Nemesis (5 page)

The beach began to fill up as noon approached. Runyon's scanning eye picked out and studied men and women who appeared to have come by themselves and who either sat or wandered near the north-side rocks. Pretty good bet that whoever showed up to collect the money would be by himself. Most of the beachgoers were in groups and pairs, but there were a few solos of both sexes. A fat woman in a sun hat perched Buddha-like on a towel not far from where he sat. A middle-aged man walking his leashed dog. A younger, red-haired man leaning against one of the rocks, watching the low-tide waves roll in. None of them seemed concerned with time or the
HAZARDOUS SURF
sign.

Runyon watched the redhead by the rocks. But he was just another beachgoer who soon tired of looking seaward, turned away, and walked back along the waterline to the south.

Verity Daniels arrived ten minutes early. Runyon glanced at his watch when he saw her come shuffling through the sand from the parking lot. Now she was dressed for the beach: bright yellow blouse, red shorts, red sandals, floppy red hat covering her dark hair and shading her eyes. Gaudy on purpose, he thought, to make sure he wouldn't miss spotting her. A folded towel was draped over one arm, and she carried an oversized red-and-white striped beach bag and a smaller straw handbag. The Q-Phone would be, or should be, in the handbag.

She passed within ten yards of where he was sitting. If she saw him, she gave no indication. Kept her head still and her gaze focused straight ahead. Following instructions, a point in her favor.

She walked directly to the
HAZARDOUS SURF
sign, spread out the towel without letting go of the bag, and sat down facing seaward with the bag in her lap. Runyon fiddled with his camera for a time, aimed it at the bridge spans while he adjusted the focus on the telephoto lens, then swung it down casually to where the client was sitting. The lens was powerful enough for him to make out the beauty mark above her chin. He'd have a clear view of whoever showed up to keep the appointment.

Except that nobody showed.

Noon came and went. Verity Daniels began to fidget as the time passed, shifting position on the towel, twice standing up for a minute or two, then sitting down again. Adults passed near her, some of them heading around the rocks to the clothing-optional section, but only one person stopped to speak to her. Runyon snapped up the camera; the lens showed him a buff blond guy in his twenties, wearing nothing but a bathing suit, grinning as he spoke to her and she answered, then not grinning anymore and turning away to disappear around the rocks. Abortive pick-up try. False alarm.

Twelve twenty.

Ms. Daniels still sat alone over there. Tension had begun to show in the way she moved, the looks she directed back along the beach.

Twelve thirty-five.

No-show for sure. Runyon knew it then, even if the client didn't. Both of them went on waiting, Runyon letting her dictate when they called it off.

It was almost one o'clock when Verity Daniels's patience ran out. She stood abruptly, snatched up the towel, and came fast-walking in his direction. Either she'd just seen him or spotted him earlier, because she was looking right at him. When she got close enough he shook his head once, jerked it once toward the parking lot. She hesitated, chewing on her lower lip, and then went on past.

He thought that in her agitated state, she might wait and try to talk to him in the lot—an unnecessary risk. No way to be sure she wasn't being watched.

He stayed where he was, letting more minutes tick by.

Thinking: dry run. Why?

*   *   *

“I don't know how much more of this I can stand,” Ms. Daniels said. The words indicated she was badly upset, but her tone didn't give them any weight; it still carried that oddly secretive undercurrent. “All that time waiting on the beach … it was awful.”

Runyon said, “Chances are he won't keep you on the hook much longer,” because that was what she wanted to hear. “The money's too big a lure.”

“Oh, I hope you're right. I don't feel safe anymore. I feel … well, violated. You know what I mean, Jake?”

“Yes.”

“I never minded living alone, but now … just thinking about being by myself at night, waiting for the phone to ring, gives me goose bumps.”

“You live in a secure building.”

“I know, but I'm still alone.”

“You could stay with a friend.”

“I don't have any close friends, no one I'd want to share this nightmare with. I don't know who I can trust anymore. Whoever is doing this to me could be somebody I know.”

