Schemers: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Novels)

by Bill Pronzini

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE - SCHEMER

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  “NAMELESS DETECTIVE” MYSTERIES BY BILL PRONZINI

  Copyright Page

  For Rod Zimmerman,

  good friend and fellow bookman

  for half a century

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My thanks to Michael Seidman, for his valuable editorial and photography suggestions; to Joe Chernicoff, for once again sharing his knowledge of firearms; to Rod Zimmerman, for resolving my pharmaceutical dilemma; and to Marcia, for being there.

  PROLOGUE

  SCHEMER

  The cemetery was just outside the Los Alegres city limits, big, sprawling, divided into older and newer sections built on rolling slopes. Plenty of trees and ground cover throughout. No night caretaker, no regular patrols, only a few night lights widely spaced. Gates locked at night, but the fences around it were six feet high and not topped by anything dangerous. Country road that ran along the front mostly deserted after midnight. No side roads. No houses anywhere in the vicinity. One tree-shadowed turnout toward the west end where you could park without worry of being noticed.

  He rolled on past the gates, slow. Two-twenty a.m., nobody on the road, every light stationary. This was the third time he’d been out here this late. Three other trips during the day to pinpoint the family plot and to memorize the routes through the grounds. Ready as he’d ever be. Tonight was the night.

  He felt good. A little excited, but it was tamped down. Calm. Controlled. Oh, he was ready—not just for the cemetery but for the rest of it to follow.

  Turnout just ahead. Road still deserted. He shut off the headlights, swung in under the trees, silenced the engine. The backpack was on the seat beside him. He pulled it over onto his lap, held it gently when he got out, strapped it gently onto his back. Not much weight. One collapsible camping shovel, a pair of heavy gloves, two glass vials, and a cut length of cardboard didn’t weigh much at all. The Kodak digital camera was in his jacket pocket. You could take decent photos with it—good resolution, good zoom, high ISO sensitivity. He preferred old-fashioned single-lens reflex cameras, but his old Nikkormat was too bulky to fit into the backpack.

  Piece of cake, climbing the fence. He stayed in shape by watching what he ate, running five miles most days after work. But he made sure as he went up and over not to bump the backpack against the fence piping. The vials were pretty much unbreakable and he’d packed them in cotton batting, but he still had to be careful. Now, and in everything he did in the future. No mistakes.

  Big shade tree not too far from the fence. He went over and stood under it, looking around, making sure of his bearings. Things looked different at night, the rows and shapes of grave markers big and small, the narrow gravel roads and footpaths that crisscrossed the cemetery. No moon tonight, but the sky was clear and there was enough starlight for him to see by. He’d always had good night vision.

  Took him only a few seconds to locate the landmark he’d picked out: tall marble obelisk jutting up from the lawn in the newer section down here. It was maybe a hundred yards from where he stood. And from there, two hundred yards and ten degrees uphill to the Henderson plot in the older section. Easy.

  He made his way toward the obelisk, crossing some of the graves, skirting others when there was a path to walk on. Some kind of bird made a noise; wind rustled tree branches; his steps set off little crunching sounds. Otherwise, stillness. Down below and behind him, the country road stayed empty.

  Five or six minutes and he was at the Henderson plot. He recognized it, all right, even in the darkness, but he made sure anyway. Leaned up close to the six-by-four granite monument, shaded the beam of his pencil flash with his hand, and clicked it on just long enough to read the engraving.

  LLOYD HENDERSON

  1933-2004

  BELOVED FATHER

  Beloved. Jesus!

  Rage boiled up in him. He had to stop himself from kicking the stone. Control, man, control. Too bad the marker was so goddamn big and heavy, cemented into the ground, otherwise he’d’ve yanked it out or knocked it over. Smashed it to bits with a sledgehammer, that’s what he’d’ve liked to do, except that that would make too much noise.

  He spat on it instead, as he had each time before.

  Spat on the grave below it.

  Then he took off the backpack, brought out the pair of heavy gloves and the shovel, and began to dig.

  Didn’t take him long. The earth under a layer of sod grass was loamy, easy to scoop into. Henderson had been cremated, the urn with his ashes planted here, and gravediggers didn’t go down very deep when they were burying an urn. The shovel blade clanked on it and he dug it out, picked it up. Spat on it and laid it down next to the hole. Opened the backpack again and took out the two vials and unscrewed the cap on the smaller one. Slow and careful, slow and careful.

  He bent forward, legs spread and feet planted, and extended the vial over the urn, just about an inch above it. Then he let the acid spill out.

  It made a hissing sound, like a snake, as it ate into the bronze. Vapor came up, stinking. He stepped back. Kind of a wild laugh in his throat, but he didn’t let it come out. Calm. Don’t ever let yourself lose your cool.

  But he said out loud what he was thinking. Had to say it, had to let that much come out.

  “You son of a bitch,” he said, “now you’re burning for sure!”

  To the backpack again for the second, larger vial. Opened that one, stepped cautiously around the smoking, burning remains of Lloyd fucking Henderson, leaned toward the monument in the same stance as before, and hurled the acid at the smooth granite face.

