Demons

by Bill Pronzini

  I said, “You’re a busy man, Mr. Purchase, and so am I, so let’s get right to the point. I’m not here to do you any harm. If you’ve checked me out-and I’m sure you have-you know I have a long-standing reputation for discretion, honesty, and straightforward business practices. Your name came up in a case I’m working on. As far as I know, the case has nothing to do with you; but there’s a chance you may know something that will help me get to the bottom of it, so I’d like to ask you some questions. Whatever you say to me is strictly between us-it goes no farther than this office.”

  “Well stated.” Purchase’s smile was gone now; he’d adopted a serious, attentive mien. The Confidant. He set his mug down, leaned closer. “You wrote Nedra Merchant’s name on your card. Is she your client?”

  “No. She’s involved with a party connected with my client.”

  “I see. Are you investigating her, then? Gathering evidence against her for some reason?”

  “Not at all. I don’t intend her harm in any way. Nor does my client.”

  “Then why are you interested in my relationship with her, such as it is?”

  “I’m not. But I have reason to believe you know her fairly well, and I-”

  “Who led you to believe that, may I ask?”

  “Confidentiality, Mr. Purchase.”

  “Yes, of course. But I’d like to know what your confidential source alleged was the nature of my relationship with Ms. Merchant.”

  “That it was personal.”

  “Sexual?”

  “Personal. Was it sexual?”

  “It was not. Nedra and I were friends, nothing more.”

  “Were? You’re not any longer?”

  “I haven’t seen her in quite some time,” Purchase said. “We no longer move in the same circles.”

  “How long a time?”

  “Nearly two years.”

  “And how long did you know her before that?”

  “A few months. We met at a political fund-raiser.”

  “Did you spend much time together?”

  “Not much, no. I took her to dinner twice, as I recall. And with my wife’s knowledge and consent, I might add.”

  “Did you and Nedra discuss personal matters?”

  “What sort of personal matters are you referring to?”

  “Her private life. Did she confide in you?”

  “You’ll have to be more specific than that.”

  “For instance, the names of men she was intimate with-”

  “No. That topic never came up.”

  “Her plans for the future? Places she liked to visit, where she went when she wanted to get away for a while?”

  “I don’t recall discussing those topics.”

  “Has she ever sent you postcards?” I asked.

  The question caught him off guard. “Postcards?”

  “Picture postcards. When she was away on a trip.”

  “Hardly. Nedra?” He frowned. “Why do you ask that?”

  “I thought you might have heard from her recently.”

  “Well, I haven’t. I told you, I’ve had no contact with the woman in nearly two years.”

  “Does the abbreviation ‘Thorn.’ mean anything to you?”

  “Thorn?”

  “The first part of a word like ‘Thornbridge.’ “

  “No,” Purchase said. He tugged at his lower lip. “What does that have to do with Nedra?”

  “It might help me find her.”

  “Find her?”

  “She’s been missing since early May.”

  “I don’t… missing? My God, you mean something’s happened to her?”

  “It’s a strong possibility.”

  “She simply… vanished? Without a trace?”

  “Minute traces, that’s all.”

  “And you’re trying to find her after all this time?”

  “Among other things, yes,” I said. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the circumstances of my investigation. Confidentiality, as I said before. But I am interested in knowing why she left the city so suddenly and where she is now.”

  “The police? Have they been told?”

  “Not yet.”

  “But they will be?”

  “Unless I can track her down myself, within a reasonably short period of time.”

  He tugged at his lower lip again; I could almost hear his thoughts grinding together. “If they are called in,” he said at length, “I would be in your debt if you didn’t give them my name. If I could help in any way, of course I would; but I can’t. And you know how the media can distort the most innocent situation, make it into something sordid.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’d be very grateful. I mean that.”

  Now he was Mr. Sincerity. And The Bargainer, covering his tail. If I balked even a little, and he perceived me as a threat, he’d become Mr. Hard-Ass in a twinkling.

