Camouflage (Nameless Detective Mysteries) (12 page)

“Francine. Where is she?”

“The kitchen. She … oh, God, Jake…”

Bryn turned away from him, walked to the middle of the room. Steadily, if rigidly, her arms still hanging down and pressed close to her body. Runyon eased the door shut, went to stand close in front of her. Peripherally he was aware that the living room had too much furniture, that the décor was done in a confused jumble of colors—blue, green, orange, brown. But the only color he had eyes for was the crimson on her blouse.

“You’d better sit down,” he said.

“No. I can’t sit still.”

“Where’s the kitchen?”

“I don’t want to go in there again.”

“You don’t have to. Just point me to it.”

“Through the swing door over there.”

He left her, pushed through the swing door. The kitchen, big, lit by track lighting between a pair of skylights, was at an angle beyond a formal dining room. One step into it, he pulled up short.

Bad, all right. As bad as it gets.

Francine Whalen lay on the floor between an island stove and a dinette table, twisted onto her back with her skirt hiked up over her thighs, eyes open with that milk-glass cloudiness he’d seen too many times before. Blood all over her blouse, too, and on the floor around her. The knife in her chest had a curved bone handle stained with bloody fingermarks. The lingering aroma of something she’d been baking contrasted sickeningly with the carnage.

Runyon backed up, turned, returned to the living room. Bryn was pacing in slow, restless steps; she stopped and stood still again when she saw him. A little color had come back into the right side of her face. The paisley scarf over the crippled side hung askew; he rearranged it so the stroke-frozen flesh was completely covered. She didn’t move or speak until he finished.

“I did it,” she said then. “I didn’t mean to, but I killed Francine.”

*   *   *

“What happened, Bryn?”

“She showed up at my home last night, threatened me in a cold-blooded, vicious way … I was afraid she might do something else to Bobby just to spite me. I shouldn’t have come here today, I know that, but I couldn’t help it, I had to make sure he was all right.” Flat voice, without inflection, but Runyon could hear the undercurrent of emotions like a distant sea whisper. “She didn’t want to let me in. I knew something was wrong by the way she acted. I pushed past her, and when I saw Bobby, all the blood, what she’d just done to him, I … went a little crazy. I screamed at her and she screamed back. Then she tried to claw my face. I slapped her, she slapped me and ran into the kitchen, I ran after her. What happened after that … it’s not very clear. We were struggling and the next thing I knew she had that knife in her hand. I grabbed her arm, twisted it, tried to make her drop the knife, but instead she … somehow it got between us and … the next thing I knew I was standing over her with blood on my hands.”

Her hands were clean now. She saw Runyon looking at them, at the fresh-looking Band-Aid on one finger, and said, “I washed it off in the bathroom. Some of it was mine … she must have cut my finger in the struggle.”

“Did Bobby see it happen?”

“No. God, no. He never came out of his bedroom.”

“Sure of that?”

“Yes. I’m sure. He doesn’t know Francine’s dead.”

“Did you call anybody besides me?”

“No.”

Runyon glanced at his watch. Four forty. “What time does Darby usually get home?”

“I don’t know.…”

“When you were married to him—what time then?”

“No set time. He usually called if he was going to be later than six. Oh, God, I don’t want to be here when he comes.” She gripped Runyon’s arm. “Jake, do we have to call the police? Can’t you just take Bobby and me away from here?”

He could, sure. Leave the door open, let Darby find Francine’s body. Call the law from Bryn’s house, or not call them at all, on the slim hope Darby and the police would assume an intruder had killed Francine. But running out, pretending, lying, were always bad ideas. Always ended up making a bad situation even worse.

“You know I can’t do that,” he said.

“Just Bobby, then. I don’t care what happens to me.…”

“But I do. There’s no place to take him and even if there was—”

“His doctor. His nose should be looked at, he could have other injuries.”

“You said he was all right.”

“Jake…”

“We stay right here, all three of us. I’ll request an EMT unit for Bobby.”

“I should’ve taken him to the doctor myself. But I was so upset, I wasn’t thinking clearly.…”

“Bryn, listen to me.” He waited until her eyes focused on him. “You’re certain Francine was the one who picked up the knife?”

“Yes, I told you. She would’ve stabbed
me
if I hadn’t grabbed her wrist.”

