The Violated

by Bill Pronzini

  “Likewise. I can’t say it was fun while it lasted because it wasn’t.”

  “You’re not the same person you were before the assault. I can’t give you the kind of help you need, but if you don’t find somebody who can—”

  “Don’t preach at me, goddamn you.” My head ached from too much Johnnie, and now that Neal had woken me up and denied me the pleasure of filing for the divorce myself, I felt sullen and snappish. “I’ve got what I need. Or I will have once I’m rid of you.”

  “Too much scotch and now a gun. Recipe for disaster.”

  “Oh, shut up. Go on, get out of here.”

  But he didn’t go yet. More talk. Talk, talk, talk. “There are some things we have to decide. About living arrangements, about the house—”

  “I don’t want your damn architect’s wet-dream house, if that’s what’s worrying you. Not even for a little while. I’ll move out just as soon as I can find a place. And you can move Gloria Ryder in.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you I’m not having an affair with Gloria Ryder. Or anybody else.”

  “I don’t give a shit anymore, one way or the other. Can’t you get that through your head?”

  “All right, then. What do you want in the divorce?”

  “What I’m entitled to in this good old community-property state—half of our liquid assets, my share of what the house is worth. And my car. You can have all the rest.”

  “Don’t you want the wet bar?” Neal said nastily.

  “Fuck the wet bar.” And fuck you, too.

  “I think I’d better stay in a motel until you move out. I’ll be back to pack after I talk to Mel.”

  “I won’t be here.”

  “That would be best.” He turned, then stopped. He was looking at the Baggallini. He said in that same nasty way, “Pink Lady. Christ!”

  “That’s right. My Pink Lady.”

  “I hope the two of you will be happy together,” he said, and went out and finally left me alone.

  I stayed in bed for a while until my head stopped throbbing, then got up and showered and put on my black slacks and loose pullover. What I wanted to do more than anything else today was to drive to Riverton and take target practice at Bull’s-Eye. I didn’t know if Tina instructed on Saturdays, but I hoped she did. It would make my day if she was there.

  I wondered what she’d say when I told her about the divorce. I was looking forward to finding out.

  COURTNEY REEVES

  When I got to the police station, I almost didn’t go inside.

  I sat in the parking lot and looked at it and I couldn’t seem to make myself open the car door. My palms were all sweaty. I’d stayed up most of the night at Ma’s house thinking, and I was pretty sure I’d made the right decisions. I had to stick by them. If I didn’t … well, then I’d go on being a victim.

  I’d already started by calling my aunt Dorothy in Salem, Oregon. I hadn’t seen her since high school graduation, but we’d always gotten along pretty well, better than I got along with Ma. She didn’t know that I’d been raped; I thought Ma had told her, but she hadn’t, which figured. Aunt Dorothy was horrified. And when I told her about my troubles with Jason, right away she said yes, I could come stay with her for a while and she’d help me find a job up there.

  There wasn’t anything for me in Santa Rita anymore, just ugly memories that blacked out all the good ones. If I was ever going to get over being raped, it would have to be in some place far away from here where I could have a whole new life. Ma wouldn’t care if I moved away. All she cared about was having a good time and hooking up with guys who bought her drinks. As it was, I hardly saw her. She probably wouldn’t miss me at all.

  So that part of it was settled. Then I’d called the Riverfront and told them I wouldn’t be in today, that I was going to be moving to Oregon soon, and I’d be in to get my last paycheck before I left. I was going to need that money. I didn’t have much, only a few dollars left over from my last check and a few more that I’d kept at the apartment for food and stuff. Then I’d gotten ready and come down here to the police station.

  I’d never been inside it before. After I was raped, the police came to see me at the hospital or the apartment. And I’d never been arrested or gone there to visit anyone who had, including Ma the two times she’d been picked up for being drunk in public. It was kind of a scary place. I mean, Jason hates cops, even the ones like Sergeant Sinclair who helped me, and so I’ve been leery of them, too. But I liked Sergeant Sinclair, she was real easy to talk to. I just hoped she was here today. I should’ve called to find out. And then if she was, maybe I could have said what I had to say to her on the phone. Except I knew it would be better saying it in person, face-to-face, so here I was.

