Scenarios - A Collection of Nameless Detective Stories

by Bill Pronzini

  "Wrong again." I showed him the voice-activated recorder I'd had hidden in my pocket all evening. High-tech, state-of-the-art equipment, courtesy of George Agonistes, fellow PI and electronics expert. "Everything that was said in your office and in this room tonight is on here. I've also got the cassette tape Annette played when she called earlier. Voice prints will prove the muffled voice on it is yours, that you were talking to yourself on the phone, giving yourself orders and directions. If your wife wants to press charges, she'll have more than enough evidence to put the two of you away."

  "She won't press charges," he said. "Not Carolyn."

  "Maybe not, if you return the rest of her money. What you and baby here haven't already blown."

  He sleeved his mouth again. "I suppose you intend to take the briefcase straight to her."

  "You suppose right."

  "I could stop you," he said, as if he were trying to convince himself. "I'm as big as you, younger—I could take it away from you."

  I repocketed the recorder. I could have showed him the .38, but I grinned at him instead. "Go ahead and try. Or else move away from the door. You've got five seconds to make up your mind."

  He moved in three, as I started toward him. Sideways, clear of both me and the door. Annette Byers let out a sharp, scornful laugh, and he whirled on her—somebody his own size to face off against. "Shut your stupid mouth!" he yelled at her.

  "Shut yours, big man. You and your brilliant ideas."

  "Goddamn you. . ."

  I went out and closed the door against their vicious, whining voices.

  Outside the fog had thickened to a near drizzle, sucking the pavement and turning the lines of parked cars along both curbs into two-dimensional black shapes. Parking was at such a premium in this neighborhood there was now a car, dark and silent, double-parked across the street. I walked quickly to California. Nobody, police included, had bothered my wheels in the bus zone. I locked the briefcase in the trunk, let myself inside. A quick call to Carolyn Cohalan to let her know I was coming, a short ride out to her house by the zoo to deliver the fifty thousand, and I'd be finished for the night.

  Only she didn't answer her phone.

  Funny. When I'd called her earlier from the park, she'd said she would wait for my next call. No reason for her to leave the house in the interim. Unless—

  Christ!

  I heaved out of the car and ran back down Locust Street. The darkened vehicle was still double-parked across from Annette Byers' building. I swung into the foyer, jammed my finger against the bell button for 2-C and left it there. No response. I rattled the door—latched tight—and then began jabbing buttons on all the other mailboxes. The intercom crackled; somebody's voice said, "Who the hell is that?" I said, "Police emergency, buzz me in." Nothing, nothing, and then finally the door release sounded; I hit the door hard and lunged into the lobby.

  I was at the foot of the stairs when the first shot echoed from above. Two more in swift succession, a fourth as I was pounding up to the second floor landing.

  Querulous voices, the sound of a door banging open somewhere, and I was at 2-C. The door there was shut but not latched; I kicked it open, hanging back with the .38 in my hand for self-protection. But there was no need. It was over by then. Too late and all over.

  All three of them were on the floor. Cohalan on his back next to the couch, blood obscuring his face, not moving. Annette Byers sprawled bloody and moaning by the dinette table. And Carolyn Cohalan sitting with her back against a wall, a long-barreled .22 on the carpet nearby, weeping in deep broken sobs.

  I leaned hard on the doorjamb, the stink of cordite in my nostrils, my throat full of bile. Telling myself it was not my fault, there was no way I could have known it wasn't the money but paying them back that mattered to her—the big payoff, the biggest bite there is. Telling myself I could've done nothing to prevent this, and remembering what I'd been thinking in the car earlier, about how I lived for cases like this, how I liked this one a whole lot. . .

  Season of Sharing

  (With Marcia Muller)

  I stepped out of my office and looked over the garland-laden railing of the upstairs catwalk at the floor of Pier 24-1/2. Six o'clock and the annual charity Christmas party for staff members of the various businesses housed there had just begun.