  More hissing, more stinking vapors.

  The name, the dates, the words “Beloved Father” began to disappear.

  Now for the pix. One of the smoldering urn and ashes, one of the burning headstone. He made sure the road below was still deserted before he leaned up to shoot. Didn’t have enough time to make each one perfect, not that he could have done that anyway with the digital camera, but it had a fairly sophisticated light meter built in, and you could count on the electronic flash to work every time.

  Almost done. One more thing, the final touch—the sign that would let the rest of them know what they were in for. Do it quick, he’d been here long enough. But his hands inside the gloves felt itchy, dirty. There was a water tap on the lane nearby that he’d spotted the first time he came here; he went to it, washed his hands as best he could without soap. Should’ve thought to bring a bar along with him. Well, it wouldn’t be long until he was back at the motel. Do a proper job then.

  He flap-dried his hands, eased them back into the gloves. Then he took the piece of cardboard from the backpack, unfolded it, propped it against the low cement border at the front of the plot. He’d thought about adding one of his initials at the bottom, but there was no need for that. It wouldn’t mean anything to them. The five words he’d painted in big bloodred letters were enough.

/>   THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING

  Damn straight, he thought.

  He caught up the backpack, spat once more on what was left of the gravesite, and made his way, slow and careful, back to the van.

  1

  Damp February Monday. And a day for oddball cases.

  Mostly the jobs the agency takes on are pretty straightforward, pretty routine. Insurance claims investigations, skip traces, employee background checks, domestic matters not involving divorce, finding and collecting from deadbeats of one stripe or another, information gathering for lawyers on criminal and civil cases. But now and then something unusual comes along to spice things up. Not often two in the same day, however.

  The first of the pair on this Monday came by phone shortly after ten o’clock, from an unexpected and less than pleasing source. I was manning the South Park offices because Tamara wasn’t. My partner is the agency’s nerve center, a twenty-six-year-old technology expert and human dynamo who keeps it running smoothly and efficiently. With me and my limited computer skills in charge, it clanks along at about three-quarters power. Since my semiretirement I try to work only two or three days a week, and Monday isn’t one of them, but Tamara had called me at home before breakfast and asked if I’d cover for her, she wouldn’t be in until around noon, she’d tell me the reason when she saw me. I figured it must have something to do with the new flat on Potrero Hill she’d just moved into; something pleasurable, in any case, judging from the sunny sound of her voice.

  When I answered the first call, a woman’s voice asked for me by name. I owned up, and she said, “Margot Lee, Mr. Rivera’s assistant at Great Western Insurance. Mr. Rivera would like to see you on a business matter, if you’re available.”

  I was silent for so long she said, “Hello? Are you there?”

  “I’m here,” I said. “What sort of business matter?”

  “A claim investigation, of course. Mr. Rivera would prefer to discuss the details in person.”

  “With me personally?”

  “That’s what he said, yes.”

  “When and where?”

  “One o’clock today, here in his office, if that’s convenient.”

  I almost said no, I wasn’t interested. But I couldn’t quite get the words out. An olive branch, maybe? Probably not; Barney Rivera wasn’t given to offering olive branches to anybody. Must be a genuine business proposition. Why, all of a sudden, after five years?

  “Would one o’clock be convenient?” Ms. Lee said.

  “It would,” I said before I could change my mind. “I’ll be there.”

  Barney Rivera, Great Western’s chief claims adjuster. Barney the Needle. We’d been friends once, poker buddies, and he’d thrown a fair amount of business my way in the days when I was running a one-man agency. That had all ended five years ago. Rivera had a malicious streak in him; he could be a gossip-mongering, backstabbing son of a bitch when he felt like it. He’d felt like it with me at a difficult time, when Kerry and I were going together and things were a little rocky and she’d thought maybe it wasn’t me she wanted to be with but a guy named Blessing, the head of one of her ad agency’s accounts. Rivera had seen them together at a restaurant and through sly, nasty innuendo implied to me that they were having a hot and heavy affair. They weren’t—she never slept with Blessing—but Rivera’s jabs had given me a bad time for a while. I’d never forgiven him. And when I turned down a couple of job offers afterward, he’d quit offering and I hadn’t heard from him again until today. And not directly, at that. Just like the little bastard to have his assistant make initial contact.

  Five years. A long time. And now, out of the blue what sounded like it could be a legitimate job offer. The “why” I couldn’t figure at all.

  I was mulling it over, and brooding a little about that rough patch in Kerry’s and my relationship, when Jake Runyon came in. Good man, Jake—a former Seattle cop and former investigator for Caldwell & Associates, one of the larger private agencies up there. Big, slab-faced, hammer-jawed. Smart, tough, loyal, and dead-bang honest. He’d moved to San Francisco after the cancer death of his second wife, to be close to the estranged son from his first marriage, the only family he had left. They were still estranged; an attempt at reconciliation hadn’t worked out.

