Nemesis (6 page)

“I don't work for banks, Mr. Ostrander. Or collection agencies. The reason I'm here has to do with a routine matter concerning your ex-wife.”

“My ex-wife? Verity?”

“That's right. Verity Daniels.”

The expression on Ostrander's thin, mobile face changed again, turned cold, hard, bitter. “I don't have anything to say about that woman.”

“How long has it been since you've seen her, spoken to her?”

“Not since the divorce. If I never see her again, it'll be too soon. Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do.”

Runyon said, “So then you don't know about her inheritance.”

Ostrander had turned away, was bending to lift another bucket of ferns. The words froze him for a few seconds. When he straightened again he wore a puzzled frown. “What inheritance?”

“From her uncle in Ohio. Six months ago.”

“I didn't even know she had an uncle.”

“Wealthy man. Won a state lottery, invested the money, left everything to his niece.”

“The hell. How much did she get?”

“A substantial sum.”

“How much is substantial?”

“Two million dollars.”

Another shift of expression: astonishment this time. Five-beat stare. Then, unexpectedly, Ostrander burst out laughing. Loud, booming laughter that echoed and re-echoed in the confines of the greenhouse. Vitriolic, without a trace of humor.

“Scott?” Karen Ostrander had come inside, was standing on the path behind Runyon. “For heaven's sake, what's the matter?”

Ostrander choked off the laughter long enough to say, “Two million dollars. The bitch, that crazy bitch inherited two
million.
…” And he was off again, the laughter hiccupping out of him now.

Karen Ostrander hurried past Runyon, took hold of her husband's arm and shook him until he choked it off again. “Who?” she said then. “Who are you talking about?”

“My ex. Verity.” He wiped his eyes with the back of one hand, looking now as if he wanted to cry.

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes. Christ, two million dollars!”

“Of all people who don't deserve that kind of windfall—”

“You know the woman, Mrs. Ostrander?” Runyon asked her.

“… No. Only what she did to Scott.”

“And that was?”

“Made his life a living hell for two years, then tried to hold him up for alimony when he divorced her.”

“How did she make your life a living hell, Mr. Ostrander?”

“Every goddamn way possible.”

“Affairs?”

“She's a conniving, cheating bitch,” Ostrander said. “Verity. My God, if ever anybody was ever misnamed!”

“Did you know the man she was engaged to two and a half years ago, Jason Avery?”

Ostrander wagged his head. Runyon couldn't tell if it meant, no, he hadn't known Avery, or if he was refusing to answer the question.

“Avery drowned in an accident in the Delta. Did you know about that?”

This time Ostrander's entire body shook, not unlike a dog shedding water. “Listen, mister, I'm not going to talk about her anymore. Not after what you just told me. Not today, not ever.”

“You'd better go now,” his wife said to Runyon.

“Two million dollars,” Ostrander said. “Jesus Christ!”

Another burst of laughter followed Runyon out of the greenhouse, into the afternoon heat. This one was different from the others, thickened by more emotion than bitter resentment. Despair was one, he thought. The other was hatred.

*   *   *

It was 4:30 when Runyon rolled into Martinez. Small city on the southern bank of the Carquinez Strait that had been different things in its hundred and fifty years: gold rush and shipping boomtown, railroad switching point, home of Shell Oil refineries, sprawling bedroom community for the less affluent than those who lived in Orinda, Lafayette, Danville. Somebody had once told him it was the birthplace of Joe DiMaggio, and he had no idea why that had stuck in his mind. He'd never been much of a baseball fan.

Two stops to make in Martinez. He picked Gateway Insurance, where Verity Daniels had worked before her inheritance, as the first of them. As early as it was, Hank Avery might not be home yet from his job and Runyon's preference, if possible, was for a joint meeting with Avery and his mother.

