Endgame--A Nameless Detective Novel

by Bill Pronzini

  I said, “Sounds as though she was eager to talk about the experience. Are you sure referring to him as a sexual predator wasn’t just ax-grinding on her part?”

  “Hard to be sure over the phone, but I think she was being straight with me. Telling it like it was.”

  “What did you say to her about our interest in Nesbitt?”

  “Routine inquiry on a case he was peripherally involved in.”

  “But not a sexual harassment case.”

  “No. Hey, don’t sweat it, okay? I know what I’m doing. You taught me real good, boss man.”

  Except that every now and then she could be intemperate, particularly when she was in a mood like this one. But her judgment had improved considerably over time, and she hadn’t given me cause not to trust it in a long while.

  “Okay,” I said. “As long as you’re satisfied that she won’t use the inquiry in any way that calls attention to us.”

  “She won’t. Settlement terms won’t let her. She doesn’t want anything more to do with him. So? Important?”

  “Hard to say. But I’m glad you dug it up.”

  “Yeah, well, important or not, I still say any son of a bitch who sexually harasses women ought to have his nuts cut off.”

  * * *

  The second call on my cell came a few minutes before seven. Kerry and Emily were in the kitchen, whipping up some mystery dinner that somebody at the Bates and Carpenter ad agency had recommended to Kerry, and I was lying on the living room couch rereading one of Cybil’s Max Ruffe pulp novelettes and listening to jazz.

  I like most kinds of music, except for the atonal, teeth-grinding kind like rap, but jazz has always been my favorite. All kinds, with a slight preference for the old New Orleans style—stomps, rags, cannonballs, blues—of Armstrong, Ellington, Beiderbecke, Count Basie, Kid Ory. Tonight it was the lighter, smoother variety produced by Stan Kenton—good, relaxing background music for reading. I had the volume on the CD player Emily had given me for my birthday turned down fairly low; otherwise I wouldn’t have heard the phone’s ringtone. As it was, the thing must have gone off two or three times before it penetrated through the earbuds.

  The call was from a number I didn’t recognize. Robo junk call at this time on a Saturday evening? It had happened before; the relentlessness of some telemarketers and their ilk is exceeded only by that of politicians hunting campaign contributions. The reason I answered instead of letting it go to hang-up or voice mail was because the number had a 520 East Bay prefix.

  An unfamiliar male voice said my name interrogatively, I responded with a cautious affirmation, half-expecting a pitch of some kind, and he said, “My name is Carl Moxon, of Blount and Moxon in Walnut Creek. Sorry to be calling at this hour, but it’s rather important.”

  “I’m not familiar with Blount and Moxon.”

  “We’re a law firm. I am James Cahill’s attorney.”

  That got my attention, hoisted me upright on the couch. “Yes, Mr. Moxon?”

  “I’m calling at his request, to apprise you of recent developments in the matter of his wife’s disappearance. He is allowed only one phone call, as you know, so he was not able to contact you directly.”

  Lawyers. Never say anything straight out, always bob and weave at the edges. “Are you telling me he’s been arrested?”

  “Yes. I just came from conferring with him at the Contra Costa County Jail. Inasmuch as you have been investigating on his behalf, he instructed me to acquaint you with the details.”

  “Arrested on what charge?”

  “Homicide. The murder of his wife.”

  Damn. “So she’s been found. Where? When?”

  “Early yesterday, near a nature preserve east of Martinez.”

  “How long had she been there?”

  “The state of decomposition indicates several days.”

  “Since Cahill reported her missing?”

  “So it would seem. The police believe she was killed at her home, the remains then carried away that night or the following day and, for want of a better word, dumped.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “Apparently a blow or blows to the head with her laptop computer.”

  Some murder weapon. “Found in the same place as the body?”

  “Together with it, yes. It was the means of identification of the victim. That, and an inscription on her wedding ring.”

  “Who found the body?”

