Mourners: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Mystery) (8 page)

Rambling a little now in his eagerness to defend himself, shift the blame, self-justify.

“It was Justine’s idea to rent it,” he said. “I didn’t want to go that route, it left us wide open, but we needed the extra money back then. The job I had wasn’t nearly as good as this one, and she— Oh, good Christ! There’s not going to be any publicity on this, is there?” He lowered his voice. “Yumitashi is a very conservative company,
very
conservative. You understand?”

“I understand. You don’t have to worry about publicity.”

“Well, that’s good, that’s a relief. I can’t afford to lose my job, especially in this economy. And I suppose there’ll be penalties—fines, back taxes. How much are we going to have to pay?”

“Not a cent, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Nothing? But . . .”

“I don’t work for the Housing Authority,” Runyon said. “Or any other city agency. That’s not why I’m here.”

Linden stared at him. His eyes, magnified behind the lenses of his glasses, seemed to bulge like a frog’s. “Why
are
you here then? What do you want? Money not to report us?”

“I told you, the only thing I’m interested in is information.”

“What information?”

“About your current tenant.”

“Is
that
what this is all about? You’re not investigating us?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, for God’s sake.” Relief put a slump in his shoulders. He took off the glasses, pinched and rubbed his eyes before he put the glasses back on. His expression had modulated again, this time into one of chagrin and embarrassment. “Why didn’t you say so? Why did you let me—” Then, in a small voice, “You scared the devil out of me.”

“Let’s talk about your tenant,” Runyon said.

“What’s he done?”

“He hasn’t done anything as far as I know.”

“Then why are you investigating him?”

“It’s nothing for you to be concerned about. And nothing for you to discuss or even mention to him. Forget this conversation after we’re finished and I’ll forget what you told me about the rental unit.”

“Mum’s the word,” Linden said eagerly. “Yes, of course.”

“To start with, what’s the renter’s name?”

“His name? You don’t know his name?”

“Just answer the question.”

“James Troxell. He’s a financial consultant, respectable, excellent references, the best tenant we’ve ever had. Some of the others . . . you wouldn’t believe . . .”

“How long has he occupied the unit?”

“Since the first of May.”

“He give you any idea why he was renting it?”

“No, and we didn’t ask. It’s none of our business.”

“How did he find out it was available?”

“Well, we don’t exactly advertise. We have to be careful. . . .”

“How did he find out?”

“An acquaintance of my wife’s works for the same firm . . . Hessen and Collier downtown, she’s a secretary there. She told him.”

“Did he bring anything with him when he moved in?”

“You mean furniture? No, the unit is completely furnished.”

“Phone, television, VCR?”

“Except for those,” Linden said. “One of our tenants broke my mother-in-law’s TV and wanted us to fix it. Can you imagine? Another tenant made all sorts of long-distance calls and we had the devil of a time getting her to pay for them, so we had the extension taken out. If they want a phone, they have to have it installed themselves, pay for it themselves. Mr. Troxell hasn’t, as far as I know.”

“Luggage, other personal possessions?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t home the day he moved in.”

“What about visitors? Any that you know about?”

“I haven’t seen any. There’s a separate entrance, through a locked side gate, and he has a key. Someone could have gone in that way.”

“How much time does he spend there?”

“I really couldn’t say. He’s there on weekends sometimes. I bumped into him last Saturday.”

“Have you been inside the unit since he took possession?”

“No, he’s never invited us in.”

“And you’ve never taken a quick look around?”

“Of course not.” The suggestion seemed to offend Linden. “We don’t snoop on our tenants. What sort of people do you think we are?”

“So you don’t have any idea what Troxell does when he’s there.”

“It’s none of our business. Besides, he seems to be a very private person.”

Runyon nodded and got to his feet.

Linden said, “That’s all then? All your questions?”

“Unless there’s anything you haven’t told me.”

“No, no. I’ve been as cooperative as I can be. Completely candid.” Linden gnawed at his thick lower lip, as if he were considering something. He consulted his upturned palms again before he said, “Is it really important to you, why Troxell rented our unit?”

“It could be.”

