Nightcrawlers: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Mystery)

by Bill Pronzini

  “I just bought this suit,” he said. He was staring at the crimson streaks on his jacket and trousers. “Sixteen hundred dollars at Wilkes Bashford. Ruined now. You can’t get blood out of fabric like this.”

  Runyon said nothing.

  “Ruined,” Butterfield said again. He raised his head, squinting. “You sorry excuse for a human being,” he said to Tommy Douglass. “Tried to kill me and ruined my new suit.”

  “Fuck you, faggot.”

  They stared at each other across the empty space.

  Douglass still sat in the same position, legs splayed out, like something discarded against the wall. He hadn’t moved the entire time. And the words he’d said to Butterfield had been a by-rote response, passionless, mindless. Runyon had seen dozens like him over the years, young and old, all races and colors. Big men when they had weapons in their hands and they were in control, capable of just about any act of violence. Shriveled little cowards when the tables were turned and they were on the receiving end, capable of nothing except feeling sorry for themselves. The one who’d scrambled out on his hands and knees, Bix Sullivan, was another cut from the same cheap cloth. Long gone now in that pickup of his. But he wouldn’t get far, probably wouldn’t even try. Just go on home and wait the way his buddy was waiting, riddled with self-pity and banked hatred and not understanding for a minute why he deserved to be punished for what he’d done.

  The hell with him. The hell with Tommy Douglass. Runyon opened his cell phone and called 911.

  The SFPD’s response time was nineteen minutes, not bad for a week night in a city with a fairly high crime rate and a department in a state of flux. The paramedics took a little longer to get there—more emergency medical calls than felony crime reports tonight. Runyon showed his state ID to the two uniformed officers; that didn’t impress them, but they showed some respect when he mentioned his time on the Seattle PD. He gave them a full accounting of the situation, and when Jerry Butterfield added his version and said damn right he wanted to press home invasion and assault charges, the uniforms Mirandized Tommy Douglass, handcuffed him, and stuffed him into the back of their patrol car. The kid didn’t have much to say and offered no resistance; he was all through making trouble for anybody tonight. While the paramedics were ministering to Butterfield, one of the cops radioed in a request for a pickup order on Bix Sullivan.

  Butterfield insisted he wasn’t badly hurt, but the paramedics kept talking to him about the unpredictability of head wounds and convinced him to take a ride to SF General for a doctor’s exam. He closed up the garage and went with them in the ambulance. One of the uniforms told Runyon to stop by the Hall of Justice within the next twenty-four hours and talk to a Robbery and Assault inspector and sign a statement; he said he would, and they took Douglass away and left him with the usual crowd of neighbors and rubberneckers. The crowd was still milling around, reluctant to let go of their little thrill, when Runyon climbed into his car and drove off.

  The whole thing hadn’t taken much more than an hour. Violence erupts, blood gets spilled, the cleanup crews move in, the crowds finally disperse, and it’s as if none of it ever happened. Life in the city. Confirmed all over again just how pointless human behavior, human action, human existence was. People live, people die; life goes on and then it doesn’t. Everything matters for a while, and then nothing matters.

  Colleen had lived, Colleen had died; his life had gone on, and then someday it wouldn’t. Everything had mattered for twenty years. And now it didn’t.

  The apartment Joshua shared with Kenneth Hitchcock was only a few blocks from here. He was on his way there, to tell Joshua the news, see if it would make a difference in their relationship, make something matter again for a little while, when the call from Bill came through.

  Bill’s car was parked in tree shadow just down the block from Robert Lemoyne’s house—the same place Tamara had been parked during her two-night surveillance, he’d said on the phone. Nearly ten-thirty now. Two-thirds of the houses along here were dark or just showing night-lights; Lemoyne’s was one of the dark ones. Runyon made a U-turn, pulled up behind Bill’s car, and went to slide in on the passenger side.

  “You made good time, Jake.”

  “Not much traffic. Still no sign of him?”

  “No.” Bill’s voice had a thick tension in it. Finding Tamara’s car had wired him up tight. “I took a turn around the property a while ago. Doors, windows . . . everything locked up tight.”

