Zigzag

by Bill Pronzini

  “So then she could be in it with Erskine. She does the dirty work while he’s off establishing an alibi for himself, just in case.”

  A clutch of frustrated anger made me say, “Dammit, I should have put this together sooner. Gone down there to see her last night instead of waiting. I might have been able to forestall what happened, convince her she was the real target.”

  Runyon said, “And you might not have been able to do either. Don’t blame yourself. You were on the case less than two days—that’s little enough time to wade through misdirection and subterfuge.” The calm voice of reason, as usual with him.

  “It’s still galling. I hate like hell being used.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  “What bites my ass,” Tamara said, “is that Erskine’s probably gonna get away with it.”

  I said, “Not if I have anything to say about it. There has to be a way to expose him.”

  “What way? There’s no proof.”

  “None yet. Doesn’t mean we can’t find some.”

  “How?”

  “You could try rattling his cage a little,” Runyon said. “Let him know you’re on to him, see if you can get him to self-incriminate.”

  “Pretty difficult to manage if I’m reading him right,” I said. “But it’ll do for starters.”

  * * *

  I rang up the Erskine home. No answer. Peter Erskine’s cell number next. Straight to voice mail. The message I left made no mention of his wife’s death; let him think I hadn’t heard about it yet. I said I had uncovered some information about Antanas Vok that he should know about and requested a callback ASAP. If he was checking his messages today, it shouldn’t be too long before I heard from him.

  An idea occurred to me—a long shot but worth taking a chance on. I went into Tamara’s office, asked her to find out which fire department’s emergency response team had answered Melanie Vinson’s 911 call. And if possible, the name or names of the individuals manning the EMT units, as well as the names of the ER doctors at Peninsula General who’d attended to Marian Erskine.

  Tall order, and only partially successful. No luck on IDing the ER doctors. But it was the Menlo Park Fire Protection District that served Atherton and its Station 4 had responded with an Advanced Life Support engine manned by a fireman and a licensed paramedic. Their names were also unavailable, but I ought to be able to find that out by a visit to Station 4.

  It was past noon, and the office routine was wearing on me, when Peter Erskine returned my call. He said in slow, sepulchral tones, “I’m afraid I have terrible news. My wife passed away last night. Her poor heart finally gave out.”

  “Yes,” I said, “I just heard. My condolences.”

  “Thank you. It wasn’t unexpected—she had a severe coronary three months ago—but I’m still in shock.”

  “Sure you are. She was alone at the time, I understand.”

  “Yes, and I blame myself for that. I had a business dinner scheduled in Palo Alto and Marian insisted I go. She said she’d be all right, she’d keep a pistol close at hand in case that Vok crazy showed up again.”

  “Did he?”

  “I don’t know. How would I know? There was no sign of anyone on the grounds.” Erskine sighed heavily. “I wish to God I’d stayed home. I may have been able to save her if I’d been there when it happened.”

  “Or if your assistant had gotten there a little sooner.”

  “Yes. It was too late by then. Neither the paramedics nor the hospital ER doctors could do anything to revive her.”

  “How did Ms. Vinson happen to come to your home?”

  “Miscommunication between us,” Erskine said. “She brought some documents she’d been working on, thinking I needed them right away and that I’d be home. I completely forgot to tell her about the business dinner.”

  I said, “Why did she go around to the back terrace? That’s where she found your wife, isn’t it?”

  “All the lights were on and there was no answer to the bell. My dear Marian was just lying there.”

  My dear Marian. Jesus. “And Ms. Vinson assumed she was already dead.”

  “She couldn’t find a pulse and Marian didn’t seem to be breathing.”

  “Big mistake on her part.”

  “Mistake?” Pause. “No, I can’t fault her for that. She’s had no medical training, doesn’t know CPR.”

  “How come the gates were open, if she wasn’t expected?”

  “… The gates?”

  “She couldn’t have driven onto the property otherwise. They open by remote control, so they must’ve been unlocked.”

