“Might as well give it a shot.”
We backtracked a short ways until we found a place to start the climb. I let Chavez take the lead; he had twenty years on me, was in better condition, and had more stamina. Better trailblazing instincts, too, as it turned out. He picked the shortest and safest, if not always the most direct, route around the outcroppings and through the trees. And set a steady, not-too-rapid pace so that I didn’t have much trouble keeping up.
At first chunks of Chileno Valley Road were visible behind and below us; only one car passed while we were moving and we ducked behind one of the oaks. The grassy turf was still slick with morning dew that made the footing uncertain in the steeper places; twice I had to drop to all fours and scurry sideways like a crab onto more solid ground. The oaks grew in a thick, packed belt for the last third of the climb. We zigzagged through and around them, and as we neared the top I had glimpses of the terrain below and to the north. Then they thinned out into an open area along the crown.
Chavez veered left, to a spot where a cluster of granite outcroppings rose out of the grassy earth. When I came up to him, panting and wheezing a little from the exertion, he asked if I was okay.
“Yeah. Just need a minute to rest. Getting old, slowing down.”
“Not so slow,” Chavez said. “When I’m your age I’ll be lucky if I can make a climb like this.”
“When you’re my age, I hope I’m still aboveground.”
He grinned, then shifted position and pointed. “There they are.”
The view from next to the rocks was unobstructed and I could see all three farm buildings below. Four, if you counted what appeared to be a small well house near a gaunt, leaning windmill. The three main structures were set in a sheltered semicircle close to the backside of the larger hill—house, barn, a dilapidated outbuilding that had once been a stable, judging from the remains of a pole-fenced section along one side. A line of willows and shrubs ran at an angle behind the house and barn, indicating the presence of a creek.
When I had my wind back I uncased the Zeiss glasses, leaned against the outcropping for support, and fiddled with the lenses until the tableau down there came into sharp focus. The buildings were all at least half a century old and appeared to be suffering from neglect and slow decay. Long abandoned and forgotten. Nobody had lived there or worked the surrounding acreage in decades.
The first thing I scanned for was some sign of current occupancy. Nobody in sight anywhere. No sign of the Ford Explorer. And no barking or any other sounds drifted up on the still morning air.
“Anything?” Chavez asked.
“Doesn’t seem to be.”
I focused on the farmhouse. From its outward appearance, nobody had been there in years. Weathered gray boards with here and there strips and patches of old white paint like flaking skin. One corner of the roofline over the sagging remains of a porch bowed inward and was near collapse. Spiderwebbed hole in one of the front windows, the glass completely broken out of another. The front door intact and shut. A tangled climbing vine of some kind covered most of the visible side wall. On the other side was what had probably been a vegetable garden; most of the chicken-wire fencing that had enclosed it lay trampled down and rusting in the grass.
I shifted my line of sight. The rutted track petered out in what had once been a front yard: a mixture of bare graveled earth, nests of weeds and thistles, a discard scatter of boards and shingles and broken pieces of furniture. The well house and windmill stood at an angle between the house and barn, near where the creek and its fringe of trees bent away to the north; the windmill had two missing blades and part of its frame was damaged, one broken timber jutting out at right angles like the arm of a gibbet. It was difficult to tell for sure from this distance, but there might have been an irregular path of sorts angling away from the barn toward the creek; some of the weeds in that direction had a trampled look.
The barn next. Big, tumbledown, boards missing, the double doors drawn shut. But the structure itself wasn’t what held my attention, led me to try sharpening the focus. Parallel ruts showed in the grassy earth fronting the doors. Tire marks stood out in the softened earth—fairly deep and fresh looking, made by a heavy vehicle such as a Ford Explorer. I followed them backward to where they thinned out and merged with the ruts in the track.
“I was wrong,” I said as I lowered the glasses. “Somebody’s been here recently. Have a look at the front of the barn.”
Chavez took the binoculars, made his study. “Yeah, I see what you mean. Been and gone, you think?”
“Looks that way. Can’t be sure from up here.”
“Wait and see if anything happens?”
“That’s the passive option. I’d just as soon go on down and find out one way or the other.”
“Works for me.”
I made one more scan of the buildings, the creek, the meadowland beyond. Everything still and empty looking in the pale morning light. Then I recased the glasses, shoved off the outcropping.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s get it done.”
24
JAKE RUNYON
Before he was allowed to talk to Bryn Saturday morning he had to endure more than an hour of the usual necessary legal and procedural bullshit.
First there was a consultation with Thomas Dragovich. Runyon had called him after delivering Bobby to his father and enduring another round of verbal abuse from Darby, despite the boy corroborating where he’d been and how he’d been found, and had brought the attorney fully up to date, including his suspicions as to Bryn’s motives and his conviction that Bobby was innocent. But Dragovich was a careful man; he wanted to go over the questions Runyon intended to ask Bryn, to make sure they were acceptable and her rights would be protected.