  “Gone since last night?”

  “Or early this morning.”

  As much as twenty-four hours. And the first twenty-four hours in a case like this were critical. If a snatch victim survived them, the odds jumped in favor of continued survival. Problem was, the percentage of victims who didn’t survive them was a hell of a lot larger.

  “So how do you want to handle it?” Runyon asked.

  “Keep on waiting. For now.”

  “Brace him if he shows?”

  “Push him hard if we have to. You carrying?”

  The .357 Magnum was in his belt now. He said, “Yeah. But I hope it doesn’t come down to that.”

  “So do I.”

  They sat in silence. Bill kept shifting position, finding things to do with his hands. Runyon sat without moving, tuned down inside, on hold.

  After a time Bill asked abruptly, making talk, “How goes the gay-bashing investigation?”

  “It’s finished now. Right before you called.”

  “Finished how?”

  Runyon told him.

  “Right place, right time. Good job. Why didn’t you say something before?”

  “This is more important.”

  Bill thumped the steering wheel with the heel of his hand, kept on doing it.

  Runyon said, “We’ll find her. She’ll be all right.”

  “Sure. Sure she will.”

  Trading standard reassurances, keeping it upbeat. Believing out loud what they were both doubting inside.

  More silence. A couple of cars appeared and then disappeared, another car turned into a driveway at the far end of the block. More houses went dark. The tension in Bill thickened until you could almost smell it, heavy and sour, like rancid butter.

  He smacked the steering wheel again, hard enough this time to make it vibrate. “The hell with this. He’s not coming.”

  “Still early yet. Not even eleven-thirty.”

  “Patience isn’t one of my long suits. I can’t keep sitting here like this, Jake. What if she’s in his house right now, been there all along?”

  Runyon didn’t say anything.

  “She could be. We both know it.”

  “So what do you want to do?”

  Bill said, “How do you feel about B and E?”

  “Same as you do. Last resort.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s where I’m at. I’m going over there.”

  Again Runyon said nothing.

  “You don’t have to go along. Stay here, keep watch.”

  “If you go, I go.”

  “I don’t want to risk your license, Jake—”

  “The hell with that. What kind of locks on his doors?”

  “Dead bolts, front and back. We’ll have to break a window.”

  “That can be done without too much noise, but we’ll need duct tape.”

  “There’s a roll in the trunk.”

  “You have a window picked out?”

  “There’s one on the left side—areaway between the garage and the house hides it from the neighbors.”

  They got out. Runyon checked the street while Bill took the duct tape and a flashlight out of the trunk; then they moved as one to the Lemoyne property, up the drive, into the shadowed areaway. The window there was small, high up, the glass pebbled and opaque. Bathroom. The sill extended outward just above Runyon’s head; he reached up with both hands, pushed upward on the frame. Wouldn’t budge. Locked. He ran fingertips over the glass. It didn’t feel too thick.

  He said against Bill’s ear, “N
eed something to stand on.”

  “Me. My back. You’re lighter than I am.”

  “Okay.”

  Bill gave him the duct tape, got down on all fours, and braced his body against the house wall. Runyon stepped up on his back, balanced himself by leaning his shoulder against the sill, then began tearing off strips of tape and pasting them to the cold glass just above the bottom of the frame. Took him five minutes to cover an area about a foot square. Bill bore his weight the entire time without moving or making an audible sound.

  Runyon paused. The street out front remained empty. A chilly breeze had kicked up; it made rustling noises in a nearby tree. A dog barked somewhere a long way off. Otherwise the night hush was unbroken.

  Ready. He leaned out from the wall, raised his left arm with the elbow extended, waited until the wind gusted, then drove the elbow quick and sharp into the center of the taped square. The glass broke all right, making the kind of sound that seemed loud when all your senses were ratcheted up but that wouldn’t carry far. He punched at the taped shards until he had a hole, peeled them away to widen it. A few pieces of glass fell inside, but most clung to the gummy tape. Another few seconds and he was able to reach inside. He found the window latch, wiggled it free. The frame resisted at first, finally broke loose and slid all the way up; the sounds it made likewise wouldn’t carry.