  I’d brought Ladybug along and she looked up at me, then put her paw on my leg as if she were urging me to go ahead, get out of the car, go inside. What a sweetie she was, my only true friend now except for Aunt Dorothy. I patted her, kissed her, got myself together, and went into the station.

  It wasn’t as noisy inside as I expected it would be. There wasn’t anybody there except a cop in uniform behind the counter. He was friendly enough, but he told me what I didn’t want to hear. Sergeant Sinclair wasn’t on duty today. Was there anybody else who could help me?

  Well, I almost said no. Almost turned around and walked out. But I needed to talk to somebody before I could change my mind, so Lieutenant Ortiz’s name popped out of my mouth. He’s kind of imposing, I guess that’s the word, but he’d always been nice enough to me, if not to Jason. I guessed I could talk to him all right. And he was on duty.

  The uniformed cop asked me the nature of my business, I told him it had to do with a serious crime that the lieutenant should know about. He passed that on, and about two minutes later I was sitting in Lieutenant Ortiz’s office. My hands were still sweating. Otherwise, I was okay. And just as determined to go through with this as I had been last night and this morning. Don’t get mad, get even. That’s what they say, and they’re right.

  “The serious crime you have to report, Ms. Reeves, does it have anything to do with the criminal assaults?”

  “No. It … well, it has to do with Jason. My ex-boyfriend.”

  “Ex?”

  “We broke up last night. On account of what he’s started doing again.”

  “And that would be?”

  “You won’t tell him I’m the one who told on him? Or make me testify against him in court or anything like that?”

  “Do you have specific knowledge of a crime he’s committed?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean specific.”

  “Did you witness the commission of a crime? Have prior knowledge of it?”

  “No.”

  “Then you needn’t worry. Your name will not be revealed.”

  “That’s a relief. See, I’ll be leaving Santa Rita pretty soon, moving up to Oregon to live with my aunt, starting a new life—”

  “What is it you have to tell me?”

  I took a deep breath. “Jason is selling meth again,” I said. “At least, I’m pretty sure he’s selling it. I know he’s been using it.”

  “He’s brought drugs into your home?”

  “Maybe he has, I’m not sure about that because I haven’t seen any. But he stayed out late the past few nights and come home high twice … high on speed. I know where he’s getting it.”

  “And where is that?”

  “From Pooch,” I said.

  “Pooch. Who is he?”

  “His real name is Pooch-insky, something like that. Lennie Pooch-insky. That’s why he’s called Pooch. He kind of looks like one, too, a fat, ugly mongrel dog.”

  Lieutenant Ortiz wrote something down, Pooch’s name, probably. He looked real big sitting behind his desk, his face all dark and stern. And I felt small, like the time I got sent to the principal’s office for spitting on another girl when I was in sixth grade. He’d been dark and stern, too, the principal, only he hadn’t been Me
xican.

  “Where does this Pooch live?”

  “On a run-down farm across the river,” I said. “Jason told me he inherited it from some relative.”

  “A farm across the river. Where, exactly?”

  “Dobler Road. I was there for a party once, that’s how I know. Not a drug party,” I lied quickly. The lieutenant just looked at me and I could feel my face getting hot. “Well, not meth anyway. I mean …”

  “Does Pooch have a lab at his farm?”

  “Lab? Oh, you mean, does he cook meth there. I think so, yes.”

  “But you’re not sure.”

  “Pretty sure. That’s where Jason goes to party with Pooch and other guys. Girls, too … He’s been, you know, having sex with some other girl, that’s another reason I broke up with him …”

  “Can you tell me their names?”

  “The girls? No. I don’t want to know who they are, I don’t care.”

  “The men?”

  “No. Well, there’s this guy Jason got into a fight with the other night when they were both cranked up. Probably over at Pooch’s farm. Jason said he was one of these guys who got aggressive when he was stoned. I was surprised when he showed up at the brew pub to see Jason.”

