Nightcrawlers: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Mystery)

by Bill Pronzini

“So am I. But you learn to live with it. Learn to live without sex, too. I gave that up when Dave died.” His lips moved, shaped something that might have been a ghost of a smile. “I felt it was the least I could do to honor his memory.”

  “Did you tell Troy you were HIV positive?”

  “I did, and he still offered me safe sex. See what I mean by wild young fool?”

  “He moved out two weeks ago, is that right?”

  “He vacated his room two weeks ago, yes.”

  “Why the distinction?”

  “He didn’t move voluntarily. I kicked him out.”

  “For what reason?”

  Morgan sighed heavily. At the sound, the blind dog raised its head and keened the air; when the sound wasn’t repeated, the shaggy head went down again on stretched-out forepaws.

  “I found out he was underage,” Morgan said. “Troy looks much older, but he’s only seventeen.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “From his brother.”

  Runyon said, “Brother?”

  “That’s right. You didn’t know he had a family?”

  “I don’t know much about him at all. What’s the brother’s name?”

  “He didn’t say, but when I confronted Troy, he called him Tommy. He showed up here one day looking for Troy. He . . . well, he was belligerent and abusive.”

  “Homophobic?”

  “Probably. No, definitely. He called my home a ‘fag house.’ Why did I let an underage kid live in this ‘fag house,’ he said.”

  “What’d he look like?”

  “There’s a resemblance to Troy, but he’s darker, not as good-looking. In his early twenties.”

  “Tall, slender?”

  “That’s right.” Morgan frowned, ran the tips of his fingers across his lower lip. “You seem to know him. I take it you think he’s one of the men responsible for the assaults.”

  “Pretty good chance of it.”

  “I’m not surprised. Belligerent, abusive, homophobic, and not very bright—a lethal combination. His brother is underage and gay, so he’s taking out his anger and hatred on Troy’s lovers.”

  “Beginning to look that way.”

  “Sick, senseless.”

  “Most acts of violence are.”

  “Do you think I’m in any danger?”

  The question was matter-of-fact, more one of curiosity than fear. The right answer was yes, anybody in the gay community who’d had anything to do with Troy was a potential victim. Runyon gave him the other answer, the one designed to reassure.

  “I don’t think so, Mr. Morgan. Tommy and his buddy aren’t going to be running around loose much longer.”

  Morgan nodded. Maybe he believed it, maybe he didn’t.

  “Was Tommy by himself when he was here?” Runyon asked.

  “I didn’t see anyone else.”

  “You happen to notice what kind of vehicle he was driving?”

  “I’m sorry, no, I didn’t.”

  “Was Troy home at the time?”

  “No, and a good thing he wasn’t. As angry as Tommy was, there’d have been a scene.”

  “He just went away? Tommy, I mean.”

  “Not before he said he’d ‘fix me’ if I let Troy keep on living here. ‘Tell him to get his ass back home fast or I’ll come and drag it back.’ His exact words. I don’t like threats, but letting rooms in this building is my responsibility. I can’t afford to lose my manager’s position, or this apartment.”

  “So you gave Troy his walking papers that same day?”

  “As soon as he came home. Once I verified his age, I had the legal right.”

  “How did you verify it?”

  The blind dog, asleep now, let out a long, low groaning sound and one of its back paws began a spasmodic twitching. Morgan looked down at the animal, and his sad eyes grew even sadder. “Poor old Doc,” he said. “He’s sixteen, he has arthritis and half a dozen other ailments. I’m going to have to put him down soon.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “I hate the thought of it,” Morgan said. “He’s all I’ve had since Dave died. I don’t know how I’m going to get along without him.”

  “You could get another dog.”

  “Yes. I could. I suppose it’s better than being alone.”

  For him it was. For Runyon, being alone was better than trying to replace the irreplaceable. He said, “About Troy. You were going to tell me how you verified his age.”

  “Well . . . I probably shouldn’t admit to this,” Morgan said, “but after the brother left I was so upset I used my passkey to get into Troy’s room. I don’t make a habit of that sort of thing—I believe in everyone’s right to privacy—but under the circumstances . . . well, I felt justified.”

