Breakdown - [Nameless Detective 19]

by By Bill Pronzini

  I was beginning to see how things in the Lujack case fit together, and most of what I saw I didn’t like worth a damn. One element was particularly galling.

  Glickman and Eberhardt and I had been as wrong as you can be about Thomas Lujack: He had in fact run down and killed Frank Hanauer.

  It was the only explanation that accounted for everything that had happened since. His defense, the whole vague conspiracy theory, had been a smokescreen designed to obscure his guilt; and Eberhardt and I had not been hired to find a third witness, nor to prove him innocent, but on the thin hope that we’d come up with something in Pendarves’s background that Glickman could use in court to discredit his testimony. We’d been pawns, Eb and me. Or maybe fools was a better word—a pair of fools prancing and dancing for the benefit of a desperate knave.

  I figured it this way:

  Five or six years ago, the Lujack brothers had conspired with Rafael Vega to finance a large-scale coyote operation in Southern California. At Vega’s instigation, probably; he had the contacts on both sides of the border. For some reason, most likely plain greed, Hanauer had been left out of the deal. It had taken him five years to get a whiff of what his partners were into, and when he did, early in December, he’d taken it badly. On the evening of the fifth, after everyone else at Containers, Inc., was gone, Hanauer had confronted Thomas; maybe threatened him with exposure, maybe demanded a retroactive cut of the profits. In any case, it had been a heated exchange, and Hanauer had ended it by walking out. But Thomas had a violent temper, the kind that sometimes overwhelms reason; he’d rushed outside in Hanauer’s wake and turned his car into a lethal weapon. By the time he’d come to his senses, it was too late to do anything but frantically try to cover up. He abandoned his Caddy, came back to the factory on foot through the Bayshore Yards, and arrived on the scene with his hastily improvised story. When one of the witnesses, Dinsmore, opened up the possibility of a missing third witness, Thomas seized on that and made it a major design in his fabric of lies and obfuscations.

  The rest of it wasn’t as clear-cut—I didn’t have enough details yet—but I could see enough of it to make informed guesses about the gaps. The impulsive and very public killing of Hanauer was one major catalyst. There had to be another too, and judging from what Teresa Melendez had told me, it was that the coyote operation had recently started to break down. Any number of things could be responsible for that: greed, internal screwups, an informant, an INS or Mexican government spy. Whatever the reason, the feds were getting close to busting it wide open. And the Lujacks and Vega knew it.

  Taken together, those two factors had created a pressure-cooker situation. Coleman, the nervous Nellie, would seem the most likely to break down first under the strain; in fact he was the coolest and deadliest of the lot. El jefe. Instead it was Thomas, a bundle of nerves under his casual facade, who had cracked first. And what cracked him was the specter of a homicide charge upgraded to first-degree when his involvement with the coyotes was made public, and a certain conviction on the basis of Pendarves’s unimpeachable eyewitness testimony.

  Pendarves’s brush with death on Monday night, like the hit-and-run killing of Hanauer, was just what it appeared to be—a harebrained attempt by Thomas to save his own ass. Had he been stupid enough to use his wife’s BMW? It wouldn’t surprise me. In any case, the attempt had failed. But the dilemma Thomas faced was the same as if he’d succeeded: He needed an alibi. Same solution too: his brother. It was unlikely he’d planned it beforehand; and even if he had, he wouldn’t have told Coleman, the level-headed one, because Coleman wouldn’t have stood still for it. Thomas had gotten in touch with his brother immediately afterward and fessed up, and Coleman had agreed to supply the alibi.

  Only he didn’t do it out of brotherly love; he’d done it to buy some time. He sent Thomas home to his wife, then called Vega and arranged for the two of them to meet that same night. It was clear to Coleman by then that Thomas was cracking, becoming a serious threat to his safety. So Thomas had to die—quickly, before he could do any more damage, and in such a way that no suspicion would fall on either Coleman or Vega. Coleman had convinced Vega to do the job by offering him enough money to finance his flight to Mexico City.

  What kind of man plots the murder of his own brother? A cold-blooded, ruthless one, motivated by greed and self-preservation and maybe some deep-seated hatred for his weaker, handsomer sibling. A sociopath. I could see Coleman in that role with no difficulty at all.

  Questions: Why had they decided to frame Pendarves? Why not just kill Thomas and make his death look like an accident or suicide? Pendarves was a threat only to Thomas ... or was he a threat to Coleman and Vega as well? I remembered Pendarves’s mention of Antonio Rivas on Monday night, and Eberhardt’s guess that Rivas not only knew about the Lujacks’ hiring of illegals but also about the coyote connection. Suppose Rivas had let something slip to Pendarves about the coyotes. And suppose Pendarves had gone on Tuesday to confront either Thomas or Coleman, threatened to tell the INS what he knew if Thomas ever tried to harm him again . . . maybe even attempted to blackmail one or the other of them. Pendarves wasn’t all that bright; it was the sort of angry, fear-motivated thing he might do. If he had, it provided Coleman with plenty of motive for wanting to get rid of him along with Thomas.

