Schemers: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Novels)

by Bill Pronzini

  “What time was that?” Yin asked.

  “Shortly after one.”

  “She and Mr. Cullrane both here then?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you think they were doing in your library?”

  “Stealing more of my books. That’s obvious.”

  “More of your books?”

  “Eight of my most valuable first editions disappeared two weeks ago. I filed a police report, for all the good it did. They got away with those so it made them bold enough to go after more.”

  “How much value are we talking about?”

  “Half a million dollars for the missing eight volumes.”

  Davis blinked at the figure; Yin showed no reaction. She said, “Insured?”

  “In that amount. Eventually I had no choice but to put in a claim with my insurance company.” Pollexfen gestured my way again. “That’s why he’s here. He’s investigating the claim for Great Western Insurance.”

  Yin asked me, “Find out anything we should know?”

  “Nothing conclusive,” I said. “No sign of the missing books, nothing definite to point to the thief or thieves.”

  “My wife and her brother,” Pollexfen said, “working in cahoots. That’s obvious, too, now. I didn’t think it was possible for either of them to get into the library—you’ve seen that all the windows are barred, and I have the only key to the door locks—but they found a way.”

  “Loose key in the victim’s pocket,” Davis said. He had a raspy smoker’s voice. “It fits the locks.”

  “Made from a wax impression, probably.” Pollexfen directed a grudging look my way. “Somehow one or the other of them must have gotten access to my key just long enough.”

  Yin said, “You say they were here when you left at one o’clock, nobody else in the house. Why do you suppose it took them three hours to go into the library?”

  “I have no idea. You’ll have to ask Angelina.”

  “What do you think happened in there?”

  “The shooting? We were just talking about that. She shot him, on purpose or by accident—what else could it be? They were alone in a locked room.”

  “Premeditated?”

  “I don’t know, but I doubt it. Angelina can be cold-blooded, but not that cold-blooded. She wouldn’t have the gumption. Most likely they had some sort of fallingout, one or the other pulled the shotgun off the wall, there was a struggle, and the weapon discharged.”

  “All of that with you and two other people in the house.”

  “The library walls are thick enough to act as partial soundproofing,” Pollexfen said. “From inside you can’t hear what’s going on in other parts of the house unless you’re listening closely and sometimes not even then.”

  Davis said, “It could’ve been suicide. Looks like the barrel was in his mouth or close to it when the gun went off.”

  “That could have been a result of the struggle.”

  “If he had his mouth open at the time.”

  “Suicide is out of the question, Inspector. You didn’t know my brother-in-law. The man was incapable of selfdestruction. He was the most self-involved, narcissistic person I’ve ever known.”

  “Sounds like the two of you didn’t get along.”

  “We didn’t. It’s no secret.”

  “The shotgun belongs to you, is that right?” Yin asked.

  “Inherited from my father.”

  “Kept it mounted on the wall above the fireplace?”

  “Yes.”

  “Loaded?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why keep a loaded weapon on display?”

  “I really have no answer to that question,” Pollexfen said. “My father always kept it loaded and I saw no reason not to do the same. The library is my domain. No one is allowed in there without my being present, and I’ve never permitted anyone to touch the Parker.”

  “Pretty large weapon for a woman to handle.”

  “Not for Angelina. She’s fired it before, accurately. We used to go bird hunting together.”

  Yin seemed satisfied on that point. “Tell us again what you saw and heard.”

  “I didn’t see anything,” Pollexfen said. “Or hear anything except the shot when the three of us were in the hallway.”

  “And you could tell that the report came from the library?”

  “It couldn’t have come from anywhere else. We were on our way there when it happened. Angelina and Jeremy weren’t anywhere else in the house—clearly they had to be in the library.”

  “The door was secured?”

  “Double-locked, as always. The locks can be keyed from both sides.”

  “One key for the pair?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who opened the locks? You?”

  “I did,” I said.

  “My hands were shaking too badly,” Pollexfen said.

  She asked me, “You were the first into the room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Pollexfen go in, too?”

  “No farther than the doorway,” he said.

  “What about Brenda Koehler?”

  “No,” I said. “She ran off to be sick.”

  “Did you touch the victim or the weapon or anything else in there?”

  “Only Mrs. Pollexfen. She was on the floor, moaning. Looked like she was suffering from shock.”

  “Blowing a man’s head off would shock anybody,” Pollexfen said.

  “So you picked her up and carried her into the spare bedroom.”

  “While Mr. Pollexfen went to call nine-eleven, yes. Seemed like the best thing to do to make sure the crime scene wasn’t compromised. Then I went back and locked the library doors again.”

  “Still have the key?”

  I did and I gave it to her. She put it into an evidence bag, handed the bag to her partner, then the two of them went out into the hallway for a brief, whispered conference. Davis disappeared in the direction of the library. Yin stayed put, raised a beckoning hand toward me. “Come on outside for a minute.”

  I went out with her onto the front terrace. The street below was teeming with police vehicles and uniformed officers, the coroner’s ambulance, a couple of TV remote crews, and the usual knot of neighbors and other gawkers. The thick fog and cold wind coming through the Gate didn’t seem to be bothering them, but it chilled me in five seconds flat.