  I said, “If it’s not necessary to give the authorities your name, Mr. Purchase, then I won’t do it. Fair enough?”

  I thought he might argue the point; he wanted a firm commitment. But he didn’t argue. Maybe his intelligence reports had stressed the fact that I wasn’t somebody who could be intimidated or bought off. Or maybe he was just being circumspect.

  “Fair enough,” he said, and put an end to our little interview by getting to his feet and holding out his hand. I stood, too, shook the hand even though I didn’t much feel like touching him again. “I hope you find Nedra safe and sound. She’s a fine person; I was proud to have her as a friend.”

  I nodded without speaking.

  “If there’s anything I can do-privately, just between you and me-don’t hesitate to call on me. Will you do that?”

  “Count on it, Mr. Purchase.”

  I went out of there thinking that he was a slimy son of a bitch. And that he had yet another persona among his repertoire, one that he’d slipped in and out of the whole time we were talking-particularly where his relationship with Nedra Adams Merchant was concerned.

  The Liar.

  ***

  THIS TIME, WHEN I TOOK MYSELF out to Castle Street in Daly City, Eddie Cahill was home. Or at least the white Ford van was there, parked in front of the third row house from the corner.

  I pulled up across the way, next to the weed-clogged vacant lot. It was colder out here, windier, with low-riding clouds that worked with the sun to create a light-and-shadow show. I sat for a few seconds, watching the run-down neighborhood alternately turn from pale gold to dull gray, getting my mind clear on what I wanted to say to Cahill. Then I crossed the street and went along a cracked walk and banged on the door of his rented row house, the way authority knocks.

  He opened up pretty quick. Not much reaction when he saw me; just a facial tightening along the jaw and under the cheekbones, until the skin in those places was tight as a drumhead. The blue eyes had malice in them. He was wearing Levi’s jeans and a white knit pullover that showed off muscle-knotted arms and well-developed pecs. Lifted weights in prison, I thought. The knuckles on his right hand were wrapped in a thin, crude bandage: badge of dishonor from last night’s attack on Victor Runyon.

  “Well,” he said, “the private cop,” and came out to stand at a little distance from me on the walk, leaving the door open. I could read his mind plainly enough. If there was going to be trouble, he wanted room to maneuver.

  “How’d you know I was a private investigator?”

  Crooked yellow grin. “What do you want, slick?”

  “It’s not what I want, Cahill, it’s what you want.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “Not to go back to prison.”

  No response. But the grin died fast.

  “You’ve been in twice,” I said. “You go back again and it’ll be hard time-Quentin or Soledad instead of Lompoc. A second fall for felony assault and a third felony conviction ought to net you a minimum of five years, even with plea bargaining. You don’t want to do another nickel behind bars.”

  “Bu
llshit,” Cahill said.

  “I saw you bust up Victor Runyon, remember? I’ll testify that it was an unprovoked attack, if it comes to that. So will Runyon,” I lied. “He’s already agreed to press charges if you don’t leave him and his family alone.”

  “He did something to Nedra. You think I’m gonna let him get away with it?”

  “He didn’t do anything to her. You’re wrong about that.”

  “The hell I am. Where is she, then?”

  “Away on an extended vacation.”

  “You think I buy that crap?”

  “She sent postcards to people telling them so.”

  “What people?”

  “Friends, business associates.”

  “Let’s see one of these cards.”

  “Not even if I had one with me.”

  “Then tell me where she’s been all this time.”

  “You know I’m not going to do that.”

  “Why’d she go off so sudden? Why’d she shut down her business without telling anybody? Huh? You think I don’t know about all that?”

  “She had her reasons.”

  Cahill blew air through his nose, a sharp, wet sound. “Jerking my chain so I’ll leave Runyon alone. Nice try, slick, but it won’t work. He did something to Nedra, damn right he did-that’s the truth.”

  “Why? Why would he harm her?”

