Betrayers (Nameless Detective Novels) (22 page)

Jake Runyon came in with a report on the Madison bail-jump case. Closed, but with an unexpected twist to what had seemed a routine investigation. Reading Jake’s report, she realized she hadn’t paid enough attention to the agency caseload
the past couple of weeks. Too much on her mind, too much focus on nailing Antoine and Alisha. But that was no excuse for leaving contract work undone or giving it short shrift. Business to run here. She hadn’t even gotten around to the monthly billing yet.

She attacked the backlog, and that helped make the time go by a little faster. Not much faster, though. Not fast enough.

Noon hour came and went. Tamara worked right through it. Wasn’t hungry; too tensed up, waiting for the judge’s call.

And it kept not coming.

One o’clock. Two o’clock. Three calls, none from Mantle.

Why? Hadn’t been able to get in touch with Viveca Inman? Still deliberating? Decided not to cooperate and was blowing her off? No, he wouldn’t do that—just blow her off. He knew she’d go to the cops without his cooperation if he forced her to. She was pretty good at reading people; Mantle wasn’t the kind of man to stick his head in the sand and hope it’d all go away. Whatever he decided, he’d call and tell her.

So why the hell didn’t he?

Three o’clock. Still nothing.

Tamara got on the horn herself then. Found out from the judge’s aide at City Hall that he wasn’t on the bench or in chambers. He’d been in court this morning but then canceled his afternoon session and left “on personal business.”

Home by now? No. The woman who answered the phone said he wasn’t there and she didn’t know when he would be; she’d expected him to be in court all day.

Four o’clock. No word.

Five o’clock. No word.

Now Tamara was really wired. Shouldn’t be letting the delay affect her the way it was—a few more hours, even another
day, wouldn’t make any difference. But damn, when you were close like this, when you wanted something as badly as she wanted Antoine and Alisha put away, all the waiting around couldn’t help but work on your nerves.

Keep on hanging here or close up and go home? Her home and cell numbers, as well as the agency’s, were on the card she’d given the judge; he could reach her no matter where she was. Give it another hour, she thought—but all she was able to stand was another ten minutes. Stay in the office any longer and she’d start bouncing off the walls. New Olympic gymnastic event: wall-bouncing. Get herself started and she’d be a prime candidate for the gold.

She locked the agency, ransomed her car from the parking garage. The Toyota’s engine was starting to make funny pinging noises. Horace’s hand-me-down had better not give her any trouble before she traded it in. Should’ve gotten rid of it weeks ago, when she’d moved out of the Sunset District apartment they’d shared, into her new flat on Potrero Hill. Promised herself she would, and probably would’ve if she hadn’t let that son of a bitch Lucas . . . Antoine . . . crawl into her life. First thing she’d do when this business was finished was dump that sucker and buy herself the best ride she could afford.

The new crib was the entire second floor of a refurbished Stick Victorian on Connecticut Street, easily the nicest place she’d ever lived in the city. She’d only had it a little over a month, and with her life in upheaval the past three weeks there’d hardly been time for her to settle in. Still a stack of unpacked boxes to deal with, still some painting and other work to be done, before she could really start enjoying the place.

As soon as she came in she checked her answering machine. No messages—not that that was surprising. Almost never
were anymore; if somebody wanted to leave a phone message for her, they called the agency or went to her cell’s voice mail. The answering machine was something else she might as well get rid of. The landline, too, while she was at it. You just didn’t need either of them anymore these days.

In the kitchen she poured herself a glass of merlot to try to unwind a little. The prospect of sitting around all evening, waiting for the judge to call, really would have her wall-bouncing. If she didn’t hear from him by seven thirty, she’d drive over to Monterey Heights and hope to surprise him at home.

She’d just sat down in the living room, taken her first sip of wine, when the doorbell went off.

Now who the hell was that? Not Vonda or any of her other friends; they never dropped over unannounced. You got solicitors in the evenings here sometimes—salesmen and political and religious prosletyzers. Well, she’d make short work of whoever it was. She was in no mood to talk to anybody tonight except Judge Alfred Mantle.

