Schemers nd-34

by Bill Pronzini

  “Questions, for now. Trying to cover all the possibilities.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I spoke to your brother-in-law in the hospital earlier.” He told her what Damon Henderson had remembered about the perp. “Do you know anyone who fits that description? Young, compulsive about cleanliness?”

  “No.” Wry mouth. “Most of my students and some members of my family would fall into the opposite category.”

  Runyon said, “You’re all convinced there’s nothing your husband or his brother did or were involved in that triggered the stalker’s rage. That opens up the possibility that the motive may not be directly related to them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It could be a grudge against another member of the family.”

  “I don’t see how that’s possible. There aren’t any other siblings. Or any close relatives except for an elderly aunt who lives in Florida.”

  “The first and most brutal attack was the desecration of their father’s grave. That could be significant.”

  “You think… something against Lloyd? My Lord, he’s been gone five years.”

  “What was the cause of his death?”

  “Cancer. Esophageal.” She winced and shook her head as she spoke. “It was a long and painful death, very difficult on all of us.”

  Flash memory of Colleen in the hospital bed, close to the end, her body and her face wasted, ninety-six pounds when she died… He put a block up against the memory, locked his mind against its return.

  “Your husband and his brother were close to their father?”

  “Oh, yes. Very close.”

  “What kind of man was he?”

  “A good man. Warm, generous.”

  “Marks against him, trouble of any kind he might have had?”

  “None that I ever knew about.”

  “Enemies, business or personal?”

  Emphatic headshake. “Lloyd was a dentist. And very involved in the community. Men like that don’t make enemies, any more than men like my husband and his brother do.”

  “Somebody made one somewhere, Mrs. Henderson.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course, but…” Words failed her; she shook her head and finished what was left in her glass.

  “I stopped by the cemetery earlier,” Runyon said. “No grave in the family plot for Cliff and Damon’s mother.”

  “That’s because she’s still alive.”

  “Living where?”

  “Assisted living facility in Sonoma. At least she was as of a year ago.”

  “So your husband doesn’t have much contact with her.”

  “Almost none, as a matter of fact. She… well, neither Cliff nor Damon is close to her.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Well, they blamed her for breaking up their family. They were just boys at the time, not much older than my girls, and it’s natural for children to take sides in a bitter divorce.”

  “Why was it bitter?”

  “Mona just decided one day that she’d had enough and was leaving. Blindsided poor Lloyd, evidently. Everyone suspected… well, another man. She married again as soon as her divorce was final, a plumber in Sonoma.”

  “Any children from that marriage?”

  “No.”

  “Did she remain married to her second husband?”

  “Until he died of a stroke about three years ago. Her health began to deteriorate afterward and that’s when she went into the facility.”

  “What’s the name of the facility? And her full name?”

  “Sunset Acres. Mona Crandall. Are you planning to talk to her? I can’t imagine what she could possibly have to tell you.”

  “Neither can I, right now.” Runyon made a note of the names. “I take it your father-in-law had plenty of friends. Who were the closest?”

  “Well, Hayden Brock, for one. They played golf together every weekend. And Dr. George… George Thanapolous.”

  “Dentist or medical doctor?”

  “Orthopedist. He’s retired now. Hayden still practices law even though he’s well into his seventies. His offices are downtown on Spring Street. Brock, Leland, and Brock.”

  Runyon added that information in his notebook.

  “If you want to talk to Cliff,” Mrs. Henderson said, “he should be home around five or so.”

  “Not necessary. You’ve given me all the information I need for now. You can fill him in on what we discussed.”

  The dog started barking again, long and loud, when he left the house. He could still hear it when he was half a block away, even with the car windows rolled up.

  S amantha Henderson was waiting for him when he arrived at the home she shared with Cliff’s brother, Damon. Development of tract houses in a country setting west of town-the custom-built, expensive variety on large lots with plenty of landscaping to give the illusion of privacy. Some enterprising developer’s idea of gracious living, small-town version.

  The two-car garage was detached, separated from the colonial-style house by a walkway and a narrow strip of ground planted with flowers and low-growing cypress shrubs. The door to the garage was on that side, not quite directly opposite a side door into the house. Mrs. Henderson stood by while Runyon examined the door. The lock wasn’t much, just the standard push-button variety. It would have taken little effort to spring it with a credit card, much less a tire iron. But the perp had made more noise doing it than he’d bargained for.

  “Damon was in the bathroom when he heard it,” the woman said. “He grabbed a flashlight and rushed out there. He should have called the police instead.”

  Runyon agreed without saying so. He pushed the door open, stepped inside. Mrs. Henderson followed him and put on the lights. One car parked in there now, a silver Lexus that was probably her husband’s; it had brand-new tires. The Mitsubishi wagon parked in the driveway would be hers.

  He glanced around, getting the lay. Long cluttered workbench along this wall, the cartons of files in a triplestacked row on the other side of the door. More cartons and gardening equipment along the far wall, three bicycles at the back end. Nothing disturbed or out of place that he could see.

  He asked her, “Where was your husband when you found him?”

  “There on the floor, next to his car.”

  “So he was attacked as soon as he opened the door and came inside.”

