“In the city, where else?” Bitterly now. “When I first came out here I thought San Francisco was fascinating, beautiful, a magical place. But it’s no different than any other big city-just as dirty, just as vicious.”
“What part of the city?”
“The neighborhood where we… where I live. Outer Sunset, one of the supposedly safe neighborhoods.”
“You shared a place with her?”
“An apartment near Golden Gate Park. Erin went jogging every evening between six and seven. Sometimes in the park, sometimes just around the neighborhood. That night she didn’t come home. A man walking his dog found her the next morning, in some bushes inside the park.”
“Nobody saw anything, heard anything?”
“Or won’t admit it if they did. That’s another thing I hate about the city-mind your own business, don’t get involved. If it weren’t for that bastard still being loose, I’d quit my job and move back to Wisconsin. I swear that’s what I will do when the police catch him. If they catch him.”
“The man I’ve been following-you ever see him before today?”
“Once. At Erin’s funeral service.”
“Speak to him then?”
“I tried to. He avoided me that day, too.”
“Possible he worked with your sister, had a relationship with her?”
Risa Niland shook her head. “She worked for two women… a women’s boutique on Union Street. And she never dated older men. She had a steady boyfriend, a guy her own age she was serious about.”
“Name?”
“Scott Iams. He’s in even worse shape than I am.”
Runyon said, “That marble headstone looks expensive. Did you arrange for it?”
“My God, no. My family and I couldn’t afford one like that.”
“Her boyfriend, then?”
“Scott couldn’t afford it, either. And her employers barely cared enough to come to the funeral. I don’t know who paid for that stone. I tried to find out, but the cemetery people… anonymous order, they told me, paid for in cash.”
“What about all the flowers?”
“Same thing. Every week since it happened… wreaths, bouquets. I told the police, but they didn’t seem to think it was worth investigating. I do. That’s why I came here this morning, why I’ve been coming here every chance I could the past couple of weeks. The man you’ve been following, he has to be the one.”
“He did seem almost afraid of you.”
“Yes, he did.”
“Did you identify yourself to him?”
“No. I asked who he was, how he knew Erin… just blurted it out. Then I asked if he was responsible for the headstone, all the flowers. He shook his head and said ‘I’m sorry,’ twice, that damn phrase. That’s all.”
Runyon was silent again.
Risa Niland said, “Why would he act like that, a complete stranger, if he doesn’t have something to hide?”
“There could be an innocent reason.”
“Such as?”
“One connected to the investigation I’m working on.”
“But you won’t tell me what it is. Or who he is.”
“I can’t. It’s not clear yet, anyway.”
“Confidentiality.” The bitterness was back in her voice. “Professional ethics.”
“That’s right. But I may be able to help you in another way.”
“Help me? Oh, I see. Drumming up business. Well, you can forget it. Don’t you think we’d have hired a detective by now if we could afford it?”
“You won’t need to hire me. My agency already has a client.”
Cynically: “Just how far do your ethics extend, Mr. Runyon?”
“I’m not sure I understand the question.”
“Don’t you? If you expect something from me besides money…”
“Let’s get one thing straight,” he said. “I don’t expect anything, I don’t want anything from you.”
“Then why help me? Why should I trust you?”
“Helping people is part of my job. I’m good at what I do and well paid for it and I can give you a list of references-others who’ve put their trust in me and the people I work for.”
She held eye contact for several seconds, bit her lip again and shifted her gaze. “Look, I guess I’m just not used to kindness from strangers, even at the best of times…”
“I understand.”
“Do you really think you can help?”
“At least to the point of finding out if this man had anything to do with your sister’s death. If he didn’t, and if he did buy the headstone and all the flowers, maybe I can explain the reasons.”
“If you’d do that… well, I don’t know what to say. Except thank you.”
He handed her an agency business card, the one with his home and cell phone numbers; watched her study it the way she had his license before she slipped it into her coat pocket. “You can reach me at either of those numbers, day or night,” he said. “I’ll need a contact number from you in return.”
“All right. But I… my home phone is unlisted and I don’t feel comfortable giving out the number. Or my address.”
He didn’t tell her how easy it would be for him to get them. “A work or friend’s number is fine.”
“Where I work, then. It’s a private line.” She recited the number. Then, after a few seconds, “Aren’t you going to write it down?”
“I have a good memory.” He repeated the numbers to prove it.
The wind gusted sharply, blew her hair into a reddish halo around her head. The effect brought a quick, stabbing memory of Colleen standing at the rail on one of the island ferries in Puget Sound, her hair flying in that same sort of wind-whipped halo.
“Is that all then?” she said.
“For now.”
“Then I’d better go. It’s freezing out here and I’m going to be late for work as it is.”
“I’ll walk with you to your car.”
Neither of them said anything until they reached the road. Solemnly she gave him her gloved hand, and when he released it after two beats she said, “I’d like to ask you a question. You don’t have to answer it if you don’t want to.”
“Go ahead.”
“Was I right in what I said before? That you’ve lost someone close to you?”
“… Yes.”
“A relative?”
“My wife. Ten months ago. Cancer.”
Her eyes closed, her face registered pain. Symbiotic reaction. The eyelids lifted again, and she held his gaze for a moment before she turned, wordlessly, and walked to the Datsun and shut herself inside.
He sat there for more than five minutes after she was gone, alone in the brightening morning, not moving, not thinking. More shaken by her and the resemblance to Colleen than he would have thought possible. It wasn’t until another car passed on the winding road that he came out of it and used his cell phone to call the agency.
7
Runyon’s report on James Troxell’s most recent activities and ties to the Erin Dumont rape-homicide case set off alarm bells. The timing was one thing: Troxell’s strange pattern of conduct had escalated at about the same