The Victorian’s owners hadn’t bothered to have a communicator or door buzzer installed when they renovated it, so you had to go all the way down the inside stairs to find out who was ringing the bell. No problem if it was somebody you wanted to see, but an irritation if it wasn’t. Well, it was a minor inconvenience. Everything else about the flat made it worth the high rent she was paying.

She hadn’t put the chain on the door when she came in, didn’t think to put it on before she threw the dead bolt and opened up. Mistake—big mistake.

Soon as she turned the knob, a heavy weight slammed against the panel and drove it straight back into her face. Pain erupted, blood spurted from her nose, and the force of the
blow sent her staggering backward along the short hall to the foot of the stairs. Her heel stubbed against the bottom riser. And down she went against the stairs, another of the risers jamming hard into her back, the impact taking some of her breath away.

Dimly, through a haze of hurt, she saw Antoine Delman come inside and push the door closed behind him, throw the dead bolt to lock it. Then he was standing over her, a smile like a rictus on his ugly, blocky face.

“Hello, Tamara,” he said. “Hello, you fucking bitch.”

He had two calls that afternoon on his way back to the agency from an interview on the new case Tamara had given him, a skip-trace for a prominent S.F. couple whose daughter had disappeared. The first call was from Bryn—something of a surprise, since it came during working hours. She seldom called him at all, letting him take the initiative, and never until after five o’clock.

“Jake, I’m sorry to bother you like this; I know you’re busy—”

“Not a problem. What’s up?”

“I know we said tomorrow night, but . . . could you come over tonight instead?”

There was a strained quality to her voice that made him ask, “Something wrong?”

“. . . Yes. Something that happened today.”

“What? You okay?”

“Yes. I don’t want to talk about it on the phone. Can you come over?”

“Right away, if it’s urgent.”

“No, tonight’s soon enough.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. Any time you can make it.”

New development with her health, the facial paralysis? He hoped that wasn’t it; it probably wouldn’t be good news if it was. Support or custody troubles with the ex-husband? No use speculating. He’d find out soon enough.

But he was still wondering when the second call came in. Bill, this time. And he didn’t sound any better than Bryn had. Even more tense; his voice was as tight and flat as Runyon had ever heard it.

“Jake, I need to talk to you—in person. You busy?”

“On my way back to the agency.”

“Where are you?”

“Just leaving St. Francis Wood.”

“When you get to South Park, don’t wait for me in the office—meet me in the South Park Café. I’m in the East Bay, heading for the Bay Bridge. I shouldn’t be far behind you.”

“Business you don’t want Tamara to know about?”

“Business I don’t want anybody to know about except you. Not yet.”

T
he South Park Café was mid-afternoon quiet, only a handful of customers taking up bar space. Runyon ordered draft beer, took it to the table farthest removed from any of the other occupied ones. He was still nursing it when Bill walked in fifteen minutes later.

As soon as he sat down, Runyon could see how tensed up the man was. Holding in whatever was bugging him as if it were an explosive that might go off at any second. When Runyon raised
the beer glass Bill shook his head, leaned forward with both hands flat on the table.

“I’m going to ask a favor,” Bill said, “but I won’t hold it against you if you say no.”

“Why would I say no?”

“What I want you to do could have a backlash.”

“What kind of backlash?”

“The kind that could get us and the agency in trouble. That’s one reason I don’t want Tamara to know about it yet.”

“Trouble with the law?”

“Potentially. Could put our licenses in jeopardy. I don’t think that’ll happen, but it could if I’m off base here.”

“But you’re pretty sure you’re not.”

“Pretty sure,” Bill said. “But not a hundred percent. It’s going to take a little muscle to find out for certain.”

“How much muscle?”

“Nothing heavy. Just enough to get inside a guy’s house.”

“Hard guy?”

“No. And no family, lives alone.”

“Unlawful entry, then. That the backlash you mean?”

“That’s it.”

“I’ve run that risk before,” Runyon said. “We both have. This is important to you, right? Personal?”

“Yeah. Personal.”

“And you want me along why? Not for extra muscle, if the guy isn’t a hardcase. Intimidation? Witness?”

“They’re part of the reason.”

“What’s the other part?”