  “Yes. He hadn’t taken more than three steps.”

  “Was his flashlight on?”

  “When he came in, yes, but he was hit so quickly… he dropped it and it went out. He didn’t see anything.”

  “How did the man leave? Same way he came in?”

  “No, through one of the automatic doors. It was open.”

  “Overhead lights on when you came in?”

  “Not until I put them on.”

  “Show me the button that works the garage door.”

  It was on the wall near the light switch. But not too near. Runyon pushed it, watched the door slide up quickly and with a moderate amount of noise. There was a light on the unit above the door, but it didn’t come on. Broken? Looked that way.

  The perp couldn’t have been inside very long before Damon came blundering in. Just long enough to shine a flash beam around and break the door opener light. Why? There didn’t seem to be any reason he’d want to leave that way, with the noise the unit made when it was activated, when he could slip out quietly in the dark the way he’d come in.

  Samathana Henderson said, “My God… do you suppose he was in here before that night?”

  “It’s possible. Side door always kept locked?”

  “At night, yes, but not always during the day. But he wouldn’t… in broad daylight? Would he take that kind of risk?”

  He might, if he was bold enough. Or crazy enough. The question, if he had been here before, was why take the risk? Hunting for something, maybe?

  Runyon asked, “Have you looked through the garage since the attack? Checked to see if anything is missing?”
/>   “Missing? I don’t understand.”

  “Could you check now?”

  “But… I can’t imagine what…”

  “Please, Mrs. Henderson. Just have a look around.”

  She spent fifteen minutes doing what he asked. Once she said, “I can’t tell if any of Damon’s business files are missing, you’d have to ask him.” A little later she said, “As far as I can tell everything seems to be here,” but two minutes later she contradicted herself.

  Some boxes and a small trunk were jammed under a corner of the workbench. When she dragged the trunk out and opened it, she made a small, surprised sound. “Somebody’s been in here.”

  Runyon went to peer over her shoulder. Photo albums, loose photos, loose letters, childhood drawings, other memorabilia.

  “It was neatly arranged,” she said. “The letters, the photos, all in packets. “Damon would never make a mess like this. Neither would Michael… my son, Michael. He’d have no reason to poke around in here.”

  “Some of those photos look fairly old.”

  “They are. Most of the things in here belonged to Damon’s father. We brought the trunk over here after he died.”

  The father again. Runyon asked, “Can you tell if anything’s been taken?”

  “Not for sure. But… one or two of the albums, maybe… I seem to remember there were more than five. The letters and other stuff… I don’t know. Damon should be able to tell you. Or Cliff.”

  “Do me a favor? Call Cliff tonight and ask him to come over, take a look, and then let me know what’s missing.”

  “Yes, I’ll do that.”

  “These letters. What type are they?”

  “Oh, you know. Personal correspondence. From Lloyd to his wife when they were courting and when he was in the army in Korea. From the boys when they were away at camp.”

  “Same with the photos?”

  “Yes. Snapshots and family portraits. Nothing… provocative. Nothing that would interest anyone outside the family. Why would the stalker steal letters and old photos? He couldn’t have been looking for them. How could he know about the trunk? We’ve never told anybody we keep it in here.”

  Runyon was silent. He had no answers for her. Not even any guesses, at this point.

  I n the car he used his cell to call the agency. Tamara answered and he reported what he’d learned so far. She had nothing of interest to give him on the Henderson brothers and their families. He suggested that she shift the focus to Lloyd Henderson and his ex-wife, see if that avenue led anywhere.

  “I’m on it,” she said. “You through for the day up there?”

  If he’d picked up any hot leads, even a warm lead, he’d have said no, he’d stay on it a while longer. If this had been a few months ago, before he met Bryn Darby and what lay ahead of him tonight was nothing more than four cold apartment walls, he’d have said the same thing. Push ahead, try to brace strangers in their homes, work as late as possible. But as things stood now…

  “I’m through,” he said. Until tomorrow morning, early.

  Tonight there was Bryn.

  5

  The pile owned by Gregory Pollexfen was typical of the homes in Sea Cliff, one of the city’s wealthiest residential neighborhoods: imposing, ornately stylish, and probably worth upwards of five million even in the current real estate market. The architecture had a Spanish influence without actually being Spanish-a broad mix of beige stucco, red tile, wrought iron, and polished woodwork, with a variety of small trees and plants in huge terra-cotta urns on a balustraded front terrace, and gardens on both sides. Some ultraelitist types might not consider it among the premier houses along Sea Cliff Avenue; it loomed on the low inland hillside, rather than perched on the cliffs above China Beach on the seaward side. But to my jaundiced eye, it would do in a pinch.

  A middle-aged, stoic-featured woman who was probably the housekeeper, though she wasn’t outfitted that way, let me in and deposited me in a front parlor, all without uttering a word. I had just enough time to note that the undraped, floor-to-ceiling windows provided a sweeping view of the Golden Gate Bridge and the Marin headlands, and that the furnishings were expensive modern and the pictures on the walls all hunting and sporting scenes, before Pollexfen himself stumped in.