  Yin gave the scene below a sour look and turned her back to it. “You have anything to add to what you told us earlier, what was said inside just now?”

  “No. I’ve told you everything I know.”

  “You arrived a little before four, saw the Porsche in the driveway, figured somebody was home, and rang the bell. Right?”

  “Right. No answer, so I waited in my car. Brenda Koehler showed up a few minutes past four and we went in together. She said the Jag down there belonged to Mrs. Pollexfen and the Porsche to Cullrane, so they were both home. I asked her to find the two of them—”

  “Why?”

  “Talk to them again. I interviewed both yesterday and I wasn’t satisfied with the answers I got about the stolen books.”

  “Meaning you thought one or both might be guilty?”

  “Not exactly. I wasn’t satisfied with Pollexfen’s answers, either. That’s why I arranged to come here today—another talk with him.”

  “Why weren’t you satisfied?”

  “Well, only the three of them, and Brenda Koehler, had any kind of ready access to the library. One had to be responsible, but I couldn’t get a handle on which. Or the motive behind the theft.”

  “Money. Half a million dollars.”

  “Not if Pollexfen took the books himself. He doesn’t need to try pulling off an insurance fraud—not even for half a million. We did enough checking to be reasonably certain of that.”

  “Then why would he pretend to steal his own books?”

  “Like I said, I don’t have any idea. Just a feeling that he may not have been completely honest with me.”

  “Do
es he get along with his wife?”

  “No. One big unhappy family.”

  “Reasons?”

  “Lots of them. Complicated. You’d better ask Pollexfen.”

  “I will.”

  “Anyway, I guess I was wrong about him. Victim, not perpetrator, assuming his wife and brother-in-law are guilty.”

  “Assuming? Doubts about that, too?”

  “Some,” I admitted. “Unfounded, maybe.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  “Well, Cullrane and Mrs. Pollexfen didn’t like each other. Each of them made that plain. I can’t quite picture them plotting a theft together.”

  “The dislike could have been an act.”

  “Could have, but I don’t think so. Pollexfen confirmed that they didn’t get along. So did the checking we did.”

  “A large sum of money can make partners out of enemies,” Yin observed.

  “Sure. I know it.”

  “You still don’t sound convinced.”

  I shrugged. “There’s one other possible explanation for what happened today.”

  “And that is?”

  “Cullrane was alone, stealing more first editions, and Mrs. Pollexfen came home and caught him in the act. But a couple of things argue against it. One, Pollexfen told me she never went near the library.”

  “She might have today,” Yin said, “for the same reason you rang the bell. Saw her brother’s car in the driveway and couldn’t find him anywhere else in the house.”

  “True enough. But she couldn’t’ve gone into the library unless the door was unlocked. And if it was, then why would Cullrane lock it—double lock it—after she was inside? I can’t think of any good reason.”

  “Good point. Neither can I.”

  “Same question applies if the two of them were working together,” I said. “Why double lock the door from the inside? Why not prop it open while they were gathering up another batch of books? That way, if Pollexfen or Brenda Koehler came home suddenly, they’d hear and have time to beat it out of there quick.”

  “Another good point. Any answers occur to you?”

  “Not at the moment. Maybe Mrs. Pollexfen can sort it out for you.”

  “When she sobers up enough to tell a coherent story.”

  The house door opened and Davis came out. “Assistant coroner’s done with his prelim,” he said to Yin.

  “Forensics?”

  “Almost finished. Okay to release the body?”

  “Go ahead.” Davis went back inside and Yin turned to me again. “You can go now. All your contact numbers on the business card you gave my partner?”

  “Agency, cell, and home.”

  “We’ll need a signed statement. If you don’t hear from us in the meantime, stop by the Hall tomorrow.”

  I said I would. She favored me with a tired professional smile and we went our separate ways, me to fend off cameras, microphones, and noisy media people on my way to my car. It took me a few more minutes to get out of there; a police car had blocked me in and one of the uniforms took his time about moving it.

  Crime scenes: studies in organized chaos.

  On the way home I tried to put the whole sorry business out of my head. None of my concern anymore. Chances were the cops would either find the eight missing first editions eventually or discover where they’d been sold. I’d send my report and expense sheet and bill for services to Great Western, and before Rivera authorized payment he’d jab me with his frigging needle and keep on jabbing afterward for his own amusement. My own damn fault for taking the case in the first place.

  No, I didn’t want anything to do with it anymore. But that didn’t mean I had an easy time not thinking about it. Screwy business, full of all sorts of weird angles and nagging questions. The double-locked door. Why would Cullrane lock it if he was in there, alone or with his sister, to steal more books? And the time element. Why would they wait three hours to do the job when they could have done it immediately after Pollexfen left for his auction?

  Didn’t add up. Didn’t feel right.

