private.”
“You know we can’t allow that while she’s in AdSeg,” Crabtree said.
Runyon knew it, but he had to ask. He didn’t want to bring Bobby’s name up to Bryn in front of an audience if there was a way around it. In order to get through to her, he had to know what she knew and was hiding about the murder. If she was certain Bobby was guilty, she’d never give him away.
“So what do you say, Mr. Runyon? Do it our way?”
“I doubt it’d do any good. If she was going to confide in me, she’d’ve done it at the crime scene.”
“Maybe she did,” Farley said mildly. “Maybe you’re the one she’s protecting.”
Blowing smoke, the same as Crabtree had. They weren’t all that suspicious of him-they’d have checked his record and found it clean-but they were good cops covering all the bases. He’d have handled it the same way when he carried a police badge.
He said, “You’ll find out soon enough those prints on the knife aren’t mine.”
“So then you shouldn’t mind helping us get to the bottom of this. Save Mrs. Darby a lot of trouble if you can convince her to open up. Are you willing to give it a try?”
“I’ll have to talk to her attorney before I give you an answer.”
“You want to call him now?”
“Yes. He hasn’t been informed about the prints yet, has he?”
“Hasn’t been time.”
“I’ll tell him, then.”
Runyon went out into the hall to make the call. But Dragovich wasn’t at his law office; his secretary said he’d gone to a meeting on another case and that he wasn’t scheduled back in today. Runyon tried the attorney’s cell number. Crap. Voice mail.
He went back into the Homicide Division. “Unavailable,” he said to the inspectors.
“So the talk will have to wait,” Farley said. “Just don’t let it wait too long.”
“I won’t.”
“And don’t let yourself become unavailable, meanwhile.”
“I was on the job for fifteen years myself, remember? I know the drill.”
“Sure you do. But sometimes even ex-cops get careless.”
“Only if they have a reason,” Runyon said. “If you want me before Dragovich or I get in touch, I’ll be where you can find me.”
He was at loose ends, now. Nothing to do, nowhere to go, until he heard from Dragovich. He’d promised Bryn he’d try to find out how Bobby was doing, but there wasn’t any way to accomplish that short of asking the boy’s father, and Darby wouldn’t be forthcoming. Dragovich might know; she’d asked him to check as well. Again, nothing to do but wait for the lawyer’s return call.
The agency or his apartment? After five now and South Park was closer to the Hall of Justice, but Tamara would probably still be at the agency. She meant well, he was fond of her, but she’d ask a lot of questions that he was in no mood to answer. Home, then. If you could call a four-room, cheaply furnished apartment home.
The drive up over Twin Peaks and down to Ortega took nearly half an hour. Still no word from Dragovich by the time Runyon got there. The apartment had a faintly musty odor he hadn’t been aware of before: too long without an airing. He turned up the heat and then went to open the bedroom window partway, letting the chill evening breeze come swirling in.
On his way back past the bed, his gaze automatically went to the framed photograph of Colleen on the nightstand. He stopped for a few seconds to look at it. Not a day went by that he didn’t think about her. But the thoughts were no longer morbid, heavy with the crippling grief that had obsessed him for so long; only sadness remained to darken the memories of their two decades together. Bryn was in his life now and he’d keep her in it no matter what happened with this Whalen crisis, but not as a replacement for Colleen. Different kind of relationship, different emotional needs. A mortal version of life after death.
He brewed himself a cup of tea. Some still edible cheese in the fridge and half a box of crackers, but the prospect of another small, tasteless meal like all those he prepared when he was alone made his stomach churn. In the living room he started to turn the television on, changed his mind, and left it dark. No stomach tonight, either, for the company of talking heads and flickering screen images.
He let himself go dark, too. Sat in his waiting mode on the couch, the tea untouched. He would have sat there like that for hours if he’d had to, but he didn’t have to; it was no more than ten minutes before he finally heard from Dragovich.
Runyon ran down the latest developments for the lawyer, including his suspicion that the person Bryn was covering for was her son.
“Good news on the one hand,” Dragovich said, “not so good on the other. I can mount a strong argument at her arraignment that the homicide charge be dismissed for lack of evidence, but the district attorney is likely to pursue an obstruction charge unless she recants her false story and admits she’s protecting her son. In that case, the judge will surely rule in their favor. Most judges take a dim view of any detained suspect who willfully makes a false statement that hinders a police investigation, no matter what the reason.”
“And if Bryn does recant and cooperate?”
“Then given the extenuating circumstances I doubt there’ll be any further charges. The judge might declare her a material witness, but even if he should, she’d be released from custody. But I gather from my face-to-faces with Mrs. Darby, and from what you say, that convincing her won’t be easy.”
“Not as long as she believes Bobby is guilty.”
“Do you believe he is?”
“No, but it is possible. If I could talk to him… but I don’t suppose there’s any way you can make that happen?”
“Not with Robert Darby in his present state of mind.”
Runyon said, “What about me talking to Bryn without the conversation being monitored? Or the three of us in private?”
“I’ll talk to Farley and Crabtree, but they have every reason to stand on protocol. If you’re allowed to see her, I’m afraid it will have to be with an official audience. Of course, I can consult with her alone and try to persuade her.”
“No offense, but I stand a better chance of getting through to her and finding out what she knows. How soon can you arrange the meeting?”
“Tonight, if they’re agreeable.”
Runyon brewed another cup of tea while he waited for Dragovich to call back. Too strong, bitter; he dumped it out. For the first time in a long time, since the rock-bottom night shortly after Colleen’s death when he’d sat with a bottle of bourbon in one hand and his. 357 Magnum in the other, he felt like having a drink of hard liquor. There was none in the apartment, but even if there had been, he wouldn’t have given in to the momentary craving. He’d never been much of a drinking man, and Angela’s alcoholism and his near suicide had turned him dry except for an occasional beer. Booze for a man like him was a problem, not a problem solver.
It was fifteen minutes before his cell vibrated again. And only the first part of what Dragovich had to tell him was what he wanted to hear.
“Preliminary reports on the fingerprints have come in,” the attorney said. “You’re off the hook and so is Robert Darby.”
“ID match?”
“None yet. It’s possible whoever wielded the knife was never fingerprinted. They’re still checking.”
So it could still be Bobby. Wasn’t likely Darby would’ve consented to the boy being printed, even if Crabtree and Farley had thought to suggest it; later, if it became necessary to Bryn’s defense, Dragovich could get a court order to compel the father to allow it. The fact that a child’s fingers were small didn’t necessarily mean anything, either. Plenty of adults had hands and fingers not much larger than a nine-year-old’s. You could get an ID match from bloody partials, but without a full clear latent and a comparison source, the lab techs would make the same assumption as the investigating officers: the prints belonged to an adult.
Runyon asked, “When do we get to talk to Bryn?”
