Nemesis (10 page)

“She told us. She also told us you've been coming on to her the whole time, wouldn't take no for an answer. Called her up tonight, told her you had to see her on business. Became aggressive when she said no again, called her a bunch of nasty names and tried to attack her.”

“None of that is the truth.”

“You deny you were in her home earlier tonight?”

“No, I was there. She asked me to come.”

“Why?”

No benefit in trying to explain the hoax. Take too long, and whether they believed him or not, it had no immediate bearing on the assault complaint. He said, “I'd rather not answer that right now.”

“You deny grabbing her, trying to tear her dress off?”

“It never happened.”

“Then how'd you get that gouge on your neck there?”

“Not the way she claims I did.”

“That doesn't answer my question.”

“Are you going to arrest me?”

Rodriguez made the kind of derisive noise young cops make when they think they've got a perp cold. Whitehead rubbed his hands together, hunched and rippled his shoulders as if he were cold.

“Let me guess,” Rodriguez said. “You're not going to say anything else until you talk to your lawyer.”

“If I'm under arrest, that's right.”

Whitehead said, “Read the man his rights while he gets dressed, Benny, and let's get moving. It's cold as a witch's tit in here.”

 

9

Booked, printed, allowed his one phone call, given an orange jail jumpsuit in exchange for his clothing and possessions, and locked away in a classification holding cell. Where he stayed. That was all right; he was better off alone, than if he'd been classified and maybe stuffed in with the night's roundup of violent offenders. The dangerous mood he was in, he might've accommodated any hard-ass cell mate who had ideas of picking a fight, and made a bad situation worse.

His one call went to Thomas Dragovich, the only lawyer he trusted enough to handle this kind of bogus charge. Dragovich didn't object to being woken up in the middle of the night; used to it after twentysome years as a criminal attorney. He listened alertly to Runyon's capsule report, asked a couple of clarifying questions, then the standard ones: Had Runyon waived his right to counsel? No, he'd refused to answer any questions without an attorney present. Had the arresting inspectors given him a bail figure? Yes, $25,000. Did they intend to contact the on-call night judge to request an increase in the amount? No, it didn't look like it. Dragovich said he'd be there as soon as he was allowed into the jail—probably not until the regular
A.M.
visiting hours started.

That was the way it worked out. Runyon spent four sleepless hours in the holding cell; had been pacing in tight little circles for a long time when one of the guards came and took him to an interrogation room in the main jail, where Dragovich was waiting.

The lawyer wasn't much to look at: short, slight, starting to lose his hair, his trademark gray suit, blue shirt, and loosely knotted red-striped tie looking as always as if he'd slept in them. The casual appearance was deceptive, maybe deliberately so: keep his adversaries off balance. He owned a shrewd mind and a justified reputation as one of the best trial attorneys in the city.

Dragovich had read the arrest report and the p. c. dec—the probable cause declaration—and talked to the arresting officers. “Your situation isn't as serious as it might be,” he said. “The evidence they have to support the woman's claim is thin: her account of the incident, a torn dress, a statement from the security guard confirming that you were in the building, and the fingernail gouge on your neck. There's a note in the p.c. dec that she's asked for a restraining order against you, but that's standard in cases like this. The most important fact in your favor is that there are no discernible marks of violence on her person.”

“Because I never touched her,” Runyon said, “except to stop her from clawing my face.”

“Count yourself lucky she didn't do anything to herself other than tear her clothing. Self-inflicted wounds aren't always provable as such.”

“There wouldn't be a case at all if I'd thought to turn on the voice recorder when I unhooked it from her phone. Still kicking myself that I didn't.”

Dragovich gestured that away.

Runyon asked, “What did the inspectors have to say?”

“Rodriguez is by-the-book, no comment, but Whitehead seems inclined to believe you after the check they ran into your background. Exemplary record as both police officer and private investigator, excellent past relationships with the SFPD and the DA's office—strong points in your favor. They'll do everything they can to break Ms. Daniels's story. If they push her hard enough, she may decide to drop the complaint voluntarily.”

“Not her. And they might have trouble breaking her. She's a compulsive liar, probably pathological—that's pretty clear now.”

“And unstable, from what you told me earlier.”

“Certifiable, to've come up with that extortion hoax.”

“Which can work to our advantage if the case goes to trial. The more unstable an individual, the easier to discredit on the witness stand. But I'll be surprised if it goes beyond the preliminary hearing.”

“And meanwhile,” Runyon said bitterly, “I'm left dangling. With a suspended or revoked license, maybe.”

“That's not likely to happen. In this state, only a conviction of an offense with a nexus to the professional license can be the basis for suspension or revocation by the State Board. It's possible they could get wind of the arrest and start their own investigation, but they'd have to prove misconduct according to their standards in order to take action. Most likely, in any event, they'd do nothing except wait and see if there's a conviction. Which is highly improbable in your case.”

“But still possible. And the board'll get wind of the arrest, all right. Through the media, even if the cops or the DA's office don't notify them.”

“Not necessarily. This isn't a high-profile matter. If there's any mention in the media at all, it won't be given much weight.”

“Unless Daniels goes public, tells more lies for the attention. I wouldn't put it past her.”

“Yes, that's possible,” Dragovich admitted, “but we'll cross that bridge if and when we come to it.”

Runyon began pacing again. “What happens now?”

“Abe Melikian has agreed to stand your bail. No collateral necessary because of your past association with him. We ought to have you out of here by mid-morning.”

“I want to talk to Whitehead and Rodriguez again first. The DA's investigators, too, if you can arrange it.”

“Why?”

“To make a statement, put my version of what happened last night, the whole hoax business, on the record.”

Dragovich frowned. “You know you're not legally required to do that even with your attorney present. I strongly advise against volunteering information of any kind, especially in your angry frame of mind—”

“I'd just as soon do it anyway. Can you arrange it?”