  The cars that we customarily parked downstairs had been removed to the street; a buffet table and bar in the center of the huge space was already surrounded; the loving cup for the best decorations—nonecumenical, as many of us practiced Judaism, Buddhism, Islam, or no religion at all—sat on its pedestal, to be awarded at the end of the festivities. We called this event the Season of Sharing party, because we solicited cash and noncash donations for a designated charity, with one firm handling the collection and disbursement on a rotating basis. This year's cause was a group called Home for the Holidays, dedicated to housing and feeding homeless people during the season.

  A party with a serious purpose, but that didn't mean we hadn't enjoyed preparing for it and wouldn't have a great time celebrating. The decorations this year were exceptional all around. My office manager, Ted Smalley, had opted for a galactic theme in this time of worldwide dissension, hanging from the garland silver stars, moons, planets, and crystal beads to represent the Milky Way. The architects on the opposite catwalk, Chandler & Santos, had fashioned a cityscape of colored lights and neon tubing; and their neighbors, a group of certified public accountants, had suspended cardboard cutouts of people of all races and genders holding hands. Below was a miniature Santa's Village, complete with electric tram (marketing consultants); a forest of small live fir trees dusted in realistic-looking snow, where replicas of various endangered animals took refuge (ecological nonprofit); swirls of rich, colorful cloth that a fan moved in a kaleidoscopic pattern (fashion designer); a Model T Ford with Santa at the wheel and presents in the rumble seat (car leasing agency). One of these would win the big loving cup perched on the high pedestal for best of show.

  I sighed with pleasure—both at the prospect of an enjoyable evening with good friends and at the knowledge that we would be bringing happy holidays to at least a few of the city's many homeless. Already the barrels of canned goods, new toys, and warm clothing were filled.

  As I glanced at the one for cash offerings, I spotted my colleague and friend Wolf approaching with his wife Kerry. The party was limited to Pier 24-1/2 workers and their guests, but for the past month Wolf had been on my payroll, assisting on a complex fraud case that I hadn't had time to attend to myself, so I'd urged him to attend. It had taken a lot of urging. Wolf hated large gatherings, and I was certain he'd only agreed to come as a favor to me and his outgoing advertising-executive wife.

  It wasn't the only way I was going to reward him for saving my butt, I thought with some anticipation. The job he'd done for me was an important one, for a client who threw a lot of business my agency's way. I'd been tied up on a long investigation into improprieties in the city's building-inspection department that had revealed a senior official was taking kickbacks in exchange for speeding up the permit process.

  Only half an hour ago Ted had given me a disk containing my report, which I would deliver to the mayor's office on Monday—the only copy, as the deputy mayor who was my contact there had insisted on total confidentiality. It currently rested under a stack of files in my in-box, unimportant looking and labeled "Expenses, November, 2001," rather than in the office safe, which had been broken into a few days ago.

  Wolf was already looking overwhelmed by the crowd down below. I donned my fuzzy Santa Claus hat and went to try to put him at ease.

  "WOLF"

  Kerry said, "Doesn't the pier look nice? So festive."

  "Yeah," I said. "Festive."

  "Look at all the different displays. Some are really clever."

  I looked. "At least they don't have some poor jerk dressed up in a Santa Claus suit."

  "I suppose that's a reference to the Christmas Charity Benefit. You're never goin
g to let me forget that, are you?"

  "Ho, ho, ho."

  She poked me in the ribs. "Don't be grumpy."

  "I'm not grumpy."

  "If you're going to be grumpy..."

  I said again, grumpily, that I wasn't grumpy. It was the truth. What I was was ill at ease. Parties of any kind have that effect on me. Large groups of people, no matter how festive the occasion, make me feel claustrophobic; I don't mix well, I'm not good at small talk even with people I know. Kerry keeps trying to socialize me and it keeps not working. The quiet of home and hearth is what I prefer, particularly during the Christmas season. The one other time I'd let her talk me into attending a Yuletide party, the infamous Gala Christmas Charity Benefit a few years back, had been an unmitigated disaster. And only partly because I'd allowed myself to be stuffed into a Santa Claus suit, with little kiddies to make dents on my knees and share with me their innermost, toy-laden desires.

  "Let's make a donation," Kerry said.

