Endgame--A Nameless Detective Novel

by Bill Pronzini

  “No, sir. I have no idea.”

  It had been so long since he’d had a reason to call his son that he had to consult his address book for Joshua’s home number. But when he tried it, he got a “We’re sorry, this number is no longer in service” message.

  He checked the city directory. No listing. Relied strictly on a cell phone, probably, like so many people these days. If he was registered with a provider company like AT&T, Tamara could track down the number. But if Joshua used one of the prepaid phones …

  Moot issue. There was no need for any further checking because the agency’s landline rang just then and Tamara answered and then came out to tell him that it was Joshua for him on line two.

  Runyon picked up. “Hello, Son.”

  “Hello, Daddy dearest,” in a half falsetto.

  So that was how it was going to be. He should have known better than to hope for an olive branch. Or to expect common courtesy, for that matter.

  “It’s good to hear from you,” he said.

  “Is it? Never thought you would again, did you.”

  “I kept hoping, even when you wouldn’t return my calls.”

  “Hope is the thing with feathers. That’s a line from a poem by Emily Dickinson, in case you didn’t know. It’s also bullshit.”

  Runyon sidestepped that by saying, “I just tried to reach you at Hammond Smith Associates. I was sorry to hear you lost your job there. What happened?”

  “They threw me out. Downsizing, they called it. More bullshit.”

  “Where are you employed now?”

  “I’m not. No jobs for junior financial planners with my résumé.”

  “Sorry to hear that, too.”

  “Sure you are. Everybody I know is sorry. That’s because most of them are sorry people.”

  “If I can help in any way…”

  “Money? I don’t want your money.”

  “Why did you get in touch after all this time, Joshua?”

  “I want to see you.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Why?”

  “To talk. That’s what you always wanted us to do, isn’t it? Have a nice, long talk?”

  “Yes. About anything specific?”

  “Many things.” Short, humorless laugh, almost a bark. “Shoes and ships and sealing wax, and cabbages and kings.”

  Runyon let that pass. There was a disturbing quality to Joshua’s words, the pitch of his voice. Bitterness. Anger. And something else, a kind of disconnect, almost a wildness.

  “Are you busy now?” Joshua said. “Can you come over to my place right away?”

  “Sure I’ll come. You’re still at the flat on Hartford?”

  “No. I had to move out of there. I’m living in an apartment on Dorland Street now. The Castro, same as always. Fag heaven.”

  “That was uncalled for,” Runyon said gently. “You know I have no bias against homosexuality, yours or anyone else’s.”

  “Oh, right, I forgot. I’ll bet you’re all for gay marriage, too.”

  “I’m all for people who love each other being together, yes.”

  “So am I. Not that it matters anymore.”

  “Are you still with Kenneth?”

  “Christ, no. He’s gone. Long, long gone.”

  “Someone new in your life?”

  “That’s one of the things we’ll talk about when you get here, my love life. Sixty-four ninety-two Dorland, number two.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  * * *

  Joshua’s former residence had been a large, ground-floor flat in a Stick Victorian on Hartford Street just off Twentieth. Good location, the Victorian in good repair. His current address on Dorland was a considerable come-down: one of half a dozen old, nondescript stucco buildings jammed together in the middle of the block, its façade and front steps cracked and paint-peeled. It housed four apartments, Joshua’s on the ground floor rear.

  Three of the mailboxes in the tiny foyer had names on them, one written on a piece of adhesive tape. The one marked #2 had no name at all. On purpose, Joshua living alone now and craving anonymity for some reason? Runyon pressed the bell button. Almost immediately a ratchety buzz released the lock on the security gate and he stepped through.

  A short, dark hallway that smelled of Lysol led to the rear apartment. He knocked on the door.

  From inside, somewhat muffled: “That you there, Jake Runyon?”

