Betrayers (Nameless Detective Novels)

by Bill Pronzini

  Sure, but this was something that threatened a family member and by extension threatened me. And made me suspicious as well as angry. I didn’t like that son of a bitch in the house across the street; at the very least he was a liar and a cokehead. I’d sit here, never mind the cramps and lower back pain, for as long as it took to see if my hunch panned out.

  Not long, fortunately. Not much more than fifteen minutes.

  Headights appeared around the curve behind me, the fourth set I’d seen since I’d been here, but this vehicle was going more slowly than the others; and as soon as it passed me, it coasted over to the curb just up ahead. Old, beat-up van, light and dark two-tone in color.

  The lights flicked off, and a stick of a man wearing a sleeveless down jacket got out and came around to open one of the rear doors, take something out. Two somethings—a two-foot-long cardboard mailing tube, looked like, and a package about the size of a shoe box. I’d been thinking Ullman was waiting for the Man, but cocaine doesn’t get transported in mailing tubes, or in shoe boxes unless the buyer is stocking up by the kilo.

  I watched the stick figure cross the street with his two parcels. In the foggy darkness I couldn’t tell much about him except that he seemed middle-aged and had stringy shoulder-length hair that the wind whipped around his head. Nothing furtive about him—just a guy on his way to somebody’s house, invited guest or deliveryman.

  Ullman opened up right away, as he had with me. Let the long-haired man inside, poked his head back out to look up and down the street—if he noticed my car, it didn’t hold his attention—and then quickly shut the door.

  For a minute or so I kept my eyes on the window curtain. Neither corner moved. I reached up and unscrewed the dome light, waited another minute, and when Ullman’s door stayed shut I got out and walked up close enough to the van to read the license plate. Personalized: DDTDAWG. Easy to remember, even with a porous memory like mine.

  Back in the car, I rolled the window all the way up; I’d done enough freezing for tonight. I thought about following DDTDAWG when he left, but why bother? The license number was enough for me to find out who he was. But I waited anyway, out of curiosity as to how long he’d stay with Ullman.

  Too long to be an average deliveryman, not long enough to be an invited guest. A little less than ten minutes. The door opened, out DDTDAWG came, the door closed. He climbed into his van without a glance in my direction, drove away into the fog.

  Two minutes later, when the light in Ullman’s front window went out, I took myself out of there, too, with the heater going full blast. I was almost warm by the time I got home.

  19

  JAKE RUNYON

  It was only four thirty when Runyon left Bud Linkhauser and walked out of the trucking company warehouse, but when he called the agency he got the answering machine. Either Tamara was with a client or she’d closed up early for some reason. He put on the Bluetooth device he’d bought when the no-hands cell phone law went into effect, tried again as he was dead-stopped in commute traffic on the San Mateo Bridge approach. Machine again. She must have gone for the day.

  He called her cell number. Voice mail. Then he tried her home number. Answering machine.

  So he’d have to run a property search himself when he got back to the city. He’d done it before. Easy work if you knew which city and county the property was in, harder when you didn’t, but if Coy and Arletta still owned the rental, it shouldn’t take him too long to find out.

  Wrong.

  In his cold apartment on Ortega, he booted up his laptop and went through the property records for San Francisco first; then, when that didn’t turn up anything in either Coy or Arletta Madison’s name, he searched the rest of the Bay Area counties one by one. No listing.

  Linkhauser had said the property might’ve been inherited by Arletta Madison. Since she controlled the family purse strings, it was possible she’d kept it on the tax rolls under her maiden name. Runyon checked his files. Maiden name: Hoffman. He repeated the county-by-county search. No listing.

  Two possibilities, then. The rental property had been sold. Or one or both Madisons still owned it, but the ownership was listed under a different name, such as a family trust. Tamara could find out either way, but he didn’t have her computer skills or search engine knowledge.

  He tried her cell number again; she still wasn’t answering. She wasn’t home, either: her machine again.

