Bill Pronzini - Deadfall

Silence for three or four seconds. Then she said, “Oh my God.”

“But that’s not the best part. No more commune for old Ray; no more shaved heads and robes and chants. He’s back to wearing three-piece suits, he lives in San Jose, and he’s an ordained minister-he says-in something called the Church of the Holy Mission.”

“Oh my God!”

“God, right,” I said. “I almost forgot. He talks to God now. Personally.”

“Talks to…” She made a funny little strangled noise.

“Yes indeed,” I said. “And God told him divorce is a pernicious invention of man, so as far as he’s concerned the two of you are still married.” I waited a while, and when she stayed silent I said, “He wants me to give you up. He said if I don’t I’m going to hell.”

“You mean he threatened you?”

“Not exactly. No.”

“Thank God for that. He was never violent when I knew him.” Pause. “He’s living in San Jose, you said?”

“Apparently. You didn’t know that, huh?”

“No. How would I know?”

“He hasn’t been in touch with you?”

“Not in months. You don’t think-?”

“I don’t think anything. I’m just asking.”

Another pause. “This new church-what kind is it?”

“Good question. It has something to do with the Moral Crusade. Him too.”

“I never heard of the Moral Crusade. Like the Moral Majority?”

“Probably. Eberhardt’s checking on it.”

She said nervously, “What are you going to do?”

“About what?”

“About Ray.”

“I don’t know yet. You got any suggestions?”

“No. Just don’t do anything until we talk this out.”

“What are you afraid I might do? Drown him in holy water?”

“Don’t grouch at me. It’s not my fault, is it?”

“Well, you married him.”

“He wasn’t a lunatic when I married him, for God’s sake. He was normal.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Normal.”

“Well, he was.” There was some mumbling in the background. Pretty soon she said, “Listen, I have to go now. I was in an important meeting with a client… I’ve got to get back. We’ll talk about this tonight, okay?”

She sounded flustered and edgy, and all at once I was sorry that I’d shaken her up like this. It wasn’t her fault she had an ex-husband who claimed a personal relationship with God, or that he’d decided to walk into my office this morning. Why take it out on her?

I said, “Okay. Babe, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just that he got me all worked up…”

“No, I’m glad you called. For all we know he might be on his way over here. ’ ”

I hadn’t thought of that. I said, “You’d better alert the receptionist.”

“Don’t worry, I will. See you tonight.”

I put the receiver down, and sighed, and looked at Eberhardt. He was still on the phone. I sighed again and looked at my watch. 10:40. Most of the morning shot already. Tom Washburn was paying me good money, and all I was doing was hanging around here, stewing about Ray Dunston and feeling sorry for myself.

Eberhardt cradled his handset and said, “That was a guy I know on the San Jose cops. Ed Berg. He never heard of the Church of the Holy Mission or the Moral Crusade.”

“Terrific.”

“But it won’t take him long to find out. I told him if nobody’s here when he calls back, leave a message on the answering machine and one of us’ll call him back.”

“Right. You got anything pressing today, Eb?”

“Nothing that won’t wait. Why?”

“Take over that insurance investigation for Barney Rivera, will you? I want to get moving on the Purcell thing.”

He shrugged. “I figured,” he said. “It’s personal with you, right? Because you were there when it happened. You’re glad Washburn showed up this morning and hired you.”

“Maybe. A little.”

“Just don’t let it get too personal, paisan. You make waves somewhere, there’ll be trouble. There always is.”

“It’s not that personal,” I said.

“Uh-huh. I’ve heard that one before.”

I got my hat and moved to the door.

Eberhardt said musingly, “What do you suppose God thinks about guys like Dunston? You know, religious nuts that claim they got a pipeline Upstairs. You think He finds ’em comical?”

“No,” I said. “And neither do I.”

He frowned. “What if they do have a pipeline, some of ’em? Guys like Falwell. What if they’re delivering the right message?”

I didn’t answer that; I didn’t even want to think about it. I went out quietly and shut the door.

There are some things you just have to take on faith.

The first place I went was to the Hall of Justice. Ben Klein was in and willing to talk over an early lunch; I spent twenty-five minutes with him and a tuna salad sandwich in the ground-floor cafeteria. He had no objection to my investigating Tom Washburn’s theory, but he made it plain that he thought it was a waste of my time and Washburn’s money.

“A tie-in between Purcell’s murder and his brother’s death was one of the first things we checked out,” he said. “I told you that before. There’s just no evidence that Kenneth Purcell’s death was anything but an accident.”

“From what I understand, more than one person had a strong motive for knocking him off.”

“Sure. His wife and his daughter, among others; nobody seemed to like him much. But the world is full of assholes, and how many of them get wasted by people who don’t like them?”

“Not many, maybe,” I admitted. “But some do.”

“Not Kenneth Purcell. Everybody at the party was with everybody else: all nicely alibied for the time of his death.”

“Somebody else, then. Somebody who wasn’t invited to the party.”

“Theoretically possible. But again, no evidence to even suggest it.”

“That real estate business of Purcell’s-what put it on the shady side?”

“He was brokering for foreign interests,” Klein said. “The kind with dubious ethics and political orientations. You know, buying property under his own name without telling anybody he was using foreign capital; helping unscrupulous investors from countries like Lebanon, South Africa, the Philippines get into positions of financial power in this country that they wouldn’t be able to if property owners and legitimate brokers knew who they were. He peddled influence, too-arranged for high-powered legal representation for his clients.”

“Could his brother have been mixed up in that?”

“No. Not powerful enough. We’re talking big money here. VIPs.”

“Sounds like the kind of business where you could make a lot of enemies,” I said.

“Absolutely. But it’s also the kind of business where the lid is screwed down tight. The feds might be able to unscrew it, given enough time and provocation; the authorities in San Mateo County couldn’t, and neither can we.”

“What about the missing snuff box? Any chance of an angle in that?”

Klein shook his head. “Purcell apparently had it on him when he went off the cliff. The body got beat up pretty bad on the rocks before it was recovered; San Mateo figures the box got ripped loose and lost.”

“Washburn told me the dingus was valuable. How valuable?”

“Fifty thousand dollars in the collectors’ market.”

“That much? Lot of money for a snuff box.”

“You’re telling me. One of a kind item, though, made out of gold and dating back to Napoleon’s time. So Eldon Summerhayes says.”

“Who’s he?”

“Owns the Summerhayes Gallery, up on Post Street. He deals in rare snuff containers, among other items. He and his wife were at the party.”