6
JAKE RUNYON
Except for a headache, a swollen ear, and a dry mouth, he was all right in the morning. Unscrambled, in command of himself again. He could remember everything that had happened at the Belsize farm up to the moment he’d been assaulted. The rest of it was blurred and fragmentary, like images from a particularly vivid dream.
A nurse came in and the first thing he asked her, in a croak that didn’t sound much like his own voice, was how soon he could get out of there. Not until Dr. Yeng examined him, she said. When would that be? On Doctor’s regular rounds this morning. She gave Runyon some water, took his temperature, checked his pulse. He asked if he had a concussion and she confirmed it. How serious? He’d have to speak to Dr. Yeng about that. The only information Runyon could get out of her was that three stitches had been necessary to close the wound on his temple. He asked where his clothes and belongings were. Clothing in a locker, valuables in a lockbox. He talked her into fetching the valuables bag. The subpoena was there; so were his wallet and cell phone. The. 357 Magnum and his license case were missing. Sheriff’s people had them, likely. Better have.
The doctor didn’t show up until after eleven, and by then the antiseptic white walls were beginning to close in on him. Young, Asian, efficient. Dr. Yeng studied the chart, then asked questions while he shined a light in Runyon’s eyes and examined his bandaged temple and cauliflower ear. Had he suffered loss of consciousness after the blow to his head? No. Nausea? Some. Disorientation, dizziness, clumsiness, slow to respond to questions? All of the above, but all gone now.
Yeng seemed satisfied. “Your concussion appears relatively mild,” he said. “The X-rays showed no skull fracture or brain hemorrhage or evidence of blood clots. You’re fortunate you weren’t hit any harder.”
“I guess I am.”
“Have you had any kind of head trauma before last night?”
“No.”
“All to the good. Do you know anything about concussions?”
“A little, not much.”
Dr. Yeng took that as an invitation to deliver a brief technical lecture. After such a trauma, he said, the arteries in the brain constrict, reducing blood flow and lowering the rate at which oxygen is delivered to the brain. At the same time the demand rises for sugar glucose to provide energy to the brain for healing, but the narrowed arteries are unable to meet the demand; this creates a metabolic crisis, requiring time for the brain to correct the chemical imbalance and the damaged cells to repair themselves. How much time varies with the severity of the trauma, and the individual person’s health and how well he takes care of himself during the healing process. In Runyon’s case, if he was careful and no complications developed, the time should be relatively short.
“Avoid strenuous activity; get plenty of rest,” Yeng said. “If any symptoms should recur-severe headaches, dizziness, double vision, a blackout lasting even a few seconds-you need to see your physician without delay.”
“Understood. Can I get out of here now?”
“I don’t see why not, as long as you’re feeling up to it. After you’ve seen your visitors.”
He’d been expecting that. “Law officers?”
“That’s right. They’re waiting outside.”
“Send them in.”
There were two of them. One brain, one brawn. The brain was in his fifties, short, compact, with sparse sandy hair and a quiet manner, dressed in a suit and tie; his name was Rinniak and he was a special investigator with the county sheriff’s department. The brawn, Kelso, wore a deputy’s uniform with knife-crease trousers and starched blouse and a Sam Browne belt so well oiled the leather gleamed in the room lights. Bulky, thick-necked, red-faced-half a foot taller and half a yard wider than Rinniak and, judging from his blue starry eyes, about half as intelligent. Kelso seemed vaguely familiar, but Runyon couldn’t place him until he took up an aggressive stance at the foot of the bed, a hand resting lightly on the butt of his service revolver. Right. The one who’d thrown questions at him last night. Deputy in charge of the Gray’s Landing substation, and the kind of suspicious, hard-nosed veteran who resented private sector investigators-the kind you could have trouble with even if you were careful around him.
Rinniak sat in one of the two chairs. He said, “We’ll try to keep this brief, Mr. Runyon. Can you remember what happened last night?”
“Everything before I got blindsided.”
“That’s what we’re interested in.”
Kelso said, “How about you start by telling us what a San Francisco private cop was doing at the Belsize farm.”
“Delivering a subpoena. Or trying to.”
“Who to?”
“Gerald Belsize.”
The sheriff’s men exchanged glances. “What kind of case?” Rinniak asked.
“Assault and robbery. Belsize was a witness.”
“Where and when?”
“Three months ago, in San Francisco. He took his girlfriend down there for the weekend and the two of them-”
“What girlfriend?” Kelso demanded. “You mean Sandra Parnell?”
“That’s right.”
The outthrust jaw tightened. “I should’ve known she was that way.”
“What way?”
“Cheap. Decent girls don’t spend out-of-town weekends with their boyfriends.”
Add prude to suspicious and hard-nosed.
Rinniak said, “Go ahead, Mr. Runyon.”
“Belsize and Parnell were at a SoMa nightclub. On the way out she stopped to use the bathroom and he went on to the parking lot. Spotted two men beating up on a third, stealing his wallet. One of them came after him and he ran back to the club.”
“Yeah, that figures,” Kelso said. “Pure coward.”
“The mugger had a knife. You don’t have to be a coward to run from cold steel.”
“I know him. You don’t.”
Runyon said, “Belsize claimed he couldn’t describe either mugger, but the girl said he told her later that he got a good look at the one with the knife-he just didn’t want to get involved.”
“That figures, too.”
“SFPD arrested a felon named Zander as one of the perps. He had the victim’s wallet in his possession. He swears he’s innocent, claims he found the wallet half a block away. His lawyer contacted Belsize, got no cooperation, so he called my agency to check him out and deliver a subpoena. Routine business.”
“The girl didn’t tell us about any of that,” Kelso said to Rinniak.
“No reason for her to. It’s not germane.”
“Still should’ve told us.”
Rinniak asked, “How did Belsize check out?”
“Clean.”
“Wrong,” Kelso said. “He’s been trouble his whole life. Only a matter of time before he got into the big time.”
“If you say so.”
“I say so. You never met him, huh?”
“No.”
“Anybody else in his family?”
“Not before last night.”
“How about Manuel Silvera?”
“I don’t know anybody named Manuel Silvera.”
“Belsize’s hired hand. Man you found beaten and strung up in the barn. You did find him, right? Poking around