  Scenario: Coleman and Vega used some kind of ruse to lure Pendarves away from his house Tuesday night, and another ruse to lure Thomas out there. Vega then cracked Thomas on the head, drove the BMW into the empty garage, left the engine running and Thomas stretched out on the floor, and closed the garage door behind him. Exit Thomas, while Vega left the scene in his own car or via public transportation.

  What was still murky was what they’d done about Pendarves. Had they plotted to kill him too? If I was right about Pendarves’s actions, then it was a good bet they had. It eliminated two threats and screwed the frame down tight.

  They might have gotten away with it if I hadn’t shown up at Pendarves’s property that night. My investigation since had kept the pressure on; and I’d made it clear enough that I was getting close to the truth. So I had to die too. That was what the telephone conversation between Coleman and Vega last night had been about.

  The big question now was where Coleman was. Had he, like Vega, decided some time ago to pack up and run? Probably, if he believed the feds were close to nailing him. It was in character for him to have salted away a large sum of cash as a safety valve; and the past week or so he could have been quietly liquidating assets. What argued against him having already fled was the fact that he’d sent Vega after me. Why bother to have me killed if he was planning to disappear as soon as last night? No, there was only one good reason he’d want me out of the way, the same reason he’d ordered the murder of his brother: to gain enough time to finish stockpiling cash and arranging to cover his tracks when he finally did run.

  Then why had he gone off with his wife last night? To give himself an alibi for the time of my death, just in case something went wrong? No, that didn’t add up; he could have just stayed home, surrounded himself with people. To stash his wife somewhere for a few days, so he’d be free to complete his preparations and then slip away quietly when he was ready? That made sense if he didn’t intend to take her with him, if she hadn’t been privy to any of his schemes, and particularly if she had money or jewelry that Coleman could appropriate. But where would he stash her? Someplace the two of them regularly frequented, maybe; some little getaway spot. . . .

  A sense of urgency prodded me out of the coffee shop and into my car. I couldn’t afford to just hang loose and wait for Coleman to come back home. Once he found out Rafael Vega was in the hospital and I was still alive, he’d run and run fast; he wouldn’t have much choice. I had to find him before that happened. If it hadn’t already happened.

  I drove over to 280 and headed south, back to San Carlos and Sweet William Lane.

  * * * *

  There was a white Olds Cutlass parked in Eileen Lujack’s driv
eway. But nobody came to open the door when I rang the bell. An offshoot of the front walk led around the side of the house; I followed it through a rose garden, past another of those damn gnomes peering slyly from behind a bush. On the other side of the garden, along the rear, was a stone-floored patio; a swimming pool, covered now for the winter, occupied the far end and some molded-plastic outdoor furniture was arranged on the near side. Two women sat at one of the tables, drinking out of mugs and taking in the still-warmish afternoon sun. The one facing my way was Eileen Lujack.

  When she spotted me she said something to the other woman, who turned in her chair; they both watched as I crossed the patio. Mrs. Lujack said, “Oh, it’s you,” before I reached them. She didn’t look or sound pleased to see me.

  Her companion—older, dark-haired, a little on the horsey side in both dress and appearance—said to Eileen, “Who, sweetie?”

  “Oh, that detective I told you about.”

  “Well, didn’t you tell him you didn’t want him bothering you anymore?”

  “I told him. I left a message on his machine.”

  “Then why is he here?”

  I don’t much care for people talking about me in my presence as if I’m not really there. I said, “I want to ask you a couple more questions, Mrs. Lujack. Then I’ll go away and you won’t see me again. But this doesn’t concern your friend, so either she can go in the house or we can. Whichever you prefer.”

  The horsey woman didn’t like being ignored any more than I did. She said to Eileen, “He’s got a nerve. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, sweetie.”

  “No, it’s all right, Monica. I’ll talk to him.”

  “If you say so. But I’m staying right here while you do.”

  Mrs. Lujack shrugged and looked up at me. “It’s all right to talk in front of Monica.”

  “As long as the answers to my questions come from you. Do you know where I can find your brother-in-law?”

  “Well, at home, I suppose. He lives in Burlingame. . . .”

  “He’s not there,” I said. “He and his wife went somewhere last night, with luggage. I thought you might know where.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “When did you last talk to Coleman?”

  “Day before yesterday. After you were here.”

  “Did he say anything about taking a trip?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Where does he go when he wants to get away for the weekend? Any special place?”

  She thought about that, with her face scrunched up like a hound’s; thinking would always be a chore for her. Pretty soon she said, “Well, he likes to go duck hunting. Carla does too.”

  The horsey woman said, “Ugh. I hate blood sports.”

  “So do I,” Eileen said.

  “So do I,” I said. “Especially when the prey is human.” I was remembering the prints on Coleman’s office wall, the hand-carved decoy on his desk—things I should have remembered earlier, without help. “Where do they go to hunt ducks?”

  “Up to their cabin, I guess.”

  “They own a hunting cabin? Where?”

  “Oh . . . that marsh on the way to Sacramento, the big one.”

  “Suisun Marsh?”

