Camouflage (Nameless Detective Mysteries) (9 page)

How many times had she stood here like this, thinking these same thoughts? More than she could count after the stroke and before she met Jake. Only a couple since he’d come into her life, the one good thing that had made living bearable the past few months. Somebody she could lean on, take strength from; somebody to drive away the loneliness and despair for short periods; somebody she cared about beside Bobby, at a time when she believed she would never care about anyone else again. If it hadn’t been for Jake and Bobby, she would have mixed the Xanax and Vicodin and wine cocktail by now. And the rest of her would be as dead as the left side of her face.

The depression was bad tonight, as bleak and overpowering as it had ever been. Worrying about that bitch Francine hurting Bobby again,
really
hurting him, putting him in the hospital, putting him in a coffin … it was maddening because there was nothing Bryn could do short of giving in to her impulses and destroying the woman. Running away with Bobby to some place where he’d be safe wasn’t an option. She didn’t have enough money to travel very far or hide for very long; wherever she and Bobby went, Robert had the money and the resources to find them. And then he’d make sure she never saw her son again.

Jake was doing everything he could—he’d already found out that Francine had a probable history of abuse with her two sisters—but it wasn’t enough. The sister in Berkeley had mental problems and wouldn’t talk about the abuse; the sister in Ojai wouldn’t, either. How could they expose Francine for what she was before she hurt Bobby so badly that his father could no longer deny the truth? All Robert could or wanted to see now was that falsely sweet young face.

Still, Jake was the only hope she had. Keep the faith in him, pray for Bobby’s safety … otherwise, the despair would consume her. And then she really would mix and swallow that last cocktail.

Bryn put the Xanax back into the medicine cabinet, turned away from the mirror. Her hands and face were sweaty; she dried them on a towel, then retied the scarf over the dead half. Even when she was alone in the house, she’d taken to hiding it behind cloth. Out of sight, out of mind—that was the idea, anyway, even if it didn’t always work.

In the kitchen she poured another glass of wine. How many did this make today? She’d lost count. But it would have to be the last. She had to walk a fine line with alcohol. Just enough took the edge off her anxiety, allowed her to continue functioning; too much made the depression worse.

She lifted the glass, then set it down again. She really didn’t need another drink—she’d had too much already. The last glass was what had led her into the bathroom, to remove the scarf and stand there wallowing in her misery. Already there was a dull ache in her temples and her mouth was dry and sour tasting; any more alcohol and she’d suffer for it in the morning.

She took a small funnel out of the utility drawer, poured the wine back into the bottle, and returned the bottle to the fridge. The house held an empty kind of silence, broken only by an occasional settling creak and the humming and rattling of the wind outside. She’d had a CD of Gilbert and Sullivan’s
Pirates of Penzance
playing earlier, spritely music in an effort to ward off the demons, but it had run through and stopped. She thought about starting it again, decided she was no longer in the mood for comic opera. Another CD? Something on television? They didn’t appeal, either.

What she really wanted was to talk to Bobby, make sure he was all right. But she’d called last night and Robert had grudgingly let her talk to him and he seemed okay then, if still quiet and distant. She couldn’t keep calling every night. Robert would refuse to put the boy on, harrangue her about bothering him at home, and then hang up; he’d done that before. And if she called and he wasn’t home and Francine answered, the bitch would hang up right away. That had happened before, too.

Would Robert let her know immediately if anything serious happened to Bobby? He might, and he might not. She might not know about it for hours, even days.…

“Stop,” she said aloud. “Stop, stop.”

She went down the hall into her office, booted up her Mac, and opened the Hardiman file. Her current project—designing an extensive new Web site for Hardiman Industries. It was half-finished, the graphics satisfactory so far, but she hadn’t been able to work steadily on it for days. The deadline was looming; she’d have to get back to it soon or risk losing the commission. Now? Not now. Her thoughts were muzzy and the color images blurred as she stared at the screen. Tomorrow morning …

And the rest of tonight?

It was too early for bed. Maybe she could do a little more work on one of the three unfinished watercolor paintings.… Bad idea, for the same reason she couldn’t concentrate on the Hardiman Web site design. Her headache had worsened; she felt a little sick to her stomach.

