Endgame--A Nameless Detective Novel

by Bill Pronzini

  “This sauce is so good,” Emily said as she dug in. “What do they put in it to make it taste like this?”

  “They’re not telling,” Kerry said. “Secret family recipe.”

  “Put a bunch of ingredients in a pot,” I said, “add a pinch of this and a dash of that, and let it simmer for a day or so. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Hah. That’s how we do it at home, Dad, and it just doesn’t come out like this.”

  “Well, we’re not fine old-world chefs.”

  “We put in every herb and spice that’s called for.”

  “Maybe we don’t; maybe we leave something out.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, some little thing.”

  “It’s always the little things,” Kerry said philosophically. “We’ll probably never know.”

  We went on eating. But then I stopped in mid-feed, put my fork down. “Little things,” I said. “An accumulation of little things.”

  “Mmm?”

  “What, Dad?”

  “Essentially that’s what pasta sauce, any complicated dish, is—an accumulation of little things. Right? Same is true of detective work sometimes. Only instead of meat and vegetables, herbs and spices, the ingredients are something you’ve seen or heard, some little fact you’ve learned, all tossed together in a mental pot. Let them simmer long enough, and eventually you’ll end up with the right dish.”

  Kerry rolled her eyes. “That metaphor needs work.”

  “No, I’m serious. All you need to do is identify the little things one by one until you have the lot.”

  “Like a list of ingredients in a recipe,” Emily said.

  “Exactly.”

  “Are you just making a general observation,” Kerry asked, “or does this have something to do with the Cahill matter?”

  “It does. I have a feeling I’ve gathered enough bits and pieces to tell me who killed Alice Cahill and why. Maybe not enough to prove it, but enough to create reasonable doubt of Cahill’s guilt.”

  “But you haven’t identified them yet?”

  “One or two. The rest will come.”

  “You hope.”

  “I hope. ASAP.”

  19

  TAMARA

  That fool Horace wouldn’t stop pressuring her for an answer to his marriage proposal. Wouldn’t let up for a minute every time they were together or talked on the phone the past few days.

  “Come on, Tam, don’t keep me hanging like this. Just say yes.” Said that ten times if he said it once.

  “I need more time to think it over.”

  “Why? You know we belong together. You know I love you.”

  “That’s what you kept saying before you went to Philadelphia and hooked up with Mary from Rochester.”

  “Everybody makes a big mistake at least once in his life and Mary was mine. How many times, how many ways, can I say I’m sorry?”

  “Only has to be once if you mean it.”

  “I do, honest I do. I was lonely back there; that’s my only excuse. And Mary was … well, available, convenient.”

  “Convenient! You almost married her.”

  “Her idea, not mine. She talked me into it. But I didn’t go through with it because I couldn’t.”

  “Sounded like you were damn eager to go through with it when you called me up and smacked me with the news.”

  “I guess I was, then. But I never loved Mary; I only thought I did, and not for long. You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved.”

  “Lay that line on her, too? Tell her you loved her?”

  “No. Never, not once. After I came to my senses I told her I loved you. That’s why she broke it off.”

  “Should’ve broken it off while you were poking her with it.”

  “You don’t mean that, Tam. You know you love me as much as I love you.”

  “I’m not so sure I know what love is.”

  “Great sex, for one thing. We light each other’s fire every time.”

  “Same as you and Mary did?”

  “Don’t bring her up again, please. It’s you and me I’m talking about. I’ve never had better sex and I’ll bet you haven’t, either. We’re perfect together in bed.”

  “Nothing’s perfect. And you can’t build a marriage on sex alone.”

  “No, but that’s not all we have going for us. We like the same things, we have the same opinions, we can talk to each other, we’re both willing to compromise—”

  “Hah.”

  “Marry me, Tam. Just say yes!”

  On and on like that. Friday night, Saturday morning, Saturday evening, Sunday morning. It was the pressure that had driven her to the agency for a full eight hours on Saturday, even though she’d just gotten her period and hadn’t felt like working. If she’d stayed home he’d have hung around pushing and cajoling all day. She hadn’t let him stay the night, but he called up first thing Sunday morning, not so subtly pressuring again, wanting to spend the day with her so he could do it some more. No way. She’d taken a bite out of him on the phone; if she let him come over and he started in again, as cramped as she was, she’d end up snapping and growling and biting on him some more and that wouldn’t do either of them any good.

  What she needed was to talk to somebody, get some unbiased advice on what she should do. That let out Mom and Pop. They’d do a dab dance if she told them, put on more pressure for her to say yes. Nothing they’d like better than finally seeing her with a ring on her finger. Pop especially. Horace was the only man she’d ever been with whom he approved of, despite the hurt he’d put on her. And Pop had never approved of her work, not even when Bill made her a full and controlling partner in the agency. Thought it was the wrong kind of job for his daughter, too dangerous. Ridiculous. Man was a cop, for God’s sake.