  Runyon swept the sill with his palm, cutting himself on a sliver, barely taking notice. Then he got both hands on the wood and levered himself up and squeezed his body through the opening, turning it until his buttocks were on the sill, keeping his head pulled down and his face averted from the hanging section of tape and broken glass. Once the upper part of his body was inside, he was able to maneuver one leg through, then the other. Sink below, toilet next to it. He lowered himself past the sink, onto the toilet seat and then down to the floor.

  When he leaned back to the window, Bill was on his feet and extending the flashlight. Runyon took it, said, “Back door. I’ll let you in there.” Bill nodded and drifted away.

  Runyon switched the flash on, keeping the beam shielded with his hand and letting just enough light leak through to guide the way. The bathroom opened into an empty bedroom, then into a hallway. He found the kitchen, went through it onto a utility porch. Three locks on the back door—dead bolt, push button, chain. When he had the door open, Bill came in walking a little bent and stiff: Runyon’s weight all those minutes must’ve put a strain on his back.

  He said, “Anything?”

  “Not so far.”

  Runyon flicked the light around the porch. Empty. They went into the kitchen. The shielded beam revealed dirty dishes, food left out on a dinette table. And a door with a lock on it next to the refrigerator.

  “Basement,” he said.

  “Let’s see if that door’s locked.”

  It wasn’t. Bill swept a hand along the wall inside, located a light switch. “Should be safe enough to put on the lights with the door shut. I’ll look down there. You check the street, then the other rooms up here.”

  “Right.”

  Bill stepped through onto the basement stairs, pulled the door shut behind him. Runyon followed the low-held beam into the front part of the house. Nothing in the living room. He made his way to one of the windows, eased an edge of the curtain aside to look out at Willard Street. Same stop-motion night scene: no cars, no people, all the lights stationary within the range of his vision.

  He went back into the hallway, opened the first door he came to. Another bedroom. He stepped in there long enough to shine the flash under the bed, inside the closet. The second bedroom was the one he’d been in before—Lemoyne’s bedroom, from the look of it. Unmade bed with a scattering of dust bunnies underneath, clothing tossed around, walk-in closet that contained nothing that didn’t belong there.

  One more room at the rear, smaller than the others. Kid’s room, little girl’s room: single bed with a frilly spread, frilly curtains, stuffed animals, dolls on shelves. Smelled musty in there, as if it hadn’t been aired out in a long time. Dust made a pale gleam on the dresser when the light touched it. Hadn’t been cleaned in a long time.

  He was back in the kitchen when he heard Bill on the basement stairs. Not being quiet now, moving fast. He had the door opened before Bill reached the landing. In the weak light from a string of overhead bulbs, Bill’s face wore a shadowed, masklike grimace.

  “Down here, Jake. Christ.”

  Runyon followed him down the stairs, across the basement, into a room that might’ve been a granny unit except for the padlock-and-hasp on the door. Daybed with rumpled sheets and blanket, toys on the floor, the remains of a partly eaten meal on a small table. Tiny bathroom at the far end. Closet in the side wall, another padlock on its door.

  Bill stopped in the middle of the room, snapped a hand at the closet. “Take a look in there.”

  The closet appeared empty from a distance. Was empty—nothing on the floor, shelf, clothes pole. It wasn’t until Runyon stepped all the way inside that he saw what Bill wanted him to see. On the end wall, big block letters written with a red crayon.

  LEMOYNE TAKING KIDNAPPED CHILD AND ME TO TRAILER IN THE WOODS. DON’T KNOW WHERE! HELP! TAMARA CORBIN

  23

  TAMARA

  It was almost six o’clock before Lemoyne decided he’d had enough of sitting under that tree.

