Bill Pronzini: Mourners

Her presence surprised Troxell; she said something that made him jerk, swing half around. Runyon was moving by then, on the same trajectory. The woman spoke again, but there was enough wind sound to block out the words. Subject’s head wagged; his reply caused her to reach out and pluck at the sleeve of his coat. He recoiled as if she’d tried to strike him, said something to her in a raised voice. Part of it carried to Runyon, the words “I’m sorry.” Then Troxell spun away from her and hurried back toward the road, bypassing Runyon in a blind rush. The woman stayed where she was by the grave, looking after him-her head raised now, the muffler down off her mouth and chin.

Runyon’s first clear look at her was a glance that immediately morphed into a rigid stare. Jolting sensation inside him; his chest tightened, his breath came short. Momentary confusion, a feeling of disorientation, ran James Troxell right out of his head.

Colleen.

She looked like Colleen.

From a distance, in the hazy morning light, she might have been Colleen.

He started toward her, a reflex action so abrupt it brought a twist of pain in his bad leg. In that same moment she moved, too, cutting away across the lawn. “Wait!” she called after Troxell. “Wait!” But he neither slowed nor turned his head, just kept fast-walking to where he’d parked his BMW.

Runyon cut ahead to the flower-banked grave, paused there just long enough to read the inscription on the marble headstone.

IN MEMORY OF

ERIN DUMONT

1980–2005

“In the midst of Life there is Death”

The woman seemed to have realized that she was running across gravesites instead of in the grass strips that separated them; he saw her falter, then slow and shift her route sideways. Troxell was already inside the BMW, a hundred yards away. There was enough time for Runyon to get to the Ford and reestablish pursuit, but he didn’t do it. The woman had halted next to a marble bench, and when Troxell pulled away she sank down on it, unmindful of the fact that it was a memorial rather than a public bench and wet with mist besides. She lowered her head into the splayed fingers of one hand.

Runyon approached her slowly. She didn’t seem to know he was there, even after he stopped in front of her, until he said, “Excuse me, miss.” Then her head snapped up and she blinked at him.

Up close, the resemblance to Colleen wasn’t nearly as strong. Younger, no more than thirty. Face longer and thinner. Hairstyle similar, shoulder length, parted in the middle, but the color was several shades lighter than dark burgundy. Eyes blue, not green, faintly slanted, and liquid with an emotion that he recognized as pain. Mouth wider, the upper lip thicker. Still, there was enough similarity, too much similarity. His mouth was dry. He could feel his own hurt like a fresh probe moving through him.

“What is it?” she said. Voice different, too, pitched lower and not as soft as Colleen’s. The blue eyes were wary. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

“I’m sorry. You… remind me of someone.”

She said, “Oh for God’s sake,” in a tone of weariness mixed with disgust.

“That’s not a line and I’m not trying to pick you up. I just want to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“The man you spoke to at Erin Dumont’s grave.”

Abrupt change in her expression; she was on her feet in one quick motion. Almost eagerly she said, “You know who he is?”

“That’s one of the questions I was going to ask you.”

“Why? Do you know him?”

“I know who he is. I followed him here.”

“Followed him? I don’t… my God, are you a policeman?”

“Private investigator.” He flipped open the leather case Colleen had given him as a birthday gift, showed her the photostat of his California license. She studied it-memorizing the information, he thought-before she met his gaze again.

“Why are you following that man, Mr. Runyon?”

“I can’t tell you that. Confidential.”

“But is it because you think… somebody thinks… he might have something to do with what happened to Erin?”

“No. That’s not the reason my agency was hired.”

It was not what she wanted to hear. She bit her lower lip, sank down again on the edge of the bench as if she were suddenly tired.

Runyon said, “Do you mind telling me your name?”

Brief hesitation. “Risa Niland.”

“Risa?”

“Short for Marisa.”

“Erin Dumont was a friend or relative?”

“She was my sister.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say that. I’m tired of hearing it from strangers who don’t really mean it. You didn’t know Erin, you don’t know what it’s like to lose someone close to you in a terrible way.”

He was silent.

After a few seconds, she said more softly, “But you have lost someone, haven’t you? I can see it in your face.”

“What happened to your sister, Ms. Niland? Or is it Mrs.?”

“Not anymore.”

“How did she die?”

“Somebody killed her. Raped and strangled her.”

“… When?”

“A little over two months ago.”

“And the man responsible hasn’t been caught or identified?”

“No. There were no witnesses, no physical evidence.”

“Where did it happen?”

“In the city, where else?” Bitterly now. “When I first came out here I thought San Francisco was fascinating, beautiful, a magical place. But it’s no different than any other big city-just as dirty, just as vicious.”

“What part of the city?”

“The neighborhood where we… where I live. Outer Sunset, one of the supposedly safe neighborhoods.”

“You shared a place with her?”

“An apartment near Golden Gate Park. Erin went jogging every evening between six and seven. Sometimes in the park, sometimes just around the neighborhood. That night she didn’t come home. A man walking his dog found her the next morning, in some bushes inside the park.”

“Nobody saw anything, heard anything?”

“Or won’t admit it if they did. That’s another thing I hate about the city-mind your own business, don’t get involved. If it weren’t for that bastard still being loose, I’d quit my job and move back to Wisconsin. I swear that’s what I will do when the police catch him. If they catch him.”

“The man I’ve been following-you ever see him before today?”

“Once. At Erin’s funeral service.”

“Speak to him then?”

“I tried to. He avoided me that day, too.”

“Possible he worked with your sister, had a relationship with her?”

Risa Niland shook her head. “She worked for two women… a women’s boutique on Union Street. And she never dated older men. She had a steady boyfriend, a guy her own age she was serious about.”

“Name?”

“Scott Iams. He’s in even worse shape than I am.”

Runyon said, “That marble headstone looks expensive. Did you arrange for it?”

“My God, no. My family and I couldn’t afford one like that.”

“Her boyfriend, then?”

“Scott couldn’t afford it, either. And her employers barely cared enough to come to the funeral. I don’t know who paid for that stone. I tried to find out, but the cemetery people… anonymous order, they told me, paid for in cash.”

“What about all the flowers?”

“Same thing. Every week since it happened… wreaths, bouquets. I told the police, but they didn’t seem to think it was worth investigating. I do. That’s why I came here this morning, why I’ve been coming here every chance I could the past couple of weeks. The man you’ve been following, he has to be the one.”

“He did seem almost afraid of you.”

“Yes, he did.”

“Did you identify yourself to him?”