Warm bath, she thought, that might help. In the bathroom again she drank a glass of Alka-Seltzer to relieve the queasy feeling. She was leaning into the tub to turn on the water taps when the doorbell rang.

Jake? He usually called before he came over … unless he had something new and important to tell her. She hurried out to the front door, unlocked it, and pulled it open without first looking through the peephole. And sucked in her breath and felt her body go rigid because it wasn’t Jake standing there in the glow of the porch light.

“Hello, Bryn,” Francine Whalen said through one of her bright, empty smiles.

“… What do you want here?”

“It’s about Bobby. Can I come in? I won’t stay long.”

“What about Bobby? Where is he?”

“Home with his father.”

“Is he all right?”

“Of course he’s all right. Well? Are you going to let me in?”

Reluctantly Bryn complied. Once Francine was inside with the door closed, the smile disappeared. She had a longish, narrow face framed by long, feathery blond hair—an expensive designer cut to go with the expensive leather jacket and tight slacks and Gucci boots she wore. All paid for by Robert, no doubt. Her eyes were her most striking feature, large gray eyes with irises so pale they were almost translucent. The kind that men would find warm and smoky, that to Bryn gave the exact opposite effect. Ice eyes.

“The reason I’m here,” the woman said, “is to tell you straight to your face—stop trying to turn Bobby against me.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Filling his head with nonsense, trying to convince him that I’m some sort of wicked witch.”

“That’s just what you are.”

“Oh? So now you admit that’s what you’ve been doing.”

“You’re the one who turned him against you, not me. And we both know the reason.”

“Yes? What reason?”

“You’ve been hitting him, hurting him. A little boy, for God’s sake.”

“That’s a damn lie,” Francine said. But nothing changed in her expression; no shock or surprise or outrage. The face of unrepentant guilt. “Why would I do something like that?”

“Yes, exactly. Why? Why did you fracture his arm? Why do you leave bruises all over his body?”

“I did no such things. He gets into fights with other boys his age and he’s accident-prone.”

“Like hell. You, you’re the one.”

“Did Bobby tell you I was hurting him?”

Bryn didn’t answer. Rage was like a probe moving through her; the dead side of her face burned as if it were on fire. She locked her fingers together at her waist to keep them still, keep herself under control.

“Well? Did he?”

“He didn’t have to.”

“I’ll bet he’s never said a bad word about me.”

“He hates you. He said that much.”

“Natural in a boy his age to have some hostile feelings toward the woman who replaces his mother in his father’s affection. Particularly when the mother reinforces it, stuffs his head with lies.”

“I’ve never lied to my son and I never will.”

“Bullshit.” The word sounded twice as ugly coming out of that angelic mouth. “You’ve done your damnedest to poison my relationship with Bobby. You’d better stop, Bryn, I’m warning you. I won’t stand for any more of it and neither will Robert.”

“And I’m warning you—hurt him again and you’ll be sorry.”

“Oh, really? And how are you going to make me sorry?”

“I’ll find a way.”

“No, you won’t. You’re as helpless as a baby. Not to mention paranoid and delusional—the stroke crippled your mind as well as your face. Robert says so; that’s why he left you. I say so, too.”

“And you’re a cold, sadistic cunt.”

“Call me any names you like to my face, but don’t put them in Bobby’s head anymore. If you do, Robert and I will see to it that you don’t have any more time with him.” The smile flashed on again, tight-lipped and humorless. “We can do that—Robert can—and I promise you, we will.”

An image flared up behind Bryn’s eyes: herself leaping forward, hands unclenching and hooking into claws that ripped furrows down the sides of that smug, smirking face. She struggled against the urge, fought it down. Felt herself shaking visibly now. The hot taste of bile filled her throat; the question she managed to push through it had a liquidy sound.

“Did Robert send you to tell me that?”

“No. He doesn’t know I’m here and I’ll deny it if you tell him. This is between you and me, Bryn. Robert’s mine now and so is Bobby. I took them away from you and I’m going to keep them and you’d better resign yourself to the fact and quit trying to cause trouble for us. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Bryn’s throat muscles worked, but she couldn’t get any more words out.