  “She blew him off, that’s why. He told me so himself.”

  “He wouldn’t hurt her for that. Or for any reason.”

  “I say different. He’s so goddamn innocent, what’s he doing hanging around her house all the time?”

  “Keeping her affairs in order until she gets back.”

  “Bullshit. That don’t make any sense. He’s up to something.”

  “He’s in love with her, can’t leave her or her life alone. Hell, Cahill, if anybody ought to be able to understand that, it’s you. Same reason you kept hassling her two years ago, why you started hanging around her place again as soon as you got out of Lompoc.”

  His eyes bored into me. Anger had flared in them, fusing with the malice; the combination was like a critical mass heating up, beginning to glow. You could feel the violence radiating off him. Unpredictable as a critical mass, too-liable to go off at any second. I moved my feet apart a little, shifted my weight forward, lifted my hands above waist level. If he exploded at me he was going to set off a second volatile pile that might just knock him on his ass.

  “She got a restraining order against you once,” I said. “She’ll do it again when she comes home from her trip. You’ve got to know that.”

  Nothing from him.

  “If Runyon doesn’t put you back in the slam, if I don’t, then Nedra will. Can’t you see that? Don’t you care whether or not they shut the door on you again?”

  “I care,” he said.

  “Okay, then. Leave the Runyons alone and leave Nedra alone. No more phone calls, no more confrontations, no more threats, no more hassles. Walk away and start clean.”

  “Not if she’s dead. Not if he made her that way.”

  “Then back off and let me handle it. I’ll find her, prove she’s alive, prove Runyon hasn’t done anything to her.”

  “Why the hell should I?”

  “I just told you why, for Christ’s sake.”

  “You know what I say to that? I say fuck the Runyons. And fuck you, too, slick.”

  “If that’s how you want to play it, fine. But hear this. You keep making trouble for them, you’re going to have me and the cops to contend with. I don’t push the way Runyon does. In fact I don’t push at all.”

  “Big talk from an old fart.”

  “I can back it up.”

  “Sure you can. Break your neck with one little twist.”

  “Show me,” I said.

  He took a fast step toward me. It was a feint, to gauge my reaction; I didn’t move, didn’t flinch. I would have reacted the same way if it hadn’t been a feint. A little time went by while we played stare-down. I could hear the wind in the vacant lot behind me, hear it rattling something nearby. Feel it cold against my skin.

  “Well, Cahill?”

  “That ain’t gonna work with me either,” he said.

  “What isn’t?”

  “Push me into jumping you so you can hang another assault rap on me.”

  “I don’t need to hang one on you. I told you, Runyon’s prepared to do that himself after last night.”

  “You think I’m stupid? I’m not stupid. Runyon was gonna press charges, he’d already of done it and the cops’d be here rousting me, not you. He won’t do it because he’s afraid to, because of what he done to Nedra. I know that, even if you don’t. You tell him I know. You tell him I’ll find her one way or another, and when I do she better not be dead or hurt or he’ll be the sorriest son of a bitch who ever lived.”

  “I’ll take that as a threat on his life.”

  “Take it any damn way you want to.”

  Cahill hawked deep in his throat, spat a glob of mucus at my feet. When I still didn’t move he gave me the meltdown stare again, then the crooked yellow grin like a door opening briefly under a furnace. Then he turned on his heel and stalked into the house and banged the door behind him.

  CHAPTER 12

  MATT ANSWERED THE BELL AT THE Runyon house in Ashbury Heights. Giants sweatshirt today, sleeves cut off at the shoulders; in one hand he held a rumpled copy of the Sporting News. There was a thin line of blond fuzz on his upper lip, as if he’d suddenly decided to grow a mustache. He didn’t seem happy to see me, but then he didn’t seem unhappy either. The young-old eyes were as bleak as they’d been last night at S.F. General.

  “How’s it going?” I asked him.

  “Shitty. You want to see my mom?”