  For the first year he’d been with us as field operative, Runyon had been a reticent loner still grieving deeply for his deceased wife. Lately, though, there’d been a subtle change in him. Less dour, more open and upbeat. He’d even shaved off his mustache, as if he were making an effort to alter his physical appearance. Reason: a woman named Bryn Darby. He wouldn’t say much about her or the nature of their relationship, and Tamara and I had yet to meet her, but it was plain that she was having a positive influence on him.

  He had a light caseload this week, a fact that didn’t set well with him. The restless type, Jake, uncomfortable unless he was on the move somewhere. So he’d come in hoping we had some work for him. I had to tell him no, though maybe the appointment with Barney the Needle would produce something for him to handle. We bulled a little, he went out to his desk in the anteroom, and I went back to the report I was writing.

  And a short while later, oddball case number two showed up in person.

  I heard them come in, a man and a woman, and the low buzz of conversation as Runyon spoke with them. Then he came into my office, shutting the door behind him. “Couple named Henderson, Tracy and Cliff,” he said. “From Los Alegres. I think you should talk to them.”

  “What’s their problem?”

  “They’re being stalked, but they don’t know who or why.”

  “Stalked? They been to the police?”

  He nodded. “No help there so far.”

  “If the police can’t help them …”

  “I know. But they sound pretty desperate.”

  “Well, we can listen to their story. You want to sit in?”

  “Yes.”

  The Hendersons were in their late thirties, married thirteen years, with two young daughters. He was balding, rangy, tense, the owner of a construction company in Los Alegres, a small town some forty miles north of the city; she was blond, a little on the plump side and wearing clothes designed to diminish the fact, and a teacher of English and American history at the local high school. The look in her eyes was one I’d seen too many times before—a stunnedanimal mix of hurt, fear, bewilderment, desperation. His eyes reflected more frustrated anger than anything else. Ordinary people suddenly and inexplicably threatened by extraordinary circumstance.

  Once they were settled in the client chairs, and Runyon had taken up a position against the wall beside my desk, Tracy Henderson said, “I know we should have made an appointment, but after what happened last night … Well, we decided we should see someone as soon as possible.”

  “One of Los Alegres cops gave us your name,” Cliff Henderson said.

  “Lieutenant Adam St. John. He said your agency has a very good reputation.”

  I didn’t know St. John. But when you’ve been in the business as long as I have, and have had enough—too much—publicity on some cases, word gets around and police, lawyers, other professionals remember your name.

  I said, “I understand you’re being stalked.”

  “My brother Damon and me,” Henderson said. “That much we’re sure of.”

  “By an unknown party?”

  “Unknown, and for no damn reason anybody can figure out.”

  “Stalked in what way?”

  “Different ways, frightening ways,” Mrs. Henderson said. “The night before last it got really ugly.”

  “Damon’s in the hospital,” Henderson said, “with a cracked head and a busted collarbone.”

  “What happened?”

  “Attacked in his garage, middle of the night. Caught the bastard in there and got belted with a tire iron. He’s lucky to be alive.”

  Runyon asked, “When did this trouble start?”

  “Two and a half weeks ago. First thing he did,
whoever he is, was vandalize our cemetery plot. My father’s grave.” A fierce anger darkened Henderson’s face at the memory. “Got in there in the middle of the night and dug up the urn with Dad’s ashes, poured acid all over it. Acid, for Christ’s sake. Destroyed the headstone the same way.”

  “And he left a crude red-lettered sign,” Mrs. Henderson said. “‘This is just the beginning.’”

  “Cops thought at first it was random vandalism. But no other grave was vandalized that night or any night since.”

  I asked what else had happened.

  “He trashed one of my job sites,” Henderson said. “Paint, acid all over the place. Dumped more acid on my truck, parked right in our driveway. Damon’s car, too. Then that garage break-in … Christ knows what he would’ve done in there if Damon hadn’t heard him and run out.”

  “Did he get a look at the man?”

  “No. Too dark, happened too fast. Bastard hit him from behind, straddled him, broke his collarbone with another swing. Damon thought he was a dead man. But the guy said something like ‘Not yet, it’s not time yet’ and got off him and beat it.”

  “Is that all that was said?”

  “That’s all.”

  “Has he contacted either of you in any way? E-mails, letters, anonymous phone calls?”

  “No. Just that sign at the cemetery.” Henderson’s fingers clenched and unclenched, as if he were flexing them around the perp’s neck. “Crazy. No damn reason for any of it.”

  “And you know of no one who might have a grudge against you and your brother?”

  Mrs. Henderson said, “No, absolutely not. That’s what’s so frightening.”

  Runyon asked, “A business deal where a third party felt wronged in some way?”

  “We thought of that,” Henderson said, “but that can’t be it. He’s after both Damon and me and we’ve never done a business deal together with anybody, not even each other.”

  “What does your brother do for a living?”

  “CPA. Small practice, mainly local businesses. Never a hassle with any of his clients. Never a hassle with anybody I’ve worked with, either.”