“All right. Then you acted in self-defense. Bobby can verify that she hit him in the face—”

“No. I don’t want him involved.”

“He’s already involved.”

“He won’t talk about the abuse, you know that.” Bryn sucked in a breath, released it. “Will the police arrest me?”

Yeah, they would. This was Francine’s home, there was no witness to corroborate what had happened in the kitchen, and the fact that Bryn had delayed reporting the crime by calling Runyon instead of 911 all mitigated against her; the cops wouldn’t have any other choice. They’d book her on a 187 PC—the unlawful killing of a human being with malice aforethought. The initial charge in a case like this was almost always the most severe, justified or not.

Runyon said, “Don’t worry about that now. When they get here, be polite but don’t volunteer any information. Tell them you’ll answer all their questions when you have your lawyer present. Understand?”

“Yes, but my lawyer only does family law—”

“I’ll get you a criminal defense attorney. When you see him tell him everything you told me, exactly as it happened. Don’t withhold anything.”

“All right. Whatever you say.”

“Sit down while I make the calls.”

“I have to check on Bobby.”

“Go ahead then.”

Runyon watched her disappear through a doorway on the other side of the room. Then he flipped his cell phone open. He knew a couple of SFPD’s homicide inspectors, and Bill’s longtime poker buddy, Jack Logan, was an assistant chief whom he’d had some dealings with as well. But it wouldn’t be a good idea to try personalizing this; that kind of approach could backfire. Better to just make a standard 911 call. He identified himself to the operator, briefly explained the situation, and requested an EMT unit for a child with minor injuries.

The best criminal attorney he knew from his short time in San Francisco was a tough old veteran named Thomas Dragovich. Runyon called Dragovich’s law office, caught him in, and explained the situation in clipped sentences. Dragovich agreed to represent Bryn and reiterated what Runyon had told her, that she wasn’t to answer any questions without him being present; said he’d be at the Hall of Justice to consult with her as soon as she was processed through the system. There wasn’t much else Dragovich could do until she was arraigned, and that wasn’t likely to happen for seventy-two hours. The police could hold her that long while they investigated and turned whatever evidence they’d gathered over to the DA’s office.

After Runyon clicked off, he went quickly through the hallway door and down to where the bedrooms were. Bryn’s low-pitched, crooning voice led him to the last of them: “It’s going to be all right, baby. It’s going to be all right. You didn’t do anything wrong, it was all just a bad dream. Don’t think about it, forget it ever happened. It’s going to be all right.”

The door was open; Runyon stepped through. Boy’s bedroom overstuffed with the kind of material possessions a busy and overindulgent father lavishes on his son in place of quality time and genuine affection. Bryn was sitting beside Bobby on the double bed, the boy lying on his back with one hand limp on his middle, the other holding an ice pack to the center of his face. The T-shirt and Levi’s he wore were clean, blood free. His eyes were open, starey, looking ceilingward while his mother talked to him.

She didn’t hear Runyon come in, didn’t know he was there until he made a small noise at the door. The noise startled her. She stopped crooning, bit her lip, glanced at him, then reached up to smooth a palm across Bobby’s forehead. He took no notice of the gesture; the starey eyes were motionless, the lids unblinking.

Runyon said, “Your attorney’s name is Thomas Dragovich. One of the best. You’ll see him later at the Hall of Justice.”

“Thank you.” Solemn, formal.

Runyon moved over to the bed, leaned down for a closer look at the boy. Bobby’s nose, visible under the ice pack, didn’t look too bad—a little swollen, but not bleeding anymore. A Band-Aid covered the cut on his left cheek. The brown eyes flicked toward Runyon, but only for a moment; a single blink and they went starey again. Aware but nonresponsive. Reaction to the new abuse, Bryn’s fight with Whalen—a retreat into himself, his own private hiding place.

Bryn said, “Don’t try to talk to him, Jake. Please.”

He nodded. “You want to wait in here?”

“Yes. Just the two of us.”

“Okay.”

Runyon left the room, went back down the hall. He was nearing the doorway to the living room when he heard the sounds—the front door opening, somebody coming in. He quickened his step, passed through into the living room. And pulled up short, because he wasn’t looking at police officers or EMTs.

“You,” Robert Darby said, staring back at him. “What the fuck are you doing in my home?”