Then there was a conference with Dragovich, Inspector Crabtree, and an assistant district attorney named Magda Halim. On Dragovich’s advice, Runyon told them exactly what he believed and why. Neither Halim nor Crabtree seemed surprised; Crabtree admitted that he and his partner had guessed it might be the boy Bryn was protecting and had passed along their suspicion to the DA’s office. Halim asked several pertinent questions—testing his honesty, Runyon thought. She was a no-nonsense ADA, probably a hard-liner in most cases; but Dragovich had told him she was also the mother of two young children and therefore might be sympathetic to Bryn’s protective stance. He hoped Dragovich was right.
They sent Runyon out of the room so the three of them could talk things over. When they called him back, Halim told him he could interview Bryn, with herself, Crabtree, and Dragovich present, but that if in any way he attempted to lead or direct her, the interview would be terminated immediately. When he agreed, Crabtree called to have Bryn brought down to one of the interrogation rooms.
Dragovich took Runyon aside for another quick conference, to tell him that if Bryn recanted and cooperated fully he was pretty sure Halim and the police would be willing to release her without any further charges. So it was all up to Runyon. Handle the interview right, get her to open up, and she’d be free again.
The interrogation room wasn’t one of those with the two-way glass. Nor was there any video equipment; evidently Crabtree and Halim had decided taping the interview wasn’t necessary. Just four bare walls, a table with two facing straight-backed metal chairs, two other chairs set at the table ends. Familiar territory to Runyon. He’d been in carbon copies of interrogation rooms like this any number of times during his years on the Seattle PD.
A matron brought Bryn in a minute or so after the rest of them trooped in. He felt some of his tension ease when he saw that they’d let her wear her scarf; if they hadn’t, her self-consciousness would’ve made the interview more difficult. The exposed side of her face was very pale; otherwise she seemed composed in a drawn-up, girded way—a woman preparing for another ordeal. They hadn’t told her Runyon would be there; her composure slipped a little when she saw him.
The matron escorted Bryn to one of the chairs at the table. Runyon took t
he one facing her. Dragovich pulled a third chair around on Runyon’s side, but away from the table. Halim stood at the opposite end and Crabtree leaned against a wall, both of them in position to watch both Bryn and Runyon as they spoke to each other.
He said, “You holding up okay?”
“Yes. Jake, what are you—”
“I saw Bobby last night.”
She blinked, leaned forward. “You did? Where?”
“Your house. I found him there.”
“… I don’t understand. What was he doing in my house?”
“Hiding in the crawlspace.”
“The— Oh my God.”
“He ran away—took a couple of buses from the Marina. His father went there looking for him and he hid because he didn’t want to go back.”
“Buses? By himself? Why?”
“He wanted to see you. Be with you.”
Choked her up. Her mouth and throat worked in little spasmodic movements; a tear wiggled down along her cheek. She started to reach a hand out across the table, a reflexive gesture that she checked in mid-motion. The hand lifted, swiped at the wetness on her cheek, then dropped back into her lap.
“Is he all right?”
“Yes. We had a long talk. Then I took him back to his father.”
“Long talk about what?” She was suddenly on her guard. “What did he say?”
“The same things he said to you on Thursday.”
“I … don’t know what you mean.”
“He didn’t do it, Bryn. You don’t have to keep lying to protect him.”
“Is that what you think I’m doing?”
“It’s what everybody in this room knows you’ve been doing.”
“No. You’re trying to trick me.…”
“I’d never do that to you. You know me better than that.”
“I don’t know anything anymore.”
“The fingerprints on the knife aren’t Bobby’s, any more than they’re yours or mine. If necessary, Mr. Dragovich will get a court order to have the boy’s fingerprints taken to prove it.” That was one of the legal options he and the attorney had discussed earlier.
Bryn’s gaze shifted to Dragovich, to Halim, then back to fix on Runyon. Reading his eyes, trying to crawl in behind them to read his mind.
“Somebody else was in the flat that afternoon,” he said. “In the kitchen with Francine. Bobby heard them talking, scuffling. Heard Francine scream.”
“… Who?”
“We don’t know yet.”
The good half of Bryn’s mouth twisted. She reached up to touch the scarf with her bandaged finger, lowered her hand again. “Man? Woman?”
“Bobby isn’t sure. Do you have any idea who it was?”
“No. No.”
“He heard the door slam just after it happened. Not long before you got there. You must have just missed seeing whoever it was.”
Silence.
“Did Bobby open the door for you, let you in?”
“No. I rang the bell, but … no.”
“Was the door closed?”
“Yes, but not locked. It should have been.”
“When you went in, where was Bobby?”
“He … In his room.”
“Bloody. Blood all over his face and shirt.”
“Oh, God, yes.”
“Did he tell you Francine was dead?”
“Yes.”
“And when you looked in the kitchen, you could tell Francine hadn’t been dead very long. And Bobby was there alone.”
“Yes. Alone. He was…”
“What was he?”
“In shock. Not very coherent.”
“And you knew he hated Francine for hurting him.”
“I hated her just as much. More.”
“But you didn’t kill her, either.”
Silence.