“Is there any chance . . . I mean, it couldn’t be anything illegal, could it? Something that might reflect back on my wife and me, get us in trouble?”

“Anything’s possible.”

“Christ,” he said. “Then we all should know about it.
You’d
know if you saw it, wouldn’t you? If you had a look inside the unit?”

“I might.”

“In that case I don’t see why we should respect his privacy. You’re investigating him, after all. The man must be up to something.”

Runyon waited.

“We have a spare key,” Linden said. “We tell the tenants their key is the only one, but we keep a spare just in case. You never know what might happen. A situation like this . . . well, I could open the unit for you, let you inside briefly, when Troxell’s not there . . .”

“You could do that,” Runyon said. “It’s one option.”

“One . . . oh, I see. I could make the key available to you
and you could have a look inside yourself. Is that what you mean?”

“It’s your suggestion, Mr. Linden, not mine.”

“Yes. Well . . . would you tell us what you find?”

“If it’s something you need to know, yes.”

“I suppose it would be all right,” Linden said slowly. “I’ll have to talk it over with Justine first, but . . . When would you want the key?”

“If it’s necessary, I’ll let you know and you can tell me then if your offer is still open. What’s your home phone number?”

Linden provided it. “I really should get back to work now,” he said. “The company . . . personal matters . . . well, you understand.”

Runyon was silent.

“I appreciate you keeping this confidential. About the unit, I mean. And I hope I’ve been helpful, I hope everything works out all right. If there’s anything else I can do . . .”

He’d had his fill of the man. He turned for the door.

“Anything at all,” Linden said behind him. “I always like to do the right thing.”

Cybil was waiting at the Cafe Athena in downtown Larkspur when Kerry arrived at 12:25. Five minutes early, and Cybil already had a table and a glass of white wine in front of her.

She didn’t see Kerry come in; she was looking at one of the Mediterranean murals that decorated the walls, or maybe just staring off into space, her face in three-quarters profile and apparently lost in thought. Kerry took the opportunity to study her. She didn’t look well. She’d always been strikingly attractive, had aged slowly and gracefully; until the past three months, people invariably thought she was ten to fifteen years younger than she was. Eighty-three, now, and she was beginning to look it—the lines in her face more pronounced, a dullness in her tawny eyes, a pale gauntness in her cheeks.

Kerry felt pangs of concern. And a fresh surge of hatred for Russ Dancer. And guilt, too, because of what she was
about to do. But she no longer had a choice. Not any more. It had to be done. If only she didn’t have to carry it too far, make it twice as hard on both of them . . .

She steeled herself and approached the table. At her greeting, Cybil jerked from her reverie and put on a bright smile. A mother’s smile, a cover-up smile. But nervousness showed in the movement of her eyes, her hands on the tablecloth. She suspected that this was not one of their usual lunch dates, that there was a purpose behind it and what that purpose was. Smart woman, Cybil. Except in her youth, when it came to men.

Kerry kissed her cheek. The skin had a dry, papery feel. “Well,” she said as she sat down, “how long have you been here?”

“Only a few minutes. I finished my errands early.”

“What kind of wine is that?”

“Chardonnay. Dry Creek. I would’ve ordered a glass for you, but I wasn’t sure about the traffic and the parking. . . .”

“Just as well you waited.”

Cybil cleared her throat. She was making eye contact, but not without effort. “You look tired, dear.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“You work such long hours. Why don’t you cut back?”

“I happen to like what I do. You ought to be able to understand that, if anybody does.”

“Yes, but if it exhausts you and makes you snappish—”

“I’m not exhausted. I wasn’t being snappish.”

“Have it your way then.”

She found herself looking at Cybil’s glass of wine. It was all she could do to keep herself from reaching for it.
Where in God’s name was the waitress? “Let’s not talk about me. How are you?”

“Oh, well, you know . . . getting along.”

“How’s the new book coming?”

“Slowly. Very slowly. At my age it’s difficult to concentrate.”

“You’ve never had trouble concentrating before.”

“Yes, well, it was bound to happen sooner or later.”