  Wait until tomorrow? That would mean sitting around the empty apartment all evening with the TV on for noise. Bryn had an art class tonight, wouldn’t be home until late. Better to be out and moving. The Madisons might not be willing to talk to him about the rental property, but there was no harm in trying. At least he’d be able to judge by their reactions, Coy’s in particular, whether or not that was where Troy Madison and his girlfriend were hiding out.

  There were lights on in the Queen Anne Victorian, but nobody answered the bell. Could be one or both of the Madisons were holed up inside, but if that was the case, why leave all the lights on? And why not check to see who was waiting out here? There was a peephole in the door, but Runyon didn’t hear any footsteps on the hardwood floor inside.

  He’d parked his Ford a short way up the block; he went and sat behind the wheel without moving. Might as well wait awhile. People don’t usually leave so many lights blazing when they went out for an entire evening.

  Cars came up and down the street now and then, but none of them parked in the vicinity. It was after eight now and there weren’t any pedestrians. Foggy shadows obscured most of the paths and lawns on this edge of Dolores Park.

  He hadn’t been there long when he saw the woman.

  She was on the far side of 19th Street, coming uphill alongside the park. Alone, bundled in a coat and some kind of cloth cap, walking briskly. He watched her progress because she appeared to be the size and shape of Arletta Madison. If that’s who she was, she’d cross over once she drew abreast of the Madison Victorian.

  She didn’t cross the street. Started to, he thought, but she didn’t have time.

  A line of trees and low shrubs flanked the sidewalk where she was, with a separating strip of lawn about twenty yards wide. The tall figure of a man came out of the tree-shadow as she passed. Runyon couldn’t see him clearly through the fog, but he had one arm up in front of him, a familiar black shape jutting from a gloved hand. And he didn’t have a face—it was hidden beneath something dark pulled down tight over his head.

  Gun. Ski mask.

  Runyon reacted instinctively. His .357 Magnum was locked in the glove box; there was no time for him to go after it. He hit the door handle, piled out of the car. The mugger was ten yards from the woman and closing. She’d heard him and was turning toward him; he lunged forward, grabbing at the shoulder-strap purse she carried. Runyon pounded across the street, his shoes slipping on the wet pavement, yelling at the top of his voice, “Hold it; police officer!”—the only words likely to have an effect in a situation like this.

  Not this time.

  The mugger’s head swiveled in Runyon’s direction, swiveled back to the woman as she pulled away from him. She made a frightened, chicken-squawking sound and turned to run.

  He shot her.

  No compunction: just threw the gun up and fired point-blank.

  She went down, skidding on her side, as Runyon cut between two parked cars onto the sidewalk. The mugger pumped a round at him then. He was already dodging sideways, onto the lawn, when he saw the muzzle flash, heard the whine of the bullet and the low, flat crack of the weapon. The grass was thick and mist soggy; his feet slid out from under him and he went planing forward on his ass, clawing at the turf and trying to twist his body toward the nearby shrubbery. Out there in the open, with only twenty yards or so separating him from the gun, he made a hell of a target.

  But the mugger didn’t fire again. Most of them were cowards and when they lost the elements of surprise and control their instincts were to run. By the time Runyon checked his momentum
and squirmed around, this one was running splayfooted back into the park. Shadows and fog swallowed him within seconds.

  Runyon had banged the knee on his bad leg in the fall; it sent out twinges as he hauled himself erect, hobbled toward the woman. She was still down but not hurt as badly as he’d feared: sitting up on one hip now, holding her left arm cradled in against her breast. The woolen cap had been knocked askew when she went down; the wind whipped long, stringy hair around the pale oval of her face. When she heard him coming, she looked up with fright-bugged eyes.

  Arletta Madison, all right.

  She blinked at him without recognition when he hunkered down beside her. He said, “It’s all right, he’s gone now.”

  “He shot me,” she said in a dazed voice.