  Not “Father” or “Dad”: or even the pejorative “Daddy dearest.” His full name, the way you’d address a stranger. Well, that was what they were and had been once Andrea got her poisonous claws into the boy, wasn’t it? Strangers.

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  “The door’s open. Come on in.”

  Runyon opened the door, stepped inside. He had a glancing impression of a living room unlike the neatly kept one in the Hartford flat, this one cluttered and untidy, but his attention was on his son. Joshua stood in front of a dark green armchair across the room, his body turned sideways. When Runyon shut the door, Joshua came all the way around to face him.

  He had a gun in his hand.

  And he pointed it straight at Runyon’s belt buckle.

  21

  I was back on the Bay Bridge early Monday morning, just passing the Treasure Island exit, when my cell phone burbled. The call was from Walnut Creek police lieutenant Frank Kowalski.

  “I rang up your office,” he said after identifying himself, “and your secretary gave me your cell number.”

  “I don’t have a secretary. Ms. Corbin is my partner. In fact, she’s the agency’s controlling partner.”

  “I see.” He had a raspy voice, as if his vocal cords had been subjected to a sandpapering. Not a pleasant voice to have droning in your ear on the Bay Bridge. “I take it you know who I am?”

  “The officer in charge of the Cahill murder case. My client’s attorney, Moxon, gave me your name.”

  “Your client. Yes. I’d like to speak to you about your business arrangement with James Cahill as soon as possible.”

  I wanted to say, You are speaking to me, but I didn’t. I said, “Moxon told me that, too.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “On the Bay Bridge, heading east.”

  “If you’re thinking of trying to see Cahill, you’re wasting your time. He isn’t allowed visitors except for legal counsel until after his arraignment.”

  “I know. That’s not where I’m going.”

  “To see me, then?”

  “Eventually.”

  “Eventually?”

  “I have some other things to do first.”

  “You’re not still investigating on Cahill’s behalf?”

  “Would you object if I was?”

  “Yes, I would,” Kowalski said. There was an edge to the raspy voice now. “You know as well as I do that private detectives are not allowed to investigate a homicide.”

  “Unless they have police permission.”

  “Which you don’t have and won’t get. Did Cahill inform you he was under suspicion when he hired you?”

  “Yes. He mentioned your name, as a matter of fact.”

  “Why didn’t you inform me, then, that you’d been retained by him?”

  “I wasn’t obligated to at the time.”

  “You should have done so anyway.”

  I was in no mood for a lecture. Things on my mind, the little things I had told Kerry and Emily about yesterday, some of which I’d identified and pulled together—the main reason I was on my way to the East Bay again today. And I had woken up this morning with a sour stomach courtesy of Cellini’s old-world spaghetti and meatballs and garlic bread and the glass of strong Chianti I’d drunk with the meal. Kowalski’s officious attitude and raspy voice grated on me.

  “A person under suspicion of a crime not yet established,” I said, “has a legal right to hire a detective to work in his behalf, and the detective has a legal right to protect his client’s interests as long as he doesn’t break any laws or
do anything to conflict or interfere with an official investigation.”

  He didn’t like me quoting the law to him. “You’re not going to give me any trouble, are you?”

  “No. I always cooperate with the police—I was a cop myself once, for a lot of years.”

  “I’ve already checked on you,” Kowalski said. “Do you have any knowledge germane to the murder investigation?”

  It was not time yet to share my suspicions with him, not until I had more information to back them up. I hedged by saying, “No specific knowledge, no. If I did, I would have given it to Moxon, and to you, right away.”

  A little satellite buzz on the line. Pretty soon he said, “I still want to see you. I’ll be in my office most of the day until four. I’ll expect to see you here before then.”

  “You will,” I said. “One more thing for now, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m still convinced James Cahill is innocent.”

  The first person I wanted to talk to was Fran Woodward, so I took Highway 80 off the bridge and then University Avenue into downtown Berkeley. But it turned out to be a wasted trip. She was out somewhere, evidently; no answer to my knock on the door to her studio or the front door of the house.