  Longer pause this time, while he manufactured an answer. “You’re right, of course,” he said when he had one. “I must have released the lock button too soon after I drove out.”

  “I’d have thought you’d be more careful, under the circumstances.”

  “I should’ve been, yes. But locked gates didn’t prevent that Vok lunatic from getting onto the property before.”

  “So it’s a good possibility he did show up again last night. That he was the cause of your wife’s attack.”

  “I suppose that’s possible. But I’m the one he’s after.”

  “Maybe he changed his tactics. Went after her instead.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Could be she was a target, too. All along.”

  “I don’t believe that.” Stiffly, warily now. “No.”

  “In any case,” I said, “another of those sudden appearances would have terrified her. And we both know how effective a weapon fear can be. As powerful and deadly a weapon as a gun or a knife.”

  No response for several beats. Then, “But we don’t know he came again last night, do we.”

  “Did your wife have the pistol in her possession when Ms. Vinson found her?”

  “The pistol? No, it was on the table near where she fell.”

  “Fired?”

  “No.” Pause. “You’ve kept all that Marian and I told you about Vok and the devil worshippers in confidence, haven’t you?”

  “Of course. You didn’t tell the authorities about it, either, I take it.”

  “Hardly. This is a painful enough time for me. If the media got hold of that crazy business … well, you understand.”

  “All too well,” I said.

  Erskine made a tight little throat-clearing sound. “Why did you call me? Something to do with your investigation?”

  “That’s right. I picked up a pretty good lead. A couple of strangers showed up and cleaned out the Voks’ apartment the morning after Vok died. Creepy types, according to the building manager.”

  “Members of that damned devil cult.”

  “If there is a devil cult.”

  “There has to be. Did you get their names?”

  “Not yet. You want me to keep working on it?”

  He was ready for that one. “Certainly. Why wouldn’t I? As far as I know my life is still in danger.”

  “Sure it is.” Clever bastard, all right. Keep up the pretense a while longer, let me run around chasing devil cultists that had nothing to do with him, then find a way to ease me out of the picture.

  “I can’t talk anymore right now,” he said. “I’m due at the funeral home to make burial arrangements.”

  “One thing before you go. Whose decision was it to hire a detective, yours or your wife’s?”

  “What? Why do you want to know that?”

  “Required for our files. Yours or your wife’s?”

  “Mine,” Erskine said, and immediately broke the connection.

  Okay. So I’d rattled his cage as much as I thought was wise at this point. He was perceptive as well as cunning; he’d gotten the message that I was on to him. It wouldn’t worry him much right now—he was too sure of himself and the invincibility of his plan—but it might make him a little more vulnerable next time I talked to him. I would not be nearly as subtle when I did.

  Still, my gut feeling was that it would take a lot mo
re than words to break Peter Erskine. If he could be broken at all.

  14

  Menlo Park Fire Station 4 was a small building that housed a modern pumper and the Advanced Life Support vehicle. Originally it must have been solid brick, in keeping with its attractive upscale surroundings, but like so many brick structures that had survived the devastating Loma Prieta earthquake in ’89, it had been redesigned and rebuilt to conform to seismic safety regulations. According to Tamara’s search, it was manned 24/7 by a captain and two firefighters working shifts of seventy-two hours on, seventy-two hours off, and the trio working today were the same three who’d been on duty last night.

  My investigator’s license and mention of the fact that I was employed by Peter Erskine got me an audience with the captain. He was a little leery of me at first, until I assured him that I was not there to question his team’s response time and lifesaving efforts; everybody these days, especially public servants, is litigation fearful and prickly because of it. Mr. Erskine, I explained, was only interested in knowing if his wife had been conscious at any time while she was being stabilized and/or during her transport to Peninsula General, and if so, if she’d said anything—any last words that might be a comfort to him. I don’t like lying to people, particularly lies of this sort, but you do what you have to do in the interest of justice.

