Camouflage (Nameless Detective Mysteries) (13 page)

They had their look at the body, turned the kitchen over to the forensic team that had come in with them, then started their Q & A. Bryn first, after which her rights were read to her, then Runyon, then Darby, who settled down once he realized his accusations against her were having no effect. At first, foolishly, she disobeyed instructions by trying to explain what had happened and to justify her actions. Runyon warned her to wait until she’d consulted with her attorney, and after that she kept quiet. He answered the questions put to him truthfully but impersonally and with as little detail as possible. Otherwise he, too, kept his own counsel.

The EMTs showed up finally, late because it hadn’t been an emergency call. The verdict on Bobby was slight cartilage damage to his nose, minor facial injury, and suffering from shock. Hospitalization not required, a visit to the family doctor recommended if the shock symptoms persisted. Darby vehemently denied that Francine had been abusing the boy; Bryn, with Runyon’s backup, just as vehemently insisted she had. One of the inspectors, Crabtree, tried to talk to the boy; so did Darby. Neither of them got anywhere.

The whole thing took little more than an hour. End result: Bobby was allowed to remain in his father’s charge and Bryn was handcuffed and turned over to the pair of uniforms for transport to the women’s jail facility at the Hall of Justice. Runyon managed a few words with her before she was led away, to let her know what he was going to do. A short time afterward, the inspectors allowed him to leave on his promise to appear at the Hall of Justice the next day to sign a formal statement.

There was nothing more he could do now. Bail would probably be set high at her arraignment—it usually was in a homicide case, no matter what arguments the defense attorney put forth—but whatever the amount, Runyon wouldn’t let it be a problem. Abe Melikian owed him a favor—he’d saved the bondsman a bundle on the Madison case a short while back—and he’d call it in when the time came.

Runyon was too jittery, too jammed up inside, to face his empty apartment. He fed his Ford a tankful of gas, took himself out of the city to the south and on up to Skyline. He drove all the way down the spine of the Coast Range to the intersection with Highway 84, took 84 over to the coast and its juncture with Highway 1 at San Gregorio. Dark, winding, forest-flanked roads, fog draped, neither of them with much traffic. The kind of long, semirelaxing night ride he’d been prone to before Bryn came into his life.

But the drive didn’t ease him down any on this night. Didn’t banish the doubts that kept crawling like bugs through his mind.

Had Bryn told the whole truth about Francine’s death?

He was pretty sure she’d never lied to him before; he didn’t want to believe she was lying now. Yet something didn’t quite ring true about her story. It seemed plausible enough on the surface, but when he replayed it in his mind it struck a faintly rehearsed chord, like half a hundred similar tales he’d listened to that had been proven partly or completely false during his years on the Seattle force.

What she’d said about Francine on Saturday echoed darkly in his memory.

I don’t blame Bobby for wishing her dead. I’d like to kill her myself.…

Damn her! She’ll keep right on hurting him, and the next time … the next time … I won’t let it happen. I
won’t.

Accident as she claimed, end result of a struggle after Francine picked up the knife? Or had Bryn been the one to pick it up, use it deliberately—maybe even gone to the flat with that idea in mind?

Self-defense—or murder?

15

Friday was what the media refers to as an eventful news day. And like much of what the media reports, the news that came my way was neither pleasant nor particularly enlightening.

The first piece came from Jake Runyon. He and Tamara were having a stand-up conference in her office when I walked into the agency. The grim set of their faces foretold the fact that I was not going to like the subject of their discussion. Right. I didn’t like it one damn bit.

“Police are holding Bryn on a homicide charge,” Runyon told me.

“Jesus. What happened?”

“Party to the death of the woman who’s been abusing her son.”

“Woman? You said the boy’s father was the abuser.”

“Turned out I was wrong. His fiancée, Francine Whalen.”

Runyon couldn’t seem to keep still; he took a restless turn to the door and back, stood then with his feet moving in place like a man on one of those treadmill machines as he explained the situation.

I said when he was done, “Mother reacting to an assault on her son by a woman with a documentable history of violent abuse. Justifiable. Dragovich is a good man—he’ll get her off.”

“That’s what I keep telling myself. But there’s only her word Whalen was the one who picked up the knife. And Whalen’s history is only documentable if one of her other victims steps forward. Darby’s still in denial—he keeps insisting Whalen never laid a hand on Bobby.”

