“Well, right or wrong, she doesn’t seem to be the femme fatale type.”
“On the surface, anyway. Background data can be misleading.”
The joint insurance policy the Cahills had with Statewide Mutual was still in effect, a standard one-hundred-thousand-dollar term life that had been taken out at the time of their marriage and on which not a single premium had been missed. There were no contingent beneficiaries. Dead end there, I was fairly sure, whether Kendra Nesbitt thought so or not.
Just before I left the agency at 11:30, James Cahill returned my call. Full of apologies, as though he’d done something wrong by spending most of the morning in a business meeting. Streeter Manufacturing was located in Concord, the city adjacent to Walnut Creek on the north; I preferred to see him there, in case I found it necessary to talk to Megan Sprague as well, and the consultation with Dr. Nesbitt probably wouldn’t take more than a few minutes. I arranged to meet with Cahill in his office between 4:00 and 4:15.
The Chase branch at Van Ness and McAllister is close to City Hall and the Civic Center Plaza, and street parking is highly problematical in the area despite the city’s exorbitant meter rates. Parking in the Civic Center Garage beneath the Plaza is even pricier, but since it was an expense account item I left my car in there and walked over to the specified Starbucks.
One of the many things that puzzle me about today’s world is the coffee culture perpetuated by Starbucks, Peet’s, and similar establishments. I drink a fair amount of coffee at home and the office, and espresso sometimes after meals, but I like it plain and black; all these designer blends and concoctions—lattes, cappuccinos, macchiatos, Frappuccinos—do nothing for me. Nor does the idea of having a social life contingent upon the daily consumption of caffeine and caffeine drinks. Today’s specials at this Starbucks were caramel brulée latte and chestnut praline latte. Fine if your taste runs to that sort of drink, I guess, but to me they were the liquid equivalent of topping rounds of bread dough with such as bananas, pineapple, arugula, artichokes, macadamia nuts, and artisan cheeses and calling them pizzas. No Italian in his right mind would make, let alone eat, a banana and goat cheese “pizza.”
The place was jammed with noon-hour customers. All the tables were taken and there was a line at the counter. I stood around long enough to be recognized if Grace Dellbrook was one of the women in the crowd, then went outside and took up space near the entrance. I’d been there about five minutes when a large, fiftyish woman in a gray coat appeared, eyed me, and then approached and made a question of my name. When I acknowledged it, she asked to see identification; I obliged with the license photostat. Cautious lady, not that I blamed her.
“Pretty crowded inside, I’m afraid,” I said. “We can wait for a table, if you like.”
“No, I only have an hour for lunch.” She seemed less nervous now. “If you don’t mind waiting, I’ll get a latte and a muffin and then we can go over and talk in the Plaza.”
“Not a problem.”
“… Would you like me to get you something?”
I thought of the advertised latte specials. “No, but thanks for offering.”
She was in and back out in six or seven minutes, carrying a paper sack. Ms. Dellbrook had nothing to say on the brisk walk over to the Plaza, her eyes straight ahead all the way. Okay with me. The kind of conversation we were about to have is better done in stationary positions.
The Plaza is a typical San Francisco amalgam of the good, the bad, and the ugly. Many of the city’s festivities—the Earth Day celebration, the St. Patrick’s Day and Gay Pride parades—are held there. So are a weekly farmers market and any number of peaceful and not so peaceful protest gatherings. It has also been a lightning rod for the city’s homeless for a quarter of a century. At one time, not so long ago, there were permanent encampments that earned it a deserved reputation as a seedy, smelly, high-crime eyesore. The encampments are gone now, but homeless individuals still inhabit the area and the smell of human waste still lingers.
But it’s no longer a dangerous place, at least not during the daylight hours. On this bright sunny day, in addition to scattered homeless and panhandling habitués from the nearby skid-row Tenderloin, we passed City Hall employees eating brown-bag lunches on benches and lawn, people walking their dogs, kids playing, an elderly Chinese man practicing Tai Chi, a young couple tossing a Frisbee back and forth.