  But you couldn’t get around the rest of the facts. Irrefutable, or sure seemed to be. The two of them had been locked inside that room together—I knew that for an absolute certainty—and one of them was dead, and unless it was suicide, which was improbable as hell, the other one had had a hand in the killing. Had to be that way. Pollexfen and Brenda Koehler and I had been together when we heard the shot; that eliminated them as well as me. Unless some sort of gimmick had been used to trigger the shotgun … oh, hell no. You can’t rig a heavy weapon like that to fire one barrel by using strings or wires or trick gadgets or remote control or any of that nonsense, and even if you could, Yin and Davis and the forensics people would have found it. The police aren’t stupid. You can fool them, just like you can fool anybody else, but not on a crime scene like this one. Cullrane shot himself or Angelina Pollexfen shot him willfully or accidentally, it couldn’t have happened any other way.

  Still—it just didn’t feel right.

  17

  JAKE RUNYON

  Before he drove to Deer Run to talk to Jenny Noakes’s aunt, he wanted more information on the homicide. He spent the better part of an hour in the Fort Bragg library, going through microfiche files of the Advocate-News and the North Bay region’s largest newspaper, the Santa Rosa Press Democrat, for the latter half of 1989. Both carried news reports about the slaying, neither very long, and there was one brief followup in the Press Democrat. That was all.

  The search produced one useful fact: the investigating officer for the Mendocino County Sheriff’s Department had been Lieutenant Clyde Van Horn.

  There was no listing for Van Horn in the local or county phone directories. So Runyon made his next stop the sheriff’s substation, a short distance from the library. The young officer on the desk didn’t know a Lieutenant Van Horn, but an older deputy on duty did. Van Horn was no longer with the department. Retired five or six years ago. Bought a place somewhere down the coast—Little River, the deputy thought it was.

  Little River was about fifteen miles south of Fort Bragg, just beyond the quaint tourist-trap village of Mendocino. Runyon drove down there, stopped in at a grocery store and then a cafe. The waitress in the cafe knew Van Horn; he and his wife came in for breakfast now and then. She was pretty sure they lived on Crescent Drive, a few miles south off the coast highway.

  Crescent Drive: short road that bellied out along the bluffs overlooking the ocean and dead-ended after a tenth of a mile. Half a dozen houses and cottages were strung along the oceanside. The first one he tried was deserted. A woman at the second told him the Van Horns lived in the last house before the dead end.

  It was a small cottage built at the edge of the bluff above a rocky whitewater cove. Fenced garden in front, a lawn spotted with animal sculptures along the north flank. The Land Rover parked in the driveway told Runyon someone was home. The someone turned out to be Clyde Van Horn.

  Van Horn was seventy or so, big, healthy-looking, and willing to talk. They sat in a living room that had two walls made of glass to take advantage of the ocean and whitewater views.

  “Sure, I remember the Jenny Noakes case,” Van Horn said. “You always remember the ones that go cold on you.”

  “She was strangled, is that right?”

  “That was the coroner’s opinion. Damage to the hyoid bone was consistent with manual strangulation.”

  “Sexually assaulted?”

  “Undetermined. Three months in a shallow grave in the mountains, animals digging up and carting off pieces—there wasn’t a whole lot left for analysis. No DNA procedures back then, not in a county like this one.”

  “Where was the body discovered?”

  “Heavily wooded area about a mile outside Deer Run. Close to the road. County road crew was doing repairs and one of the workers went into the woods to take a leak and spotted the grave.”

  “East or west of Deer Run?”

  “East. Why?”

 
; “Curiosity. Turn up any suspects?”

  “Her ex-husband seemed like a good bet—her aunt said there was bad blood between them—but he was working in an oil field in Texas when she disappeared. A couple of other possibles, but no physical evidence to lay the crime on either one.”

  “You recall their names?”

  Van Horn thought about it. “One was a transient, young guy fresh out of the army. Potter, Cotter, something like that. Seen in the vicinity of the general store in Harmony where Jenny Noakes worked and was last seen. But he didn’t have a rap sheet and his military record was clean, so we had to let him go.”

  “The other one?”

  “Man named Jackson, worked as a handyman in the area. He had a thing for Jenny Noakes, kept trying to date her. She wouldn’t have anything to do with him. They had an argument in a local tavern a couple of days before she disappeared. My money was on him, but like I said, there wasn’t any way we could prove a case against him.”

  “Was she in a relationship at the time?”

  “More than one, off and on. She wasn’t exactly chaste. Liked men, liked a good time.”

  “One of the men Lloyd Henderson, owned a hunting cabin in the mountains east of Harmony?”

  Van Horn had a habit of cocking his head to one side when he was thinking; he did it again now. “Henderson … sure. Doctor or something from some place down in Sonoma County.”

  “Dentist. Los Alegres.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Lloyd Henderson. Didn’t you say the case you’re investigating involves two men named Henderson?”

  “Lloyd’s sons.”

  “What, then? You think there’s a connection between him and what happened to Jenny Noakes?”

  “Maybe not with her murder, but Henderson knew her pretty well.” Runyon related what Mona Crandall had told him about Jenny Noakes’s surprise visit and pregnancy claim. “It wasn’t long afterward that she disappeared, if Mrs. Crandall’s memory is accurate.”

  “Interesting,” Van Horn said. “I don’t remember Henderson saying anything about any of that when I talked to him.”

  “You questioned him? Did he admit knowing Jenny Noakes?”