Bill Pronzini: Vixen

Melikian did most of the talking at first. He was one of the more successful bondsmen in the city, with half a dozen employees and offices across Bryant Street from the Hall of Justice — a big, gruff second-generation Armenian noted for being a chronic complainer and poor-mouth, as well as for his shrewd business acumen. I’d done a fair amount of work for him over the years, to our mutual satisfaction and trust, which I supposed was the reason he’d insisted on dealing with me personally. He hated bail jumpers, as he called them, even more than other bondsmen did; to hear him tell it, they were all part of a vast conspiracy to ruin his business and drive him into bankruptcy. As a result he was careful to avoid posting bond for anyone who struck him as a potential flight risk, but now and then he got burned anyway. Usually when that happened, he ranted and raved and threatened dire consequences. Not this time. When I sat down with him and Cory Beckett, he was meek as a mouse.

She was the reason. Those eyes and that sleek body of hers had worked their spell on him; he hung on her every word, and the gleam in his eyes when he looked at her was neither cynical nor professional. An even more telling measure of how she’d affected him was an unprecedented willingness to split the agency’s fees with her if I accepted the case.

The subject under discussion was Cory Beckett’s brother, Kenneth, who had been arrested and arraigned six weeks ago on a grand theft charge. The bail amount was a cool fifty thousand, which meant she’d had to put up the usual 10 percent commission in cash plus some kind of collateral for most or all of the rest. I didn’t ask what the collateral was; it was none of my concern.

“The trial’s three weeks off yet,” Melikian said, “so we got that long to save the bond and the kid’s tail. But technically he’s already a jumper on account of one of the terms the judge set for his bail.”

“Which is?” I asked.

“Not allowed to leave the city without police permission. The court finds out he’s in violation, the judge’ll issue a bench warrant for his arrest.”

“Uh-huh. And he’s already gone.”

“Yeah. And it don’t look like he’s coming back for his trial, unless you find him and get him back here in time.”

“Does his lawyer know he skipped?”

“Sam Wasserman? Hell, no. And he won’t find out if we can help it.”

That was easy enough to understand. Wasserman was a well-respected criminal attorney, but something of a straight arrow in a profession sprinkled with crooked bows. If he knew his client had skipped, he would probably inform the court and then withdraw from the case.

“How long has your brother been gone, Ms. Beckett?” I asked her.

“At least three days,” she said. She had one of those soft, caressing voices, maybe natural, maybe affected. Intimate even when she was playing the worried little sister.

“At least?”

“I had some business out of the city and when I returned, he was gone from the apartment we share.”

“What did he take with him?”

“Clothing, a few personal belongings.”

“Cell phone?”

“Yes, but he has it turned off. I’ve left a dozen messages.”

“Why do you think he ran away? At this particular time, I mean.”

“The strain must have gotten to him... I shouldn’t have left him alone. He’s not a strong person and he’s terrified of being locked up for a crime he didn’t commit.”

With any other client, Melikian would have rolled his eyes at that. Nine out of every ten bonds he posted was for an innocent party, to hear them and whoever arranged their bail tell it.

I said, “You have no idea where he might have gone?”

“None. Except that it won’t be far, and he’ll either be at a yacht harbor or marina — some kind of boat place — or there’ll be one close by.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Kenny hates traveling alone, any kind of long-distance travel. He won’t fly and he’s never driven more than a hundred miles in any direction by himself. And boats... well, they’re his entire life.”

“Working on or around them, you mean?”

“That’s what he does — deckhand, maintenance man, any job that involves boats.”

“Has he ever been in trouble with the law before?”

“No. Never.”

So the self-imposed travel restrictions didn’t necessarily apply. Fear of being sent to prison can prod a man into doing any number of things he’d shied away from before.

“The grand theft charge,” I said. “What is it he’s alleged to have stolen?”

“A diamond necklace. But he didn’t steal it. I know he didn’t.”

That meant nothing, either. Most people refuse to believe a close relative capable of committing a serious crime, no matter how much evidence exists to the contrary.

“How much is the necklace worth?”

“Assessed at twenty K,” Melikian said.

Some piece of jewelry. I asked who the owner was.

“Margaret Vorhees.”

“Vorhees. Related to Andrew Vorhees?”

“His wife,” Cory Beckett said. “His drunken, lying wife.”

Andrew Vorhees was a relatively big fish in the not-so-small San Francisco pond. High-powered leader of the City Maintenance Workers Union, yachtsman, twice unsuccessful candidate for supervisor. A man with an underground reputation for fast living and double-dealing and a penchant for scandal. It was whispered around that he had kinky sexual tastes, had been a regular customer of one of the city’s high-profile madams whose extensive call-girl operation the cops had busted a couple of years back. It was also whispered that his socialite wife was a severe alcoholic. She had cause, if the rumors about her husband were true.

“How does your brother know Margaret Vorhees?” I asked.

“He doesn’t, not really. He works... worked for her husband.”

“In what capacity?”

“Caring for his yacht. At the St. Francis Yacht Harbor.”

“Is that where the theft occurred?”

“She claimed it was, yes — the Vorhees woman. From her purse while she was on the yacht.”

“Why would she have a twenty-thousand-dollar necklace in her purse?”

“Taking it to a jeweler to have the clasp repaired, she claimed. My brother was the only other person on board at the time.”

“Where was the necklace found?”

Cory Beckett sighed, flicked a lock of the midnight hair off her forehead. “Hidden inside Kenny’s van.”

I didn’t say anything.

“He swears he didn’t steal it,” she said, “that he has no idea how it got into his van. Of course I believe him. He’s not a thief. He had no possible reason to take that necklace.”

“Except for the fact that it’s worth twenty thousand dollars.”

“Not to Kenny. He doesn’t care about money. And he certainly wouldn’t have taken it to give to me, as Margaret Vorhees claims. Or any other woman. No, she put the necklace in his van, or had somebody do it for her.”

“Why would she want to frame your brother?”

“I don’t know. Neither does he. Some imagined slight, I suppose. Rich alcoholics... well, I’m sure you know how erratic and unpredictable people like that can be.”

“Is your brother the kind of man who makes passes at married women?”

“My God, no. What kind of question is that?”

“Sorry, but it’s the kind I have to ask.”

“Kenny’s not like that at all. He’s a very shy person, especially around women. He’s never even had a girlfriend. His only real flaw... well...”

“Yes, Ms. Beckett?”

She ran the tip of her tongue back and forth across her lips, moistening them. The movement made Melikian squirm a little in his chair. “If I tell you,” she said, “you’ll think he’s guilty, that he stole the necklace because of it.”