  “Evidently a passerby or someone on a nature walk.”

  “Evidently?”

  “The person placed an anonymous call to the county sheriff’s department,” Moxon said. “People nowadays are loath to become involved in unpleasant situations, as I’m sure you know.”

  “Who’s in charge of the investigation? The sheriff?”

  “In conjunction with Lieutenant Frank Kowalski of the Walnut Creek police. Kowalski has your name. He wants to talk to you, so you can expect to hear from him soon.”

  “All right.”

  “Are you in possession of any information pertinent to Mr. Cahill’s defense? If so, you’ll need to share it with me as well as Lieutenant Kowalski.”

  “I wish I did, but I don’t. What does Cahill say?”

  “That he’s innocent, of course. That he loved his wife and would never have harmed her. He seemed quite broken up by the news of her death.” No compassion in Moxon’s voice. Just statements of fact in an unemotional monotone.

  “Do you believe him?”

  “What I believe if of no consequence. I won’t be representing him in this matter—I am not a criminal attorney. But of course I’ll see to it that he receives the best possible counsel for his defense. Whoever that is will want to confer with you, I’m sure, particularly if you accede to Mr. Cahill’s plea.”

  “What plea?”

  “The primary reason he insisted I contact you. His exact words were: ‘Tell him I swear to God I didn’t do it. Tell him he’s my only hope.’”

  16

  JAKE RUNYON

  Saturday morning. Back on the road again, heading home.

  Home. Funny. For most of his life his home had been Seattle. Born and raised there, his father a fireman, his mother a grade-school teacher. The bulk of his memories were from there, the good intermingled with the bad. Joining the police force, working his way up in the ranks; the birth of his son; the fractious years with Andrea; the long, hard hours riding in patrol cars before and after his promotion to detective; working vice in the Pike’s Market area downtown before the city cleaned it up, then the robbery detail in the crime-infested areas of West Seattle and the railyards and terminal along the East Waterway and the Duwamish Waterway; the pursuit accident that had killed Ron Cain and screwed up his leg and forced him to quit the PD rather than accept a desk job; the years learning the private investigative trade with Caldwell & Associates; and Colleen, most of all the long too-short, too–soon gone years with the only woman he’d ever loved, all that they’d shared, the contentment that had transformed so suddenly into pain and fear and then the core of grief that still burned deep inside him.

  All those mixed memories, still vivid, followed by the scant few since his move to San Francisco, those too good and bad, the inability to reconnect with Joshua, the difficult cases he’d worked for and with Bill and Tamara, the loneliness, the lengthy affair with another damaged individual that brought salvation to both him and Bryn and then the inevitable separation that had left him alone again except for his work. Then why should he consider San Francisco to be home now? This new place, this city just as empty and non-nurturing as Seattle had become? And yet he did. For some reason he couldn’t explain, whenever he left for a period of time he now thought of returning to San Francisco as going home.

  Originally he’d intended to leave Eagle Lake the night before. But the whole afternoon had been taken up with the Joe Meeker business—an official statement to be prepared and signed; interrogation of a not very upset Verna Meeker to get her account that Rittenhouse had ask
ed him to sit in on; a repeat of explanations to the sheriff who’d arrived to haul Meeker off to the county jail, there being only two small holding cells at the Eagle Lake substation. When it was all over and done with, it was after 5:30 and he was tired and hungry. He’d politely declined Rittenhouse’s invitation to dinner at his home—peopled out and in no mood for socializing, even in payment for what the deputy considered a favor—and gone back to the lodge.

  By the time he finished eating, reading a pair of e-mails from Tamara, and dodging his way through a telephone conversation with Patricia Dennison, he had none of his usual desire for a long road trip without a night’s rest. And his room had already been paid for.