14

JAKE RUNYON

Lousy timing, dammit. Another few minutes and the law would be here and they’d be the ones to break the news to Darby. Now Runyon would have to do it. And it was bound to make a bad situation even worse.

Runyon made a slow advance, his hands spread in front of him. “Take it easy, Mr. Darby. Bryn’s here, too—she’s in with Bobby.”

“Bryn? She has no more right in my home than you do.” Glowering, glancing around. “Where’s Francine?”

“There’s been some trouble.”

“… What do you mean, trouble?”

“An accident, pretty bad. The police are on the way.”

Darby was a big man, jowly and going soft around the middle, but he had one of those faces that make some lawyers better than others in a courtroom: smooth, tight, unreadable, his feelings hidden behind a pair of piercing gray eyes. He stared at Runyon as if he were a hostile witness who had just made an outrageous statement on the stand.

“What kind of accident? What are you telling me?”

“Maybe you’d better sit down—”

“Answer my question. What’s happened here?”

No way to soften it. “Your fiancée’s dead, Mr. Darby.”

“Dead.” As if the word didn’t compute. “Francine?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“How, for God’s sake? What happened?”

“An accident. Stabbed.”

“Stabbed.” Another word that didn’t seem to compute. Then, in a sudden angry flare, “
You
, you son of a bitch?”

“No.”

“Who, then? Who stabbed her?”

“She’s been abusing your son. Hit him in the face today, bloodied his nose, cut his cheek—”

“Who stabbed her!”

“She did it herself, accidentally. She—”

Dark blood suffused Darby’s face. He came up on his toes in a forward lean, his lips peeled back from his teeth. Runyon set himself; no matter how upset the man was, he wasn’t going to get anywhere near Bryn. But Darby didn’t charge him. Stood breathing hard, struggling with his control.

Half a dozen beats. Then, “Where? When?”

“Here. Less than an hour ago.”

“You see it?”

“No. I’ve only been here a few minutes.”

“Then how do you know what happened?”

“Bryn told me. Francine attacked her—”

“I don’t believe it. She’s lying.”

“No. I told you, Francine has been abusing your son. She fractured his arm, among other—”

“Where is she? Where’s Francine?”

“Kitchen. But you don’t want to go in there.”

“The hell I don’t.”

Darby moved then, jerkily, heading for the swing door. Runyon called after him, “Don’t touch anything,” an automatic warning that he regretted as soon as the words were out. Insensitive. And Darby wasn’t listening anyway. Runyon could have followed to make sure the warning was heeded, but he didn’t; he was enough of an intruder already.

A sound behind him turned his head. Bryn was standing in the hall doorway. “I was listening,” she said. “Why did he have to come home
now
?”

“Go back in with Bobby.”

“Where are the police? Why don’t they get here?”

“Any minute. Stay in the bedroom.”

Too late. Darby reappeared, walking in a flat-footed, not quite steady way; his face was ashen, the only outward indication of what he was feeling. When he saw Bryn, he said in a thin, strained voice, “You crazy bitch, what’ve you done?” and this time he did come stalking forward.

Runyon got in Darby’s way. Body block, legs spread, shoulder lifted and turned, keeping his arms down in front of him. Lay hands on a lawyer in a situation like this and it could be construed as assault. But it didn’t come to anything physical. Darby pulled up just before there was contact, so close Runyon could smell the minty odor of his breath, and glared past him at Bryn in the hallway.

She said, “Robert, I’m sorry, I never meant for this to happen—”

“You’ll pay for it, count on that.”

Runyon said, low and even, “Back off, Mr. Darby.”

Darby’s gaze shifted back to him. He drew a heavy breath, retreated a step to put a little distance between them—but only the one step. “I want to see my son.”

Couldn’t deny him that. “All right. Bryn, come out here.”

“No. Robert, leave the boy alone, please.…”

“Shut up, damn you. Shut up!”

Bryn made a low, anguished sound.

And that was when the first blue wave rolled in.

*   *   *

The pair of uniformed officers, one male, one female, didn’t have time to do much except add to the tension. It wasn’t until the arrival of the team of homicide inspectors a short while later that things calmed down. Runyon didn’t know either of them, quietly professional black men in their fifties, Farley and Crabtree. They’d been partners for a long time, visited crime scenes a lot bloodier and more chaotic than this one; you could tell that from the practiced way they took charge.