Bill Pronzini: Mourners

“I could try.”

“Go ahead. You won’t find anything.”

“The police might,” I said.

“Take this crap of yours to the cops? You do, you’ll be one sorry son of a bitch.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Damn right it’s a threat. Any hassle, and I’ll sue you for slander and defamation. I’ll take everything you’ve got.”

“You’d have to prove malicious intent. The malice here is all on your side.”

“I’m warning you. Back off.”

“No. I may or may not talk to the police. I am going to talk to the widow.”

Blood-rush darkened his face even more. He said savagely, “You stay the hell away from Lynn.”

“She has to know what you did.”

“She wouldn’t believe you.”

“It’s the truth. She’ll believe it eventually.”

“Goddamn you, I won’t let that happen!”

“You don’t have a tenth of the influence with her you did with her husband. If you did, you wouldn’t’ve had to help him die to get your hands on her.”

He slammed the glass down on the bar top, lunged off the stool and up close to me. I set myself again, arms out away from my body, but all he did was get into my face. “Stay away from her,” he said, spitting the words, spraying saliva.

“All for nothing, Casement. She’ll hate your guts, she won’t have anything to do with you.”

“She will, she’s mine now! You’re not gonna take her away from me, not now, not you or anybody else.”

“We’ll see about that.”

He grabbed handfuls of my shirt and jacket, yanked me up on my toes. “I’ll kill you, you hear me? I’ll kill you!”

I drove the heel of my left hand up hard against the tendons in one wrist, at the same time chopping down with my right on the other wristbone. The force of the moves made him yell, broke his hold and exposed the upper part of his body. I gave him a hard shove, two-handed against his chest. He went staggering backward, would have gone down if he hadn’t collided with the bar stool; he caught it and used it to steady himself. If he’d charged me then, we’d’ve been into it hot and heavy and the advantage would have been his. But he didn’t. He hung there, breathing hard, his face congested, glaring hate and rage at me.

“I’m half your age, old man,” he said thickly. “I could break you in half.”

“You could try.”

“Beat the shit out of you and claim you attacked me.”

“You wouldn’t get away with that either. I go back a long way in this city-I was a cop before I went into private practice. Lies about me and my methods don’t get believed.”

He didn’t say anything to that. Heavy silence for a few seconds, broken only by the ragged rhythm of his breathing. Then he scraped his beard crust again, straightened, pushed the stool away from him. In a choked voice he said, “Get out of here. Get the fuck out of my house.”

“Gladly.”

I moved away from him sideways, keeping him in sight, in case he had any ideas about mixing it up again. No ideas, but more vicious words as I reached the hallway. “I meant what I said. You take Lynn away from me, I’ll kill you.”

For an answer I showed him the wolf grin one more time.

Outside the wind chilled me, brought the realization that I was sweating. I took a couple of long breaths, calming down, as I climbed to the street. In the car I took the voice-activated recorder from my coat pocket and ran the tape back far enough to be sure it was all on there. The recorder, one of Tamara’s recent purchases for the agency, was state-of-the-art; both our voices were clear and distinct. Okay. I hadn’t been able to maneuver Casement into a direct admission of guilt, so I probably still didn’t have enough to go to the law. Kayabalian could tell me when I played the tape for him.

One thing for sure: Casement had said more than enough to convince Lynn Troxell when she heard it.

JAKE RUNYON

When he pulled up in front of the multiunit apartment building on Twenty-seventh Avenue, he unlocked the glove compartment and slid his. 357 Magnum from inside. He checked the action and the loads, fastened the holstered weapon to his belt above the right hip so the tail of his jacket would cover it. Then he went to ring the bell to Sean Ostrow’s apartment.

No response.

Back in the car, he drove out Twenty-ninth Avenue to Risa Niland’s block. He scanned the parked cars on both sides as he rolled along; none was familiar. The only free curb space on the block was too short for the Ford, but he jockeyed it in there anyway. The overhang into one of the driveways was enough to piss off the owner or tenant but not enough to block access.

No response to her bell either.

He didn’t like that; she should be home by now. Unless she had a date, and if she did, what if it was with Ostrow? No easy way of finding out one way or another, nothing much he could do except wait it out. Maintain a revolving surveillance between here and Ostrow’s building until one of them showed up.

On the sidewalk again, he paused and then went to the corner to eye-check the cars parked on the uphill and downhill sides of Anza Street. An older brown model midway up on this side caught his attention. Ford Taurus? He climbed to it. Taurus, all right. And the license number was 2UGK697.

He liked that a hell of a lot less.

When he got back to the corner, a young Chinese woman with a dog on a leash was just turning in under the canopy above the entrance to Risa’s building. Runyon hurried after her. She was at the door, with her key out, when he came into the foyer. The dog heard him and made a friendly rumbling sound, and that brought her around. He wasn’t anybody she knew and his sudden appearance put her, if not her animal, on guard. He saw her shift the keys in her hand, one of them protruding between the index and middle finger, the way women were taught in self-defense classes. Good for her.

She said warily, “Are you looking for someone?”

“Risa Niland.”

“Oh. Well, she’s home.”

“I just rang her bell. No answer.”

“No? I saw her a little while ago, in the lobby.”

“How long ago?”

“I don’t know, about half an hour. They must’ve gone out.”

“They?”

“She was with somebody.”

“Guy in his twenties, big, sandy hair?”

“That’s right…”

Runyon said, keeping his voice calm, “Open the door, please, miss.”

“What?”

He slid the license case out of his pocket, flipped it open and held it up long enough for her to verify his photo and identify the official state seal. If that didn’t work, he’d have no choice but to show her the Magnum. “Open the door, please,” he said again. “The man with Risa Niland may be the one who murdered her sister.”

“My God! Are you serious?”

“Dead serious.”

Hesitation, but only for a beat or two. She used her key and then stepped back quickly, pulling the dog with her.

He said, “Better lock yourself in your apartment,” and went through into the lobby. He bypassed the elevator, took the stairs in a light-footed run. Near the third-floor landing he drew his weapon, held it down along his leg as he shouldered through into the short hallway. Empty. Three-A was the door on the left; he eased over to it, laid his ear against the panel.

They were in there, all right. Muffled voices, the words not quite distinguishable but sharp-toned and a few octaves above normal. He could almost feel the tension in them.

He tried the knob with his left hand. Locked. The door looked solid, the lock was a good-quality deadbolt. You wouldn’t be able to force it; kick it in, maybe, but it would take more than one or two kicks. Shooting it open wasn’t an option. That left only one way to go.