Nemesis (3 page)

At the door she gave him her hand, smiling. Let it remain clasped in his a little longer than he thought was necessary. “Thank you so much, Mr. Runyon. Or may I call you Jake?”

“If you like.”

“You don't know how much I appreciate this, Jake. You make me feel safe for the first time since those calls started.”

Runyon rode the elevator down with the image of her smile lingering in his mind. It hadn't been one of relief, nor had it been impersonal. Bright, like in a dental ad on TV. Bright eyes, too. A smile and a look that were almost flirtatious. And that in retrospect struck him as oddly secretive.

 

2

He heard nothing more from Verity Daniels that night or Wednesday morning. No surprise there. Part of an extortionist's MO was the silent squeeze: keep the victim dangling for a while, make them sweat. He wondered if the ploy was working on Ms. Daniels. She hadn't seemed to be doing much sweating during the forty-five minutes they'd spent together.

At the agency he gave Tamara a full rundown on the interview, tacking on his vague misgivings. She rubbed at red-flecked eyes with thumb and forefinger while she digested the report. She looked tired, a chronic condition lately: working too hard since the hellish events in early July that had forced Bill into his leave of absence, evidently not sleeping well. She'd been the beating heart of the agency ever since Runyon had signed on, a twenty-seven-year-old workaholic who usually thrived on the demands of the job. But the long hours, the pressure of running what was now a five-person operation after the hire of two part-time field men, and her concern for Bill's and Kerry's welfare, had taken a toll. He suspected she wasn't eating much, either; she was thinner than he'd ever seen her, her round cheeks hollowed, the usually warm brown color of her skin now like chocolate diluted by too much milk.

She needed to scale back some, hire a temp to help her with the office work, but it wasn't his place to say anything to her. He didn't have the same kind of rapport with her that Bill did, or a long enough history with her to feel comfortable in stepping beyond their employer-employee relationship. Ever since Colleen's death he'd found it difficult to relate to people on a personal level, even those he knew fairly well—even Bryn, now that she'd regained custody of her son Bobby. The best thing he could do for Tamara was to keep putting in long hours himself, lighten her load as much as he could. Quietly, without fuss or complaint.

At length she said, “So you think maybe Ms. Daniels wasn't being straight with you? Withholding information?”

“Hard to say exactly. Mostly it was the way she conducted herself—not quite the way you'd expect a worried shakedown victim to act.”

“She sounded pretty upset on the phone.”

“Misconception on my part, probably. Victims aren't always consistent in the way they act.”

“Well, I'll do some checking into her background and what happened to her fiancé, see what turns up.”

“One thing,” Runyon said. “It might be a good idea to have a Q-Phone handy. Okay to call George Agonistes for one?”

Tamara's mouth quirked into a mock grimace. “Poormouth and Cheap Investigations,” she said. “I hate doing business with that guy, even if he is an old friend of Bill's. Sometimes I think we'd be better off if we built up our own stock of spy and surveillance equipment.”

Simple electronic devices, like phone interfaces and voice recorders, didn't cost much to keep on hand, but the more sophisticated items like Q-Phones ran four figures. The agency didn't handle the kind of debugging and industrial espionage cases Agonistes specialized in, seldom had need of high-tech electronics. Cheaper in the long run to sub-hire or rent from him when a situation called for his type of expertise.

Tamara knew that as well as he did; the grumbling was part of her mood this morning. She said, “Okay, go ahead. But he better not try to overcharge us again.”

Runyon made the call, got Agonistes himself on the line. As had been the case with their agency, Agonistes's operation had expanded in recent years; he ran it out of a SoMa loft now, had three or four employees, and spent most of his time devising new and more subtle ways to spy or help others spy on individuals and institutions. Runyon wouldn't have wanted to make his living that way, but then most of the time he didn't have to.

