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Authors: Bill Pronzini

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BOOK: Schemers: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Novels)
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“Yes.” Low, almost a whisper.
“The three of you hated one another, and yet your husband kept right on letting you and your brother live under his roof. I understand his reasons in your case, but not in your brother’s. Did Jeremy have something on him, some kind of hold?”
No response for a time. Her lips were cracked and dry; she bit a piece of skin from the lower, scraped it off her tongue with a fingernail. Then, “He knew some things about Greg, yes.”
“What sort of things?”
“Business dealings. I told you Greg was a manipulator. Well, his manipulations got him into a bind once and he did something illegal to get out of it. I don’t know what it was exactly, just that it involved a small aviation company.”
“And your brother found out about it, is that it?”
“Yes.”
“When did this happen—the illegal act?”
“Five or six years ago.”
“So your brother blackmailed him—”
“It wasn’t blackmail. Not exactly.”
“Call it manipulation, then. Manipulating the manipulator. That’s how Jeremy got him to invest one hundred thousand dollars in the San Jose music show.”
She nodded. “And when Jeremy lost the money, Greg hated him all the more. That’s why Greg killed him and made it look like I did it—to get both of us out of his life at the same time.”
“This secret. Can you give me any details?”
“Jeremy wouldn’t talk about it.”
“He never mentioned the name of the aviation company?”
“No. Wait, yes, I heard him talking to Greg once. Green something Aeronautics. Jeremy knew one of the executives who worked there, that’s how he found out what Greg did.”
“Local company? Bay Area?”
“I think so.”
Tamara ought to be able to find out. I said, “Let’s get back to yesterday afternoon. Your husband made the drinks for the three of you?”
“Martinis for Jeremy and me, scotch for himself.”
“You said you felt woozy before you passed out. Your brother have the same reaction?”
“I’m not sure. I think he said his martini tasted funny, but … I’m just not sure.”
“Where were you, the last you remember?”
“Where? Oh. Sitting on the couch.”
“Your brother?”
“Beside me.”
“Your husband?”
“In his desk chair.”
“This was about one o’clock?”
“About that. Greg kept looking at his watch, saying he had to leave soon for some book auction.”
“The three of you were the only ones in the house?”
“Housekeeper’s day off and Brenda had already gone to the auction.”
“The shotgun? Still above the fireplace, or did your husband take it down for any reason?”
“No. It was where it always was.”
“Did he go near it, touch it?”
“No.”
Three hours. Pollexfen could have put enough of the Klonopin into their drinks to keep them unconscious for that long. Shut them inside the library, go off to Pacific Rim Gallery, come back in time to keep his appointment with me. But how could he have timed the shooting so perfectly, with the three of us right there when the shotgun went off? Some way linked to how he’d rigged the crime in the first place? Maybe,
if
he’d rigged the crime in the first place. But how in hell could you blow off the back of a man’s head when you were on the other side of a double-bolted door?
Angelina Pollexfen intuited what I was thinking. “I don’t know how he did it,” she said. “All I know is that I
didn’t. My own brother … my God, we didn’t get along but I would never have threatened him with a loaded shotgun like they’re saying. I couldn’t kill anybody, not for
any
reason.”
I believed her. Her voice, her body language, the haunted desperation on her face and in her eyes … they all said she was telling the truth.
Pollexfen, then.
I think maybe I’d known all along it had to be Pollexfen.
D
iSantis and I parted company in the elevator and I went on into General Works and the Homicide Division on the fourth floor. Linda Yin was away from her desk in the inspectors’ bullpen, but Sam Davis sat working at his. I gave him my signed witness statement, then asked if he had a few minutes to spare.
“Not really,” he said, but he gestured me into a vacant chair anyway. “What’s on your mind?”
“Couple of things. Gregory Pollexfen’s missing books turn up yet?”
“No. We figure they were sold off right away. By the vic or Mrs. Pollexfen or the two of them together.”
“But you haven’t found any record—large bank deposits, large amounts of cash, that kind of thing.”
“Not so far.”
“Well, if you can’t get some kind of trace, Great Western Insurance is stuck with paying off Pollexfen’s claim.