  Grumbling a little to myself, I doubled back to 80 and then took 24 out through the Caldecott Tunnel to Walnut Creek and Shelter Hills Estates. Maybe it was my imagination, but the neighborhood seemed even quieter this morning than it had on my previous visit—the kind of hushed quiet that sometimes seems to settle on places where some kind of tragedy has happened. I parked in front of the Cahill house, crossed the street, and rang the bell at the house where Mrs. Cappicotti lived.

  Spots, the Jack Russell terrier, set up a furious barking inside. I heard the lady tell him to “shut up, you,” just before she opened the door. To my surprise, he obeyed.

  She was wearing a bulky sweater and a pair of slacks today, both mint green. If she’d bothered to comb or brush her gray hair, she must have done it without benefit of a mirror; strands and wisps poked up in a half a dozen different places. Her lean face was solemn.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Cappicotti. Remember me?”

  “Sure. The detective. The police came and arrested Mr. Cahill on Saturday, but I guess you know about that. About poor Mrs. Cahill, too. It was on the local TV news last night.” The terrier, hiding somewhere behind her, let out another bark. She told him again to shut up and again he obeyed. Then, to me, “Are you still working for Mr. Cahill?”

  “Unofficially, yes.”

  “Well, I don’t think he killed his wife. Naturally my daughter and her husband have the opposite opinion, seems like we never agree on anything. You don’t think he did it, do you?”

  “No, ma’am, I don’t.”

  “Ma’am. You’re polite; I like that. There’s too damn little civility in the world these days.”

  “I think so, too.”

  “What brought you back to see me? That car I had a glimpse of in the Cahills’ garage?”

  “Partially. I don’t suppose you’ve remembered anything more about it?”

  “Well, you know, I think I have. I’ve been thinking about it quite a bit and now I’m positive it was white, not beige or light tan or off-white. There’s something else, too.”

  “Yes?”

  “The taillights. I don’t usually pay attention to how cars are designed these days—they all look pretty much the same to me except for their size—which is why I didn’t remember this before now. I’m not absolutely sure, but I think I saw the taillights flash just before the door came down, and they were an odd shape. Not round like taillights used to be, but sort of oblong with the red parts in two Ls, one on top of the other like neon strips. Does that make any sense?”

  “Perfect sense.”

  “Does it help?”

  “Yes, it does. Quite a bit.”

  “Well, good. I hope so.”

  “There’s one more thing you can tell me, Mrs. Cappicotti. This may sound off the subject, but it’s not and I have a good reason for asking. What time is the mail usually delivered here?”

  “The mail?” To her credit she didn’t ask what my good reason for asking was. “Between eleven-thirty and noon every day when our regular mailman, George Yamashita, is delivering.”

  “Would you recall if he was delivering the day Mrs. Cahill disappeared?”

  “Well, he must’ve been,” Mrs. Cappicotti said. “Every day except in the summer when he’s on vacation. The relief people they put on then … phooey. Sometimes we don’t get our mail until five o’clock. I can’t imagine what takes them so long—”

  I interrupted gently, “What sort of person is Mr. Yamashita? By that I mean is he friendly, willing to stop and talk?”

  “Oh, sure. Very friendly, and polite like you. You want to ask him some questions, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’ll be glad to introduce you, if you want.”

  “That might be a good idea.”

  “What time is it now? Ten-thirty?”

  I looked at my watch. “Ten-forty.”

  “An hour or so. Would you like to come in and wait? Nobody home but me and the stupid dog. And there’s a fresh pot of coffee on the stove.”

  Coffee was the last thing my innards needed right now. And as nice as Mrs. Cappicotti was, the last thing my head needed was an hour or more of idle chitchat.

  I said, “Thanks, but there’s something else I have to do. I’ll be back by eleven-thirty.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll keep an eye out for George in case he comes early.”