  “When was that?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. Jason was really pissed … mad, but not because of the fight. The guy was strung out, I think he wanted to buy some speed. He wasn’t there very long. I think Jason sent him to Pooch.”

  “Do you know this man’s name?”

  “Just his first name. Roy.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Not very big, sort of average. He had red hair.”

  Now Lieutenant Ortiz looked even bigger, more imposing, his jaw jutting out like a hunk of rock. “Are you sure his name was Roy?”

  “Well, it wasn’t Ray or anything like that—”

  “Could it have been Royce? R-o-y-c-e.”

  “I guess it could’ve been. Jason kind of mumbles sometimes …”

  He stood up, doing it kind of fast like he was in a hurry all of a sudden. He thanked me and said I’d done the right thing, coming in and talking to him. Then he said I’d have to postpone my move to Oregon, at least for a short time, in case he needed to talk to me again. Well, that was all right, so long as he kept his promise not to tell Jason it was me that turned him in. Ma wouldn’t care if I stayed with her a few more days. I wasn’t afraid Jason would try to hurt me if he did find out, he wouldn’t dare because it’d make things a lot worse for him, but I didn’t want to see or talk to him ever again.

  When you stop loving somebody, you stop forever and that’s that. The person just doesn’t exist for you anymore. And that goes double when you’re hoping to start a brand-new life in a brand-new place.

  GRIFFIN KELLS

  “Roy is Royce Smith,” Robert said. “The Reeves girl’s description matches. The man who assaulted Angela Lowenstein likely was high on drugs, and Smith is evidently an aggressive speed freak. He knew her, he had access in the Clarion office to her purse and apartment key. He’s our man.”

  I nodded agreement. “About time we had something go our way. Now we’ve got to find him. The Reeves girl told you Palumbo sent him to see this Pooch yesterday?”

  “That was the impression she got.”

  “Smith might still be there. What’s Pooch’s real name?”

  “Puchinsky. Leonard Puchinsky. Property records on the Dobler Road parcel list him as the owner.”

  “Dobler Road. That’s out in the county.”

  “Most of it. Not the address for the farm. It’s located in the section the city annexed several years ago, close to the county line.”

  “Still our jurisdiction, then.” A relief, that. If the farm had been on county land, I would have had to call in Sheriff Ritter, and he’d have insisted on assuming control. “The problem is, we don’t have any concrete evidence that Puchinsky is running a meth lab on the property.”

  “No, but there’s not much doubt. I ran a record check on him after the property check. One arrest and conviction in San Benito County five years ago, before he inherited the farm and moved here, for manufacturing meth in a rented house.”

  “That’s still not enough to convince a judge to give us a search warrant for the farm.”

  “I can go out there, reconnoiter the place.”

  “Let’s see what Palumbo can tell us first. He might know where Smith is, if not at the farm.”

  “He bartends at the Riverfront Brew Pub on Saturdays. I’ll call Al Bennett—”

  “No,” I said, “let Al have his day off. I’ll go with you. I’m tired of sitting on my hands, waiting for something to happen.”

  Instead of Robert’s cruiser or mine, we took one of the unmarked cars the department used for surveillance. No point in giving advance warning to Palumbo, or anyone at the Puchinsky farm if we ended up going there. Robert did the driving.

  Locating Palumbo proved no easier than locating Royce Smith. He wasn’t at the brew pub; he’d called in sick. He wasn’t at his apartment behind the football stadium, either.

  “Check out the farm now?” Robert asked.

  “Right. If we can get onto the property legally and Puchinsky’s there, we’ll ask about Smith and see what kind of response we get.”

  “It might be a good idea to have some backup on standby, just in case.”

  “That it might.”

  I radioed in two orders—a BOLO alert on Jason Palumbo and his blue Ford Mustang, the license number of which Robert had gotten from the DMV earlier; and that the nearest patrol car to 1900 Dobler Road establish a holding position in the immediate vicinity, but out of sight of the farm buildings. Then we drove on through town and across the bridge into the semirural, annexed section of town.

