Eberhardt… was that the way it was with him? He’d wanted his freedom, he said-from me, from my way of doing things. From years of being folded and stuffed into neat little slots that conformed with my view of what he was and ought to be? From an egotistical tyrant who was so well insulated he didn’t even know he was either one? No wonder he’d quit me.
No wonder Kerry might be quitting me.
And when they were both gone, the seal would be complete. I’d become a self-fulfilled prophecy: the true dark-souled loner, forever lost inside himself, shrieking his pain in a wilderness where no one was left to hear or care.
***
I WENT TO BED EXPECTING to sleep little, and to have bad dreams when I did drop off. Instead I went out as soon as I went down, and stayed out until gray dawn, and didn’t dream at all. But it was not a good rest. I awoke feeling logy, with grit in my eyes and a tightness behind them, like the residue of a severe migraine. Not even a long, hot shower and three cups of coffee took away much of the grinding tiredness.
At least I didn’t feel as bad about myself this morning. You never hate anyone as much in the daylight as you do in the dark, including the party that stares back at you from the bathroom mirror. Weak, selfish, egotistical tyrant? Dark-souled loner? All of those things in a way, yes, but none to any radical degree. Nor was what had happened with Eberhardt, what was happening with Kerry, all my fault. It takes two to screw up a personal relationship, no matter what the circumstances. I’d be a hell of a lot better able to cope with what lay ahead if I kept that in mind.
Another thing, too: Nobody can screw up a man’s relationship with himself worse than he can, working alone.
CHAPTER 14
“HELLO?” WOMAN’S VOICE, not young, not old, with a faint trace of an accent.
“Is this the Blessing residence?”
“Yes, it is.”
“The Paul Blessing who owns Blessing’s Furniture Showrooms?”
“That’s right. You want to talk to Mr. Blessing?”
What would I say to him? Good morning, I’m Kerry Wade’s significant other and I’d like to know if you’re screwing her and how serious things are between the two of you in any case. Oh, and by the way, was that your wife I just spoke to?
“Hello?” the woman said. “You still there?”
“I’m here.”
“Okay, I’ll get him for you-”
“No, that’s not necessary. Are you Mrs. Blessing?”
“What?”
“Mrs. Blessing, Paul’s wife.”
“Me?” She made a noise that was either a snort or a laugh. “I’m the housekeeper.”
“Is Mrs. Blessing home?”
“There isn’t a Mrs. Blessing. No more.”
“Oh? Divorce?”
“She died,” the woman said. “Last year.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say to that.
“I have work to do,” she said. “What’s your name? I’ll tell Mr. Blessing and you talk to him-”
“Thanks, but don’t disturb him. I’ll call again later.”
I hung up feeling like a fool. So now I knew the Paul Blessing in Tiburon was the right one and that he was a widower. So what? What was I going to do with the knowledge? Confront him-get in his face, tell him to leave Kerry alone? Threaten him, pound on him… the Mr. Macho, Eddie Cahill approach? For Christ’s sake, I had no claims on Kerry, and Blessing was as legally unattached as she was, and we were all adults here anyway, right? These things happened and you had to accept them, bow out gracefully if it came to that, que sera, sera. That was the only civilized way to deal with it, the only intelligent way. Even if you were hurting and scared right down to the marrow.
Damn office was cold, even though I’d put the heat on when I came in. Fog capered outside the skylights, running and tumbling under the lash of an icy ocean wind. The wind would banish the fog later on and there’d be sun most of the day, but right now there was the cold and the gray. I got up and put my overcoat back on and sat down again. And stared at the phone. And picked up the receiver and tapped out Kerry’s number.
Click, and a humming, and: “Hello. I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you’ll leave your name and number I’ll return your call as soon as-”
I banged the receiver down, the first time I had ever disconnected without talking to her machine. There wasn’t any point in leaving a message. She knew I wanted to see her, and the fact that she hadn’t called meant she was avoiding me. Guilt, fear, whatever.
I stared at the phone some more. God, I wished there was somebody I could talk to about this. Cybil? Kerry wouldn’t have told her mother she was having an affair. Cybil was back on my side after months of shunning me; and Kerry wouldn’t have wanted to upset her now that she had finally recovered from the year-long depression caused by her husband Ivan’s sudden death. And if I broke the news to Cybil, it would do more harm than good. I did not want to burden her any more than Kerry did.
Bobbie Jean? She and Kerry were still friends, but I doubted that Kerry would confide in her about a thing like this. I couldn’t either. I had spoken to Bobbie Jean only once since Eberhardt walked out, right afterward; she’d called to say how sorry she was. It had been an awkward conversation, and a brief one. She was too tightly linked to Eberhardt for us to go on being comfortable with each other, and we both knew it.
Who else was there? Nobody else. Not Barney Rivera, that little prick; the way I felt now I would never deal with him again, personally or professionally. Not Joe DeFalco. Not any of my other acquaintances.
Kerry was the only one.
