to the waist, his ribs taped-one of them had been cracked-and bruises all over his sides and lower back.

“Whoever beat him up must’ve hit him a dozen times,” she said. “He couldn’t control his bladder for two days afterward.”

“But he wouldn’t tell you who did it.”

“Mugged, he said, but it wasn’t the truth. I can always tell when Brian is lying. But he wouldn’t budge from that story. Just said I shouldn’t worry, it wouldn’t happen again.”

“You didn’t believe him about that, either?”

“No. He sounded scared, not like himself at all. I know my son, Mr. Runyon. He’s not a fearful person. It would take something bad, very bad, to put him in such a state.”

She might’ve exaggerated the violence and Brian’s state of mind; Runyon had known it to happen to other parents, even ones who claimed to “know” their kids. Nobody knew anybody, when you got right down to it. Not even themselves most of the time. Still, she wasn’t the panicky, emotional type. Levelheaded. If she was concerned enough to want an investigation, there was probable cause.

He said, “Before that day, how was your son? His usual self?”

“No. Not the last few times I saw him.”

“How was he different?”

“Worried about something. Upset and secretive.”

“So whatever his trouble is, it’s been going on for some time.”

“More than a month now.”

“Could it have something to do with his work?”

“I don’t see how it could. He’s been in computer work for five years and he’s very good at it, never had any problems with the people he works for.”

“Something to do with a woman?”

She frowned at the question, ran blunt fingers through her skullcap hair. “I don’t see how that can be, either.”

“Brian’s not married, is that right?”

“He was engaged to a girl named Ginny Lawson last year, but she broke it off a month before the wedding.”

“For what reason?”

“Cold feet, Brian said. The commitment and all. But it seemed sudden and out of character to me.”

“As if she’d found someone else?”

“Possibly. I don’t know.”

“How did your son handle the breakup?”

“Not well at first. He really loved that girl.”

“Angry?”

“Hurt, mostly.”

“Brood about it?”

“No. He’s not a man to fret over lost causes.”

“Is he seeing anyone now?”

“Not that I know about.”

“Tell me about his activities, what he does for recreation.”

“Computers. They’ve been his passion ever since he was thirteen.” Pride in the words. “When he’s not working, he spends most of his time on the Internet.”

“Chat rooms, that kind of thing?”

“I don’t think so. No. He plays chess, computer chess.”

“How about clubs, sports?”

“Just church activities. He met Ginny Lawson at a church dance.”

Runyon said gently, “Vices, Mrs. Youngblood?”

Long, stern look. Then she said, “I suppose you have to ask that. The answer is no.”

“Never any problems with liquor or drugs?”

“Never. I’d know if he’d ever been into anything like that.”

Sure you would. “This friend you mentioned, Aaron Myers. Did you ask him about the beating? Away from Brian, I mean.”

“Yes. He said he doesn’t know what happened.”

“Telling the truth or covering up?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Are he and Brian close friends?”

“I don’t know how close they are. They haven’t known each other long, I’m pretty sure of that.”

“What is it they have in common? Computers?”

“Yes.”

“What does Aaron do for a living?”

“He works for a frozen food distributor, but I’m not sure which one.”

“Can you tell me where he lives?”

“Somewhere near Brian. I don’t have the address.”

“What’s your opinion of him?”

“Polite, friendly-a decent young man.”

“Is there anyone else Brian is close to? Anyone who might have an idea of what led to the beating?”

She thought about it. “Well, there’s Dre Janssen. They went to school together. He’s one of Brian’s chess opponents.”

Runyon asked a few more questions, wrote down a few details in his notebook. Brian’s home address and phone number. The name and address of the video store that Dre Janssen managed in the Marina. The facts that Ginny Lawson lived in San Rafael and was employed at a Wells Fargo branch in Sausalito. That was enough to start on.

“When will you start your investigation, Mr. Runyon?”

Low-priority case; he’d have to sandwich it in during the week. No purpose in telling her that. Five-thirty now, too late to do much today, but he had the weekend to fill. If he got lucky, he might get it done quick. He said, “Tomorrow, probably.”

She seemed surprised. “You work Saturdays?”

“Sometimes.”

“What will you do first? Talk to Brian?”

“I’m not sure yet. If I do talk to him, agency policy is not to reveal our clients’ names.”

“That’s all right. He’ll know it was me. Brian doesn’t have anyone else who cares as much as I do.”

She showed him to the door, shook his hand solemnly. He said he’d be in touch as soon as he had something to report; she said, “I’ll pray for him”-not quite a non sequitur. As soon as he was outside, she retreated into the world she occupied behind closed doors-devout Christian world, black woman’s world, mother’s world.

T he Ford needed gas; he stopped at a service station at the top of Twin Peaks to fill the tank. His body needed food; he stopped at a Chinese restaurant on West Portal to fill his belly. One more time killer before he wrapped himself inside his empty apartment for the rest of the night-a stop at the Safeway on Taraval. He seldom ate in the apartment, kept little enough on hand, but one thing he did do regularly was brew a pot of tea. He was almost out of the Darjeeling blend Colleen had liked.

The store was Friday-night crowded. He was in the coffee and tea aisle, taking his time, reading labels, when a woman said, “Excuse me.” The way she said it, as if the words had come out of only one side of her mouth, made him glance at her as he stepped back and she pushed by with her cart.

The first thing he focused on was the scarf. Tied funny under a Scottish style cap: down across the left side of her face, covering it entirely, and knotted under her chin. Only half of her mouth was visible. The right side of her face was oval, high-cheekboned, a thick-haired eyebrow bent in the middle like a snapped twig. Thirty-something. Attractive. Ash-blond hair showing beneath the cap. Body tightly encased in a black-and-white checked coat. That was all he registered before she was past him, without a glance in his direction. He watched her push the cart toward the check-stands up front, wondering a little about that scarf.