Finally one of the waitresses appeared. She left menus, went away with Kerry’s order for a glass of Dry Creek Chardonnay. Cybil opened her menu immediately and gave it her full attention. Kerry didn’t touch hers.

I hate this, she thought. God, I hate this!

They sat like strangers for a length of time that seemed to stretch and expand. The restaurant was crowded; dining noises ebbed and flowed around them. She could feel the tension building, a headache beginning to pulse behind her eyes. Get with it, she thought. The longer you wait, the harder it’ll be.

Yes, all right, but not until the waitress comes back with the wine.

“I think I’ll have the Moroccan salad,” Cybil said.

“That sounds good.”

“Everything here is good. You haven’t even looked at your menu.”

“I’ve been here before, too, remember?”

Cybil sighed and sipped Chardonnay between pursed lips.

The waitress again, and none too soon. Cybil gave her order. Kerry said, “The same,” and reached for her glass.
She had to resist the impulse to gulp half of the wine, settled for a large sip.

“Good, isn’t it?”

“Fine,” she said, and all of a sudden her mind seemed to go blank.

All morning she’d been framing and discarding ways to broach the subject to Cybil, eventually decided the direct approach was best. Not blunt, not emotional, just quietly reasonable. She’d worked out a nice little opening speech, silently rehearsed it a number of times—and now she couldn’t remember a word of it. She felt her face start to flush. The wine again, a larger swallow, but all that did was increase the heat until she was sure she was a bright moist red.

Cybil was watching her. “Go ahead and say it,” she said.

“Say what?”

“What you came to say. The reason for this lunch.”

Open door, unlocked by Cybil herself. But all Kerry could think of to say was, “Why do I have to have a reason to take you to lunch?”

“Kerry, I may be old, but I’m in full possession of my faculties. Something is bothering you—I could hear it in your voice when you called with the invitation. Something you feel more comfortable discussing in public. In order, I suppose, to avoid an emotional scene.”

“Yes, something’s bothering me. And you know what it is.”

“Why can’t you just let sleeping dogs lie?”

“Because I can’t. Not anymore.”

“Why not? Why is it so important to you?”

“For God’s sake, don’t you think I have a right to know?”

“If the circumstances were different, yes.”

“That’s an evasion,” Kerry said. “I won’t be put off this time—I mean it. If I can’t get the truth out of Bill, I’m going to get it from you. Right here and now.”

“You believe I’d confide in your husband but not you?”

“Well, he knows. He’s a good detective, he must have figured it out somehow. And then he confronted you and you told him the whole story. Is that the way it was?”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“I have. He just keeps stonewalling. Did you swear him to secrecy? He’d never break a promise to you.”

“I didn’t swear him to secrecy.”

“All right, then, it was a joint decision. The two of you trying to protect me. Well, it’s misguided. I don’t need protecting, I need to know the truth. I’ve had all I can stand of secrets and lies.”

Cybil drained her glass before she said, “I’ve never lied to you, Kerry.”

“Not openly, maybe. Lies of omission are still lies.”

“Only if they stem from certain knowledge.”

“I don’t understand that.”

“You want to know the truth. But the fact is, I can’t tell you because I don’t know myself. Not beyond any doubt.”

“Another evasion.”

“No, it isn’t. Kerry . . .”

“You and Russ Dancer, dammit. You had an affair with him, didn’t you.”

“I did not. You know how I felt about the man.”

“Later, yes. Not how you felt about him during the war.”

“I tolerated him then. I hated him afterward.”

“After D-day.”

“After the war ended, yes.”

“Ivan was in Washington on D-day. Did you and Dancer celebrate together? Is that when you slept with him?”

“I would never have voluntarily slept with that man.”

“You had other affairs. With that pulp editor, Frank Colodny, for one.”

Cybil winced. “Mistakes, foolish youthful mistakes. But never with Dancer. Never.”

“Then why were you so upset by that envelope he left you when he died? What was in the letter he wrote you, what was in his unpublished manuscript? What’s the real significance of D-day?”

“It’s not what you think.”

“Isn’t it? Cybil, I can count to nine—I was born nine months after D-day. Was Ivan really my father? Or was it Russ Dancer?”