Bill said grimly, “If I’m right, to keep me from doing something I might regret for the rest of my life.”

.   .   .

Z
achary Ullman wasn’t home.

No lights, no car in the driveway, no answer to the doorbell.

They sat waiting in Runyon’s Ford, parked a few doors upstreet. Neither of them said anything. Bill had laid it all out for him in the South Park Café and they’d talked it over a little more on the drive out here to Daly City. Nothing to do now but wait.

Gray daylight began to fade; fog came pouring in in humped white waves, like an avalanche in slow motion. Ragged streamers of mist broke loose from the mass overhead, curled down along the twisty street, thickening slowly until the shapes of the houses beyond the curve ahead lost definition. Night shadows formed and spread and lights bloomed in windows. More cars rolled by in both directions—residents coming home from work—but none of them turned into Ullman’s driveway.

Waiting like this didn’t bother Runyon. He sat with his mind cranked down to basic awareness, a trick he’d learned on stakeouts in Seattle and honed fine during Colleen’s long, slow cancer death. It wasn’t a matter of maintaining patience; it was a way to keep from thinking about things like pain and suffering and grief, things that could drive you up to the edge if you let yourself dwell on them.

Bill hadn’t learned the trick. He was always fidgety on stakeouts and worse when he was stressed this way—thinking too much, letting his thoughts and emotions run unchecked. He kept shifting around on the seat, blowing out heavy breaths, doing things with his hands and feet. Once he muttered, “Come on, come on, come
on
!” Runyon didn’t blame
him. Even if Bill was wrong about what he expected to find in Ullman’s house, there was still the cocaine Emily had picked up. That was enough cause and justification right there for what they were going to do.

Not easy being a father. Runyon hadn’t been much of a one to Joshua, but that hadn’t been his fault; Andrea, with her booze-fueled bitterness and hatred, hadn’t given him an opportunity. But he had the parental gene; he understood what Bill was going through, why he didn’t trust himself to brace Ullman alone tonight. If their situations were reversed, he might not be so calm sitting here, either.

Full dark now. Getting on toward six o’clock. No telling when Ullman would finally show up; if he’d gone out to dinner or a show or a meeting of some kind, they could be here for hours. Pretty soon he’d have to call Bryn, tell her he’d be late, might not be able to make it at all tonight. Better do it now, get it over with—

No.

Headlights crawling toward them through the mist, slowing, turning into Ullman’s driveway.

Bill laid fingers like steel bands on Runyon’s arm. “That’s him.”

“Can’t make out if he’s alone.”

“Not yet.”

The garage door rolled up down there. Enough light from inside spilled out for a clearer view of the car—a light-colored compact—and the shadowed interior.

“He’s alone,” Bill said.

The car disappeared inside the garage; the door rolled down again.

Runyon asked, “How much time do we give him?”

“Enough to get inside the house. We move as soon as a light goes on.”

It didn’t take much more than a minute. The instant the front window became a pale yellow rectangle, they were out of the car.

Fast walk across the street, up the front path—careful not to make any noise as they climbed to the door. Bill leaned on the bell, kept his finger on it. Footsteps. And a voice said, “Who is it? Who’s out there?”

Bill glanced at Runyon, shook his head. He jabbed the bell again.

“I said who’s out there?”

And again.

Rattle of a dead-bolt lock. Runyon stepped aside, into the heavy shadows, so he couldn’t be seen when the door opened partway on a chain.

“You again. What’s the idea of ringing my bell like that—”

Bill said, “Let me in, Ullman. I want to talk to you.”

“No. I have nothing to say to you. Go away.”

“I’m coming in, one way or another.”

“No, you’re not—”

Ullman tried to close the door. Bill jammed his body against it, and Runyon crowded in next to him to help hold it open. A bleated “No!” from inside. B & E if they busted the chain . . . and the hell with it. Their combined weight shoved it taut, snapped the plate loose on the second push; the door flew inward, the knob banging loudly off the inner wall.

Bill shoved in after it. Over his shoulder Runyon saw Ullman’s slight figure backing away with his hands up in front of him, his narrow face pinched white with fear.

“Two of you! My God, what’s the idea, what do you want? I’ll call the police—”