  Nineteen hundred Dobler Road looked to be a couple of acres of property butted right up against the county line. Beyond it lay hay and alfalfa fields and, farther on, the vineyards that had sprouted on the little hills and valleys near the river. Leonard Puchinsky’s nearest neighbor in that direction was a farm half a mile distant. The closest neighbor in the section we’d just passed through was an auto dismantler’s, with a couple hundred yards of rocky grassland between its junkyard fence and a straggly line of eucalyptus trees bordering the farm’s access road.

  The place was made-to-order for the kind of illegal business Puchinsky was evidently running. No one nearby to notice an unusual number of people coming and going at odd hours, and virtually no patrols by either SRPD officers or sheriff’s deputies because of the proximity to the county line.

  Robert said, “Ideal location for a meth lab.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing.”

  The rickety gate at the entrance stood wide-open—a bold welcome sign for Puchinsky’s customers that suited us just as well. Robert turned in and we jounced along the unpaved, weed-sprinkled drive. The farm buildings lay bunched at an angle to the right—a one-story house, a small barn, a pump house. A few stunted apple trees grew beyond the barn; otherwise no vegetation was visible aside from grass and weeds. Even from a distance you could see that the farmhouse needed paint, a new front porch, a new roof. The barn was in better shape, no gapped or missing boards, its closed doors reinforced with lumber that hadn’t had time to weather the same smoke gray as the rest of it. That was where the lab would be.

  Puchinsky had plenty of company this afternoon. Four vehicles were parked off to one side of the house. When we got close enough for a clear look at them, I leaned forward with the muscles in my neck and back pulling tight.

  One of the vehicles was a blue Mustang.

  The other was a beige Hyundai Elantra SE.

  ROBERT ORTIZ

  I recognized the suspects’ vehicles at the same time Griff did. “How do you want to proceed?” I asked him.

  “Let’s see what kind of reception we get and take it from there. Best approach is to try to pry Smith out of the house voluntarily. Palumbo can wait.”<
br />
  “We can’t afford to push too hard without a warrant.”

  “No. Or to say anything about meth, cooking or selling.”

  There was no telling how many weapons might be on the premises, or if the people inside the house were high on drugs. The actions of manufacturers and users of methamphetamines are unpredictable. We already had ample hearsay evidence of Royce Smith’s aggressive behavior while on heavy doses of speed.

  I slowed to a crawl as we entered the farmyard, turned toward where the other vehicles were parked, and stopped there. We stepped out into a cool wind blowing in from across the river. We both had our coats open, the tails covering our holstered Glock service weapons and our hands in plain sight. If our arrival had alerted anyone inside the house or barn, they had not yet appeared.

  “Somebody’s bound to be watching us,” Griff said. “They already know who we are—the way we’re dressed would’ve told them that.”

  I said, “If we go to the door, we’ll only get it slammed in our faces. If it’s opened at all.”

  “Yeah. They can stay in there no matter what we do. But they’ve got to be wondering why we’re here, what we want. If I were Puchinsky, I’d be itching to find out.”

  We crossed the dusty yard to the foot of the porch steps. The front windows wore shades, but I thought I saw movement at the edge of one. A lull in the wind brought the faint mutter of voices from inside, but they cut off abruptly. The only sounds then were the wind’s whispering and the ratchety turning of the blades in a rusted windmill behind the pump house. In my ears, its rhythm was like the beating of a diseased heart.

  Nothing happened for half a minute or so. The house door opened then and a man stepped out onto the porch. Late twenties, fat, his belly hanging and swaying when he moved. Long mud-colored hair tied in a ponytail. Sloppily dressed in Levi’s and a stained sweatshirt. If he was worried, he did not show it. He leaned indolently against the support pole for the porch roof. His expression was guardedly neutral.

  Griff said, “Leonard Puchinsky?”

  “That’s me.”