“… Yes, if you insist. And if you assure me you'll keep your emotions in check.”

“Don't worry, I will.”

“Very well, then.” The lawyer got to his feet, stopped Runyon's pacing with a hand on his shoulder. “Two things before I go. One—I'll need as much specific information on Verity Daniels as possible, in the event of a trial. Your notes and reports on your investigation to begin with.”

“I'll ask Tamara to e-mail the file to your office.”

“Anything else you and Ms. Corbin can find out as well.”

“You'll have it.”

“Two—a caveat. I doubt you need to hear it, but I'll say it anyway. Honor the restraining order, if a judge grants it. Even if one isn't issued, you are to have nothing directly to do with Verity Daniels outside a courtroom—nothing whatsoever under any circumstances.”

“Guaranteed. I wouldn't trust myself if I did.”

When Dragovich was gone, Runyon prowled the room as he had the cell. Caged animal, soon to be released back into the jungle. And then what? If he lost his license, even temporarily, he'd have nothing to fill up his days, no direction, no useful purpose. For the kind of man he was, it was a hellish prospect—like being trapped in a vacuum.

It was nearly two hours before Dragovich returned with the two inspectors and an investigator from the DA's office named Sutton. None of the officers said anything, acknowledged Runyon with curt nods. Sutton, young and deceptively quiet, claimed one of four straight-backed metal chairs. Whitehead sat in a loose sprawl in another; he had a dragged-out, stale look at the tag end of his shift. Rodriguez began fiddling with the video equipment, scowling as if he were in a temper. Neither inspector could have felt half as dragged out, stale, and short-tempered as Runyon did.

The room was identical to the last one he and Dragovich had been in, when they were working to cut Bryn loose after her false confession to the murder of her son's abuser. Same metal table and chairs, same four bare walls—one of the cubicles without the two-way mirror. The only thing different from that time, and all the other times he'd been shut up inside similar interrogation rooms, was that now he was the one in the hot seat, with a video camera aimed at him.

For the record, Rodriguez stated the date, time, and nature of the crime, and identified Runyon, Dragovich, Sutton, Whitehead, and himself. Then they got down to it.

They let Runyon make his statement first, without interruption. He told it all in relevant detail, from his first meeting with Verity Daniels through all the steps of his manipulated investigation to the events of the night before, stressing how he received the wound on his neck.

As soon as he was finished, Sutton asked the obvious first question. “Why would a wealthy woman like Ms. Daniels concoct such a melodramatic hoax?”

“Boredom, I suppose. A way to generate some excitement in her life, get attention.”

“She tell you that?”

“No. She was too furious to admit anything.”

“She claims the extortion calls, all the threats are real.”

“Sure she does. The rest of her story falls apart otherwise.”

“You have any proof she didn't get those calls?”

“No. Not any more than she has proof that she did.”

Rodriguez, leaning against the wall now with his arms folded: “Let's get back to last night. According to your story, she called and told you she'd been attacked by a masked intruder.”

“That's right.”

“And begged you to come to her apartment. That's the word you used, right? Begged?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you go if you didn't believe her?”

“All I had at that point were suspicions,” Runyon said. “It was possible she was telling the truth, and I was still working for her—I had to be sure one way or the other.”

Whitehead asked, “What made you suspicious?”

“The tight security in her building, for one thing. It wasn't likely any uninvited or unannounced stranger could have gotten in. The security guard on the desk confirmed it. George something.”

“Haxner. That's why you asked him all the questions about security?”

“And about Ms. Daniels's state of mind when he talked to her, yes.”

Sutton: “She denies there was a man in a ski mask with a knife. Denies she called you, says it was the other way around. You called her and invited yourself over—told her you had some new information on the extortion attempt.”

Runyon said carefully, “I don't lie to clients for any reason, or involve myself personally with them in any way.”

“Not even good-looking women like Ms. Daniels?”

“Not anybody.”

“Rich, too. Rich and attractive. Two good reasons to come on to her.”

Dragovich said, “My client has already stated that he doesn't involve himself personally with his clients.”

Sutton ignored him. He said to Runyon, “She says you started coming on to her from the first. More and more aggressively every time you saw or talked to her, until last night you made a direct pass. When she said no, you grabbed her and started pawing her. Told her if she didn't put out you'd walk away and let the extortionist have her.”

The anger began to climb in Runyon again, bunching the muscles in his neck and across his back. “The woman is a compulsive liar—”

Dragovich gripped his arm warningly, then rose to his feet. “All right, gentlemen, we're done here. You have Mr. Runyon's statement in detail and further investigation will bear out its veracity. Unless you have a valid reason for continuing to hold him, I'll proceed with the arrangements for his bail.”

Sutton shrugged and Rodriguez scowled but didn't voice an objection. Whitehead lifted himself ponderously out of his chair, stifled a yawn before he delivered the usual “keep yourself available, don't leave town” warning to Runyon. And that was the end of it for now. Runyon had been through enough interrogations to know that this one had pretty much gone in his favor, like round one of a boxing match. The inspectors and the DA's man weren't hostile, despite Sutton's prodding manner, and they'd follow up in a neutral fashion or maybe even one leaning slightly in his favor.

But that didn't make him feel any better. He had no doubt that he'd be exonerated eventually, as Dragovich had predicted, but the assault charge and arrest would still leave a smudge on his record. And there was still the looming specter of a license suspension.

An hour later he walked out of the Hall of Justice, free again but not free and clear, facing a preliminary court date in six weeks, owing Abe Melikian $2,500 for his bail and Thomas Dragovich a comparable amount in legal fees. And all because a bored, conscienceless rich woman stupidly decided to have some nasty fun at his expense.