  “And you found what?”

  “His driver’s license, believe it or not. It was in one of the nightstand drawers, just tossed in there.”

  Which probably meant that Troy had some sort of fake ID that he carried around with him, in case he was carded; that would explain how he was able to frequent clubs like The Dark Spot with impunity.

  Runyon said, “His real last name. It’s not Scott, is it?”

  “No. Douglass. With two esses.”

  “Do you remember the address on the license?”

  “I don’t, no. I only glanced at it.”

  “Would the city have been South San Francisco?”

  “That’s right, it was. South San Francisco.”

  Troy Douglass. Tommy Douglass. All right.

  “What was Troy’s reaction when you told him to vacate?”

  “Oh, he argued a bit at first. Until I delivered his brother’s message.”

  “And then?”

  “He went pale, said something like ‘Oh no, how did he find me? Why can’t he just leave me alone, let me be who I am?’ ”

  “That sounds as though he might be afraid of Tommy.”

  “No question of that.”

  “You think he did what Tommy told him to, went back home?”

  “He said he didn’t know what he was going to do, but I had the feeling he wouldn’t defy his brother. The fear factor. It didn’t take him long to load his belongings into that old car of his and be on his way.”

  “What kind of old car? Make, model?”

  “A Chevrolet, I think. White, sporty, at least twenty years old. And loud—a loud engine.”

  “And you haven’t seen or heard from him since.”

  “Not a word.” Morgan paused, reached down absently to touch the blind dog with his fingertips. “Do you think you can find Tommy before he hurts anyone else?”

  “I’m sure as hell going to try.”

  He was just starting down Market Street, heading for the 101 freeway and South San Francisco, when his cell phone rang. He’d never much cared for people who talked while they drove unless it was absolutely necessary, so he pulled over into a loading zone to take the call.

  Bill. Still no word from Tamara. No sign of her car in San Leandro. He’d just talked to a friend of hers, Vonda something, and the news he’d gotten from her wasn’t encouraging.

  “I think we’ve got a situation here, Jake,” he said. His voice was flat, professional, but there was an undercurrent of tension in it.

  “Beginning to look that way. How do you want to handle it?”

  “It’s too soon to report her missing. Up to us, at least for the time being.”

  “Priority.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yeah. Priority. Where are you?”

  Runyon told him. “I can be in the office in twenty minutes.”

  “Come ahead. First thing is for you to take a crack at her computer. Then we’ll see.”

  “On my way.”

  Runyon pulled out into traffic again. He hadn’t let himself think much about Tamara while he was working on the gay bashings. Not because he wasn’t concerned; he liked the woman, respected her, shared a professional bond. Because he’d learned long ago that the only way to do a job r
ight was to concentrate on it—one thing at a time; and because Bill was calling the shots on her unexplained absence. Now that he was needed on that, he quit thinking about Troy and Tommy Douglass and focused on Tamara. Priority. When one of your own was in trouble and there was something you could do about it, you back-burnered everything else.

  16

  TAMARA

  The interior of Lemoyne’s SUV was like a prison cell.

  No, not like one—it was a prison cell. Not much larger than the closet in his basement room, not much smaller than the room itself. He’d taken out the rear seats, fixed the hatchback door so it couldn’t be opened from inside, walled off the rear compartment from the front seat with a thick sheet of tinted plastic bolted to the frame. Windows were all tinted; you could see out—everything outside had a faint grayish tinge, the way they said things did for cats—but nobody could see in.

  Lauren wasn’t the first little girl he’d kidnapped. For damn sure now.

  The floor in there was carpeted and he’d unrolled a couple of cheap, thin futons over it. Real thoughtful. Wasn’t anything else in the cell except her and Lauren and the big white-faced, pink-dressed doll he’d made Lauren take along; she still wouldn’t have anything to do with it, kicked at it whenever it rolled over her way. No matter how much Tamara tried to keep herself and Lauren braced, the two of them kept sliding around like the doll on those skinny futons. She kept a tight hold on the kid so she wouldn’t hurt herself banging into metal and glass whenever the SUV swerved or hit a bump.