  “If she’s home.”

  “Out back in her studio. I’ll show you.”

  “How about your dad? Still in bed?”

  “No, he’s up.”

  “How’s he feeling?”

  “I don’t know,” Matt said.

  “Not talking?”

  Headshake. “I tried and Mom tried.”

  “He hasn’t tried to leave the house?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  He took me through the kitchen, out the back door. A covered walkway connected the house to an outbuilding that had been erected next to the garage. There was still plenty of yard-a long strip of lawn, flower beds, a liquidambar tree between the outbuilding and an eight-foot wooden fence with an access door shaped into it. Beyond the fence, partly visible from the porch, was one of the narrow pedestrian ladder streets that you find in some of the hillier sections of the city.

  Matt knocked on the studio door and we went in. It was one big room, naturally lighted: the east wall and part of the ceiling were of glass. Ficus plants in redwood tubs gave it a partial greenhouse effect. But there was no mistaking the fact that it was a painter’s studio. Canvases in various sizes were everywhere-finished, unfinished, blank; some displayed on easels and on the two white walls, others in rows along the floor. Kay Runyon, wearing a paint-spattered smock, stood before an easel set up in front of the glass wall, a table beside her cluttered with paints and brushes and an open bag of dryer lint. But she hadn’t been working; just standing there, arms folded across her breasts, like a sculptured likeness of an artist in repose.

  She turned abruptly as we entered. At first she seemed more pleased to see me than her son had been, but that didn’t last long. One careful look at my face told her the news wasn’t good; the hope died flickering. She made a gesture to Matt, who was hovering near the door, and he left us without a word. Then she picked up a rag, wet part of it from a tin of turpentine, and began to scrub at her hands-clean hands, no paint on them anywhere.

  “You found out who he is,” she said. “You saw him.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you couldn’t frighten him or make him listen to reason.”

  “No, but I gave him plenty to think about.”

&
nbsp; “Is he as… dangerous as I think he is?”

  I couldn’t lie to her. “Potentially.”

  “I knew it. Tell me about him.”

  I told her. Cahill’s name and where he lived, his prison record, the restraining order two years ago, the gist of my conversation with him earlier. She listened stone-faced. When I was done she took cigarettes and a lighter from a pocket in her smock, set fire to a weed before she spoke.

  “He’ll come after Vic again.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Not if I can talk your husband into filing an assault complaint against him.”

  “You can try,” she said without much hope.

  “Even if he won’t do it,” I said, “the situation with Cahill isn’t as grim as it looks. He doesn’t want to go back to prison. He knows he can’t hurt your husband again without paying a high price; he’s not anonymous any longer and neither are his motives. He’s smart enough to realize that and I think it’ll force him to put a leash on himself.” I paused. “You know your husband far better than I do, Mrs. Runyon. Is he capable of violence against another human being?”

  “My God,” she said, “you don’t think Cahill’s right? That Vic did something to that woman?”

  “I don’t, no. I’m asking your opinion, if you think it’s even remotely possible.”

  “No,” she said. “Absolutely not.”

  “Then no matter how much Cahill might prod and threaten, there can’t be anything for him to find, anything to set him off again. If I can find Nedra, alive or dead, and prove to Cahill that your husband is innocent, he’ll take himself right out of your lives.”

  “If,” she said. “That’s a big if.”

  “Maybe not. I’ve already turned up some leads.” I told her about the postcards Dr. Muncon had received.

  “That proves Nedra is alive, doesn’t it?”

  “Not to Cahill; he didn’t believe me when I told him about the cards. I’m not so sure I buy it either.”

  “You doubt that she sent them?”

  “Muncon said they were in her handwriting and handwriting isn’t as easy to fake as people think. What bothers me is that Muncon received cards but your husband apparently didn’t; and I’ve yet to find any evidence that she sent cards or letters to any of her clients. Why only to her therapist? Something doesn’t ring true.”