  Stumped is the right word. He wasn’t much older than me, but he moved in a slow, stiff, old man’s way with the aid of a blackthorn cane, as if his joints pained him at every step. Arthritis, probably.

  As we got the introductions out of the way, we sized each other up. He seemed to like what he saw; the faint smile he’d come in with widened a little and his eyes, steady on mine, reflected approval. As for me, I reserved judgment. You could see that once he’d been a powerful man, likely an athlete in his youth: an inch or so over six feet, thick-trunked and broad through the shoulders. Time and the afflictions that had invaded his body had taken their toll, as they do on all of us; his color wasn’t good and his breathing had a little whistling catch in it. Still, he projected an aura of intensity and inner strength. His body may not be holding up well to the passing years, but I sensed that his mind was as sharp as ever. Those gray eyes radiated intelligence. Final analysis, based on first impression: a man who would make a staunch friend and a formidable enemy.

  “I expect you’d like to see the library first thing,” he said.

  “Yes, I would.”

  “Follow me, then.” The smile had faded; he was all business now. “I was pleased to hear that we share the collecting gene. Fascinating hobby, isn’t it, the acquisition of old books and magazines.”

  “And expensive, these days.”

  “Oh, yes. But I’m fortunate-the price of any given book or item of ephemera is not an issue with me. It’s the rarity and availability. Certain titles have eluded me for years. They simply aren’t available, no matter what one is willing to pay for them. Very frustrating. But then, the hunt is everything. If one could acquire everything one wanted, the game would lose some of its pleasure and excitement, don’t you think?”

  “I do, yes.”

  “Do you have much knowledge of antiquarian detective fiction?”

  “A limited amount.”

  “But you do have an appreciation.”

  “If you’re asking if I’ll appreciate your collection, I’m sure I will.”

  “You may just be overwhelmed by it. My collection is one of the finest in the world.” He said that without braggadocio. Just a proud statement of fact.

  We went down a wide, tile-floored hallway, the ferrule tip of Pollexfen’s cane making little hollow clicking sounds. Tile-inlaid archways opened at intervals into rooms on both sides. As we approached one of these near the end, I could hear another sound-the clicking of computer keys. Pollexfen turned in there, stepping aside to let me follow. Small office, a brunette in her mid-thirties ensconsed behind a functional gray metal desk. Attractive, but severe-looking, as if she’d never found much to smile about in her life or work.

  Pollexfen introduced us. Brenda Koehler, his secretary “and general factotum.” She said through an impersonal smile, “I hope you’re able to find out what happened to the missing books. The theft has everyone baffled.” The words seemed impersonal, too, as if she didn’t really care one way or the other.

  “He has excellent credentials,” Pollexfen said to her. “If anyone can get to the bottom of this, I’m sure he’s the man.”

  She nodded. “I have the letter to Mr. Phillips ready for you to sign, Mr. Pollexfen.”

  “It can wait.” He looked at me, said, “Business matter,” and led me out into the hallway again. “Brenda’s been with me for years. Handles my personal and household affairs. Indispensable.”

  “Which means she’s also trustworthy.”

  “Absolutely. Even if she knew anything about antiquarian books, which she doesn’t, she isn’t permitted in the library alone.”

  “I understand none of the other members of your household is a bibliophile.”

  “That’s right. M
rs. Jordan, the housekeeper, has been with me for years. Not even a reader and not overly bright, but above reproach. My wife’s primary interest is in spending money on herself. My brother-in-law’s hobby is making grandiose schemes and cheap women. If anyone in this house devised a way to steal those books, it’s Jeremy Cullrane.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “We’ll discuss it after you’ve seen the library.”

  At the end of the corridor was a set of double doors of some polished wood that might have been Philippine mahogany. Two locks, both deadbolts. Pollexfen used a key attached to a heavy silver ring to release the locks-the same key, I noticed, for both-and then reached inside to switch on the lights.

  It was like walking into an exclusive bookshop, the kind that caters to well-heeled customers. Or a special exhibit in a library or museum. The room seemed to take up most of the back half of the house. It was thickly carpeted in some light blue weave; there were two overstuffed chairs with side tables, two floor lamps, an oak library table, a small desk, a gas-log fireplace with what looked to be an antique double-barreled shotgun mounted above it, and two sets of windows with heavy drapes in the back wall. The rest of it was books. Floor to ceiling on lacquered mahogany shelves. In stacks on the tables and here and there on the carpet. The upper shelves were reachable by one of those rolling library ladders strung on a brass rail that encircled the room.

  Most of the volumes had bright dust jackets in Mylar protectors, the rest colorful bindings. That was my second impression of Pollexfen’s library: color, much of it primary color. You were surrounded by it and the effect, enhanced by indirect ceiling light glinting off the Mylar, was almost dazzling.

  Pollexfen was watching me and my reaction pleased him. He said, “Didn’t I tell you, you might be overwhelmed?”

  “You did and I am. Very impressive.”

  “Upwards of fifteen thousand volumes, catalogued and in alphabetical order. My primary interest is detective fiction of the last half of the nineteenth century and the first half of the twentieth. There is also a fair representation of post-1950 authors and titles, to the present day.”