  Where were they now? Still on Highway 80, somewhere up around Sacramento. She’d been up here a few times with the folks and once with Horace, but not recently; had to keep checking road signs to pinpoint their location. City girl, San Francisco girl. Scared girl.

  So far Lemoyne hadn’t hurt her. Thought he was going to when he ripped open that closet door last night, but all he’d done was shake her a few times, get in her face, and yell questions at her. How’d she find out about him? Who else knew about him and Angie? That damn printout in her purse. Stupid not to’ve left it in the office. One more stupid thing she’d done or hadn’t done.

  She’d ’fessed up the truth about seeing him bring the girl home with him Monday night. No gain in lying about that. Rest of what she threw at him was pure lie: she’d told her partner all about it, if she turned up missing he’d go straight to the cops and the cops’d come straight to 1109 Willard. Lemoyne hadn’t bought it. “If your partner knew about this, he wouldn’t’ve let you come back here alone. Nobody knows but you.” Sick bastard, but a smart sick bastard.

  He calmed down some after that. Hadn’t even shoved her back in the closet when he was done ragging on her. “You spend the night in here with Angie. Take care of her, I don’t want her crying or wetting herself anymore.”

  “Then what?”

  “We’re leaving in the morning, early, the three of us.”

  “Where’re we going?”

  “You’ll find out when we get there.”

  “Trailer in the woods?”

  That almost set him off again. “How’d you find out about that? What do you know about that?”

  “Lauren . . . Angie told me. Said you were taking her up there to show her a big surprise, have some fun.”

  “Angie and me’ll have fun. Not you.”

  “What you gonna do to me?”

  “I don’t know yet. I haven’t made up my mind.”

  This morning, when he came down to get them—six-fifteen by her watch, still dark outside—he hadn’t looked in the closet. She’d shut the door, but worried the whole time she was awake that he’d think to look in there. If he had . . . But he hadn’t. Just took them out at gunpoint and locked them in this rolling prison cell and headed out. Small hope anyway. One of the other small hopes she’d had was already dead: before he’d shoved them into the SUV, she had a look at the street and the Toyota wasn’t there anymore, he must’ve moved it out of the neighborhood sometime during the night. The small hopes that were left wouldn’t fit in a gnat’s eye. But any hope was something to hang on to, like a lifeline.

  The SUV lurched again and Lauren grabbed hold of her blouse, pressed tight against her the way she had on the bed last night. Couldn’t get close enough. Funny how that little girl made her feel. She’d never thought much about kids, beyond a vague notion that if she and Horace ever got married, maybe they’d have one or two someday, like maybe after she was thirty-five. Too much ambition, too many plans, to dive into motherhood before then. But last night, today, holding Lauren, trying to comfort her . . . it’d unleashed maternal feelings she hadn’t thought she owned. Now she understood how Bill felt about Emily. Really understood, for the first time, how Ma and Pop felt about her.

  Amazing thing was, her mothering instincts must be true because Lauren trusted her, took strength from her even though she was a stranger. Hadn’t wet the bed or thrown up or cried much in the dark hours; hadn’t cried at all the whole time they were on the road. Just sat there quiet, hanging on and now and then looking up at her with those big trusting eyes. Didn’t look too good now, though. Kind of sweaty and splotchy. Carsick? The way they kept bouncing around in here, it was a wonder she wasn’t carsick herself.

  Surrogate mama, that’s me, Tamara thought, and tightened her arm around the girl, felt little shivers rippling across the thin shoulders. Anger crawled into her again, bleak and black.

  He’s not gonna mess with her if I can help it. Word. He’ll have to kill me first.

  Freeway signs slid past, gray-green in gray-tinged sunlight. Reno. Highway 80. Downtown Sacramento. They kept riding 80. Cars whizzed by in the other lanes, people just a few feet away. Yo, in here! Help, call the cops, kidnap victims locked up in here! But there was too much traffic noise for shouting to do any good, and no other way to signal through those tinted windows.

