Bill Pronzini - Spook

“Somebody blew him away. Friday night sometime.”

“Where?”

“Body was found yesterday morning. Behind a plastics company warehouse on Army, next to a Dumpster. Shot twice with a forty-one caliber weapon.”

“Same gun that killed Spook?”

“No report from Ballistics yet — they’re backlogged as usual. But you can bet it was the same weapon and the same shooter.”

“The wages of blackmail,” I said.

“Looks that way. ID on him just came through from NCIC. Joseph Gorley, age forty-six. Ex-navy, thrown out in ’seventy-nine for drunken misconduct and striking an officer. Long rap sheet dating back to the early ’eighties, mostly D&D and aggravated assault. One less cretin to clutter up the streets and the court system.” Harsh assessment, but true enough. Sentimentality in any form is anathema to police work.

“Anything at me scene?”

“Nope. At first it looked like just another street killing, so the tech boys did a cursory. You know how it is with those cases.”

“Yeah.”

“Once the link was established, we sent a team back out for another sweep. Same result.”

“Killed there or somewhere else?”

“There. Bloodstains that the rain didn’t wash away, drag marks twenty feet or so to the Dumpster. Driven there on the promise of more money, probably, and paid off with a bullet.”

“Double homicide makes it a priority case now, right?”

“Right,” Logan said. “Your new guy, Runyon, happen to be in?”

“No. Why?”

“He was out looking for Big Dog the other night. Inspector in charge, Gunderson, turned that up.”

“If he saw anything or knew anything, you’d have heard from him by now. He’s a by-the-book player, Jack. We wouldn’t’ve hired him if there was any chance he wasn’t.”

“I’ll take your word for it. But I’d still like to talk to him.”

“When he comes in, I’ll have him call you. Might be tomorrow sometime.”

“No problem.”

Tamara had been listening to my end of the conversation. When I put the phone down, she said, “So Big Dog got himself put down.”

“Yeah. I don’t like the way this case is shaping up. My gut feeling says none of us is going to be happy with the outcome, including our client.”

“Long as Mr. Taradash pays the rest of his bill. Want me to try calling Runyon on his cell?”

“Not yet. Give him time to make the rounds up in Mono. Meantime, you might ask Felicia to find out if there’s anything on Dorothy Lightfoot and the others in the NCIC.”

“Already done. E-mailed her while you were on the phone.”

“Is that a good idea? I mean, she could lose her job if the brass finds out she’s doing favors outside the department.”

“We got us a little code worked out, knamean? Anybody sees that e-mail I just sent, they won’t have a clue what it’s about.”

“My partner, the cryptographer.”

“Yeah. Your partner.”

And another little moan, another long silent gaze into space.

She worried me, she really did. The thought that Wistful Tamara might knock Sensible Tamara on the head and turn into Trash-Her-Future Tamara was depressing in the extreme. Better get Kerry involved in this right away. If anybody could talk turkey to a stubborn, moody, lovesick, borderline head case, it was Kerry. Hell, she’d had plenty of practice with me all these years, hadn’t she?

“No,” Kerry said.

“What do you mean, no?”

“What part of the word don’t you understand? It’s not a good idea.”

“Why isn’t it?”

“It just isn’t. What makes you think she’d listen to me?”

“Voice of experience. You’re a woman, she’s a woman—”

“Yes, and no woman wants another intruding on her personal life with unsolicited advice. If Tamara were to ask me, fine. But she hasn’t.”

“I’m asking you. Please.”

“No.”

“If you’d just...”

“What did you say?”

“Dammit!”

“What? I can barely hear you.”

“Damn car phone cuts out in parking garages sometimes.” I shook the receiver, fiddled with the unit. “Better now?”

“A little. Why are you calling from a parking garage?”

“Well, I couldn’t do it from the office, could I, with Tamara right there. I made an excuse and came over here to the car.”

“Terrific,” she said. “Sneaky games at your age.”

“What?”

“Never mind. When are you going to break down and buy yourself a cell phone?”

I ignored that. “So you won’t talk to her, not even a few words?”

“Not even one word. Be realistic. What could I tell her? She’s young and black and I’m old and white.”

“You’re not old.”

“From Tamara’s point of view I’m fodder for assisted living.”

“You could tell her not to screw up her life.”

“It’s her life. Her choices.”

“Kerry, listen...”

“You listen. Leave her alone. Don’t try to interfere, don’t try to get anybody else to interfere. Especially not now, with Christmas so close.”

“What does Christmas have to do with it?”

“You want to spoil her holidays?”

“No, but—”

“She’s level-headed, she knows what’s best for her. And it isn’t giving up a good career opportunity to be the wife of a Philadelphia symphony cellist.”

“Love’s blind, kiddo, or hadn’t you heard?”

“Oh, Lord, don’t give me clichés. Just trust my instincts. Leave the woman alone, let her work this...”

“What? This effing phone...”

“Effing,” Kerry said. “You really must be upset.”

“Of course I’m—”

“What?”

“I said—”

“What? You’re cutting out again. Listen, I can’t talk any... have to... work... that new ad campaign I...”

“What?”

“Just remember... told you. Don’t inter...”

“What?”

Too late. She’d already hung up.

When I came back into the office, Tamara said, “Felicia just called.”

“And?”

“One NCIC hit. Anthony Colton.”

“And?”

“Fugitive warrants out on him, state and fed both.”

“For what crime?”

“Big enchilada. Homicide, multiple.”

“The hell. How many victims?”

“Three. Seventeen years ago in Aspen Creek. Mono County Sheriff’s Department put out the original warrant, FBI issued theirs not long after.”

“In nineteen eighty-five?”

“Yep. Colton’s been at large ever since.”

“Details? Victims’ names?”

“Not yet. Felicia’s got a request in for specifics.”

And you never knew how fast you’d get a response on that kind of request. The NCIC processes thousands from law enforcement agencies nationwide every day; the simple ones usually come back fast, detailed case files take longer. It all depended on how busy they were, and on the exact nature of Anthony Colton’s crimes and how high on the FBI’s fugitives’ list he rated after seventeen years.

I said, “Any other felonies on Colton’s record?”

“Not in California. Might be a spree.”

“Might be. Two of the victims have to be his wife and Vernon Snow.”

“And number three’s Luke, whoever he was.”

“Which makes Anthony Colton—”

“Spook. Uh-huh.”

It seemed a stretch until you thought about it, put it in the right perspective. Seventeen years on the run. Unbalanced from the first, riddled with guilt over what he’d done, deteriorating physically and mentally under the strain to the point where he attempted suicide by self-mutilation, finally ended up down and out, addled and harmless, gabbling to the ghosts of his victims on the streets of San Francisco. Who’d figure a passively disturbed homeless man for a fugitive multiple murderer? Well, somebody had. It was the only explanation for his murder that made sense. Whoever had fired that bullet into Spook’s head, and then put Big Dog down, was connected in some way to the triple homicide in 1985.