The dog started barking again, long and loud, when he left the house. He could still hear it when he was half a block away, even with the car windows rolled up.
S amantha Henderson was waiting for him when he arrived at the home she shared with Cliff’s brother, Damon. Development of tract houses in a country setting west of town-the custom-built, expensive variety on large lots with plenty of landscaping to give the illusion of privacy. Some enterprising developer’s idea of gracious living, small-town version.
The two-car garage was detached, separated from the colonial-style house by a walkway and a narrow strip of ground planted with flowers and low-growing cypress shrubs. The door to the garage was on that side, not quite directly opposite a side door into the house. Mrs. Henderson stood by while Runyon examined the door. The lock wasn’t much, just the standard push-button variety. It would have taken little effort to spring it with a credit card, much less a tire iron. But the perp had made more noise doing it than he’d bargained for.
“Damon was in the bathroom when he heard it,” the woman said. “He grabbed a flashlight and rushed out there. He should have called the police instead.”
Runyon agreed without saying so. He pushed the door open, stepped inside. Mrs. Henderson followed him and put on the lights. One car parked in there now, a silver Lexus that was probably her husband’s; it had brand- new tires. The Mitsubishi wagon parked in the driveway would be hers.
He glanced around, getting the lay. Long cluttered workbench along this wall, the cartons of files in a triplestacked row on the other side of the door. More cartons and gardening equipment along the far wall, three bicycles at the back end. Nothing disturbed or out of place that he could see.
He asked her, “Where was your husband when you found him?”
“There on the floor, next to his car.”
“So he was attacked as soon as he opened the door and came inside.”
“Yes. He hadn’t taken more than three steps.”
“Was his flashlight on?”
“When he came in, yes, but he was hit so quickly… he dropped it and it went out. He didn’t see anything.”
“How did the man leave? Same way he came in?”
“No, through one of the automatic doors. It was open.”
“Overhead lights on when you came in?”
“Not until I put them on.”
“Show me the button that works the garage door.”
It was on the wall near the light switch. But not too near. Runyon pushed it, watched the door slide up quickly and with a moderate amount of noise. There was a light on the unit above the door, but it didn’t come on. Broken? Looked that way.
The perp couldn’t have been inside very long before Damon came blundering in. Just long enough to shine a flash beam around and break the door opener light. Why? There didn’t seem to be any reason he’d want to leave that way, with the noise the unit made when it was activated, when he could slip out quietly in the dark the way he’d come in.
Samathana Henderson said, “My God… do you suppose he was in here before that night?”
“It’s possible. Side door always kept locked?”
“At night, yes, but not always during the day. But he wouldn’t… in broad daylight? Would he take that kind of risk?”
He might, if he was bold enough. Or crazy enough. The question, if he had been here before, was why take the risk? Hunting for something, maybe?
Runyon asked, “Have you looked through the garage since the attack? Checked to see if anything is missing?”
“Missing? I don’t understand.”
“Could you check now?”
“But… I can’t imagine what…”
“Please, Mrs. Henderson. Just have a look around.”
She spent fifteen minutes doing what he asked. Once she said, “I can’t tell if any of Damon’s business files are missing, you’d have to ask him.” A little later she said, “As far as I can tell everything seems to be here,” but two minutes later she contradicted herself.
Some boxes and a small trunk were jammed under a corner of the workbench. When she dragged the trunk out and opened it, she made a small, surprised sound. “Somebody’s been in here.”
Runyon went to peer over her shoulder. Photo albums, loose photos, loose letters, childhood drawings, other memorabilia.
“It was neatly arranged,” she said. “The letters, the photos, all in packets. “Damon would never make a mess like this. Neither would Michael… my son, Michael. He’d have no reason to poke around in here.”
“Some of those photos look fairly old.”
“They are. Most of the things in here belonged to Damon’s father. We brought the trunk over here after he died.”
The father again. Runyon asked, “Can you tell if anything’s been taken?”
“Not for sure. But… one or two of the albums, maybe… I seem to remember there were more than five. The letters and other stuff… I don’t know. Damon should be able to tell you. Or Cliff.”
“Do me a favor? Call Cliff tonight and ask him to come over, take a look, and then let me know what’s missing.”
“Yes, I’ll do that.”
“These letters. What type are they?”
“Oh, you know. Personal correspondence. From Lloyd to his wife when they were courting and when he was in the army in Korea. From the boys when they were away at camp.”
“Same with the photos?”
“Yes. Snapshots and family portraits. Nothing… provocative. Nothing that would interest anyone outside the family. Why would the stalker steal letters and old photos? He couldn’t have been looking for them. How could he know about the trunk? We’ve never told anybody we keep it in here.”
Runyon was silent. He had no answers for her. Not even any guesses, at this point.
I n the car he used his cell to call the agency. Tamara answered and he reported what he’d learned so far. She had nothing of interest to give him on the Henderson brothers and their families. He suggested that she shift the focus to Lloyd Henderson and his ex-wife, see if that avenue led anywhere.
“I’m on it,” she said. “You through for the day up there?”
If he’d picked up any hot leads, even a warm lead, he’d have said no, he’d stay on it a while longer. If this had been a few months ago, before he met Bryn Darby and what lay ahead of him tonight was nothing more than four cold apartment walls, he’d have said the same thing. Push ahead, try to brace strangers in their homes, work as late as possible. But as things stood now…
“I’m through,” he said. Until tomorrow morning, early.
Tonight there was Bryn.
5
The pile owned by Gregory Pollexfen was typical of the homes in Sea Cliff, one of the city’s wealthiest residential neighborhoods: imposing, ornately stylish, and probably worth upwards of five million even in the current real estate market. The architecture had a Spanish influence without actually being Spanish-a broad mix of beige stucco, red tile, wrought iron, and polished woodwork, with a variety of small trees and plants in huge terra-cotta urns on a balustraded front terrace, and gardens on both sides. Some ultraelitist types might not consider it among the premier houses along Sea Cliff Avenue; it loomed on the low inland hillside, rather than perched on the cliffs above China Beach on the seaward side. But to my jaundiced eye, it would do in a pinch.
A middle-aged, stoic-featured woman who was probably the housekeeper, though she wasn’t outfitted that