  “That’s it. Tom . . . sometimes Tom went up there with them.”

  “Poor baby,” the horsey woman said, and reached out to pat Eileen’s hand. “Don’t you think that’s enough questions, sweetie?”

  “I don’t know,” Eileen said. And to me, “Is that all?”

  “Just one more. Do you know where their cabin is on the marsh? The address, if it has one?”

  “No. I was only there once, a long time ago. . . .”

  “Can you give me a general idea of the location?”

  The horsey woman swiveled her head, fixed cold green-olive eyes on me, and for the first time favored me with a direct statement. “Can’t you see you’re upsetting her? She’s just lost her husband, she’s suffered a terrible personal tragedy. . . . Don’t men like you have any compassion?”

  “Don’t women like you ever mind your own business?”

  Her mouth hinged open. “Why, you . . . you shit,” she said.

  I didn’t respond to that. Instead I said to Eileen, “Thanks for talking to me, Mrs. Lujack. I really won’t bother you again.” Without looking at the mare, I left them and went back around to the front yard. Thinking sardonically of the bumper sticker you see everywhere these days, the one that says: Shit Happens.

  Yeah. Pretty soon now, in one place or another, this Shit was going to happen to Coleman Lujack.

  * * * *

  On the way back to the city I considered calling Eberhardt, maybe saving myself some time that way, but I didn’t do it. His memory for details is poor, and I had no desire to listen to another sermon. I drove straight downtown to O’Farrell, went up to the office, and looked through the file Eb had built as part of his background check on Coleman.

  And there it was on the TRW credit report, under Property Owned: 15678 Grizzly Island Road, Suisun City.

  * * * *

  Chapter 18

  The Suisun Marsh is the largest single estuarine marsh in the country—thousands of acres of tule grass, freshwater sloughs and backwaters, and unpaved roads spread out along the northeastern rim of Suisun Bay. The California Department of Fish and Game controls most of it, maintaining large sections as a wildlife refuge; those sections are off-limits to hunters and fishermen. But along the network of sloughs there are numerous privately owned parcels of land, whose owners can obtain seasonal permits to hunt certain species of ducks and birds that flock there during the winter months. For men like Coleman Lujack, to whom all life came cheap, it would be a shooter’s paradise.

  Grizzly Island Road is the main access into the marsh, a narrow, two-lane paved road that winds in off Highway 12. Fairfield and Suisun City, the two towns that flank the east side of the highway, used to be small, quiet places populated mainly by people connected in one way or another with Travis Air Force Base nearby. In recent years both had grown rapidly, thanks to the burgeoning cost of real estate in the Bay Area; now families had to come this far out—some forty miles east of San Francisco—to find affordable housing. Tracts and shopping centers had blossomed along Highway 12, in places butting right up against the protected marshland.

  It was late afternoon when I turned onto Grizzly Island Road. At this time of year, even on a Saturday, it was mostly deserted; I saw only two other cars, both parked, as I drove through miles of low green hills and empty fields broken now and then by huddles of ranch buildings. Finally the road curved around and drew in close to the main part of the marsh—a broad, flat, lonely expanse of green and brown, of gray glistening water. The only signs of life were hundreds of birds making shifting patterns of color against a thickening overcast sky.

  Montezuma Slough, the biggest of the estuaries, appeared ahead. I hadn’t been out here in years and it seemed wider than I remembered, as wide as a football field where the road climbed up over a narrow humpbacked bridge. Along the far bank, scattered cabins—green and brown and gray like their surroundings—were visible among stretches of tule grass and stunted swamp growth; each had its own spindly pier and boat shed.

  When I came down on that side of the bridge, the road hooked sharply left to parallel the slough. The numbers on the mailboxes along here told me I was getting close to 15678 —less than a quarter of a mile, it turned out. I couldn’t see much of the Lujack cabin from the road, because of a tangle of bushes and gnarly trees. I parked just beyond the driveway, retransferred the .38 from the glove box to my jacket pocket, and then walked back and in along deep ruts.

  The drive widened out in front of the cabin, where the tangle of vegetation ended. One vehicle was parked there, but it wasn’t Coleman’s Imperial. It was a Dodge Ram van.

  The cabin was a long low affair, with brown shingled walls and a saggy green composition roof. Very rustic. Not very primitive, though: Telephone lines r
an overhead and there was a satellite TV dish mounted to one side. Coleman evidently liked his creature comforts after a hard day of killing things.

  I could hear voices as I approached—at least three people having a conversation in there. Was Coleman one of them, even though his car wasn’t here? If so, I wasn’t sure how I’d handle him with more than just his wife on the premises. Play it by ear. I touched the revolver in my pocket. And get tough if I had to.

  When I rapped on the screen door, the conversation died inside. I knocked again, and there was the thump of heavy steps, and the inside door opened and I was looking through the screen at a beefy middle-aged guy with a shock of iron-gray hair. I had never seen him before. He had no idea who I was either; he looked me over with a mixture of puzzlement and mild annoyance before he said, “Yes? What can we do for you?”

  “I’m looking for Coleman Lujack.”