Well, she wouldn’t hide out for long; she wasn’t made that way. Still, I was not going to just hang and rattle. Better for both of us if it came from her, straight out, so I’d give her the weekend-no more. If she was still avoiding me come Monday, I’d force it. Any longer than that and I might not be emotionally capable of handling it the right way.
One more call, business this time, then I’d get out of here, get some people around me. Worst place for me right now was alone in a room, any room.
Annette Olroyd’s number. Four rings, and an elderly female voice said formally, “Yes? May I help you?”
“Ms. Olroyd?”
“No, this is her mother. Annette is out of town just now.”
“When do you expect her back?”
“Sometime this evening. May I take a message?”
“Yes, please.” I gave my name and profession. “Tell your daughter I’d like to talk to her on an urgent matter concerning Nedra Merchant.”
“Oh. She isn’t in any trouble, is she?”
“Your daughter? No, not at all-”
“I meant Nedra. Annette will be terribly upset if she is.”
“Do you know Nedra, Mrs…?”
“Mrs. Davis. I don’t know her well, but I met her once and liked her.”
“Is she a close friend of Annette’s?”
“Not close, no. She was a godsend.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well… her counsel helped Annette through a very difficult time, you know.” Mrs. Davis seemed to think I had some knowledge of the relationship between her daughter and Nedra Merchant; that was one reason she was being open with me. Another was that she was probably the chatty, unassuming type. “Much more so than Dr. Muncon’s, I must say.”
“Dr. Philip Muncon?”
“Yes, that’s right. Do you know him?”
“We’ve met. Is that how your daughter met Nedra, through the doctor?”
“At his office, yes. She was so devastated when Bob left her, it seemed that therapy was the only solution. We didn’t dream that another of his patients would be the one to provide it.”
Right. Who knew men and how to deal with the breakup of a male-female relationship better than a woman like Nedra Merchant? She must have taken pity on Annette Olroyd. She may not have had any women friends-may not have liked women much, as her ex-husband had testified-but the role of sage
and mother confessor is difficult for anyone to resist.
I asked, “How long has it been since Annette last saw Nedra?”
“Oh, several months,” Mrs. Davis said. “Nedra left the city suddenly, you know.”
“Yes. I’m trying to locate her.”
“Annette was upset at first; she thought something might have happened to Nedra. You can imagine how relieved she was when she found out that wasn’t the case.”
“How did she find it out?”
“Nedra wrote to her.”
“Wrote to her. A postcard, by any chance?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“More than one?”
“Two, I believe.”
“Can you tell me where the cards were mailed?”
“A resort area… a lake somewhere. I don’t recall which one.”
“Lake Tahoe?”
“No, I don’t think it was Lake Tahoe.”
“Did you see any of the cards, Mrs. Davis?”
“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t.”
“Did Annette tell you what they said?”
“Oh, you know, the usual things people write on postcards. She was fine and expected to be away for quite a while.”
“Would you know if your daughter saved the cards?”
“I expect she did. Annette inherited my packrat tendencies.”
“Would you be able to find them?”
“… You mean now? Without Annette’s permission?”
“Yes, ma’am. I wouldn’t ask except that it’s very important I locate Nedra as soon as possible. The name of the lake and the town or towns where they were mailed would be a great help.”
“Oh, I couldn’t. I don’t have any idea where she might have put them and I don’t believe in invading anyone’s privacy, even in a good cause. No, I’m sorry, but I think it’s best if you talk to Annette about this when she gets back.”
***
JAMES KEVERNE WAS WHAT the newspeak advocates would call “a person of weight.” He stood about five-nine, would probably tip the scales at 275, and had two well-defined chins and an incipient third. He also had male-pattern baldness-what hair he still owned was carrot-colored and curly-and a none too jovial manner. Nedra Merchant’s relationship with him, I thought as we shook hands, figured to be strictly professional.
I told him I was investigating a matter involving Nedra Merchant; that she’d dropped out of sight under unusual circumstances in early May and I was trying to find her. He said he hadn’t had any dealings with her in over a year. He also said he knew virtually nothing about her private life. I believed him on both counts.
He asked then, “Do you suspect foul play?”
“It’s a possibility.”
“Is that the reason you’re here? My paralegal said you mentioned a restraining order. The one I obtained against Edward Cahill, I assume.”
“That’s right.”
“You think Cahill is involved in her disappearance?”
“No,” I said. “He was still in prison in May; he got out just three weeks ago.”
“I knew he’d been sent back to prison, of course,” Keverne said. “A felony assault charge, wasn’t it? Ms. Merchant was very relieved.”
“He made life pretty miserable for her, I understand.”
“Yes. She was terrified of him.”
“Well, I’m afraid prison didn’t straighten him out any. He’s still obsessed with her. He’s been hanging around her house, and two nights ago he committed another assault, against a friend of hers. He also has been making threatening telephone calls to the friend and the friend’s family.”
“I see.”
“If Nedra Merchant is alive and well, and he finds out where she is, he’ll make trouble for her again. Unless he can be put back behind bars.”
“Naturally I’d like to help put him there. And help you find Ms. Merchant. But I don’t see how I can do either.”