  Claudia was out, too. They’d never gotten along. Polar opposites, her and her sister. Girl was a born-again and a vegan and, for all Tamara knew, still a virgin at thirty-three. She had an Oreo boyfriend, another lawyer like her, but they had separate apartments and there’d never been so much as a hint of them sleeping together. No plans to get married, either; Claudia was too independent, even more fiercely so than Tamara, to even consider giving up her freedom. That was another reason the folks would be thrilled with Horace’s proposal—Tamara was their last best hope for a grandchild someday. Yeah, well, good luck with that. She was pretty sure the maternal gene had been left out of her. Horace said he didn’t want kids, either, but he’d hedged by adding “at least not right away.”

  Bill? Kerry? No. No sense in burdening them with her personal problems; they had enough of their own to deal with. Besides, she felt bad about ragging on Bill on the phone Saturday for no good reason, just the crappy mood Horace and her period had put her in.

  Vonda.

  Sure, Vonda. They’d been friends since they were sophomores at Redwood High. Shared some wild times together in their gangsta/grunge days, chased with some bad-ass homies, smoked weed, done some things that came close to crossing the line. Vonda was slim and sleek with a J.Lo booty; guys had been all over her since she was fifteen. She must’ve done the nasty with fifty or so before she cleaned up her act. Which she’d done first the way Tamara had, by landing a good job as a sales rep at the S.F. Design Center, and then by falling for Ben Sherman, a stockbroker she met at a party. Their relationship seemed crazy in the beginning, loaded with problems, because Ben was both white and Jewish. They’d been married four years now, a real solid marriage from all indications. Who better to lend a sympathetic ear?

  She called, and Vonda was home and free and willing to get together with her. They arranged to meet at a lounge near the Sherman apartment on Tel Hill.

  * * *

  “Well,” Vonda said, “do you love the man?”

  “Always have, you know that.”

  “Enough to want to spend the rest of your life with him?”

  “I’m just not sure. That’s the problem. We have a lot in common, as he keeps p
ointing out. Great sex, for one thing.”

  “Sex isn’t enough, girlfriend.”

  “I know that, but—”

  “Listen up.” Vonda leaned forward across the table. It had been a while since Tamara had seen her; she looked as together and happy as ever since hooking up with Ben Sherman. “Truth is, Ben isn’t the best lover I’ve ever had. I don’t mean he’s not good in bed; he is, just not the best. But he’s kind and gentle and considerate, and he satisfies me every time. Because it’s not just screwing; it’s making love. Big difference.”

  Tamara wanted to say it was the same with Horace, making love instead of just humping, but she wasn’t convinced it was. Instead she said, more defensively than she’d intended, “Horace is kind and gentle and considerate, too.”

  “I don’t just mean in bed. I mean in everything you do together, day in, day out. Ben and I hardly ever fight and when we do it’s over and done with quick. We’re like … well, sort of a black and white united front, know what I’m saying?”

  “No trouble between you, no hassles.”

  “Right. None that matter. That’s why our marriage works. I guess it’s what makes any marriage work, when you come right down to it. What about you and Horace? Problems, hassles?”

  “Not many since he came back from Philadelphia.”

  “Pretty heavy, the way he dumped you for that girl cello player.”

  “He’s apologized dozens of times,” Tamara said. “Swears he’ll never be unfaithful to me again.”

  “You believe him?”

  “I think he means it … now.”

  “But you’re afraid you can’t trust him in the future.”

  “Wouldn’t you be?”

  “This isn’t about me. Have you forgiven him?”

  “Well, mostly.”

  “But not a hundred percent.”

  “Hard to get all the way over what he did.”

  “For sure. Major question is, do you forgive him enough and trust him enough to marry him?”

  “… I’m just not sure.”

  Vonda took a sip of her white wine. “Why do you suppose he’s putting so much pressure on you for an immediate answer?”

  “He says it’s time and he doesn’t want to wait any longer.”

  “That’s not much of an explanation.”

  “I know it.”

  “Look,” Vonda said. “I’m gonna ask you something and I don’t want you to take it the wrong way. Okay?”

  “I won’t. Go ahead.”

  “Could it be a money and security thing with him?”

  Tamara said nothing, staring into her glass.

  “So that’s occurred to you, too, right?”

  “Sure it has. But he’s got a pretty good teaching job, he’s making decent money at that and a little more playing chamber music—”

  “And you’ve got a very good job and you’re making, what, five or six times as much as he is. He’ll never get another gig like he had with the Philadelphia symphony, will he?”

  “Probably not.”

  “He must know it, too. He like teaching?”

  “Says he does.”

  “Saying and meaning aren’t the same thing. A symphony cello seat is all he ever really wanted. And he’s not getting any younger.” Vonda tapped Tamara’s hand gently with one of her pink-tipped nails. “I’m not saying he’s looking to become a kept dude, or that he’s got an eye on your income—”

  “I’d scratch it out of his head if he did.”

  “—just saying that maybe the security thought’s crossed his mind, too. Can’t blame a man for thinking about his future.”

  “Or a woman for thinking about hers.”

  “Amen to that.

  They were silent for a time. Vonda said finally, “So which way are you leaning, Tam? Yes or no?”

  “God’s honest truth? I don’t think I’m ready for marriage. Not now, not yet.”