  How about when he stopped for gas? He’d have to do it sooner or later, these big-boat SUVs were gas hogs. But he’d warned her about making any noise back here. Somebody’d get hurt if she did, he said. Meant it, all right—you could see it in his hard, light-skinned half-and-half face. Like that psycho last Christmas. Not as far off the hook, pretty much in control, but capable of using that gun of his if push came to shove. Wasn’t worth the risk, not with Lauren in the line of fire. Take care of my little girl. Yeah, well, that was just what she would do.

  The kid made a little whimpering sound. Tamara put her face down close, smoothed sweat-damp strands of hair off her forehead. “You doing okay, honey?”

  “I feel sick.”

  “Sick to your stomach?”

  “Uh-huh. I hate throwing up.”

  “You won’t. Take deep breaths and hold on. We’ll be stopping pretty soon.”

  A short silence. Then, “Tamara?”

  “Yes, honey?”

  “I’m so scared. Are you scared?”

  “Some. Don’t you fret. We’ll be all right.”

  “Am I gonna see my mama and daddy again?”

  “Sure you will. Sure.”

  “Promise?”

  She said, “Promise,” and bit her tongue and added a little silent prayer: Don’t you make a liar out of me.

  Miles unrolling under them. More signs: Roseville. Rocklin. Places she’d heard of but never been to. Whole lot of places she’d never been, places she wanted to go someday. Whole lot of life ahead of her, ahead of Lauren—

  Pay attention to the signs.

  Another one: Auburn. Highway 49, Grass Valley.

  Lemoyne slowed down, swung out of the fast lane and on over into the exit lane. Auburn—Grass Valley exit. Tamara shifted position on the futon, sat up straighter. Some little town near Grass Valley was where Lemoyne’s second wife was from. Did she still live there, her and his real daughter? Like maybe in a trailer in the woods? Going there to see them for some off-the-hook reason, introduce Angie to Angie? Dude was so weird, he was capable of just about anything.

  Off the freeway now, onto a busy side
road. And into a Chevron station. For some reason she registered the gas prices’ sign: $2.39 a gallon for regular. Goddamn oil companies, still screwing Bay Area drivers left, right, and back door.

  They stopped alongside a row of pumps. Lemoyne hadn’t said a word since they’d left San Leandro, but now she heard his voice, the words muffled by the plastic partition, “You keep quiet back there, Dark Chocolate. You know what’ll happen if you don’t.”

  Dark Chocolate. Second or third time he’d called her that. One of those half-and-halfs that hated the fact they were mixed race, wished they were all black or all white and wound up resenting both. Your equal opportunity racist.

  She said, “Angie’s feeling sick to her stomach.”

  “That’s too bad.” As if he meant it.

  “Let me take her to the bathroom.”

  “No.”

  “You want her to throw up on herself?”

  “We don’t have much farther to go. Another hour or so.”

  “I don’t know if she can make it that long.”

  “You better see she does or you’ll clean her up when we get there. Clean up back there, too. I hate the smell of puke.”

  He opened the door on the last few words, slid out quickly, and shut the door behind him.

  Lauren started to cry.

  Outskirts of Auburn on 49. Broad avenue lined with shopping malls and business parks and car dealerships and fast-food places. Heavy traffic, endless string of stoplights. Then the lights got farther and farther apart, and the road narrowed into two lanes and climbed steadily into the foothills.

  Lauren was quiet again. Still taking deep breaths to keep her gorge down, her face scrunched up with the effort it took. Afraid to throw up, afraid of what he might do. Good little girl. Smart, sweet-tempered. What’d she ever do to have a thing like this happen to her?

  What’d I ever do? What’s deserving it have to do with shit happening to you?

  Still climbing, still a lot of traffic. Pine woods—they were in the foothills now.

  More signs: Grass Valley. Nevada City. Highway 20—Marysville.

  Exit lane again. Swinging off onto Highway 20.

  Pretty soon they were heading down a long, steep grade. Day was clear and warm, sunlight hitting the windows and making it muggy inside the prison cell. Air was bad, too, from the goddamn cigarettes Lemoyne kept smoking. She called to him to turn on the air conditioner, they were suffocating back here. He ignored her.