“So it all hinges on the boy.”

“And getting him to talk won’t be easy. His father’s liable to do or say something to drive him deeper into his shell.”

Bleak, all right. But still a long way from hopeless. “You need some time off to deal with this, Jake?”

“I don’t know yet. I might.”

“Take as much as you need. And if there’s anything else we can do…”

Runyon nodded, his feet still moving, and scraped a hand over his slablike face. He’d shaved this morning, but it had been a hasty and probably distracted job; there were little patches of stubble on his chin and one cheek. His eyes were blood flecked, the bags under them as gray as duffles. He hadn’t slept much last night, if he’d slept at all.

“I’ll let you know how it goes,” he said, and he was gone.

Tamara said, “That man’s had a miserable damn life. Everybody he cares about … bam, something bad happens.”

“Yeah.”

“You think he’s in love with Bryn?”

“Hard to tell what Jake’s feelings are. But I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Then Dragovich better get her off.”

“He will if anybody can.”

“Life’s a bitch sometimes,” Tamara said. She let out a breathy sigh, then sat down at her desk and punched up a file on her Mac. “Might as well get back to work.”

“Might as well.”

“Rose O’Day,” she said.

“Pardon?”

“The old woman who rented a room from McManus, the one the neighbor told you about.”

“Oh, right. What about her?”

What about her was the second bit of the day’s news.

“I did some checking last night,” Tamara said. “Lots of history until three years ago, but nothing since. No current residence in the Bay Area or Michigan or anywhere else. No death record. No brother in Saginaw, or other living family members.”

“So it seems McManus lied to Mrs. Hightower.”

“Seems?”

“If the neighbor’s memory is accurate after three years. It’s hearsay in any case.”

“Well, that’s not all I came up with. When the woman’s husband died five years ago, his insurance policy paid her a death benefit of fifty thousand. She also inherited some rural property his brother willed to him in West Marin worth twice that much.”

“So?”

“There’s no record of her investing the fifty K, so chances are she stuck it in her bank account. And that account’s still active.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yep. I couldn’t find out how much is in the account without some serious security breaching.”

“Always a don’t-cross line. Local bank?”

“B of A branch at Embarcadero Center.”

“Does the Marin property still belong to her?”

“No record of it being sold.”

“Taxes current or delinquent?”

“Paid up to date.”

“So we’ve got two possibilites,” I said. “One is that she still resides somewhere in or near the city. It’s not inconceivable that an elderly woman living alone in a rented room could fall under the radar.”

“You believe that? I don’t.”

“I didn’t say I believed it. I said it was one possibility. The other—”

“—is that McManus killed Rose O’Day to get control of her assets. That’s the one I believe.”

“You don’t necessarily have to commit murder to get your hands on a person’s assets.”

“No? Why else would she lie about what happened to O’Day?”

“If anything happened to her.”

“Well, something happened to Virden. One disappearance, one probable disappearance—”

“Make that possible.”

“Okay, possible. But I don’t buy the coincidence. We’re pretty sure McManus is an ID thief, right? Steal one woman’s ID, and that woman disappears. Stands to reason she’d steal another woman’s money and make
her
disappear if she had the chance.”

“Granted,” I said. “But it’s still only conjecture. I hate to keep harping on this, but we need clear-cut evidence of wrongdoing before we can act and we don’t have any. Not where McManus is concerned, not where Virden is concerned, not where Rose O’Day is concerned.”

Tamara had that stubborn bulldog look, the kind I’d seen before and not just on her; it had stared back at me from a mirror more than a few times. “I’ve got an idea how we might get some,” she said.

“Okay, let’s hear it.”

“Get inside the McManus house and check it out, check out the property. Got to be something incriminating there.”

“Don’t tell me you’re advocating B and E?”

“Uh-uh. McManus rents rooms, doesn’t she?”

“To elderly people. She’s no dummy and she’s already suspicious. Probably wouldn’t even let you in the house.”

“Wasn’t thinking of me. Alex. He’s forty-six, but he can pass for a few years older. Old enough.”

“Same objection applies.”

“Worth a try, isn’t it?”