  “Where are you hurt?”

  “My arm—”

  “Shoulder? Forearm?”

  “Above the elbow.”

  “Can you move it?”

  “I don’t . . . yes, I can move it.”

  Not too bad then. The bullet hadn’t struck bone.

  She blinked at him again, with clearer focus. “You’re the man who was here yesterday. The detective . . . Runyon.”

  “Yes.” You weren’t supposed to move gunshot victims, but her wound didn’t seem serious and he couldn’t just let her sit here on the wet street. “Can you stand up, walk?”

  “If you help me . . .”

  He wrapped an arm around her waist, lifted her. The blood was visible then, glistening blackly on the sleeve of her coat.

  “My purse,” she said.

  It was lying on the sidewalk nearby. Runyon let go of her long enough to pick it up. She took it from him with her good hand, clutched it tightly against her chest: something solid and familiar to hang on to.

  The street was still empty; so were the sidewalks on both sides and what he could see of the park. Somebody was standing behind a lighted window in one of the duplexes across 19th, peering through parted drapes. No one else seemed to have heard the shots, or to want to know what had happened if they did. City dwellers didn’t come out to investigate gunshots these days: too many drive-by shootings, too much random violence.

  Runyon helped Arletta Madison across the street, walking with his arm around her and her body braced against his as if they were a pair of lovers. Get her off the street and into her house as quickly as possible, to where she’d feel safe, and report the shooting and ask for EMTs from there.

  As they started up the front stoop, she drew a shuddering breath and said in a hoarse whisper, “God, he could have killed me,” as if the realization had just struck her. “I could be dead right now.”

  “He say anything before he shot you?”

  “Say anything? No. He just . . . shot me.” Then, at the door, “Coy was right, damn him.”

  “Right about what?”

  “He keeps telling me not to go out alone at night, and I keep not listening. I’m so goddamn smart, I am. Nothing ever happened; I thought nothing ever would. . . .”

  “You learned a lesson,” he said. “Don’t hurt yourself any more than you already are.”

  “I hate it when he’s right.” She opened her purse with her good hand, fumbled inside. “Where the hell did I put the damn keys?”

  Runyon found them for her, unlocked the door. Upstairs, she steered him into a big front room full of heavy old furniture and dominated by more of her weird vegetable-like sculptures. She dropped her purse on a brocade couch, let him help her out of her coat. The wound in her arm was still leaking blood; the crimson splotch on the sleeve of a white sweater had grown to the size of a pancake.

  “Are you in much pain?”

  “No. It’s mostly numb.”

  “Where’s the nearest bathroom?”

  “Down the hall there.”

  He walked her to it. “Better get out of that sweater,” he said then. “Put some peroxide on the wound, then wrap a wet towel around it. That should do until the EMTs get here.”

  “Are you going to call the police?”

  “Yes.”

  “They’ll never catch whoever it was; you know they won’t.”

  “I have to report the shooting in any case. And you’re going to need attention for that arm.”

  “All right,” she said. Then, in different tones, “Actually, I suppose the publicity will be good for me and my next show.”

  He made the call while she was in the bathroom. The 911 dispatcher asked the usual questions, said that EMTs and police would be out ASAP. Which meant half an hour, minimum, for the paramedics; their first responses were Code 3 or Echo priority, the situations in which injuries were life threatening or resuscitation was required, and there were plenty of those every night in the city. The cops wouldn’t be here in a hurry, either: perp long gone, victim not seriously wounded, situation under control. They’d just have to wait their turn.

  Pretty soon Arletta Madison reappeared, wearing a sleeveless blouse now, a towel wrapped around her arm. Runyon asked her if the wound was still bleeding. She said, “Yes, but not so badly now.” Then, “Damn Coy. This is his fault, you know.”

  “How so?”

  “When he pisses me off the way he did tonight, I get so mad I feel the walls start closing in.”

  “And then you go out for a walk.”