We found a bench to sit on. While Grace Dellbrook opened her bag and removed her latte, I got out the photograph of Alice Cahill and held it up so that when she turned her head my way she was looking right at it. I was watching for a reaction, but I didn’t get one. Not a hint of recognition.
“Who’s that?” she asked.
“Alice Cahill.”
Her mouth tightened at the corners. “So that’s what she looks like. Somehow I thought…”
“Thought what?”
“I don’t know. That she’d be different, somehow. She doesn’t look like a plagiarist.”
“What does a plagiarist look like?”
“I don’t know; I just had a different image of her.” Grace Dellbrook pried the lid off the container of latte. “She is a plagiarist. She stole my book, What the Bride Found Out. She had no right to do that. No right.”
“No, she didn’t.”
“You know about it? How?”
“Her husband found printouts of some of your e-mail exchanges in her files.”
“I’m surprised she kept them.” Grace Dellbrook took a swallow of latte that left her with a cream mustache she didn’t bother to wipe off. “I always wanted to be a writer,” she said then, half-bitterly, half-wistfully, looking past me into the middle distance. “I wrote three books, but no one would publish them. I scrimped and saved enough to pay for Bride. It only sold a few copies, but it was mine until that woman stole it. Now it isn’t anymore. Not even the money will make up for what she did.”
“The money you mentioned on the phone.”
“Yes. But I haven’t received her check yet.” She focused on me again. “She is still going to pay me? She’d better.”
“How much did you agree on?”
“You don’t know? Wasn’t a printout of those e-mails in her file?”
“No.”
“Two thousand dollars. That’s what she offered.”
“When was this?”
“More than a week ago. The eighteenth.”
“The eighteenth is the day Alice Cahill went missing.”
Ms. Dellbrook looked startled. “She’s been gone that long? What happened to her?”
“That hasn’t been determined yet.”
“But … her last e-mail was written that morning, answering mine of the night before. She said she’d pay right away.”
“What did you say in yours?”
“I told her I’d go public with what she did, make a big stink with her publishers if she didn’t make things right. I threatened to sue her, too, not that I’d have been able to do it. I went to two different lawyers and they both told me plagiarism is very hard to prove, particularly with a self-published book like mine. It would’ve cost me more to sue her for copyright infringement than I could ever hope to get.”
“Did you ever try to talk to her in person?”
“No. I don’t know where she lives and I don’t care.”
“Were you at work on the eighteenth, the entire day?”
“I haven’t missed a day of work in five years, not one single day—” She broke off, blinking, as if struck by a sudden thought. Then, jerkily, “My God, you don’t think I had anything to do with her going missing? Is that why you’re questioning me?”
“You’re not under suspicion.”
“I’d better not be. I told you, she promised to pay me two thousand dollars for stealing my book. I’ll show you her e-mail if you don’t believe me.”
“That won’t be necessary. I believe you.” I got to my feet. “Thanks for your time, Ms. Dellbrook.”
She said, “Let me ask
you something before you go. Do you think Alice Cahill is dead, that someone may have killed her?”
“I can’t give you an answer. I deal in facts, not speculation.”
“But she could be dead. I won’t be surprised if she is.” Headshake. “Two thousand dollars. That’s a lot of money and now I may never get it. Nothing ever turns out right for me.”
There was nothing to say to that. Nothing more to say to her at all. I left her sitting there, a forlorn, white-mustached figure staring off into space again, the cup of latte in one hand and the uneaten muffin in the other.
11
JAKE RUNYON
“Is there any reason I should stay another day, drive home tomorrow instead?” That was the first thing Patricia Dennison said to him when he met her in the lodge’s lobby on Friday morning.
“I don’t see any reason you should, no.”
“Then you haven’t learned anything yet. Or expect to today.”
“Investigations take time, Mrs. Dennison,” Runyon said, hedging. “When I have something definite to report, you’ll hear from me right away.”