Probably was. But he didn't say it.

“I don't even want to go home now, in broad daylight.” She was in her car, breaking the law talking on a cellular while driving; he could hear traffic noises in the background. He was in his car, too, but the Ford was still parked in the lot at Baker Beach. “I'm just too upset. I need to talk to somebody … in person, I mean, someone I know I
can
trust. Could we meet somewhere, Jake? Would you mind?”

Clients who continually wanted their hands held were a potential liability. But maybe another face-to-face would let him get a better handle on the woman. He said, “Where are you now?”

“Just turning off Bay onto the Embarcadero. I could meet you at Gordon Biersch or Delancey Street for lunch … I'm starving. Or would you rather come to the condo?”

“You have the recorder with you?”

“Recorder? Oh … no, I left it home.”

“I'll meet you there, then. I should listen to the conversation you had last night.”

“But … his voice was disguised.”

“I still might be able to tell something from what was said. Man or woman, at least, from the words, phrasing, inflection.”

“Yes, I see. All right. How long will you be?”

“Half an hour, maybe a little less.”

“Good. Then I won't be alone for too long.”

*   *   *

On his way across town he reported in to Tamara, using the hands-free device hooked to the dashboard so he could talk while driving. He didn't say much about his take on Verity Daniels's unconventional behavior. You didn't have to be completely comfortable with a client to do the job you were hired for.

“So why do you suppose the dude didn't show?”

“For all we know he did show,” Runyon said. “Sat off watching same as me, but didn't make contact for reasons of his own.”

“Afraid she might've gone to the cops to set a trap for him?”

“That's one possibility. Another is that he's looking to put the squeeze on even tighter.”

“Demand more than ten K next time?”

“Either that, or a shakedown's not his primary motive.”

“No? What, then?”

“Campaign of terror. Payoff in fear, not necessarily cash.”

“A revenge thing? I don't know, Jake. You want to terrorize somebody, seems to me there're more up-front ways to do it.”

“Not if your aim is slow torture.”

“Still. Couldn't expect to play it this way indefinitely.”

“No, and that's the worry. It might not be enough to satisfy him.”

“You mean he might go through with his threat to hurt her?”

“It's happened before.”

“Oh, man … You think he'll make contact again soon?”

“Hard to tell. Sooner than later.”

“Sooner the better,” Tamara said. “I don't like these iffy cases.”

Neither did Runyon.

*   *   *

The first thing Verity Daniels said to him when she let him in was, “You know, I saw you on the beach with your camera. Not at first, you told me not to look for you, but while I was waiting. I couldn't help looking around then.”

There was nothing for him to say to that. He dipped his chin.

“It made me feel less apprehensive. Knowing you were close by, I mean.”

Another dip.

“Would you like some lunch? I don't have much in the fridge, I usually go out to eat, but I can make us a sandwich.…”

“Thanks, but I can't stay long.”

“Well, you have to eat—”

“Two meals a day, breakfast and dinner. I'll just listen to the recorder and be on my way.”

“… All right. Whatever you say.”

He went to where she kept the phone, started to unhook the interface, paused when he saw that the connector was loose in the recorder socket. He pulled it all the way out, pressed the rewind button on the recorder. The tape didn't move. He pushed Play. Nothing.

Ms. Daniels said, “What's the matter?”

“The conversation didn't record.”

“It didn't? But I turned the machine on.…”

“The adapter wasn't plugged all the way in. Did you disconnect it for any reason?”

“No. I didn't touch it.” She made a flustered gesture. “But … I was so rattled when I heard his voice that I almost knocked the phone off the table. The plug must have pulled out then. Oh, God, I'm so sorry.”

Runyon looked at her for half a dozen beats without speaking. She met his gaze, gnawing on her lower lip in that little-girl way she had, her expression hangdog.

“Jake?” she said. “Is it really that important?”

It wasn't, no, except for one thing. In spite of the guileless eyes and apologetic look, he had the sense that her explanation was false, rehearsed—another lie.