  “To cool off, yes.”

  “What’d he do to upset you tonight?”

  “The usual crap. Called from some bar on Twenty-fourth Street, drunk, to tell me he’d just picked up a woman. Can you believe it?”

  Runyon said nothing.

  “I swear he does it just to devil me. He doesn’t give a damn about me; he . . . oh! Shit!” She’d made the mistake of trying to gesture with her wounded arm. “Where the hell are the paramedics?”

  “They’ll be here pretty soon.”

  “I need a drink. Or don’t you think I should have one?”

  “I wouldn’t. They’ll give you something for the pain.”

  “Well, they’d better hurry. How about you? Do you want something?”

  “No.”

  “Suit yourself. But you don’t have to stand there; go ahead and sit down.”

  “You’d better do the same.”

  “I’m too restless.”

  “Sit down, Mrs. Madison. For your own good.”

  The command made her narrow her eyes at him, but she didn’t argue. She sank onto the couch, grimaced, and chewed on her lower lip. Runyon waited until her expression told him the pain had eased before he spoke again.

  “I need to ask you some questions, if you feel up to it.”

  “Questions? About what?”

  “A rental property you own or owned.”

  “. . . What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

  “It’s the reason I came here tonight. I’ve been told you inherited property in the Bay Area.”

  “Yes, but I don’t see—”

  “Do you still own it?”

  Head bob. “For all the good it’s doing us now.”

  “Not rented at present?”

  “Not since the last tenant’s lease expired at the end of December.”

  “Where’s the property located? Here in the city?”

  “No. San Bruno.”

  “Single-family house?”

  “Yes. It’s not in the best neighborhood, that’s why it’s still—” She broke off, frowning. “Why are you asking about this? You don’t think—”

  “Don’t think what, Mrs. Madison?”

  “That that’s where Troy is hiding?”

  “Possible, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose so, if he knows about the property.”

  “You didn’t tell him about it? Give him a key at some point?”

  “Of course not. The rental agent has the keys.” Her frown morphed into a scowl. “He’d better not be there,” she said. “I won’t stand for that on top of the money he’s cost me. If you think that’s where he is, why don’t you go find out?”

 
“You’ll have to give me the address.”

  “It’s on Bowerman Street in San Bruno, I don’t remember the number. I’ll have to look it up.”

  “After the EMTs get here.”

  “If they ever get here.”

  Runyon said, “Your husband tell you about Troy’s latest call?”

  “Call? When?”

  “Last night. Demanding ten thousand dollars. Making threats when he was told he couldn’t have it.”

  “No, Coy never said a word. Threatened us? You mean, with physical harm?”

  “So he told me.”

  “Damn him! And tonight he leaves me here alone—” She broke off and sat very still, not looking at Runyon any longer but at something that had begun playing on the screen of her mind. A kind of slow horror parted her lips, widened her eyes. “Oh my God,” she said. “What just happened outside . . . that man in the mask . . . Troy? Could it have been Troy?”

  Before Runyon could respond, a door banged below. Heavy, plodding footfalls sounded on the stairs. A few seconds later Coy Madison came duck-waddling in from the hall.

  20

  JAKE RUNYON

  Madison stopped abruptly two paces inside the room, stood blinking his surprise at Runyon and then at his wife. He wore an overcoat over a suit and tie, no hat; his red hair was damp, his smooth cheeks and forehead red blotched.

  “Good Christ, Arletta,” he said, “what happened to you? That towel . . . is that blood?”

  “I was attacked a few minutes ago. He shot me.”

  “Shot you? Who . . . ?”

  She shook her head.

  Madison went and sat next to her, tried to wrap an arm around her shoulders. She pushed him away.

  He said, “The wound . . . it’s not serious?”

  “No. But it hurts like the devil.” She grimaced again. “What’s keeping those paramedics?”

  “You get a good look at the man who did it?”

  “No. He was wearing a mask.”