The Ford's GPS led him into Martinez's old-fashioned downtown. The offices of Gateway Insurance were on a side street near the Amtrak station—a small, cramped space cut into two sections by a windowed partition. Half a dozen desks were packed close together in the outer two-thirds, only two of them occupied, both by middle-aged women; the inner one-third, behind the partition, was a private office. A slender, flaxen-haired man in his forties stood in the open doorway talking to one of the women.

When Runyon walked in, the man's demeanor changed immediately. His posture shifted from a sideways lean to arrow straight and a hopeful smile with a lot of white teeth in it flashed on like a neon sign. The smile would have been more effective if it hadn't been surrounded by a lot of tired-looking flesh etched with stress lines and red-rimmed blue eyes. He moved briskly enough across the office and introduced himself: Vincent Canaday, Gateway's owner.

The professional smile stayed put until they were closeted in the private office. When Runyon produced his license photostat and explained the purpose of his visit, the smile faded into a ghost of itself. Mention of Verity Daniels's name seemed to make Canaday uncomfortable, wary.

“Is … Ms. Daniels in some sort of trouble?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“Well, a private detective … and all that money she inherited … I just assumed it.
Is
she in trouble?”

“I can't comment on the reasons for my investigation. Let's just say it's a routine matter.”

“What is it you want from me?”

“The answers to a few questions, that's all.”

Canaday sat down behind his desk, shifted his shoulders, folded his hands on the blotter. “What do you want to know?” he asked, the cordiality a little strained now.

“How long has it been since you've seen her?”

“The day she quit, six months ago. Didn't even give notice, just came in and told us about the inheritance and quit cold. Not that I blame her for that. I would probably have done the same myself.”

“No contact since then?”

“No. No reason for there to be.”

Something in the man's voice made Runyon ask, “What can you tell me about your relationship with her?”

“Relationship? Oh, you mean here in the office. Well, I don't know what I can tell you, except that she was a competent employee during the time I've owned the business.”

“How long is that?”

“Six years come October. I was sorry to lose her, but of course delighted to hear of her windfall. I … hope it's made a significant difference in her life, wherever she's living now, whatever she's doing.”

“Did you suppose it wouldn't?”

“No, of course not. It's just that … well, sudden wealth doesn't always change a person, does it? Their basic nature, I mean.”

“Not always, no. What would you say her basic nature was?”

Canaday cleared his throat, glanced at a framed color photograph canted so that Runyon could see it was of a red-haired woman and a boy of about twelve; his lips tightened and he cleared his throat again. “She seemed rather … lackluster, if you know what I mean.”

“Not exactly.”

“Not much personality. Bland, immature.” He seemed to savor the taste of the words in a bittersweet way; his mouth moved as if he were rolling them around on his tongue. “She wasn't interested in the things most of us are. You know, politics, the economy, the environment. All she ever talked about was movies and TV shows. She didn't have … didn't seem to have any hobbies or interests.”

“Boyfriends?”

“Not that I know about,” Canaday said. “She never spoke about her private life. In my hearing, I mean.”

“She have friends among your staff?”

“No. No, she kept very much to herself.”

“But she got along with the other employees.”

“Oh, yes, sure.”

“No friction with any of your customers?”

“None. No, nothing like that.”

“So you'd say she was a model employee.”

“I suppose so, yes. Did her job, hardly ever took a sick day.”

“Honest, dependable?”

“Absolutely.” The word came out hard, as if pushed through a blockage. Canaday unclenched his hands, looked at his wristwatch. “I don't mean to be rude, Mr. Runyon, but I have an appointment at five-thirty and I really should be leaving soon. If you don't have any more questions…”

“Not unless you have anything to add.”

“Nothing, no,” Canaday said. “Nothing at all. I've told you everything I know about the woman.”

No, he hadn't. Hiding something, covering up—man with a guilt complex. Runyon would've bet Canaday had had something going with Verity Daniels at one time or another, and that it hadn't had an amiable ending.

*   *   *

The man who opened the door of the house in one of Martinez's older tracts wore a uniform shirt that had the words
Riteway Gutter Installers
over one pocket. He was short, squat, with a blocky face dominated by a thick black mustache that bracketed his mouth and small, deep-sunk eyes under bushy brows. The eyes narrowed to slits when he saw that Runyon was nobody he knew.