  “Then there’s your answer, girlfriend. You’ve had it all along. Just needed me to get you to admit it to yourself.”

  * * *

  Horace took her turndown well enough. No argument or anything, but it was plain that he was pretty damn disappointed. Because he really loved her and wanted to be with her? Because he’d miss the financial security she could give him? A combination of both?

  Well, she’d find out. If they were still together a year, two years, from now and she was certain she could trust him completely again, and they developed the kind of tightly knit united front Vonda and Ben had in and out of bed, and he still wanted her to be his wife … maybe then she’d be ready and her answer would be yes.

  20

  JAKE RUNYON

  He spent Sunday driving around the city, one end to the other, all the neighborhoods good and bad, stopping only to put gas in the Ford and twice to eat—once on Potrero Hill for a sandwich, the second time for dinner at a Chinese restaurant on Fillmore Street. Spending all or even part of the day at home in his Ortega Street apartment hadn’t been an option. San Francisco was home now, but not the apartment. It was nothing more to him than a place for sleeping, watching TV when he needed a little downtime to recharge his batteries, doing computer research, and writing reports when necessary—he’d written up his report on the Dennison case Saturday night. A nowhere place, those four Spartan rooms; a lonely place.

  Unless he was on a job, Sunday was the worst day of the week. A day when time seemed to slow to a crawl, a day to get through the best way he could. The only pleasurable Sundays since his move here from Seattle had been those he’d spent with Bryn—just the two of them at first and then, after she regained custody of her young son, Bobby, the three of them going places, doing things together.

  He’d bonded with Bryn because of the stroke that had paralyzed the left side of her face, two damaged individuals leaning on each other for succor and support; bonded with Bobby, too, for a time, as though the boy were a surrogate son. But he’d felt all along that the relationships wouldn’t last, and he’d been right; they hadn’t. Bryn’s whole life revolved around Bobby; once she had custody of him again and her ex-husband had come creeping back into the picture, she hadn’t needed Runyon anymore and neither had the boy. Even though it was Runyon who’d been the catalyst responsible for the reconciliation of mother and son.

  It had been six months now since he’d last seen either of them, the final meeting the day of Bobby’s birthday when he’d stopped by their house to drop off a present for the boy. Bryn had berated him for coming by unexpectedly, the reason being that her ex was due soon to spend the day with her and Bobby. “Call before you come over next time,” she’d said, and he’d said he would. But he’d known then there wouldn’t be a next time. There’d been no contact of any kind between them since that day. Now the only time she entered his thoughts was on long, lonely Sundays.

  This one finally ended and the new week began. He reported to the agency promptly at nine Monday morning. Tamara, as usual, was already at her computer. Her mood was good, upbeat, if a little on the quiet side; she seemed relieved about something, as if a weight had been removed, a problem solved. Good for her, if that was the case.

  He’d e-mailed her the Dennison report, which she was in the process of reading when he came in. He supplemented it with a brief verbal summary, then asked if there was any new work for him.

  “Nothing pressing,” she said. “But I’ve got some news for you. Good news, maybe.”

  “I could use some. What is it?”

  “Call last Thursday from your son Joshua.”

  Runyon was frankly astonished. “What did he want?”

  “He wouldn’t say. Just that he wanted to talk to you. I told him you were out of town on business.”

  “He didn’t call me. No message on my cell or landline.”

  “Told me he’d lost your business card. I’d have given him your cell number, but he didn’t identify himself until the end of the conversation.”

  “How come you didn’t let me know right
away?”

  “He asked me not to. Said what he wanted to talk to you about could wait until today.”

  “He didn’t give you any idea what it was?”

  “No. None.”

  Runyon shook his head, an involuntary reaction. Three years, and no contact with Joshua in all that time. Why was he reaching out now, all of a sudden? Changed his mind about not wanting anything more to do with his father? That seemed too much to hope for. Wanted something again, probably, as he had the time his boyfriend, Kenneth, was assaulted by the pair of nightcrawlers. If that was it, it couldn’t be too important if Joshua was willing to wait four days to discuss it.

  Runyon went out to his desk in the outer office. Three years, he thought again. All that hate in Joshua’s eyes the last time he’d seen him, even after all he’d done to put an end to the gay bashing. “I have all the reasons I need to hate you, twenty years and a dead mother worth of reasons.” The last words he had said to Runyon, making it clear that as far as he was concerned their estrangement was permanent, the rift between them irreparable.

  But three years is a long time. Things happen; young men grow up and gain perspective and change their minds. Hope glimmering, only to be dashed again? Well, he told himself, don’t speculate, find out.

  Thirty-six months ago Joshua had been a trainee with a firm of financial planners at Embarcadero Center. Runyon looked up the number, called it, asked the woman who answered if he could speak to Joshua Fleming. Fleming—his mother’s maiden name, legally changed to rid himself of Runyon’s. The woman asked him to wait, left him hanging on hold for the better part of a minute. When she came back on she said, “I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Fleming is no longer employed here.”

  “When did he leave?”

  “He was let go four months ago.”

  “Let go? You mean fired?”

  “His position was eliminated.”

  Whatever the hell that meant. “Can you tell me where he’s employed now?”