  She'd hauled me into the midst of the Pier 24-1/2 party and we were now stopped in front of a red, white and blue barrel in the center of the concrete floor. Propped up in front was a sign: HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS. Season of Sharing Fund. Be Generous!

  Kerry put a folded twenty-dollar bill into the barrel. I took a five out of my wallet.

  "For heaven's sake," she said, "don't be a Scrooge. Read the sign."

  I said, "Be generous, Mr. Spade."

  "What's that?"

  "Never mind." I exchanged the five for two twenties and slotted them into the barrel.

  "That's better. Oh, here's Sharon."

  McCone came bustling up. The furred Santa Claus cap she wore over her black hair made my scalp itch. She hugged Kerry, waved some green plant stuff over my head, and then kissed me—on the mouth.

  "Hey," I said, "I'm a married man. And you're young enough to be my daughter."

  "Don't mind him," Kerry said. "He's in one of his grumpy moods."

  "I am not grumpy!"

  McCone said, "Well, whatever you are, I'm glad you're here. Both of you."

  "Where's Ripinsky?" I asked her. Hy Ripinsky was her significant other and a fellow P.I.

  "He had to fly down to RKI headquarters in San Diego. Urgent business. But he'll be back in time for us to spend Christmas together."

  She and Kerry proceeded to jabber about how festive the pier looked, how innovative the displays were, particularly McCone Investigations' galactic theme, how all the businesses here were hoping to raise at least five thousand dollars for the homeless. It never ceases to amaze me how adaptable women are. Put two of them together, even a pair of strangers, into any social situation and they're not only immediately comfortable with each other and their surroundings, they never seem at a loss for words.

  While they were chattering, I looked around some more. What galactic theme? I thought.

  Pretty soon Kerry paused long enough to suggest I go and get us something to drink. "I'd like white wine," she said. "Sharon?"

  "The same."

  So I waded through the partygoers to the bar. The noise level in there, enhanced by a loud-speakered version of "Deck the Halls," was such that I had to raise my voice to a near-shout to put in my order. Two white wines, nothing more. My brain gets fuzzy enough at parties as it is.

  Somebody came up and tapped my arm while I was waiting. McCone's office manager, Ted Smalley, and his bookseller partner, Neal Osborn, both of them wearing red stocking caps with tassels. Neal said, "Great party, isn't it? Didn't Ted do a terrific job of coordinating the decorations and displays?"

  "Terrific," I said. "Great, uh, galactic theme, Ted." He beamed at me. "Everyone cooperated beautifully." Neal ordered for the two of them. When he was done he said to Ted, "Shall we tell him now or wait until later?"

  "Now. I can't wait to see his face."

  "Do you want to do the honors or shall I?"

  "You go ahead. It was your idea."

  "No, it was your idea. The surprise itself was mine. Mine and Sharon's."

  I said, "What're you two talking about?"

  "You'll find out," Neal said, "if you go upstairs to Sharon's office. There's something on her desk for you."

  "A present? Why would you get me a present?"

  "For all your help on the Patterson case," Ted said. "Do you still have the spare key Sharon gave you?"

  I didn't know what to say, except "yes" and "thanks." I'm not used to getting presents from anyone other than Kerry and my assistant, Tamara Corbin.

  "Don't open it up there," Neal said. "Bring it down so we can all watch."

  Oh, boy. Being the center of attention is something I like about as much as parties. Even so, I felt touched and pleased.

  I delivered the glasses of wine, told Kerry where I was going—Sharon grinned when I mentioned the present—and then went upstairs. As I approached McCone's private office, I had the spare key in my hand. But I didn't need it. The door was closed but not locked.

  That in itself didn't make me suspicious, but what I saw when I opened the door and walked in set off alarm bells in my head. A man spun around from in front of Sharon's desk—a blond man who didn't work for McCone Investigations, who gave me a frightened-deer look and seemed to teeter briefly on the edge of panic. Then he got a grip on himself, put on a weak smile. He was familiar—I'd seen him around the pier before. An employee of one of the other firms, the architects on the opposite catwalk. His name was Kennett or Bennett.

  "You startled me," he said. "What're you doing here?"