“Mr. Avery? Hank Avery?”

“So? If you're a salesman or a religious nut, you better just haul ass. Like the sign right there by the bell says, no solicitors.”

“I'm not a solicitor.” Runyon proved it with his ID.

Avery stared at the license. “A private eye? What you want here?”

“A few minutes of your and your mother's time.”

“You don't get any of her time. She's not well, she's sleeping. I asked you how come you're here.”

“Verity Daniels.”

The name made Avery jerk a little, tightened his mouth. He said, “What the hell?” and came out quickly onto the porch, closing the door behind him as if he were afraid his mother might overhear. “What about her? You investigating her?”

“I'm not at liberty to say.”

“Damn well should be, if you're not. She killed my brother two and a half years ago. You know about that?”

“I know your brother drowned. And that it was ruled an accident.”

“Accident. Bullshit. She killed him, all right. Even if she didn't hold his head under the water, she killed him. He'd still be alive if he hadn't gone on that camping trip with her.”

“I understand he was thinking of calling off the wedding.”

“Damn right he was. Should never of had anything to do with her in the first place.”

“Why was he backing out?”

“He wouldn't tell me or Ma. Said she wasn't what he thought she was. No shit. Screwing some other guy, probably. Jason, he was big on a woman being faithful.”

“If she was involved with somebody else, any idea who it might have been?”

“No. Could've been anybody.” Avery cracked thick-knobbed knuckles. “She do something to somebody else? That what this is all about? Man, I hope so because then maybe she'll finally get what's coming to her.”

“And what would that be?”

“Jail time, a busted head, whatever hurts her the most.”

“Do the hurting yourself, Mr. Avery? If you had the chance?”

“Don't think I didn't think about it after Jason died.”

“And?”

“Ma talked me out of it. Didn't want to lose her only other son on account of that bitch.”

“The last time you had any contact with Verity Daniels was when?”

“Not since Jason died. Not long enough.”

“Know where she's living now?”

“No, and I don't give a crap. Unless she's dead or about to be, so I can go to her goddamn funeral and then spit on her grave.”

“So you hadn't heard about her inheritance.”

Blank stare. “Inheritance? What inheritance?”

“From a wealthy relative. Six months ago.”

“Her?
Her?
How much?”

“Seven figures.”

“Seven—! Goddamn it!”

Runyon decided to open up a little, see what kind of reaction he'd get. “What would you say if I told you somebody is trying to take some of it away from her?”

“What would I say? Good! I hope they get every damn dime that belongs to her.”

“Would you try it if you thought you could get away with it?”

“Me? Hell, no. I wouldn't want none of her money. Only thing of hers I'd want is her blood.”

“Is that a threat, Mr. Avery?”

Avery said, “I don't make threats, man,” and turned abruptly and stalked back inside the house.

*   *   *

The three interviews hadn't netted Runyon much in the way of specifics, or pointed to any of the individuals as the perp. Each man seemed to have plenty of cause to dislike, distrust, openly hate, even fear Verity Daniels; any of the three could be guilty of extortion, terrorism, or both. Or none of them.

One thing the interviews had accomplished: he had a slightly better handle on Ms. Daniels now. She was a woman who engendered strong emotions in other people, all or most of them negative, either by design or because of personality flaws. Nobody seemed to like her much—and maybe that was the primary reason why she lived such a solitary life. Two million dollars might be enough to buy you a new home, a new look, all the possessions you wanted, but it wasn't enough to buy you a brand-new persona.

 

6

Verity Daniels called at 7:50 that night, while Runyon was heating a can of soup for a late supper. But it wasn't the right kind of call. She'd heard nothing more from the perp. She was half frantic from all the waiting, she said, and needed to hear a friendly voice. He had so much experience with this kind of thing and she had none—how long did he think it would be?