“I’d prefer daily progress reports in any case.”
“You’ll have them, then.”
“Have you spoken to Philip’s friend in Sacramento yet, the man who owns the cabin?”
“Briefly on the phone last night. I’ll see him later today.”
“He’ll know who the woman is, if anyone does.”
“Possibly.”
“Offer him money if you can’t get him to tell you any other way. As much as necessary.”
Runyon made a throat sound that could have meant agreement but didn’t. Resorting to bribery, even the more or less legitimate variety, in order to get information was not the way he operated; that kind of tactic made him and his employers look bad. Besides which, if an insurance agent who owned two homes was greedy enough to accept a bribe, he might also be dishonest enough to lie. There were better ways of finding out what Lloyd Hansen knew about Philip Dennison’s love life, if he knew anything pertinent.
“All right,” she said. “I couldn’t bear to sit around here all day waiting, so I may as well leave as planned.”
It was what she’d intended to do all along; she was dressed for traveling in a skirt, blouse, jacket, the dark blond hair neatly combed, and she was carrying her overnight bag. Like him, she didn’t mind being alone, preferred it at a crisis point in her life, but she needed movement, activity—he understood that much about her. When she got home, he thought, she’d find things to do to occupy her time, help her cope. Here at Eagle Lake, in an unfamiliar room in the unfamiliar place where her husband had died, she was at loose ends, a prisoner of her emotions.
He waited while she checked out, then drove her to the A-1 Garage to pick up her husband’s Cadillac. Went inside with her while she claimed it, stowed her bag in the trunk for her. Before she got in behind the wheel, she said, “I should be back in the city by one o’clock and home for the rest of the day. I’ll expect to hear from you.”
“You will. Have a safe drive, Mrs. Dennison.”
“Thank you.” Then, with more meaning than she may have intended, “I intend be very careful from now on.”
* * *
Runyon was first to arrive at the Hansen cabin, just before noon. He parked the Ford in front of the lean-to, went to have the look around that he’d been denied yesterday.
He made a slow circuit of the cabin, the thick carpeting of pine needles and meadow grass spongy underfoot. The smells of pine resin and new spring growth were sharp on the warm morning air. Out on the lake, a couple of skiffs were gliding along in opposite directions, their occupants taking advantage of the sunny weather. The faint pulsing of outboard motors and the chatter of birds were the only sounds.
The cabin had five windows altogether, four of them with the inside shutters closed. Runyon stopped at the unshuttered side window that had been broken and repaired by Joe Meeker. When he stepped up close and made a frame with his hands against the glass, he could see the interior clearly. He stood peering in for several seconds, then shifted position on the sloping ground, first left, then right, then up on his toes. He was still looking, the muscles along his jawline rippling, when he heard the vehicle rumble in off the road.
Dark blue four-door Honda, not more than four years old. The thirty something who got out of it and walked toward him had dark red hair, a pudgy body encased in slacks and a tan safari jacket, and a round, florid face with features that, up close, seemed disproportionately small. The smile he wore was tentative, on the wary side, as if he’d been having second thoughts about the advisability of this meeting. Runyon’s size, chiseled features, and sober expression did nothing to put him at ease.
“Mr. Runyon? Lloyd Hansen.”
They shook hands. Hansen’s clasp was loose, the release quick, as though he were leery of having his fingers crushed.
Runyon said, “I appreciate this, Mr. Hansen.”
“Well, under the circumstances…” Hansen let the rest of what he’d been about to say trail off. He moved over to peer at the new pane of glass puttied into the window frame. “Looks like Joe Meeker did a good job.”
“Has he done other repair work for you?”
“Some.”
“Know him well?”
“I wouldn’t say that, no. Not very talkative, keeps to himself, but he’s reliable enough.”
“Have you met his wife?”
“Couple of times, over at the café.” Hansen’s mouth stretch stopped just short of being a smirk. “Quite a good-looking woman.”