“Neither do I. Frankly, Mr. Keverne, I’m grabbing at straws.”
“About all I can tell you are the details of Cahill’s harassment two years ago, if you’d care to hear them.”
“I would, yes.”
Keverne folded his hands together; they were thick-fingered and as red as a washerwoman’s. “Cahill made dozens of telephone calls to Ms. Merchant. At first they were pleading, cajoling; all he wanted, he said, was to spend some time with her. Inevitably they turned sexual in nature, and finally threatening.”
“Did she change her telephone number?”
“Of course. Under the circumstances, it did no good.”
“What circumstances?”
“Cahill had been fired by then, but he still had access to telephone company records. I suppose a fellow employee helped him.”
“Wait a minute. Cahill worked for Pac Bell?”
“You didn’t know that?”
“No, I didn’t. In what capacity?”
“Repairman and installer,” Keverne said. “Ms. Merchant was having a problem with one of her extension phones and Cahill was the man sent out to fix it. She made the mistake of being nice to him and he misinterpreted her motives. The calls began the next day.”
I asked Keverne a few more questions-about the incidents in which Cahill had accosted Nedra Merchant in public, mainly. But they were in the interest of thoroughness; the answers were irrelevant. My mind was on what he’d already told me, forming a hunch that grew stronger by the minute.
If the hunch proved out, Eddie Cahill was even more slyly dangerous than I’d thought. And James Keverne might just have handed me the key to lock him away inside another prison cell.
***
IN MY CAR I USED the mobile phone to call George Agonistes at his home in San Bruno. He was a fellow private investigator, one of the new breed of specialist; we’d once worked on the same job, from different angles, and developed a mutual respect for each other’s abilities. We exchanged favors every now and then, ours being a back-scratching kind of business.
He was home and he wanted to stay there. “I don’t work Saturdays or Sundays,” he said, “not for any amount of money.”
“I think I can get my client to pay five hundred for an afternoon’s work.”
“Maybe I could make an exception,” he said.
I gave him the Crestmont address, asked how long before he could meet me there. He said twelve-thirty. It was eleven now. An hour and a half was plenty of time for me to swing by Ashbury Heights on the way.
“Twelve-thirty’s fine. Bring all your equipment, George. I don’t know what kind of thing we’re dealing with here.”
“You insult my professionalism,” Agonistes said. “I never go out on a job without a full load. Not these days, I don’t.”
***
KAY RUNYON OPENED THE DOOR to my ring, custard-pale, squinting through the smoke from one of her cigarettes. She started to speak, but I put my finger to my lips and caught her arm and drew her out onto the porch. Then I motioned for her to shut the door, to follow me down to the landing between the two flights of brick steps.
“What is it?” she said then. “What’s going on?”
“I didn’t want to talk in the house.”
“Vic’s lying down, he wouldn’t have heard us-”
“It’s not Vic I’m worried about.”
“I don’t understand…”
“Have you had any maintenance or repair people here in the past three weeks? A man from the telephone company who showed up without being called?”
She said blankly, “The phone company?”
“Wanting to check a line or phone inside.”
“… A repairman did come out, yes, but-”
“Describe him.”
“I wasn’t here.”
“Who was? Matt?”
“Yes. He mentioned it when I came home that night.”
“Is Matt here now?”
She nodded.
“Go in and ask him to come out here with you. Don’t say anything else.”
&
nbsp; “Will you please tell me what’s going on-?”
“Go get Matt. Then I’ll tell both of you.”
She hurried into the house, returned with her son in tow. I said to him, “Your mother tells me a man from the telephone company showed up a while back.”
“Yeah. A repair guy.”
“When was that?”
“I don’t know, a couple of weeks ago.”
“What did he tell you?”
“He said there was a problem with the lines in the neighborhood and he needed to check our phones. He told me what it was, the problem, but it didn’t mean anything to me.”
“And you let him inside?”
“Well, I didn’t see any reason not to. I mean, he was wearing a uniform and a tool belt with all the junk phone repair guys carry, and he showed me an ID card with his picture on it.”
“What name was on the ID card?”
“I didn’t pay much attention.”
“How long was he in the house?”
“Half an hour or so.”
“Were you with him the whole time?”
“I don’t remember… I guess not, no.”
“Describe him for me, Matt.”
“He was… I don’t know, short, about my folks’ age. Built pretty good-like he worked out a lot.”
“Losing his hair? Reddish face?”
“Yeah, that’s right. What-?”
Kay Runyon made a sharp little noise in her throat. “My God, it was Cahill, wasn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so.” Wearing his old uniform and tool belt, flashing his old Pac Bell ID-all kept illegally after he was fired and then stashed somewhere while he was in prison. At his sister’s home, probably.
“What was he doing here?”
“I think he was planting bugs,” I said.
“Bugs?”
Matt knew; seventeen-year-old kids know a hell of a lot more these days than my generation did at that age. “Listening devices,” he said angrily. The anger was directed at himself as much as at Eddie Cahill. “He put them in the house so he could spy on us. And it’s my damn fault, I let him in so he could do it.”
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