  The captain didn’t seem to find the request unusual. He said Mrs. Erskine had been conscious briefly, but couldn’t tell me if she’d spoken. That information would have to come from the other two members of the team, and they were currently out on a call. I was welcome to wait for their return.

  The wait lasted nearly an hour and a half. When the ALS unit finally pulled in, I had to hang on another fifteen minutes while they did some cleanup work on the engine. It was four o’clock by then. If the two firefighters had nothing to tell me, I’d head over to Peninsula General. The evening-shift ER personnel would have come on duty and I might be able to convince a doctor or nurse who had attended Marian Erskine to talk to me.

  But it didn’t come to that. The firefighters were cooperative, and the licensed paramedic, a young, linebacker-size Latino named Tejada, told me what I wanted to know.

  “The woman was conscious, yes,” he said, “but only for a minute or so as I was stabilizing her. She was in very bad shape. Frankly I was surprised she survived the ride to the hospital.”

  “Did she say anything?”

  “Yes, but it didn’t make too much sense.”

  “To me, either,” the other firefighter said. He was an older man, a red-haired Irishman named Reilly. “Delirious mumblings.”

  “Can either of you recall what it was she said?”

  “Something about shooting somebody, wasn’t it, Alex?”

  Tejada dipped his chin. “Sounded like ‘I shot him three times but he wouldn’t fall down; he just kept coming at me.’”

  I made an effort to keep my expression blank so they couldn’t tell how much significance those words held for me. “Is that all?”

  “All that was coherent.”

  “Was there a gun anywhere near her when you got there?”

  “A gun? No.”

  “Could one have been on a nearby table, maybe?”

  Reilly said, “No gun. We’d’ve seen it if there was, after what she said about shooting somebody.”

  I thanked them and was about to leave when Tejada said, “You know, I just remembered something else she said. One word, just before she went under for good.”

  “What word?”

  “Reverend.”

  “Sure that’s what it was?”

  “Pretty sure.” He shook his head sadly and crossed himself. “Knew she was dying, poor lady. Asking for a padre.”

  No, I thought as I went out to the car, she hadn’t been asking for a padre. Tejada had misheard: the last word spoken by Marian Erskine hadn’t been reverend.

  It had been revenant.

  * * *

  So now I had a pretty good idea of how they’d worked it last night. Manufacture enough raw terror with the right kind of supernatural trappings and you can practically guarantee a weak heart will stop beating without ever laying a hand on the victim. Neat, clean, sadistically bloodless—the so-called perfect crime.

  Like hell it was.

  Prod Erskine some more now? I decided against it. Marian Erskine’s last words were a piece of evidence against him, but only a small piece. Push him too far too soon, even if I made no direct accusation, and he was liable to sic a lawyer on me.

  Better idea: he was the strong link, so go after the potential weak link instead.

  Melanie Vinson.

  If my take on her was accurate, she was a long way from being a mental giant—an easily manipulated follower who’d gone along with the murder scheme out of greed or love or a combination of both. In over her head, and at least a little scared; her twitchiness yesterday in Erskine’s office, on the eve of her part in delivering the deathblow, suggested that.

  Fear can be a weapon in serving justice, too, if you use it effectively. Turn hers back on her and it might well crack her wide open. And if she cracked, the odds were good she’d take Erskine down to save herself.

  15

  The offices of Peter Erskine, Financial Advisor were locked up tight. I hadn’t expected otherwise, but the building was on my way out of Menlo Park and I had nothing to lose but a few minutes by stopping there first. I programmed Melanie Vinson’s home address into the GPS, followed the disembodied voice’s directions into Palo Alto and through a maze of residential streets not far from the Stanford University campus.

  It was after five o’clock and already dark when the voice told me I’d arrived at my destination—a block of facing rows of town-house-style apartments extending back from the street in the shape of a broad horseshoe. Not a new complex, but well maintained, in a neighborhood so thick with shade trees it had a bucolic atmosphere. I’d seen modern rent/lease places like this before, often enough to know that there would be a courtyard with a communal swimming pool and recreation area in the middle of the two wings. Driveways angled up adjacent to each wing, along which were shedlike structures where the tenants parked their cars.

