You got solicitors in the evenings here sometimes-salesmen and political and religious prosletyzers. Well, she’d make short work of whoever it was. She was in no mood to talk to anybody tonight except Judge Alfred Mantle.
The Victorian’s owners hadn’t bothered to have a communicator or door buzzer installed when they renovated it, so you had to go all the way down the inside stairs to find out who was ringing the bell. No problem if it was somebody you wanted to see, but an irritation if it wasn’t. Well, it was a minor inconvenience. Everything else about the flat made it worth the high rent she was paying.
She hadn’t put the chain on the door when she came in, didn’t think to put it on before she threw the dead bolt and opened up. Mistake-big mistake.
Soon as she turned the knob, a heavy weight slammed against the panel and drove it straight back into her face. Pain erupted, blood spurted from her nose, and the force of the blow sent her staggering backward along the short hall to the foot of the stairs. Her heel stubbed against the bottom riser. And down she went against the stairs, another of the risers jamming hard into her back, the impact taking some of her breath away.
Dimly, through a haze of hurt, she saw Antoine Delman come inside and push the door closed behind him, throw the dead bolt to lock it. Then he was standing over her, a smile like a rictus on his ugly, blocky face.
“Hello, Tamara,” he said. “Hello, you fucking bitch.”
24
JAKE RUNYON
He had two calls that afternoon on his way back to the agency from an interview on the new case Tamara had given him, a skip-trace for a prominent S.F. couple whose daughter had disappeared. The first call was from Bryn-something of a surprise, since it came during working hours. She seldom called him at all, letting him take the initiative, and never until after five o’clock.
“Jake, I’m sorry to bother you like this; I know you’re busy-”
“Not a problem. What’s up?”
“I know we said tomorrow night, but… could you come over tonight instead?”
There was a strained quality to her voice that made him ask, “Something wrong?”
“… Yes. Something that happened today.”
“What? You okay?”
“Yes. I don’t want to talk about it on the phone. Can you come over?”
“Right away, if it’s urgent.”
“No, tonight’s soon enough.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. Any time you can make it.”
New development with her health, the facial paralysis? He hoped that wasn’t it; it probably wouldn’t be good news if it was. Support or custody troubles with the ex-husband? No use speculating. He’d find out soon enough.
But he was still wondering when the second call came in. Bill, this time. And he didn’t sound any better than Bryn had. Even more tense; his voice was as tight and flat as Runyon had ever heard it.
“Jake, I need to talk to you-in person. You busy?”
“On my way back to the agency.”
“Where are you?”
“Just leaving St. Francis Wood.”
“When you get to South Park, don’t wait for me in the office-meet me in the South Park Cafe. I’m in the East Bay, heading for the Bay Bridge. I shouldn’t be far behind you.”
“Business you don’t want Tamara to know about?”
“Business I don’t want anybody to know about except you. Not yet.”
The South Park Cafe was mid-afternoon quiet, only a handful of customers taking up bar space. Runyon ordered draft beer, took it to the table farthest removed from any of the other occupied ones. He was still nursing it when Bill walked in fifteen minutes later.
As soon as he sat down, Runyon could see how tensed up the man was. Holding in whatever was bugging him as if it were an explosive that might go off at any second. When Runyon raised the beer glass Bill shook his head, leaned forward with both hands flat on the table.
“I’m going to ask a favor,” Bill said, “but I won’t hold it against you if you say no.”
“Why would I say no?”
“What I want you to do could have a backlash.”
“What kind of backlash?”
“The kind that could get us and the agency in trouble. That’s one reason I don’t want Tamara to know about it yet.”
“Trouble with the law?”
“Potentially. Could put our licenses in jeopardy. I don’t think that’ll happen, but it could if I’m off base here.”
“But you’re pretty sure you’re not.”
“Pretty sure,” Bill said. “But not a hundred percent. It’s going to take a little muscle to find out for certain.”
“How much muscle?”
“Nothing heavy. Just enough to get inside a guy’s house.”
“Hard guy?”
“No. And no family, lives alone.”
“Unlawful entry, then. That the backlash you mean?”
“That’s it.”
“I’ve run that risk before,” Runyon said. “We both have. This is important to you, right? Personal?”
“Yeah. Personal.”
“And you want me along why? Not for extra muscle, if the guy isn’t a hardcase. Intimidation? Witness?”
“They’re part of the reason.”
“What’s the other part?”
Bill said grimly, “If I’m right, to keep me from doing something I might regret for the rest of my life.”
Zachary Ullman wasn’t home.
No lights, no car in the driveway, no answer to the doorbell.
They sat waiting in Runyon’s Ford, parked a few doors upstreet. Neither of them said anything. Bill had laid it all out for him in the South Park Cafe and they’d talked it over a little more on the drive out here to Daly City. Nothing to do now but wait.
Gray daylight began to fade; fog came pouring in in humped white waves, like an avalanche in slow motion. Ragged streamers of mist broke loose from the mass overhead, curled down along the twisty street, thickening slowly until the shapes of the houses beyond the curve ahead lost definition. Night shadows formed and spread and lights bloomed in windows. More cars rolled by in both directions-residents coming home from work-but none of them turned into Ullman’s driveway.
Waiting like this didn’t bother Runyon. He sat with his mind cranked down to basic awareness, a trick he’d learned on stakeouts in Seattle and honed fine during Colleen’s long, slow cancer death. It wasn’t a matter of maintaining patience; it was a way to keep from thinking about things like pain and suffering and grief, things that could drive you up to the edge if you let yourself dwell on them.
Bill hadn’t learned the trick. He was always fidgety on stakeouts and worse when he was stressed this way- thinking too much, letting his thoughts and emotions run unchecked. He kept shifting around on the seat, blowing out heavy breaths, doing things with his hands and feet. Once he muttered, “Come on, come on, come on!” Runyon