Runyon said, “Bobby in shock with blood all over him, nobody else in the flat, her abuse, his hate. All of that together is why you didn’t believe him, why you thought he stabbed her. Why you decided to take the blame.”
Wavering uncertainty now. The good side of her mouth worked, but no words came out.
“Isn’t it, Bryn?”
“… Yes.” In a barely audible whisper.
The others in the room stirred. Runyon reached a hand across the table, and after a moment Bryn lifted one of hers to touch his. He let himself relax then; he’d done his part.
Halim said, “You admit you lied to the police, Mrs. Darby?”
“Yes. I lied.”
“To protect your son. Is that the only reason?”
“Yes.”
“Are you willing to tell the truth now, cooperate freely?”
“Yes.”
“Did you have anything to do with the death of Francine Whalen?”
“No, I did not.”
“Do you have any knowledge of the homicide that you haven’t revealed?”
“No.”
Crabtree asked, “Did you touch the dead woman, disturb the crime scene in any way?”
“No.”
Halim again. “Did you advise your son to lie to the police?”
“No. I told him not to talk about what happened, for his own good—that I would make everything all right. That’s all.”
There were several more questions, hammering at points in Bryn’s original statement. She handled herself well, as innocent people usually do when they’ve been relieved of a heavy burden. When the ADA, Crabtree, and Dragovich had all the answers they wanted, they exited in a bunch for another conference, leaving Runyon and Bryn alone.
She had a fleeting smile for him then, after which she sat almost primly, her hands clasped together on the table. The pose struck him as a contradictory mix of young girl and older woman, of remorse and determination, sadness and hope. He felt the same protective urge he’d felt toward Bobby the night before, but he didn’t give in to it this time, either. He sat without moving, letting his gaze tell her what he was feeling. This wasn’t the time or the place for anything more.
In a small voice she said, “What happens now?”
“That’s what they’re out there deciding.”
“I told the truth this time.”
“I know you did. They know it, too. There’s a pretty good chance they’ll let you go.”
“Jake … Bobby’s really all right? I mean, not just physically?”
“He will be. Not withdrawn anymore.”
“He won’t run away again?”
“No. He promised me he wouldn’t.”
“When can I—” She broke off, started over. “Robert will try to keep me from seeing him.”
“Once you’re out of here, he has no legal grounds for denying you access. If he tries, we’ll ask Dragovich to step in.”
She nodded, showed Runyon another, not-so-fleeting smile. There was nothing more for either of them to say, not now, not here. They sat in an easy silence for several minutes, until Dragovich and Halim came back into the room.
It was the ADA who delivered the verdict: Bryn was no longer under arrest pending the outcome of the police investigation.
* * *
It took nearly two hours for the release process to be completed. Runyon waited it out by knocking around the Hall of Justice, then taking a fast walk up and down Bryant Street. Restless again, and he wasn’t sure why. Something nagging at him, an irritant like a splinter he couldn’t quite get hold of.
Bryn was out of there and they were in his car, winding up Market Street to Twin Peaks, when he finally pried it out. He glanced over at her, sitting in that same almost prim posture with her hands folded in her lap.
“I have to ask you something about Thursday,” he said.
“Jake, please, no more questions.”
“This may be important. You told Inspector Crabtree you didn’t disturb the crime scene in any way. Is that the truth?”
“Yes. I didn’t go near the … her.”
“Last night Bobby told me he heard a crash, somet
hing breaking in the kitchen, just before she was stabbed. But when I was in there I didn’t see anything broken.”
“Oh … it was a plate.”
“A plate.”
“A plate of cookies. Broken on the floor.”
“Where? Near the body?”
“No, between the sink and the center island.”
“And you cleaned it all up?”
“Threw everything into the garbage under the sink, yes. That’s how I cut my finger, on one of the shards.”
“Why did you clean up?”
“I don’t know … I wasn’t thinking clearly. I suppose because I was afraid the mess pointed to Bobby, that the police would think he’d knocked the plate off the island when he … when Francine was stabbed. She must have been baking Toll House cookies for Robert; they’re his favorite, Bobby’s, too.…”
There was more, but Runyon was no longer listening.
Cookies, he was thinking. A plate of chocolate-chip cookies.
25
JAKE RUNYON
He found Francine Whalen’s murderer in church. Late that afternoon, after he’d dropped Bryn off at her house and then driven immediately to the East Bay.
It was an old, well-kept nondenominational church a few blocks from Gwen Whalen’s apartment building. Guesswork and an obliging neighbor who knew where Gwen worshiped were what led him there.
She was the only person in the nave, her massive body squeezed into one of the forward pews near the lectern, her head bowed. Dressed in plain black, with black hat and black purse and neatly folded black coat next to her. Mourning clothes. Thorn-crowned Christ on a bronze cross looked down on her from the wall above the altar; so did the Virgin Mary and the twelve apostles from backlit stained-glass windows. Runyon’s steps made faint hollow sounds as he moved down the center aisle, but she didn’t seem to notice. Didn’t move when he slid onto the hard, smooth bench beside her.
“Hello, Gwen.”
Camouflage (Nameless Detective Mysteries) Page 17