He drove over to SoMa to pick up the Q-Phone. Agonistes, a bent stick of a man with bushy hair like a fright wig, insisted on activating the preprogrammed SIM card for him even though it wasn't necessary. Just part of the service, he said, which meant he'd use it to try to pad the rental bill. All it took was a couple of short text messages from Runyon's cell to the Q-Phone to turn it into a spy tool.

The rest of the morning and part of the afternoon he spent on an employee background check for one of the dot-com outfits that had their offices within shouting distance of South Park. Routine and time-consuming, like most of the agency's investigations. He was on his way to keep an appointment on another matter when Tamara buzzed his cell.

“Ms. Daniels called a little while ago,” she said.

“Heard from the perp?”

“Not yet. Call was about you—how professional you were, how relieved she was to have you helping her.” Tamara added with wry humor, “Got yourself a big fan there, Jake.”

Just what he needed. He remembered again that odd bright smile she'd given him at the door, the faintly flirtatious look. One of those attractions that every now and then a woman client developed for a helpful detective? Hadn't felt like that, exactly, but you couldn't always tell. He hoped that wasn't it. Even if it weren't for Bryn, he wouldn't have been interested. Verity Daniels could've been a
Vogue
model wearing a see-through negligee last night and he wouldn't be interested. Firm rule established during his cop days in Seattle: never get personally involved with anyone for any reason on the job.

He said noncommittally, “Yeah. Big fan.”

“Well, she's not Ms. Sunshine. Got some truth issues, that's for sure.”

“How so?”

“For one thing, her inheritance didn't come from an actress aunt who lived in Paris. Came from an uncle, her only living relative. He won one of those megabucks lotteries back east several years ago, then surprised everybody by keeping his job as a mechanic and investing most of the money. Died with about two million bucks in liquid assets. Could be she invented the aunt because a windfall from a rich and famous relative sounds way more cool than one from an ex-mechanic.”

“What else?”

“Her marriage. She didn't divorce Scott Ostrander, he divorced her. And it was the messy kind. Hassles over community property and an alimony demand on her part.”

“She get the alimony?”

“Nope. Judge wouldn't give it to her. Her salary at the time was almost as much as Ostrander was making in his landscape business.”

Another face-saving lie, maybe. Hadn't wanted to make herself look bad. “What's Ostrander doing now?”

“Still in Orinda—owns a nursery, operates his landscaping service on the side. Remarried three years ago. No record, but he could still be the extortionist.”

“Five years is a long time to hold a grudge.”

“Not for that reason,” Tamara said. “Financial troubles. Running both his businesses in the red, behind on a bank loan and facing foreclosure. Damn economy again.”

“Anything on his sister, Grace Lyman?”

“Nope. Still married to the urologist and living in Danville. No trouble with the law. And a perfect credit rating.”

“The drowning accident? Straight story there?”

“Pretty much, except for two things. The county sheriff's people didn't hassle Ms. Daniels—just held her overnight as a material witness while they investigated. No witnesses, no marks on Jason Avery's body or other evidence of foul play, so they turned her loose and closed the books. Over protests from Avery's mother and brother—that's another lie she told you, about his family being supportive.”

“They didn't believe it was an accident?”

“Weren't satisfied with the official verdict,” Tamara said. “They stopped short of accusing her of murder, but they weren't convinced she was telling the whole truth about the drowning.”

“Why not?”

“He was on the verge of calling off the engagement. According to his mother, that was the reason he agreed to the camping trip—one last try at saving the relationship, and if that didn't work, end it then and there.”

“Why was he thinking of calling it off?”

“All he'd say was that he felt he couldn't trust her anymore. That was what the mother told the sheriff's people, anyway. Maybe he found out she was getting it on with somebody else. Whatever the reason, the mother and Avery's brother figured he went ahead and dumped her, she freaked, there was some kind of confrontation, and he ended up dead in the water. Could've gone down that way.”

Runyon asked, “Either the mother or brother need money?”

“Yep. Helen Avery's still recuperating from gastrointestinal surgery, has minimal medical insurance. Hank Avery lives with her, takes care of her. Divorced, works for an outfit in Walnut Creek that cleans and repairs roof gutters. Low-income job.”

