rental, it shouldn’t take him too long to find out.
Wrong.
In his cold apartment on Ortega, he booted up his laptop and went through the property records for San Francisco first; then, when that didn’t turn up anything in either Coy or Arletta Madison’s name, he searched the rest of the Bay Area counties one by one. No listing.
Linkhauser had said the property might’ve been inherited by Arletta Madison. Since she controlled the family purse strings, it was possible she’d kept it on the tax rolls under her maiden name. Runyon checked his files. Maiden name: Hoffman. He repeated the county-by-county search. No listing.
Two possibilities, then. The rental property had been sold. Or one or both Madisons still owned it, but the ownership was listed under a different name, such as a family trust. Tamara could find out either way, but he didn’t have her computer skills or search engine knowledge.
He tried her cell number again; she still wasn’t answering. She wasn’t home, either: her machine again.
Wait until tomorrow? That would mean sitting around the empty apartment all evening with the TV on for noise. Bryn had an art class tonight, wouldn’t be home until late. Better to be out and moving. The Madisons might not be willing to talk to him about the rental property, but there was no harm in trying. At least he’d be able to judge by their reactions, Coy’s in particular, whether or not that was where Troy Madison and his girlfriend were hiding out.
There were lights on in the Queen Anne Victorian, but nobody answered the bell. Could be one or both of the Madisons were holed up inside, but if that was the case, why leave all the lights on? And why not check to see who was waiting out here? There was a peephole in the door, but Runyon didn’t hear any footsteps on the hardwood floor inside.
He’d parked his Ford a short way up the block; he went and sat behind the wheel without moving. Might as well wait awhile. People don’t usually leave so many lights blazing when they went out for an entire evening.
Cars came up and down the street now and then, but none of them parked in the vicinity. It was after eight now and there weren’t any pedestrians. Foggy shadows obscured most of the paths and lawns on this edge of Dolores Park.
He hadn’t been there long when he saw the woman.
She was on the far side of 19 ^th Street, coming uphill alongside the park. Alone, bundled in a coat and some kind of cloth cap, walking briskly. He watched her progress because she appeared to be the size and shape of Arletta Madison. If that’s who she was, she’d cross over once she drew abreast of the Madison Victorian.
She didn’t cross the street. Started to, he thought, but she didn’t have time.
A line of trees and low shrubs flanked the sidewalk where she was, with a separating strip of lawn about twenty yards wide. The tall figure of a man came out of the tree-shadow as she passed. Runyon couldn’t see him clearly through the fog, but he had one arm up in front of him, a familiar black shape jutting from a gloved hand. And he didn’t have a face-it was hidden beneath something dark pulled down tight over his head.
Gun. Ski mask.
Runyon reacted instinctively. His. 357 Magnum was locked in the glove box; there was no time for him to go after it. He hit the door handle, piled out of the car. The mugger was ten yards from the woman and closing. She’d heard him and was turning toward him; he lunged forward, grabbing at the shoulder-strap purse she carried. Runyon pounded across the street, his shoes slipping on the wet pavement, yelling at the top of his voice, “Hold it; police officer!”-the only words likely to have an effect in a situation like this.
Not this time.
The mugger’s head swiveled in Runyon’s direction, swiveled back to the woman as she pulled away from him. She made a frightened, chicken-squawking sound and turned to run.
He shot her.
No compunction: just threw the gun up and fired point-blank.
She went down, skidding on her side, as Runyon cut between two parked cars onto the sidewalk. The mugger pumped a round at him then. He was already dodging sideways, onto the lawn, when he saw the muzzle flash, heard the whine of the bullet and the low, flat crack of the weapon. The grass was thick and mist soggy; his feet slid out from under him and he went planing forward on his ass, clawing at the turf and trying to twist his body toward the nearby shrubbery. Out there in the open, with only twenty yards or so separating him from the gun, he made a hell of a target.
But the mugger didn’t fire again. Most of them were cowards and when they lost the elements of surprise and control their instincts were to run. By the time Runyon checked his momentum and squirmed around, this one was running splayfooted back into the park. Shadows and fog swallowed him within seconds.
Runyon had banged the knee on his bad leg in the fall; it sent out twinges as he hauled himself erect, hobbled toward the woman. She was still down but not hurt as badly as he’d feared: sitting up on one hip now, holding her left arm cradled in against her breast. The woolen cap had been knocked askew when she went down; the wind whipped long, stringy hair around the pale oval of her face. When she heard him coming, she looked up with fright-bugged eyes.
Arletta Madison, all right.
She blinked at him without recognition when he hunkered down beside her. He said, “It’s all right, he’s gone now.”
“He shot me,” she said in a dazed voice.
“Where are you hurt?”
“My arm-”
“Shoulder? Forearm?”
“Above the elbow.”
“Can you move it?”
“I don’t… yes, I can move it.”
Not too bad then. The bullet hadn’t struck bone.
She blinked at him again, with clearer focus. “You’re the man who was here yesterday. The detective… Runyon.”
“Yes.” You weren’t supposed to move gunshot victims, but her wound didn’t seem serious and he couldn’t just let her sit here on the wet street. “Can you stand up, walk?”
“If you help me…”
He wrapped an arm around her waist, lifted her. The blood was visible then, glistening blackly on the sleeve of her coat.
“My purse,” she said.
It was lying on the sidewalk nearby. Runyon let go of her long enough to pick it up. She took it from him with her good hand, clutched it tightly against her chest: something solid and familiar to hang on to.
The street was still empty; so were the sidewalks on both sides and what he could see of the park. Somebody was standing behind a lighted window in one of the duplexes across 19 ^th, peering through parted drapes. No one else seemed to have heard the shots, or to want to know what had happened if they did. City dwellers didn’t come out to investigate gunshots these days: too many drive-by shootings, too much random violence.
Runyon helped Arletta Madison across the street, walking with his arm around her and her body braced against his as if they were a pair of lovers. Get her off the street and into her house as quickly as possible, to where she’d feel safe, and report the shooting and ask for EMTs from there.
As they started up the front stoop, she drew a shuddering breath and said in a hoarse whisper, “God, he could have killed me,” as if the realization had just struck her. “I could be dead right now.”
“He say anything before he shot you?”
“Say anything? No. He just… shot me.” Then, at the door, “Coy was right, damn him.”
“Right about what?”
“He keeps telling me not to go out alone at night, and I keep not listening. I’m so goddamn smart, I am. Nothing ever happened; I thought nothing ever would…”
“You learned a lesson,” he said. “Don’t hurt yourself any more than you already are.”
“I hate it when he’s right.” She opened her purse with her good hand, fumbled inside. “Where the hell did I