  I wedged mine into a spot at the curb across the street. Before I got out, I transferred the voice-activated tape recorder I keep in the glove compartment into my coat pocket. The night was clouding up and a cold wind had begun to blow; I pulled up the collar on my suit coat as I followed a walkway into an open foyer in the front curve of the horseshoe. Melanie Vinson occupied apartment #11; I rang the bell—once, twice, three times, leaning on it the last two. No response. Not home or ducking visitors if she was.

  Thanks to Tamara, I had Vinson’s landline and cell numbers written down in my notebook. Landline first: four rings, and an answering machine with one of those smart-ass-cute “you know what to do at the beep” messages kicked in. I clicked off before the beep sounded and tried the cell number: straight to voice mail.

  Damn. Now what?

  I went back outside. Crosswise paths led to the driveways along both sides. On impulse I followed the one that hooked around to the right, where the parking space for Vinson’s apartment would be. Night-lights shone brightly back there, both inside and outside the covered parking structure. Each slant-in space had a unit number spray-painted on the tarmac. And tucked into #11 was a sleek black BMW Z4 sports car with a personalized license plate: MELSBBY. Mel’s Baby. Mel for Melanie.

  So either she was home and avoiding calls and callers or, more likely, she’d gone off with somebody. Erskine, probably. They had to be feeling good about the way the plan had gone, considering themselves inviolate despite my suspicions. Why not get together and celebrate the successful elimination of the woman who’d stood in the way of their lust for wealth, the sick woman who’d never done either of them any harm?

  There was nobody in the parking area. I made sure of that, then moved in alongside the BMW to the driver’s door. Locked—naturally. I bent
to peer through the window, but the overhead light was not strong enough to give me a clear look inside. About all I could make out was that neither of the bucket seats had anything on them.

  I straightened up. More than a few people have a tendency to lose or misplace their car keys, or leave them in the ignition and then snap-lock the door when they get out, and as a safeguard some hide a spare key inside one of those little magnetized cases somewhere on the vehicle. If Melanie Vinson was one of them …

  I eased around the front of the BMW, bending low to run my fingers behind the license plate and then along the underside of the bumper from one end to the other. All I felt was grit. I’d just started on the frame beneath the front fender and driver’s side door panels when headlights splashed in along the driveway from the street.

  I dropped to one knee and stayed there, in close to the car. Neither the beams nor the incoming vehicle reached as far as the #11 space; they angled into one closer to the street and immediately went dark. A man and a woman got out, chattering to each other, and drifted away toward a side entrance to the building wing. I didn’t raise up until I heard a door slam over there.

  There was nothing along the BMW’s underbelly on this side, nothing under or inside the rear bumper. But then I got lucky. My fingers touched metal, felt the little square shape clipped up inside the rear wheel well on the passenger side.

  I tugged the case loose. The spare key was inside. I fished it out, replaced the case where I’d found it. The spare had a couple of remote buttons on it, but I wasn’t familiar with this make and model and had no idea if the remote made beeping sounds when you used it; some vehicles of this vintage operated that way. So I unlocked the driver’s door with the key.

  Quickly I wedged myself in under the wheel to cut off the interior light. Tight fit—I had a lot of pounds and girth on Melanie Vinson—but I could maneuver all right without adjusting the seat control.

  The console storage compartment was locked, but the spare key opened that, too. I used my pencil flash to fast-check the contents. Registration slip, insurance card, half full package of menthol coffin nails, unopened packets of Kleenex and tampons … nothing to hold my attention. The slender pockets in both doors were empty. I squeezed out again, levered the driver’s seat forward so I could look behind it and the one on the passenger side. The only items on the floor were a couple of empty Starbucks coffee containers and some wadded-up tissues.