Bill Pronzini - Savages

“No, baby, please, please-”

“Don’t fight me, don’t make me hurt you.”

Burning up burning up burning up…

When I came into the offices on Monday morning, Tamara said, “We’re not gonna have Jake for a couple of days.”

“How come?”

“He called last night, and again a few minutes ago. Man had a rough weekend up north and it’s still not done with.”

“What happened?”

“Walked blind into a murder and arson case, got himself a bad whack on the head. Guy he was supposed to deliver the subpoena to is missing and the local law thinks it’s because he’s the perp.” She explained the rest of the situation, as Runyon had outlined it to her.

“Christ. How bad’s his concussion?”

“Not too serious. He figured he’d be able to leave today, but there was another fire last night-that’s how come the second call-and now it looks like he’s stuck until tomorrow.”

“He need any help from us?”

“He says no.”

Cause for concern just the same. Runyon had become an important fit in the short time he’d worked for the agency. He’d put his life and his license on the line for Tamara and me on more than one occasion, and a tight professional bond had developed among the three of us-trust, respect, understanding. That was as far as it went, by tacit consent. He wasn’t the kind of man who invited friendship outside the office, or who seemed to need friends at all. Still grieving for his late wife-another reason he had my empathy. I cared about the man, I knew Tamara did, too, and his actions and as much talking as you could get him to do indicated he felt the same way.

“Keep in touch with him. If he needs us, we’ll work something out.”

“Told him that.”

“Okay. Meanwhile, we’ve got the Ogden investigation to move on.”

“Already started,” she said. “Last night, after I got back from apartment hunting.”

“Didn’t tell me you were looking for a new place.”

“Yeah, well, about time I had me a Horace-free environment.”

“Any luck?”

“Not much so far. One place I liked on Potrero Hill, but it’s bigger than I need-three-bedroom flat-and the damn landlord ought to be arrested for extortion, the rent he’s asking.”

“Seller’s market again. We were lucky to get this new office space as cheaply as we did.”

“Don’t I know it. Maybe I ought to just move my butt in here, save money all around.”

She wasn’t serious, but I had to look at her closely to make sure. Tamara is the impulsive type, levelheaded most of the time, but every now and then she gets a notion into her head that rattles the hell out of convention.

I told her how I’d spent part of my Sunday, what little I’d found out from T. R. Quentin. She made a note of it to add to the Ogden file; when it comes to business matters, she’s pure efficiency.

“Not much on Mathias so far,” she said. “Man’s personal finances look pretty clean-no debts or overextensions or big investments, nothing that even has much of a built-in risk factor. Real conservative type, at least on the surface. If he’s got any vices, they’re well hidden.”

“Same profile as four years ago. What about RingTech?”

“Solid. Profits up fifteen percent since Mathias took it over four years ago, expansion plans in the works, looks like they’re going public pretty soon. Another Donald Trump in the making.” One corner of her mouth quirked. “Bet I know who he voted for last election.”

“Yeah. So any financial motive appears to be out.”

“Looks that way. No need for his wife’s assets or the life insurance.”

“And he had full control of RingTech even before her death.”

“One hundred percent. She wasn’t even on the board of directors.”

“Doesn’t leave us with much,” I said. “Except jealousy, if she was involved with another man. Or maniacal possessiveness, if she was planning to leave him.”

“Control freaks like him look at their women same as abusive husbands, you know what I’m saying? Possessions. Can’t stand to lose the women unless they decide to throw them away themselves. Thousands of assholes like that kill their wives every year. After reading that diary, I can see Mathias as one of ‘em.”

“Maybe. The two things that argue against it are his apparent conservative nature and his ambition. And Ring-Tech’s about to make an IPO, you said. Would a guy with his mind-set, on the cusp of a major step upward in the corporate world, risk everything on a crime of passion?”

“Might if he figured he could get away with it.”

“We don’t know enough about him; that’s the problem. All we have is hunches, biased impressions, a lot of secondhand and four-year-old information.”

“Digging as deep as I can.”

“I know. I wonder if a face-to-face meeting might help? Form my own impressions.”

“How you gonna manage that? Let him know he’s being investigated?”

“No,” I said, “not exactly. I think maybe there’s a better way.”

N ancy Mathias’s attorney was Harold Moorehouse, of the firm of Zimmerman, Gorman, and Moorehouse. He was in when I called their offices in Palo Alto, and willing to talk frankly; Celeste Ogden had paved the way with an earlier phone call. But he had little enough to tell me. His client hadn’t told him why she wanted to see him or given him any indication of the reason. When she didn’t show up for the scheduled appointment, Moorehouse had had his secretary call her home to ask why. The secretary hadn’t spoken to her; got an answering machine, left a message. The call wasn’t returned.

I said, “Mrs. Mathias sounded upset when she made the appointment, is that right?”

“If I used the word ‘upset’ to Mrs. Ogden, it was a poor choice.”

“What would be a better one?”

“It’s difficult to gauge a person’s emotional state over the phone. But the word that comes to mind at the moment is ‘wounded’.”

“How do you mean?”

“As if she’d been badly hurt in some way,” Moorehouse said, “and was having difficulty coping with it. I assumed whatever it was, was her reason for wanting to consult with me.”

“She didn’t give you any idea of what it might be?”

“None. I asked her, of course, but she said she preferred not to discuss the matter over the phone.”

“Have you spoken with her husband since her death?”

There was a slight pause before Moorehouse answered. And when he did, his voice had tightened perceptibly. “Twice, as a matter of fact. I called him when I received the news. And we exchanged a few words at the funeral.”

“Did you mention her call or the missed appointment?”

“No. It didn’t seem appropriate.”

“What’s your opinion of the man, Mr. Moorehouse?”

“That’s not a relevant question,” he said.

“Maybe not, but I get the impression you don’t much care for him.”

“If that’s your conclusion.” Typical lawyer response.

“May I ask why?”

“Another irrelevant question.”

“Not to me.”

“I would rather not answer it, just the same.”

“I’d really appreciate it if you would. Or at least tell me how you’d characterize him. Off-the-record, of course.”

Silence for a few seconds. Then Moorehouse said, “Very well. Cold, indifferent to the feelings of others. The kind of man who has no genuine human emotions, only simulates them.”

Perfect thumbnail description of a sociopath.

T he San Francisco offices of Pacific Rim Insurance were located in one of the city’s downtown landmarks, the Transamerica Pyramid. I walked in there at 12:35, ten minutes early for my appointment with the head of Pacific’s Claims Investigation Department, Irv Blaustein.