  Tamara had tentatively IDed the woman whose first name Lloyd Hansen had provided: Lucia Dinucci, owner of the Superior Lingerie Shop on Post Street near Union Square. There didn’t seem to be much doubt that she was Philip Dennison’s mistress, but Runyon was thorough to a fault; he needed to make absolutely sure. That was one reason he hadn’t given the client Lucia Dinucci’s name; the other was the background info Tamara had provided on Patricia Dennison. He also hadn’t told Mrs. Dennison about her husband’s involvement with Verna Meeker or the manner in which he’d died; that was better done in person. He’d arranged to meet her at her home this afternoon—no specific time. Would he know then who her husband’s lover was? He might, he said, but he wasn’t sure.

  That was the thing: he wasn’t sure yet if he was going to give her Lucia Dinucci’s name.

  Patricia Dennison was less of an enigma now, but what Tamara had found out about her was not particularly reassuring. Born and raised in Portland, Oregon, the only child of lower-middle-class parents. Attended Reed College on an art scholarship for three years, where she provided sketches to and also wrote poetry for the school’s literary magazine. Dropped out in her fourth year because she’d gotten pregnant by a fellow student who refused to marry her, then either lost or aborted the fetus, it wasn’t clear which. The experience had had a severe emotional effect on her, caused a breakdown that required short-term hospitalization. A series of menial jobs afterward, barely making ends meet, until she met and married Philip Dennison, who was then employed by a Portland firm. The marriage considerably improved her financial situation, particularly after her husband landed his new, much higher-paying sales position with the San Francisco software company. No children. No close friends. No indication that she had resumed her study of or interest in art.

  Portrait of a damaged, likely bitter, self-contained woman with no marketable skills, who liked living well after the privations of her early years and preferred marriage to a cheating husband to giving up her expensive home and comfortable lifestyle. That much was clear. What still wasn’t clear, now that the cheating husband was dead, was whether or not she was capable of an act of violence toward a rival who, in her view, was at least partially responsible for turning her carefully structured existence upside down and creating an uncertain future.

  So Runyon still faced a moral dilemma. He had a professional obligation to fulfill, and he did not like lying to or withholding information from a client. Mrs. Dennison just wanted to talk to the woman, she’d said, and probably that was true. Probably. But given her background, she might possess a hidden desire for revenge, might be capable of acting on it. He had no guarantee that a single face-to-face confrontation that he stood witness to, no matter how it went, would be the end of it. Rittenhouse had been right. If any harm came to Lucia Dinucci, even any attempted harm, at the hands of Patricia Dennison, Runyon would be morally, if not legally, responsible.

  The problem had bothered him last night and it bothered him now as he drove. He still hadn’t made up his mind what to do. And wouldn’t until after he spoke to Lucia Dinucci and then kept his afternoon appointment with Patricia Dennison.

  * * *

  The Superior Lingerie Shop was a small storefront with two show windows flanking the front door. Both windows contained manikins, one modeling lacy red bra and panties, the other a see-through nightgown. Inside there were displays of underwear, foundation garments, negligees, nightgowns, peignoirs, and a variety of accessories, not all of the sexy type. The kind of place that catered to a general and discerning clientele.

  There were no customers when Runyon walked in, no one except a willowy, thirtyish woman behind the sales counter. Hansen had described Dennison’s lady friend as good-looking and having “silky black hair, olive complexion, great legs.” This woman qualified on all counts, the “great legs” part evident when she stepped out smiling from behind the counter and approached him. The floral-design dress she wore, while not being particularly provocative overall, was fashioned so that the hem ended just above the knee.

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “May I help you?”

  “You can if you’re Lucia Dinucci.”

  “I am. May I ask how you know my name?”

  Instead of answering the question, Runyon said, “I understand you’re a friend of Philip Dennison.”

  He watched her closely as he spoke. How she reacted would determine how much further he’d go, just how much he would tell her. If she denied it—

  But she didn’t. The smile faded, drawing coral-tinted lips into a straight line. An emotion he couldn’t quite read darkened luminous black eyes. She said slowly, “Did he give you my name?”

