Betrayers (Nameless Detective Novels) (8 page)

“Before I came here.”

“If he doesn’t know where Troy is, why do you suppose I do?”

“I don’t suppose anything,” Runyon said. “I just have a few questions.”

She thought about it for ten seconds. Then she said, “Oh, all right, you may as well come in,” and the chain rattled, the door opened all the way.

The rest of what went with the narrowed eye was older than Coy Madison, somewhere around thirty-five. She had an angular face dominated by a long, almost spadelike chin. Long brown hair was raggedly cut, as if she’d done it herself with a cracked mirror. She wore a not very clean smock over a man’s Pendleton shirt and a pair of Levi’s.

When Runyon was inside, she closed and locked and rechained the door and then turned past him and led him up a flight of stairs that ended in a short hallway. They went down that, through a couple of furnished rooms, and into a huge room at the rear that had been created by knocking out a wall or two and inserting three rows of skylights into the high canted roof. Artist’s studio. A cluttered one full of sculptures
and paintings and the tools to create them, including an acetylene torch outfit.

He didn’t know much about artworks, but he wasn’t impressed by what he saw here. The sculptures, more than twenty of varying sizes, dominated the studio. To his untrained eye they looked like nothing so much as weirdly misshapen root and leaf vegetables made out of scraps of fused metal, glass, straw, and some kind of ropy fibers—hemp, maybe. Big, little; long, short; fat, thin. Some of the tuberous ones had filament-like ends that resembled roots or suckers. The paintings were all over on one side—three or four hung on the wall, a partly finished one on an easel set up on a paint-stained drop cloth, the rest leaning in uneven stacks. Unlike the sculptures, they struck him as amateurish splatterings that had no form or meaning, like the finger paintings kids made in grade school.

“Do you like them? My sculptures?” The words had an expectant, almost eager inflection. That was why she’d brought him back here—to show off her work.

He said politely, “Interesting.”

“ ‘Unique’ is a better word, don’t you think? Anselm Kiefer was an early influence, but of course I’ve refined and developed my own vision and thematic concepts. His pieces tend to be depressive, destructive, while mine are celebrations of the fecundity of life.”

She might have been speaking a foreign language. Runyon nodded and said nothing.

“I’ve had eleven shows now and not a single knowledgeable person has compared me to Kiefer. Some of the most eminent critics in the art world have praised my creations as totally original. I’m starting to make a serious name for myself—finally,
after years of struggle. Just last month one of my best pieces,
Field of Desire,
sold for fifteen thousand dollars.”

“That’s a lot of money.”

“Yes, but my work will be worth much more someday.”

No false modesty in her. No humility of any kind.

“Are the paintings yours, too?”

She laughed, a half-delighted, half-derisive sound, as if he’d just told a juicy off-color story. “Good God, no. My husband’s. Coy thinks he has artistic talent, but he doesn’t—he’ll never even rise to mediocrity. Self-delusion is just one of his faults.”

Runyon was silent again.

“I suppose that sounds as if we don’t get along very well,” she said. “Sometimes we do. And sometimes he makes me so damn mad I could scream. When he calls me drunk from some bar downtown, for instance, bragging about a woman he’s just picked up. He
knows
that drives me crazy.”

Still nothing to say.

“Oh, not the crap about the women. They’re lies, mostly. It’s the drinking and the taunting that gets to me—he’s so damn jealous of my success I swear his skin is developing a green tint.” She sighed elaborately. “You’re wondering why I stay married to him? Habit, I suppose. There’s not much love left, but I do still care for him. God knows why. And of course he stays because now there’s money, more money than either of us ever dreamed I’d be making.”

Runyon had had enough of her personal life, her success, and her ego. He said, “Your brother-in-law, Mrs. Madison. The reason I’m here.”

“Well, I have no idea where Troy is. I wish I did. You don’t think I want him to get away, do you?”

“I hope not.”

“You know I put up his bail money? Yes, of course you do. I let my husband talk me into it in a weak moment. They both promised me Troy would pay it back, but I didn’t believe it.”

“Then why agree? Thirty-five hundred is a lot of money.”