“I think you do. Good,” Francine said. And what she did then was so shocking Bryn was incapable of any reaction: she reached out, almost casually, and yanked the scarf off and dropped it fluttering to the floor. “I’ve always wanted to see what that side of your face looks like. My God, you’re even uglier than I thought. No wonder Robert couldn’t stand the sight of you.”

Francine opened the door, turned long enough to smile her poison-sweet smile again, and then vanished into the darkness.

11

I’d been at the agency just long enough on Thursday morning to pour a cup of coffee from the pot on the anteroom hot plate when Tamara came out of her office. “The call that just came in on line one,” she said, “I think you’d better pick up.”

“Who is it?”

“Judith LoPresti. David Virden’s fiancée.”

“What does she want?”

“She’ll tell you. I’ll listen in.”

I carried the coffee into my office. We still hadn’t heard from Virden and I figured he was nursing his grudge and wanted nothing more to do with us. But he hadn’t put stop payments on the two checks he’d written to the agency; Tamara had contacted the bank yesterday afternoon, late, and both of them had gone through.

Judith LoPresti had a low, well-rounded voice—an intelligent voice. It was also a worried voice, with an undertone of scare in it. “Have you seen or heard from David since Tuesday?”

“No, we haven’t. He was here about one o’clock to pick up our report and the Church papers.”

“Yes, I know about that. The last time I talked to him, he told me you’d found Roxanne McManus.”

“Well, there seems to be some question about that,” I said.

“Question?”

Tamara was still on the line. She said, “He called me later that afternoon, Ms. LoPresti, upset because he said the woman we located wasn’t his ex-wife.”

“… I don’t understand.”

“Neither do we. Everything we found out says that she is.”

I said, “I left a couple of messages for him later that day, but he hasn’t returned the calls.”

“He’s missing,” Judith LoPresti said.

“Missing?”

“Since sometime Tuesday. He didn’t show up to meet me that evening as we’d arranged. He hasn’t been to his office—he missed an important conference yesterday. He hasn’t been home, either. I went to his apartment last night—the mail and newspapers hadn’t been picked up.” The scare in her voice had become a little more pronounced. “It’s not like him to just go off somewhere without a word to me or anyone else. Frankly, I’m afraid something may have happened to him.”

“Did you check the local hospitals?”

“Every one in the city, on the Peninsula, here in the South Bay. He wasn’t in an accident or anything like that.”

Not necessarily true, but I kept the thought to myself. “What kind of car does he drive?”

“A black Porsche Cayman. I bought it for him for his birthday.”

Some birthday present. More to the point, brand-new Porsches can be targets for carjackers and their drivers targets for violent muggers. Dogpatch’s crime rate wasn’t the worst in the city by any stretch, but there were other neighborhoods not far away that had more than their share of gangs and street thugs who didn’t always confine commission of felonies to their own turf.

“Would you happen to know the license number?”

“As a matter of fact I would. It’s a vanity plate—VRDNEXEC.”

Short for “Virden Executive.” The man thought a lot of himself, all right.

“Is the Porsche the only vehicle he owns?”

“Yes.”

“Have you been to the police, Ms. LoPresti?”

“Last night, after I left David’s apartment. But they said I’d have to wait until today to file a missing-person report … something about a mandatory seventy-two-hour waiting period. The officer I spoke to wasn’t very helpful; he seemed to think I was overreacting. I wasn’t and I’m not. If David was all right, he’d have contacted me by now.”

“Since this is the last place he was seen, you might want to file a report with the San Francisco police.”

“They must get dozens of missing-person reports. Will they do something right away to find David? I don’t believe they will.”

I let that pass without comment. She was closer to being right than wrong.

She said then, “Is there anything you can do?”

“Well…”

Tamara said, “We can try, if you’d like to hire us.”

“Yes.” Immediate answer; Ms. LoPresti had already made that decision. “Yes, I would.”

“We’ll need your signature on a contract, and a retainer check.”

“I can leave now and be in the city in an hour and a half.”