So their claims adjuster wants me to keep on with my investigation.”
“We don’t have any problem with that.”
“How about with me doing a little sniffing on the homicide? As long as I don’t get in your way?”
“Better check with my partner on that. Why the interest?”
“I just had a talk with Mrs. Pollexfen, at her and her attorney’s request. I think she’s telling a straight story.”
One of Davis’s bushy eyebrows tilted upward. “Nine out of ten claim they’re innocent.”
“She could be the tenth who isn’t lying.”
“All the evidence says otherwise.”
“Evidence can sometimes be misleading. We both know that.”
“Sometimes. Not this time. Not according to forensics, ballistics, and pathology. We—”
His phone rang. Davis picked up, listened, pulled a grimace. “It won’t do you any good to keep calling, Mr. Pollexfen. I told you, my partner told you, you’ll have access when—What’s that?” He listened some more. “Look, just be patient, all right? Tomorrow, probably, that’s the best answer I can give you.”
When he hung up, I said, “Pollexfen seems anxious to get into his library.”
“Second time he’s called, demanding his keys so he can clean up in there. If he wasn’t a relentless pain in the ass, he might’ve got them back today.”
Keys, plural. Pollexfen’s and the duplicate found on Cullrane’s body. Standard police procedure to hold on to
them, to ensure that the room remained sealed in case another examination of the crime scene was necessary.
I said, “Can I ask you some questions about the evidence?”
Long study before he said, “My partner and I asked around about you. You’ve got a good rep for cooperation with the department.”
“I was on the job myself before I went out on my own.”
“So we heard. Go ahead, ask your questions.”
“Nitrate tests indicate Mrs. Pollexfen fired the shotgun?”
“No. They came up negative.”
“But positive on Jeremy Cullrane?”
“That’s right. It could’ve been suicide—that’s what her lawyers’ll claim—but we don’t see it that way.”
“How’d it happen, then? She was threatening him with the weapon, he grabbed it and yanked it out of her hands, and the barrel jabbed into his mouth as it went off?”
Davis nodded. “Hair triggers on that shotgun, the pull lightened down to less than four pounds’ pressure. Wouldn’t have taken much of a yank with her finger on the foretrigger to fire the round when he jerked it up into his face as he was falling backward.”
“Fingerprints?”
“Hers on the grip, stock, and barrel. Three of ’em, nice and clear.”
“None on the trigger?”
“Smudges.”
“Cullrane’s prints on the weapon?”
“None that were clear enough to identify.”
“How about burn marks on his hands?”
“No,” Davis said, “but that doesn’t prove anything. He didn’t have to’ve grabbed the hot barrel. Could’ve caught the grip close to the chamber area.”
“What about this drug, clonazepam, she had in her system? Did it show up in Cullrane’s, too?”
“Yes, but so what? She could’ve spiked his drink and hers both.”
“Or Pollexfen could’ve done it. He made the drinks.”
“She says he did. Says he arranged the whole thing to get rid of her brother and frame her. You buy into that?”
“I think it’s possible.”
“Hell, man, you were out in the hallway with Pollexfen and the secretary when Cullrane died. And you were the one who used the keys to get into the library. The old man couldn’t have done it, now could he?”
“Doesn’t seem like it. I don’t suppose there was anything unusual on the weapon—scratches, marks, some kind of attachment that didn’t belong?”
“Nothing,” Davis said. “Good condition, clean, oiled. What’re you thinking? Fix an antique shotgun to fire by some trick? Can’t be done.”
“No,” I said, “I guess it can’t.”
A
t the agency I asked Tamara to find out what she could about the aviation company business five or six years ago, and about the drug clonazepam. It didn’t take her long in either case.
The aviation company turned out to be a Bay Area outfit, Greenfield Aeronautics. Hostile takeover by a larger outfit,
Drexel Aviation. Head of Drexel’s board of directors: Gregory Pollexfen. Hints of bribery and coercion, but nothing proven and no criminal charges or lawsuits filed. Cullrane must have had some documentary evidence against Pollexfen to make the blackmail work. Had Pollexfen found out where it was hidden? Another possibility: whatever the crime, the statute of limitations had run out and he couldn’t be prosecuted for it any longer. And another: his hatred for Cullrane had grown powerful enough to outweigh any concern over the consequences of his illegal business actions. In any event, the information gave substance to Angelina Pollexfen’s claim.
