Bill Pronzini - Mourners

“She feel the same way? Two of them getting it on together?”

“No, it’s not like that. She may not even know how he feels. The only person she’s in love with is her poor bastard of a husband.”

“So why do you care how Casement feels about her?”

“I don’t, really. Just an observation.”

“Lots of people in love with people they hadn’t ought to be who don’t love them back, you know what I’m saying?”

“True enough.”

“Love,” Tamara said with sudden vehemence. “Love is bullshit.”

“Now what brought that on?”

Big breath. “Nothing. Like you said, just an observation.”

“One I don’t happen to agree with. Neither did you, not so long ago.”

“Yeah, well.”

“Things aren’t good between you and Horace, are they? You can talk to me, you know-”

She said, “I’ve got work to do,” and went scowling into her office and shut the connecting door.

Women and their secrets. Kerry, Cybil, Tamara. Emily, too, someday, no doubt. Then I thought: Come on, women don’t have a monopoly on keeping things to themselves. James Troxell is living proof of that. Hell, so are you, you narrow-minded, moralistic jerk.

The meeting with Charles Kayabalian went all right. He asked a couple of questions about the source of our information, and I hedged by saying, “I’d rather not reveal that. We had to take risks to get it, in the best interests of all concerned.” He’s a smart man, Kayabalian; he guessed or had a pretty good idea of what the risks were. He said he’d rather not know anyway, since I wasn’t his client and anything I told him would not be privileged, and we left it at that.

He said he’d let me know how the meeting with Troxell turned out; his grimace added that he wasn’t looking forward to it and his expectations weren’t high. Neither were mine, but it wasn’t my problem any longer. I hoped.

By the time I ransomed my car from the nearest parking garage, it was after three thirty, and Friday afternoon commute traffic was already clogging the downtown streets. I had one more piece of business to attend to, but I didn’t need to return to the agency to get it done. I headed home instead. It would be well after four when I got there, and the odds were good that Jack Logan would be off duty and I could leave a message on his voice mail: “Our investigation on that case I mentioned turned up a witness connection to the Erin Dumont homicide, Jack. We’re in the process of trying to verify it. I’ll lay it out for you Monday morning in any case.”

More C.Y.A. manipulation. If Troxell could be kept in one piece and persuaded to report to the Hall of Justice by Monday, the police wouldn’t care how or why he’d been prodded into it. If he didn’t, we’d be officially on record as cooperating.

JAKE RUNYON

He called the Morgan Hill number before nine Friday morning, and this time he got an answer. Male voice, young and suspicious when he asked for Sally Johnson. Even when he identified himself and stated his business, the suspicion remained.

“Detective? What the hell do you want with my wife? She doesn’t know anything about any murder.”

In the background a woman’s voice said, “Kevin? Who is that?”

The husband said into the phone, “How do I know you’re who you say you are anyway?”

“Would you like references?”

“… You trying to be a wiseass?”

“Five minutes of your wife’s time, that’s all I’m asking.”

“Why? I told you, she doesn’t know anything-”

“Kevin, let me talk to the man. If he’s calling about Erin, maybe I can help-”

“Yeah, right. Some fucking guy, he could be anybody, one of your boyfriends for all I know-”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Give me that phone!”

There was more, the exchange loud and angry but muffled by a hand clapped over the mouthpiece. Then the woman’s voice, breathless and angry, said, “Yes, hello? This is Sally-” Sharp door-slamming sound in the background. “God, I don’t know why I married him. He can be such an asshole!”

Runyon made no comment.

“You’re a detective? Calling about Erin?”

“That’s right. My name is Runyon.”

“Oh God, I couldn’t believe it when I heard what happened. She and I… we were really close… it makes me sick every time I think about it… but I don’t know anything, I hadn’t seen her for months before it happened, it must’ve been some crazy person…”

He told her why he was calling.

“Fatso?” she said. “Oh, sure, I remember him. But that was what, more than two years ago, and there was no hassle or anything. He was just this big sloppy fat guy. You don’t think he-?”

“Checking possibilities,” Runyon said shortly. “You were with Erin at Stow Lake the first time she saw him?”

“Yes, right, Stow Lake. It was a Saturday, we went up there to ride the paddle boats, you know, just goofing around. We were at the snack bar when he came up and said hello to Erin. I remember he looked at her the whole time, like I wasn’t even there.”

“Did he introduce himself, give his name?”

“Um, no, I don’t think so. Not that day, and not the other time, either. The only other time I saw him, I mean.”

“Where was that?”

“At this bar we used to go to, an Irish pub on Geary.”

“McRoyd’s?”

“Right, McRoyd’s.”

“How do you suppose he knew Erin hung out there?”

She thought that over. “I think maybe he overheard us talking about it at Stow. We’d been at the pub the night before, one of the guys was celebrating his birthday and got blasted and did a bare-ass strip… it was hilarious and we were laughing about it when Fatso came over.”

“Any idea what kind of car he drove?”

“Fatso? No, all I ever saw him in was the delivery truck.”

“Delivery truck?”

“At Stow. That’s what he was doing there, making deliveries to the snack bar.”

“What kind of deliveries?”

“I’m not sure, let me think… No, I just don’t remember.”

“How about the truck? Big, medium, small?”

“Sort of medium, I guess.”

“Open bed or closed shell?”

“Closed shell? You mean like a van?”

“Yes.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s what it was, a kind of medium-sized van.”

“What color?”

“White.”

“The same as his uniform?”

“That’s right, that was white, too.” Sally Johnson let loose a sudden small giggling sound. “Erin thought he looked like a fat shaggy dog, one of those English sheep dogs, you know? But to me… well, I thought he looked like the Pillsbury doughboy-”

Runyon had no more patience for that crap; he cut her off with a sharp question. “The type of uniform with the company name on the back?”

“… I think maybe. But it was such a long time ago…”

“Painted on the side of the delivery van, too?”

“Um, yes.”

“Close your eyes, think hard, try to picture it. The company name, the type of product.”

He waited through close to a minute of humming silence before she said, “I’m sorry, I really am, but I just can’t remember…”

The weather was good today, mostly clear, and a number of citizens were taking advantage of it when Runyon arrived at Stow Lake. Joggers, a few paddle boaters and canoers, people wandering the paths, others seated on benches and strips of grass reading, taking in the sun, watching the ducks and seabirds floating on the dirty brown water.

He followed the loop road to the parking area behind the boathouse at the western end. He’d been here once before, as he’d been to a great many locales in the city and the surrounding communites since his move down from Seattle-cataloging his new territory so he could move around freely without having to look at a map and he’d know what to expect from each place if and when his work took him there. Stow Lake was man-made, built around the base of Strawberry Hill, a four-hundred-foot wooded elevation turned into an island centerpiece accessible by a pair of pedestrian bridges. A network of paths and the boathouse and dock on this side, more paths, a waterfall, even a Chinese pagoda on the islet. Colleen would have liked it here. Quiet, nice scenery, good spot for a picnic.