  "I'll ask you the same question."

  "Sharon asked me to get something for her. If you'll excuse me. .

  He edged past where I stood, not making eye contact, one hand squeezed into the pocket of a pair of very tight leather pants. In other circumstances, or if he'd lingered a few more seconds, I would've restrained him; but I hesitated just long enough for him to get past me and out the door.

  I followed as he hurried along the catwalk, close to the garland-festooned railing, his hand still in his pocket. Only fifty feet separated us when he reached the stairs; I had a clear look at him all the way down, but then the Model T Ford display cut off my view and the party swirl swallowed him.

  I clambered down until I could once more see all of the pier floor. It was no more than fifteen seconds before I picked him out again. He stopped near some kind of trophy on a pedestal and joined a small group of people, making a gesture with the hand that had been in his pocket. Sharon McCone wasn't one of the group.

  I spotted her nearby and made straight for her myself, keeping my eye on Leather Pants all the way.

  McCONE

  I was standing with Ted and Neal when Wolf came hurrying up, a frown darkening his rugged Italian features. He wasn't carrying his present.

  "How could he not find the package?" Ted said. "It's right in the middle of your desk."

  Something told me the frown had nothing to do with being unable to locate a package. Quickly I moved to meet him.

  "Did you send somebody up to your office besides me?" He was looking past me at something or someone.

  "No. Why?"

  "Well, I just surprised a man inside. Five-ten or so, blond hair, dressed in black leather pants and a thin-ribbed black sweater. I think he works for the architects—Bennett? Kennett?"

  Now it was my turn to frown. "Tony Kennett." He was a draftsman for Chandler & Santos, had taken to hanging around our offices lately, trying to persuade my newest hire, Julia Rafael, to go out with him. Julia, who at twenty-five had been through more bad relationships than most women experience in a lifetime, had so far resisted. "Did you talk with him? Ask him what he was doing there?"

  "He claimed you'd sent him up to get something. But he had a guilty, scared look. He all but ran out, and came down here. He's over by that trophy."

  I looked around, spotted Kennett. He was talking to some people, but even at a distance he looked nervous.

  One of my operatives, Craig Morland, had just joined us. He
said, "Kennett's been in Julia's and my office damn near every day this week, trying to put the moves on her."

  "I don't like or trust him," Ted added.

  "Ted, you and Craig keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn't leave the pier."

  They nodded, and Craig said to Neal, "Find Julia, Mick, and Charlotte. Just in case we need them."

  A good man, the former FBI agent; he didn't waste time with unnecessary questions.

  I turned to Wolf. "Let's go upstairs, see what Kennett might've been after." My voice was heavy with foreboding; I had a good suspicion what it was.

  "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer" was playing as we climbed to the catwalk. The irreverent novelty song had always been a favorite of mine, but now I took no pleasure in it. We went along to my office. The door was slightly ajar, but Wolf had indicated he'd left it that way. We went in. The brightly wrapped package for Wolf still sat in the center of my desk, but the papers and files in my in-box had been disturbed.

  "Dammit!" I exclaimed. I felt through the box's contents to where the disc containing the report on the building-inspection department should be.

  Gone. My only copy.

  "I knew it!"

  "What's missing?" Wolf asked.

  "Final report on that political case I've been working."

  "The high-confidentiality one for City Hall?"

  "Uh-huh. Kennett must've taken it. Unless we can get it back, it'll go straight into the wrong hands, and then there'll be a cover-up like this city's seldom seen."

  "And we've seen some spectacular ones. How is Kennett involved?"

  I didn't reply, because I'd spotted a key on the floor by my desk. Shiny new, as if it had just been cut by a machine at a hardware store. I picked it up, took my own office key out. They were a match.

  "Now I'm sure it's Kennett," I said, holding up the key. "I run a pretty open shop here; the same key operates all the doors so staff members will have access to the other offices in case they need something. We trust each other, so we tend to trust the other tenants of the pier. Kennett's become something of a fixture here in the past week; simple enough for him to snag a key and have a copy made. And I think he's used it before, because three days ago our creaky old office safe was broken into."