“It used to be,” Arletta Madison said. “Not anymore. I told you, my sculptures are starting to sell for large sums.
Very
large. And Troy is family. Neither he nor my husband may be worth much, but they’re all the family I have.”

And she got a bang out of lording it over them, Runyon thought. The kind of woman who used her success like a whip. He didn’t like her much. But then he hadn’t liked Coy Madison much, either.

He asked, “Can you give me the name of anyone who might help me find him? A friend of his or the woman he lives with?”

“That dreadful little tramp. She’s the one who got him hooked on meth, you know.”

“Is that right?”

“Six or seven years ago. He didn’t use or sell hard drugs then, just a little recreational pot. He had a steady job with Bud before he met her.”

“Bud?”

“Bud Linkhauser. Have you talked to him?”

“This is the first I’ve heard the name.”

“Coy didn’t say anything about Bud?”

“No.”

“He and Troy and Bud grew up together in Bakersfield. I wonder why he didn’t tell you that.”

Runyon wondered why, too. He said, “Where can I find Bud Linkhauser?”

“He owns a trucking company in the East Bay. Hayward, I think. I don’t have the address, but Coy probably does.”

“I’ll find it. What did your brother-in-law do for Linkhauser?”

“Mechanic.” Condescending note in her voice, as if she considered mechanics several stations beneath her. “Troy has always been good with motors and things. Or he was before that Piper bitch got hold of him.”

“What can you tell me about her?”

“Nothing. Except that she was probably the reason he jumped bail.”

“Talked him into it, you mean?”

“Well, she wouldn’t want her meal ticket to spend time in prison. Then what would she do for money and drugs? She’s too ugly to sell her body. And probably diseased besides.”

Runyon had now had enough of Arletta Madison, period. He gave her one of his cards and the standard call-if-you-think-of-anything-else line, and would have gotten out of there quick if she hadn’t caught hold of his arm.

“Before you go,” she said, “let me show you my latest piece. There, on the table by the door. It’s good, isn’t it—one of my best. I call it
Seedpod.
”

He looked at it for all of five seconds on his way out. It was a couple of feet long, round, with tapering ends, constructed of what seemed to be joined blobs of black-painted lead and studded with bits of straw and glass. He had a better name for it than hers. He’d have called it
Turd.

T
amara provided the address and phone number for Linkhauser Trucking in Hayward, but the rest of what she had was sketchy. Jennifer Piper had been arrested five times, twice for prostitution, twice for possession of cocaine, and
once for possession of crystal meth; she had no known relatives or associates other than Troy Madison, and Tamara hadn’t been able to fill in her background yet beyond the past six years. Coy Madison had one DUI arrest, Arletta Madison no record of any kind. Background info on Bud Linkhauser would have to wait until tomorrow.

Runyon saved himself a long, wasted trip to Hayward by calling Linkhauser Trucking first. Bud Linkhauser was away on a run to the Central Valley, he was told, and not expected back until early tomorrow afternoon.

B
ryn’s weekend with her son hadn’t gone well.

Runyon knew it as soon as she opened the door of her brown-shingled house on Moraga Street. It was in the way she looked at him, the unsmiling pensiveness of her expression. When he asked her about Bobby, her only response was to shake her head.

They went over to Taraval for dinner, as they did on most nights he saw her. She seldom left the house during daylight hours, but after being cooped up all day she preferred going out to eat to cooking at home. She didn’t say a word on the way, lost inside herself. As always when she was like this, he made no effort to intrude on her silence in the car or in the coffee shop where they habitually ate. The place was crowded, but the diners were all neighborhood regulars who knew Bryn; that was why she’d become one of them. The two things she hated most were pity, especially from strangers, and being stared at while eating because of the difficulty she had in feeding herself.

Tonight she hardly touched her food. Wine was what she wanted; the first glass went down quick, in little sips so none of it would dribble out, and the second more slowly. That one
seemed to relax her, finally loosened some of her reticence about the weekend.

“Bobby was so distant,” she said. “He wouldn’t let me hug him or even touch him, wouldn’t make eye contact. Didn’t want to go out anywhere. He spent most of the time alone in his room watching TV and playing video games.”

“A kid phase. Or maybe he’s having some problems in school.”