“Very friendly, too, I understand.”
“So I’ve been told. I wouldn’t know from personal experience.”
“Philip Dennison’s type?”
The grin faded. “I have no idea.”
“He never mentioned her to you?”
“No.”
“What was his type?”
“His wife, I suppose. I never met her, but Phil carried a picture in his wallet.…” Hansen let the sentence trail off and made a throat-clearing noise. “Look, let’s go inside. I need to see what’s what in there.”
Runyon had been about to suggest the same thing. He nodded, followed Hansen up onto the porch and then inside after he unlocked the door. Hansen left the door open, saying, “Musty in here, needs airing out.”
He switched on the lights, stood looking around and shaking his head, then went to the fireplace and bent to stare at the hearthstones. “Christ,” he said. “There’s a big bloodstain where Phil cracked his head. How am I going to get it out? Bleach?”
Runyon didn’t answer. He’d turned to examine the inside of the door. There was a small hole, almost a gouge, a few inches above the door handle and lock. He took a closer look, ran his finger over it. Fairly deep. Fresh.
He moved over to lift the two-by-four wooden bar. The edges had nicks and scratches from use, none of them recent. But near one end he found a vertical scrape some five inches long and shallow. That, too, appeared to be newly made.
Behind him Hansen said, “What’re you doing there?”
“Same as you. Looking around.”
“The place is a mess. Bloodstains. Broken glass. God knows what else.” He went to the hallway, down it to the partially open door to the bedroom.
Runyon walked around, bent at the waist and peering at the floor. There was nothing to see along the walls on either side of the door. He moved over to the near end of the couch. When he bent low to peer underneath, something on the floor next to the nearest leg caught his eye—something small and metallic.
In the bedroom Hansen was making rustling, flapping noises. Then he let out a surprised bleat, followed it with an exasperated, “Oh, for God’s sake.”
On one knee, Runyon fished out the shiny object and picked it up with thumb and forefinger. Nail. Two inches long, slightly bent, free of dust. He was still looking at it when Hansen came out of the bedroom.
“What’ve you got there?
”
“The answer, maybe.”
“Answer? Answer to what?”
“Never mind. It’s a nail.” He held it up for Hansen to see, then dropped it into his shirt pocket.
“Bedroom and bathroom are a mess, too,” Hansen said. He sounded disgusted, annoyed; his florid face was even redder now. “Dirty sheets, dirty towels. Phil didn’t even bother to get rid of—”
“Get rid of what?”
Head wag. “This cabin will never be the same again. Ruined for me, I’ll have to put it up for sale. The real estate market’s lousy now, but I don’t think I can stand to spend any more vacation time here.”
“What didn’t Dennison get rid of, Mr. Hansen?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It might.”
“… Oh, hell, go into the bedroom and look for yourself. On the floor in front of the bed.”
Runyon went in there and looked. The rustling and flapping sounds had been Hansen yanking at a down comforter and top sheet on the double bed; they were pulled half off on one side. At first glance, what lay on the bare wood at the foot of the bed resembled the wrinkled shed skin of a snake. A condom was what it was, one of the kind called a French Tickler. Unwrapped and rolled out full length.
“Damn thing was caught up in the sheet.” Hansen had come into the doorway behind him. “Why would Phil unroll it if he didn’t use it?”
Runyon didn’t reply.
“Hole in it, maybe,” Hansen said, answering his own question.
They went back into the front room. Hansen leaned against the side of the high-back couch, the expression on his chubby red face morose. “Well?” he said. “Are you satisfied?”
“Not yet.”
“What more do you need? Phil had a woman here. That’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it?”
“But it wasn’t the woman he planned to meet.”
“How do you know that?”
“She didn’t show. Canceled out at the last minute.”
“Why would she do that? I thought…”
“What did you think?”
Another headshake. “So Phil went out and picked up some bimbo instead. So what?”
Endgame--A Nameless Detective Novel Page 9