“How long ago was the mother's surgery?”

Pause while Tamara checked her notes. “Eight months. Complications put her back in the hospital once not long after.”

“Verity Daniels collected her inheritance six months ago.”

“Right. So if it's the Averys, how come they didn't try shaking her down then?”

“Maybe they didn't find out about it until recently.”

“They'd still need some leverage, though, some reason to believe she'd pay ten K. Proof she offed Jason?”

“Not too likely after two and a half years.”

“No, probably not.”

“There's another flaw in that theory,” Runyon said. “If she did have something to do with the drowning, why come to us? Why not just quietly pay off? She can afford it.”

“Maybe she's more scared than smart.”

“Not that scared and not stupid. Whatever's behind this, she's still a victim.”

“And our client, despite the lies,” Tamara said. “Better she should be paying us than some sleazeball extortionist.”

 

3

Runyon stretched out his workday until six-thirty, then lingered over a solitary dinner at a Chinese restaurant in the Inner Sunset. He wasn't seeing Bryn much except on weekends now, and then only for a meal or a movie that included Bobby. Their relationship was winding down; he knew it and she knew it, though neither of them had brought it out into the open yet. They'd slept together exactly once in the past two months, a hurried coupling that hadn't been good for either of them because it lacked the hunger, the closeness, the tenderness they'd shared when they had no one but each other to cling to.

Thing was, she didn't need him anymore. From the first their connection had been based on loneliness and desperation—two damaged people, Bryn suffering the effects of the stroke that had crippled the left side of her face and the bitter divorce and custody battle that followed, him crippled by what had seemed then to be an unshakable grief. They'd reached out to each other, helped each other hold the demons at bay while they struggled for survival. Bryn had told him once that he'd literally saved her life: more than once before they met she'd edged close to suicide. And in turn she had given him the strength to come to terms with Colleen's death, to finally regain some balance in his life.

But now she had Bobby again—the center and focus of her existence. It was the boy, not Runyon, who had lifted her up out of the depths and restored her will to live. Still room for him in her life, but it was a narrowing space, the kind reserved for friends, occasional confidantes, pro forma lovers. As close as they'd been for a time, the closeness had never reached the level of love or long-term commitment—never could, never would. The shared sex had been another way to combat the loneliness and the hurt—gentle embraces in the dark that lacked a deeper emotional commitment.

He got along well with Bobby, knew the boy looked up to him, but friendship was as far as it went there, too. Bobby already had a father, even if Robert Darby was a piss-poor role model; Runyon had no desire to become a surrogate competitor; and the bitter divorce had soured Bryn on marriage. Maybe she'd change her mind if she met the right guy, but that wasn't likely to happen. Too self-conscious about her handicap, too busy with Bobby and her graphic design business, to get into the dating scene. Runyon had the sense that if she never formed another relationship, never slept with another man, it wouldn't matter a great deal to her. Her life as she'd restructured it would be acceptable enough even after Bobby reached manhood.

He wondered if the same went for his life. Maybe. He could live without a woman because he could live with himself again. He had his work; it was all he really needed. And yet his mind and his heart were open to more now, if the right opportunities presented themselves. Another woman, one he could relate to on a simpler, less emotional level. Another attempt at ending the estrangement with his son Joshua. A lifestyle change of one kind or other. Something positive, in any case.

Even though loneliness and grief no longer plagued him, he still resisted going home at night. Home: a four-room flat on Ortega, in the city's west-side fog belt. A TV for noise, a stove to brew tea and cook an occasional meal, a bed to sleep in. When he'd first moved in, before meeting Bryn, it had seemed like a cage he shared with Colleen's ghost. The only difference between it and a prison cell was the fact that he had a key to the door. Oppressive to the point of claustrophobia sometimes. Not anymore. The stifling effect of bare walls and cheap furniture had ended along with the haunting. Now it was just a familiar place he occupied until it was time to go out into the world again.