“I hope that’s all it is.”

Runyon said, “You think his father might be trying to turn him against you?”

“I don’t know. I can’t believe Robert’s that vindictive, but . . . I don’t know him anymore. I guess I never did.”

“It’ll be better with Bobby next time.”

“Will it? Oh, God, I can’t stand the thought of losing him. If that happens . . .”

“The boy loves you. That’s not going to change.”

“It changed for you with your son.”

“Different situation. Joshua and I never had a chance together from the beginning. His mother saw to that.”

“Keep telling me I can’t lose Bobby the same way,” Bryn said. “If you say it often enough, maybe I’ll start believing it.”

Some nights when they were together, they went to a movie or took a drive somewhere. Not this one. Straight back to her house. But she didn’t want to be alone; she asked him in. “Just for a while,” she said. “I’d rather we didn’t go to bed tonight; I’m not in the mood for sex.”

“We don’t always have to end up an evening in bed. I don’t expect that.”

“I know you don’t. It’s not that I don’t want to be with you—I do. Just not tonight.”

“No need to explain. I understand.”

Inside, she poured herself another glass of wine. Drinking more than usual lately—not a good sign. But what could he say about it that wouldn’t sound preachy? If alcohol helped her cope, all right, as long as she stayed with wine and kept it under control. He’d seen firsthand what booze could do to a woman who didn’t have a self-governor. Andrea had let it control her, and it had destroyed their marriage, his relationship with Joshua, and finally herself.

They sat side by side in front of the gas-log fireplace, Bryn on his left as always so that the frozen side of her face was away from him. Close but not touching; she didn’t like to be touched except by mutual consent. She was fond of classical music, but tonight it was silence and noncontact closeness she craved, neither of them saying anything, aware of each other but tuned in to their own thoughts. In a way, their intimacy was greater at times like this than when they were in bed together.

They spoke only once, when he shifted his weight from one hip to the other. She turned then and looked at him, a kind of wondering, searching look. “You’re so good to me,” she said.

“Why do you say that?”

“We always do what I want to. Or don’t want to. Don’t you ever get tired of giving in to my moods?”

“I don’t see it as giving in.”

“How do you see it?”

He shrugged. “I like to make you happy.”

“Happy, Jake?”

“Comfortable, then. If you’re comfortable, I’m comfortable.”

Five-beat. Then, “You’re not only good to me, you’re good for me. You really are.”

“I feel the same about you.”

“You make me feel . . . safe. I need you right now, I don’t know what I’d do without you, but . . .”

“But?”

“I’m not sure I deserve you.”

“Come on, now. I’m nobody special.”

“Oh yes, you are. What I should have said is that I’m not sure you deserve me . . . someone like me. A woman with a boatload of problems and insecurities. You should be with somebody normal—”

“That’s enough of that,” he said. “You are normal. And I don’t want to be with anybody else.”

“Right now you don’t.”

“Right now is enough. One day at a time, Bryn.”

“Yes,” she said. “One day at a time.”

Doctor Easy’s name was Hawkins, Eugene Z. Hawkins, D.C.M.

And he was a scumbag.

She ran him through six different databases and several linked sources, including the
Chronicle
and a couple of other Bay Area newspapers, and Felice ran him through the SFPD and NJIS files. Routine info at first. Age forty-two. Twice married, once divorced, no children. Doctor of Chiropractic Medicine for nearly twenty years, first in San Jose, then in Cupertino, then in S.F. for the last eleven. Shared offices with another chiropractor on Ocean Avenue. Lived with his second wife in a home in Monterey Heights, drove a Lexus, seemed to be well off financially.

The rest of his background record told a different story.

Arrested in San Jose in 1994 on a charge of soliciting a male vice cop for sex in a public restroom—an undercover sting like the one that’d caught the Idaho senator a while back. Protested his innocence, same as the senator, went to court, and walked on a technicality.

Accused by a woman patient in 1997 of inappropriate
touching during soft-tissue therapy, whatever that was. Not arrested because she changed her mind, or had it changed for her, and dropped the charges. Nearly cost him his license to practice and was probably the reason for his move from Cupertino to S.F.