I thought about it. There were other arguments against the idea, but none strong enough to shoot it down. Pretty soon I said, “Might work. If the room’s still for rent—the sign was down when I was there yesterday. And if McManus has no prejudice against Latinos. He’ll have to be damn careful if he does get in.”

“You know Alex—he’s always careful.”

“Okay, then. Give him a call.”

“Already did. He’s on his way.”

One jump ahead of me, as usual. “There’s another tack we can take,” I said. “Find out the names of some of McManus’s other roomers, track down their present whereabouts. Maybe one of them has some information we can use. What’s the real estate outfit that handles her lease?”

“Barber and Associates. Offices on Sansome downtown.”

“You have the agent’s name?”

“No, but I can get it.”

“Do that. I’ll make a second canvass of McManus’s neighbors, too—have another talk with Selma Hightower.”

Tamara favored me with a satisfied grin. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” she said.

*   *   *

Alex Chavez had come and gone, fully briefed, and I was on my way out when the third piece of news arrived. This one came in a text message from Felice Johnson, Tamara’s friend and contact at SFPD. Tamara had asked her for a personal BOLO for David Virden’s Porsche Cayman, and the car had just turned up—or what was left of it had—in an alley out near the Cow Palace. A couple of message exchanges later, we had the details.

Found abandoned, stripped down to the frame. The officers who’d spotted it were regulars on that beat; their report said it hadn’t been there when they made their first pass through the area shortly past midnight. Driver’s window smashed, the ignition hot-wired. No signs of blood, interior or exterior. Nothing to indicate what might have happened to Virden.

I said, “The ignition hot-wire pretty much rules out a carjacking.”

“Tells me it was abandoned twice,” Tamara said. “First time on some dark street near the projects. Wouldn’t’ve lasted more than an hour after midnight. Sweet set of wheels like that’s a prime target for car boosters. Then hot-wired and driven over to that alley and stripped.”

“McManus and Carson again.”

“Who else? One of ’em drove it out of Dogpatch sometime Tuesday; the other one followed in the SUV to bring her back.”

“That’s one explanation,” I said. “Another is that the first boost was by somebody in Dogpatch or elsewhere.”

“Car thieves don’t hang on to a ride three days before they strip it.”

“Nonprofessionals might. Joyriders, gangbangers.”

“Then what happened to Virden?”

“Hit over the head, robbed, the body dumped where it hasn’t been found yet.”

“By joyriders or gangbangers? I don’t buy it. McManus and Carson whacked him, all right.”

“How do you suppose they managed it? Big healthy guy, mad as hell, and two smallish women.”

“And one killer dog. Sicced that Rottweiler, what’s his name, Thor, on him, ripped his throat out.”

“Uh-huh. Which would mean blood all over the place. One hell of a job cleaning it up.”

“Not if it happened outside.”

“Where his screams could be heard a block away.”

Tamara made a face at me.

I said, “This isn’t getting us anywhere. Time to call Judith LoPresti, let her know about the Porsche being found. Police probably wouldn’t have notified her yet and it’s better if she hears it from us.”

“You going to say anything about McManus and Carson?”

“That we might be dealing with a couple of identity thieves who also happen to be Madam Bluebeards? Not hardly. She’ll be upset enough as it is.”

16

JAKE RUNYON

When he left the agency he drove down to the Hall of Justice to have a talk with Bryn. Only he didn’t get to do that because they wouldn’t let him see her. She’d been put into Administrative Segregation for her own protection the night before, which meant no visitors except for her attorney. Why the hell would they AdSeg her? Nobody would tell Runyon the reason.

Maybe Dragovich could. Runyon wanted to talk to him anyway, in person, to get his take on her legal situation. He called Dragovich’s law office to make sure he was in before driving downtown.

The doubts about Bryn’s story still plagued him. He’d been over it and over it and still he couldn’t quite put his finger on what rang false. Part of it had to do with the sudden shift in her emotional makeup: frantic, nearly hysterical, when she’d called him, calm when he’d arrived at Darby’s flat. The twenty-five minutes it’d taken him to get to the Marina was time enough for her to regain control, yet her calm hadn’t had the residue of shock and terror in it. What he’d seen, sensed, was a mixture of resignation and determination, as if in the interim she’d made some sort of accommodation or decision. Possible he’d read her reactions wrong, but his cop’s instincts said he hadn’t.