  I thanked her again, went over to the car, and drove to a nearby shopping mall that serviced the area. In a café next to one of the big-box stores I pampered my sour gut with milk and a jelly doughnut. At 11:15 I drove back to Shelter Hills and Sweet William Drive.

  Mrs. Cappicotti was out front of her house, the terrier on his leash beside her. “No sign of George yet,” she said when I joined her. She nodded at the dog. “I just finished taking him for a walk. Wouldn’t poop at all today, would you, you annoying beast.”

  If I didn’t know better, I could have sworn Spots winked at her.

  The wait for the mailman was less than ten minutes. Mrs. Cappicotti spotted his postal van first, in the next block. When the van crossed the intersection, she went over to the opposite side waving one hand and dragging the dog with the other, me at her heels. The van rolled to a stop in front of the Cahill house.

  George Yamashita was in his fifties, slim and knobby kneed in a pair of regulation USPS shorts to go with his uniform jacket and cap. The sunny smile he favored us with said he was a man who enjoyed his work.

  Mrs. Cappicotti performed the introductions. “He’s a detective, George,” she said. “He’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”

  “Questions?”

  “About a delivery you made to the Cahills,” I said, “on a Wednesday twelve days ago.”

  “Wednesday, twelve days ago. The day Mrs. Cahill disappeared?” He seemed not to know that her body had been found and her husband arrested. Mrs. Cappicotti had her mouth open to tell him, but I warned her off with a look and a headshake.

  “That’s right,” I said. “You had a package addressed to her—books from her publisher in New York.” I spread my hands to illustrate the size.

  He thought about it. “Oh, sure, I remember. Packages like that come for her now and then. Usually I ring the bell and she comes and gets them.”

  “But not that day.”

  “No. I rang the bell, but she didn’t answer.”

  “So you left the package on the porch.”

  “She told me it was all right to do that. Sometimes she’s too busy to come to the door.”

  “This is important, Mr. Yamashita. Was the red light on the security panel lit when you rang the bell?”

  “The red light? Well, it always is when I bring the mail. I guess she feels safer with the security system on.”

&nb
sp; “But was it lit that day? Please try to remember.”

  I watched him working his memory again, frowning, shifting the bundle of mail he carried from one hand to the other. At length he said, “You know, now that you got me thinking, no, it wasn’t.”

  “You’re certain of that?”

  “Yes, sir. I remember wondering how come she didn’t have the system on as usual, but it wasn’t any of my business so I just left the package and went on with my rounds.”

  I thanked him, and when he moved away Mrs. Cappicotti said, “What does it mean, the red light being off?”

  “It means I’m on the right track.”

  “For proving Mr. Cahill didn’t kill his wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know who did?”

  I said, “I can’t say just yet,” but the correct answer was yes.

  22

  Now I wanted more than ever to talk to Fran Woodward. In the car I looked up her cell number and called it. Four rings and I thought it was about to go to voice mail, but she answered on the fifth. I gave my name, asked if she was available to see me for a few minutes.

  “I just now walked in the door,” she said. “It’s been a bitch of a morning and I need to take a shower and get some food. I haven’t eaten all day.”

  “It’s important, Ms. Woodward. A few more questions that won’t take up much of your time.”

  “About the Cahills, I suppose.”

  “You know what happened on Friday and Saturday?”

  “Kendra Nesbitt called to tell me the shitty news. I’m sorry Alice is dead, we were really close once, but I don’t believe Jimmy killed her. He’s a small-balls guy, like I told you before—just not capable of doing what the police claim he did.”

  “You’re not alone in believing that.”

  “Good. Are you trying to prove it?”

  “Working on it. That’s why I need to talk to you.”

  “I don’t know what I can tell you that I haven’t already. But go ahead and ask your questions.”

  “They’re better asked in person.”

  “Personal questions, then, I suppose. If you think I had anything to do with what happened to Alice—”

  “No, I don’t. A lot may depend on your answers, Ms. Woodward.”