She hadn't loosened the connector by accident. She'd done it on purpose.

*   *   *

Why? Why would she lie about something like that?

No rational reason he could think of. If she knew who the extortionist was, because he'd identified himself or because the voice hadn't been disguised and she'd recognized it, it made no sense that she'd lie to protect him. She wanted him caught; hiring professional help, cooperating on the beach stakeout, seemed to prove that. Not recording the conversation, lying about it … counterproductive, acting against her own best interests.

Runyon didn't call her on it. If he was right, she would only compound the fabrication by denying it. If he was wrong, accusing her would be a breach of professional ethics. He reconnected the telephone interface to the recorder, making certain it was plugged in tight, listened to another round of apologies, and left her to the sterile luxury of her new home.

He'd had difficult clients before, but never one whose actions and motives were as puzzling as this one. For the most part people in trouble followed a similar pattern; they told the truth because it was the best way out of whatever bind they were in, lied and withheld information only when it reflected badly on them—never when it might thwart the efforts of the detectives they'd hired in the first place. Verity Daniels didn't fit that pattern. It wasn't just the lie about the recorder, or even the other lies she'd told. It was the behavioral inconsistencies, the impression that she had some sort of hidden agenda.

She had him off balance, a position he'd never liked being in. He functioned best when he was in control, when he knew what to expect in a given situation. It made him even more determined to see this assignment through, put an end to it as quickly as possible.

 

5

On Thursday afternoon he had a couple of scheduled interviews on an insurance case that took him to the East Bay. The interviews were in Oakland and over with quickly; by three o'clock he was on Highway 24 heading through the Caldecott Tunnel into Contra Costa County.

First stop there: Orinda, the closest in a short string of affluent bedroom communities that stretched out east of the tunnel. Ostrander's Nursery and Landscaping Service.

The place wasn't far off the freeway, in a semirural area with views of rolling, wooded hills. Modest-sized, tree-shaded; ceramic pots and other containers of flowers, plants, young trees, ornamental grasses spread out around a greenhouse with a closed-in wing on one side. Only two vehicles were parked on a small gravel lot in front: a van and a pickup, both several years old, both with the Ostrander name in a leafy design on the doors. Hot afternoon over here, temperature in the high eighties—one reason for the fact that there were no customers.

A short distance from the lot, a slender brunette was using a spray hose to irrigate a display of small flowering plants. She turned the hose off as Runyon approached, turned on a tentative smile. Early thirties, attractive except for a network of fine lines radiating outward around her mouth and eyes—more lines than there should have been at her age.

“Hello. May I help you?”

“I'd like to see Scott Ostrander, if he's here.”

“Yes, but he's about to go back out on a job. I'm Karen Ostrander. Is there something I can do for you?”

“Thanks, but I need to speak to your husband.”

“What about?” Warily.

“A private matter.”

“If you're from the bank…”

“No, it's nothing like that.”

Relief flickered briefly in gray eyes. “Well, he's in the greenhouse. You won't keep him long?”

“Not long, no.”

The interior of the greenhouse was much cooler, moist, thick with the mingled scents of earth and growing things. A lean, sandy-haired man was loading buckets of ferns onto a wheeled cart. Dampened wood chips made up the central pathway and the ones that angled off it through the greenery, muffled Runyon's footsteps as he approached.

“Mr. Ostrander?”

The man jerked upright, blinking in the filtered light. No smile appeared on his sun-weathered features: Runyon's suit and tie put him on guard the same as they had his wife. “Oh … yeah, that's me. Help you?”

“I'd like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind.”

“Questions? What about? Nursery items, landscaping?”

“No, that's not why I'm here—”

“The loan payments again? Look, how many times do I have to tell you people we're trying the best we can—” He broke off because Runyon was holding up the leather case that contained the photostat of his license. Ostrander squinted at it, blinked again; the shape of his expression changed. He said in an anger-mixed-with-frustration voice, “Don't tell me the damn bank's hiring private detectives to hassle me now?”