“You answer my question, I’ll answer yours.”
Runyon showed his ID, and when the deskman had had his look, “He’s involved in a case I’m investigating.”
“He do something, break the law or something?”
“That’s right. And he’s liable to break it again if I don’t find him pretty soon.”
The desk clerk chewed on that for a time. Shrugged and said, “What the hell, then. Yeah, he stayed here. This past week and one time before that. But he checked out this morning.”
“How long was he here?”
“This time? Five days? Let me check.” Quick shuffle through a batch of registration cards. “Five days, right. Left early.”
“Early?”
“Asked for a weekly rate when he checked in and I gave it to him.”
“Mind if I look at that card?”
Another hesitation, another shrug. “What the hell,” the clerk said again and handed it over.
In a weak backhand scrawl: T. Devries, Vacaville. No effort to hide his identity. The license plate number matched the one Tamara had supplied and “Dodge van” had been written in the box marked Make of Car. No credit card information: Devries had paid with cash.
“Any trouble while he was here?” Runyon asked.
“Not when I was on duty. Hardly even saw him. Seemed like a nice enough kid, said he was in the area on business. But I guess you never know, huh?”
“What time did he check out?”
“Little before noon. Twelve’s checkout time.”
Noon. Missed him by four hours. “Did he say anything? Give you any idea of why he was leaving early, where he was going?”
“Said he was almost finished with his business. That’s all.”
Almost finished with his business. Planning something new, and soon. More acid-slinging with a human target this time? He wouldn’t do it in broad daylight, he wasn’t that crazy. When and where? And where was he now?
T ime to talk to Lieutenant St. John. But when Runyon got to the Los Alegres PD, he found that St. John was out on police business and not expected back until five thirty. He left a message, asking the lieutenant to wait if he came in early-the Henderson case, urgent.
C liff Henderson wasn’t at the west-side home construction site. Nobody was; work had been shut down for the day. Runyon drove downtown to the Henderson Construction offices in a newish building along the west bank of the Los Alegres River. The offices were open, but Henderson wasn’t there, either. He’d checked in and then left about half an hour ago, the woman at the desk said. Might find him the Oasis Bar; he and some members of his crew often gathered there for a drink or two after work.
The Oasis had been operating for a lot of years in the same location on the main drag. Somebody’s house once, judging by the architectural style, long ago converted into a tavern and bedecked with neon signs. Old- fashioned inside, too: long bar, cracked leather booths, pool table, jukebox, animal heads mounted on the walls, business cards and dollar bills thumbtacked to the low ceiling. Guy hangout. Runyon got the usual once-over locals give strangers who walk in. The bar stools and booths were all full, but it didn’t take him long to spot Cliff Henderson-crowded into a booth with three other guys, working on pints of draft beer.
He moved over near the bar, stood there until he caught Henderson’s eye and then gestured to him. Henderson didn’t waste any time joining him. Runyon said, “Talk outside where it’s private,” and led the way through a rear door into a parking lot dominated by pickups and motorcycles.
Henderson listened with no expression other than a tightening of his facial muscles. When Runyon finished talking he said, “I never heard of anybody named Tucker Devries. Who the hell is he?”
“Disturbed personality with a perceived grudge against the Henderson family.”
“What kind of grudge, for Christ’s sake?”
Irresponsible and unkind to lay the burden of Jenny Noakes’s and his father’s infidelity on Henderson’s shoulders just yet. Runyon said only, “Details are still a little hazy.”
“But you’re saying it has something to do with my father.”
“I’m afraid so.”
Henderson shook his head, rubbed stubby fingers over the bristles on his jaw. “Five years since he passed away. What set Devries off after all this time?”
“That’ll come out when he’s in custody.”
“You’re sure he’s the one?”
“He fits the profile, he’s got a history of mental problems, and he’s been in the area off and on since the trouble started.”
“The cops know about this yet?”
“I’m seeing Lieutenant St. John in a few minutes. But the law demands hard proof and I don’t have a lot of it to offer.”
“So what, then? They won’t arrest Devries right away?”
“Maybe not. They’ll have to find him first.”
“Yeah, that figures. And meanwhile, he’s liable to make another move against Damon or me. You think he’s crazy enough to use acid on one of us?”
“I wouldn’t rule it out, Mr. Henderson.”
“Miserable son of a bitch…”
“He drives a fifteen-year-old Dodge Caravan, white, no markings.” Runyon recited the license number. “Pass that information on to your brother and your families. If you spot him anywhere, any time, call the police. Don’t try to play it any other way.”
“I’m not the hero type,” Henderson said. “But I’ll tell you one thing. I’m not about to hide in my house until they catch him, acid or no acid. I can’t live scared. I damn well won’t let him do that to me, either.”
T he talk with St. John went about the way Runyon expected it would. Skepticism, and a faint defensive irritation that a private investigator had managed to turn up information in three days that had eluded his department for three weeks.
“Listen, Runyon, I knew Lloyd Henderson personally for a lot of years. You’ll never convince me he had anything to do with the murder of some young woman in Mendocino County.”
“I’m not trying to,” Runyon said. “It’s Devries who believes it.”
“Because of something of his mother’s that’s been hidden away for twenty years.”
“Something in that trunk, yes.”
“Such as what?”
“Whatever it is, it set him off, pushed him over the edge. Lloyd Henderson’s no longer alive and desecrating his grave wasn’t enough revenge for him.”
“A goddamn psycho.”
“The deadly kind. You knew all along that’s what you were dealing with. We both did.”
“Yeah. Yeah.”
“So what’re you going to do?”
“What do you expect me to do?”
“Put out an APB or at least a BOLO. He’s still in the area.”
“On your say-so? Just like that?” But St. John was chewing on it now, pinch-mouthed, like a dog with a new bone that tasted bad.
“For the Henderson brothers’ sake, not mine.”
“You already tell them about Devries?”
“Cliff Henderson, little while ago. He’s our client-obligation to him as well as to the law. But I didn’t say anything about Jenny Noakes. Not without corroboration.”
“Well, that’s something, anyway. All right. We’ll look into it.”
“Hard and fast, Lieutenant.”
“You don’t have to tell me my job,” St. John said. He slapped his desktop, not too hard, for emphasis. “If