  By then she had a plan. Wasn’t much of a plan, but anything was better than just pacing around that sticky trailer; she couldn’t even sit down for more than a minute or two before her nerves popped her up again. There were cheap chintz curtains on the two front windows, and she pulled those tight closed and tucked the ends in under the mesh screens. None of the bedroom or bathroom windows had curtains; she used towels and dish towels to cover those, fastening them around the screens. Hid the work she’d done on the screen in the small bedroom with an extra towel, to make sure Lemoyne wouldn’t be able to tell from outside that it’d been pried partway loose. Now if he wanted to come looking he wouldn’t be able to see in, tell where she was or what she was doing. Wouldn’t answer next time he called her. Wouldn’t go outside again no matter what he said or did. He wanted at her and Lauren, he’d have to come in and get them. And the minute he set foot across the threshold he’d get a face full of frying pan.

  That was the idea anyway. Problem was, he seemed to’ve lost interest in them completely. Just kept sitting out there under that tree. She peeked around the kitchen curtain every few minutes, didn’t once catch him looking this way. The only times she saw him move at all was when he lit another cigarette or took another swig out of a water bottle. As if he’d taken root there. Must have a bladder the size of Milpitas.

  And when he finally did quit sitting and brooding or vegetating or whatever it was, he still paid no attention to the trailer. That last time, when she looked out, he was on his feet and stretching out some of the kinks, looking off toward the barn. Then he headed off that way, walking slow. Didn’t even glance in this direction. Just walked straight to the barn and disappeared inside.

  Dude was totally unpredictable. For all she knew, he was in there getting a can of gas or kerosene—dump it on the trailer and set a match to it. Lord, would he actually do something like that? Roast them in here like a couple of chickens in an oven?

  She went to check on Lauren again. The girl had slept all afternoon except when dehydration woke her up and she cried out for water. Asleep now, moaning and thrashing around under the blanket. Flush on her face was almost scarlet; her skin felt fire-hot, clammy. Bad fever—her temp must be a degree or two over a hundred. And there was nothing to do about it except keep her warm, keep feeding her liquids. Wasn’t any aspirin, no medication of any kind in the trailer. She needed a doctor, maybe an IV—

  Outside, something made a sudden shrill whining, humming noise.

  Tamara hurried to the kitchen window. Empty yard was all she saw; Lemoyne was still in the barn, the door closed. That was where the noise was coming from, inside
the barn.

  Power tool. Saw, sander, something like that.

  She waited there for a time, breathless, flapping her ears. Wouldn’t have surprised her to see him walk out carrying a chain saw and wearing a hockey mask like Freddy Krueger. Nothing he did would’ve surprised her. But it didn’t happen. Nothing happened except that the noise went on, stopped for a few seconds, started up again. Grinding and buzzing now . . . sound a saw blade made cutting through wood.

  Building something out there. What?

  Coffins?

  Wasting time, Tamara. As long as he keeps on doing it, you don’t have to worry about making noise in here.

  First thing she did was pick Lauren up and carry her into the larger bedroom, where it’d be quieter and cooler with the window cracked open. Then she attacked the screen in the other one again. Imagined that loose bottom screw was Lemoyne’s head and she was gonna yank it right out of his neck. Whenever the yowling power tool quit, she did the same until it started up again.

  Hard, tiring work. Her arms began to feel as heavy as the pan, little shoots of pain running up them into her armpits. Sweat poured off her; she could smell herself, sour and gamy, and the smell turned her stomach and made it ache. Once she had to stop and rest for a minute because she felt woozy. Too much strain, not enough food, the sticky heat in there.

  Then, seemed like all at once, she heard the squeal of ripping metal, felt the screw start to pull out of the wall. Fresh strength flowed into her; she gave half a dozen violent yanks and twists . . .

  Got it!

  The screw popped free, leaving a jagged hole in the wall, and the corner gap widened by several inches on both sides. She dropped the pan on the bed, hooked all her fingers in the mesh, and managed to bend the frame part of the way up toward the top corner. Rip that top screw loose and she’d be able to warp the screen away from the window. Stand on one of the chairs, wedge her body up there . . . she’d get through that opening if she had to break the glass to do it.