  “No.”

  “Then why did you mention him?”

  “Are you a friend of his, Ms. Dinucci?”

  “I was,” she said. Now the emotion was clearer: a combination of sadness and hurt. “Not anymore. Why do you want to know? Who are you?”

  “My name is Runyon,” he said, and showed her his ID.

  She looked at it, then closed her eyes and backed up a step. When she looked at him again, she said with no inflection, “I suppose you’re employed by his wife.”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

  “Well, you can tell her she has nothing more to worry about. Nothing whatsoever.” Lucia Dinucci’s lower lip trembled slightly. “She never did, really.”

  “How long have you known the man?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Not anymore.”

  “I’d still like to know.”

  “A little over a year. He came in one day to buy a negligee … a present for a lady friend, he said. You can believe this or not, but I didn’t know until much later that he was married. If I had, I would not have gotten involved with him.”

  Runyon was silent.

  “By the time I found out, we’d already—” She shook her head, turned abruptly, and went back behind the sales counter. Runyon followed her. “It’s over; I ended it,” she said then. “That’s all that matters.”

  “When did you end it? Last week?”

  “Yes, last week.”

  “In person or on the phone?”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “You were supposed to meet him at Eagle Lake, spend a few days there with him, but you changed your mind. Is that right?”

  “… Yes. How did you know that?”

  “Why did you change your mind?”

  “Because I couldn’t … I couldn’t go up there again, be with him anymore. I thought I loved him, he made me believe he loved me, but it was all a lie, all so … cheap. I don’t suppose you understand, but … I started to pack and I couldn’t and that was when I stopped lying to myself.”

  “You told him it was over when he called you that night?”

  “You know about that, too? Yes, that’s when I told him. He was very angry. Very angry. I think he’d been drinking.” She shook her head again. “I don’t want anything more to do with Phil Dennison. That is God’s honest truth. Tell his wife that. Tell her he’s all hers.”

  “He’s not all hers,” Runyon said. “He’s nobody’s anymore.”

  “I don’t … What do you mean?”

  Lucia Dinucci had made a favorable impression on him—the old, old story of a decent woman who’d made the mistake of falling i
n love with the wrong man. She had a right to know that he was no longer among the living. Better the news should come from him than from Patricia Dennison, no matter what he decided to do about her.

  “Philip Dennison is dead,” he said. “He was killed at Eagle Lake last Tuesday night.”

  She closed her eyes again. Otherwise she stood very still, her hands closed at her sides. Several seconds crept away before she said in a small, dull voice, “How?”

  Runyon said, “You could call it an accident.”

  “What kind of accident?”

  “It might be better if we just left it at that.”

  “No. Please. I want to know.”

  Before he could respond, the bell over the door jangled and a woman in a dark green suit came in, went straight to a display of silken underwear. Immediately Lucia Dinucci stepped around the counter, crossed the shop in measured strides, and said something to the woman that Runyon couldn’t hear. The customer said irritably, “All right, then, I’ll just go somewhere else,” and went out. Ms. Dinucci closed the door behind her, hung a Closed sign in its glass panel.

  “Please,” she said again when she came back to Runyon. “How did Philip die?”

  He told her, keeping it brief, sparing her some but not all of the sordid details. If she was dismayed by the fact that Dennison had died because he’d been shacked up with a married waitress he’d picked up on the rebound, she gave no outward indication of it.

  After a time she said, “He’d still be alive if I’d kept our date.”

  “You have no cause to blame yourself.”

  “I know that. I was just stating a fact.” Pause. “I’m sorry he’s dead and I’m sorry for his wife, but I’m not sorry I ended our affair the way I did. Does that sound callous?”

  “No,” he said truthfully, “it doesn’t.”

  “He could be funny, charming, exciting to be with.” Talking to herself now as much as to him. “But at some level I think I knew all along, even before I found out he was married, that he wasn’t really the good, kind man he pretended to be.”