As for clonazepam—
“It’s a benzodiazepine drug,” Tamara said, reading from her computer screen. “Used to treat epilepsy, anxiety disorders, panic attacks and night terrors, chronic fatigue syndrome, a few other things. Stimulates the action of gamma-aminobutyric acid on the central nervous system.”
“Sure it does,” I said. “Everybody knows that.”
“Says here clonazepam is a highly potent variety of benzodiazepine because of strong anxiolytic properties and euphoric side effects. Use of alcohol while taking it intensifies these side effects.”
“Which are?”
“Impaired motor function, impaired coordination and balance, disorientation, something called anterograde amnesia.”
“Short-term memory loss, probably.”
“Add all that together and you got one mother of a
hangover. You’d have to be crazy to mix up clonazepam and martinis on purpose.”
“Unless you weren’t planning to drink them yourself. Unless you had a good reason for serving them to two other people.”
I
sat closed inside my office, brooding. Pollexfen, not his wife—my gut said it and my head said it. But how could he have arranged the murder? There had to be some angle none of us had thought of yet. It wouldn’t be fancy or complicated, either. Simple. The kind of thing that’s obvious once you put all the facts together and look at them in the right way.
Yeah. Simple, obvious.
Except that no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t come up with any plausible explanation.
JAKE RUNYON
L
os Alegres, early afternoon.
Duty and obligation dictated he take what he’d found out straight to the local police, but he was reluctant to do that just yet. He’d dealt often enough with small-town cops, been on the job himself for enough years, to know what kind of reception he’d get. The lieutenant, St. John, would be skeptical, tell him he didn’t have enough hard evidence against Tucker Devries to warrant a BOLO, much less an APB. Plus he’d have to withhold some of what he’d found out because it had been obtained through a technically illegal search. If he could locate Devries first, he’d have a stronger case. Maybe not strong enough for the law to act immediately, but enough to get them moving. And to give himself a couple of options, if he wanted to pursue them. Confront Devries, try to prod him into an admission of guilt. Or put him under surveillance, stop him before he did any more damage to the Henderson brothers.
There were half a dozen motels in Los Alegres and vicinity, another couple of dozen within a fifteen-mile radius. Runyon began the canvass as soon as he’d made a list from the Yellow Pages in the county directory. The odds were only fair that Devries had decided to hole up in a motel somewhere around here rather than drive back and forth to Vacaville. He could be sleeping in that van of his, or crashing with somebody who didn’t know what he was up to. But there were no other leads to follow. A motel search was the only proactive idea Runyon could come up with.
The places in Los Alegres first, and those drew blanks. North, then, to a stretch of motels at or near freeway interchanges. He skipped the more expensive chain places. Given the kind of work Devries did and the apartment building he lived in, he wouldn’t have much money to spend on lodging. Or much interest in where he stayed beyond its proximity to Los Alegres; his whole focus was on his private vendetta. If he’d rented a motel room anywhere, it would be the cheap variety.
Two hours, nine stops—nine more blanks. Number ten was outside a little town eight miles northeast of Los Alegres, a twelve-unit, no-frills place built in a half square around a lumpy macadam parking lot. Twin Palms Court. But there was only one palm on the property and it looked ripe for a chain saw. Owner with a sense of humor or a substandard IQ.
The office was a tiny room bisected by a counter and presided over by a thin wisp of a man with gray hair just as wispy; a goiterlike growth on one side of his neck gave
his head a misshapen cast. His smile was as thin as the rest of him. The bored, indifferent type.
Runyon had used the same opening so often he repeated the words by rote: “I’m looking for a young man, late twenties, dark blond hair, drives a white Dodge Caravan. You have a guest in the past week or so who fits that description?”
“This fella a friend of yours?”
“No.”
“What you want with him, then?”
“Do you know him?”
“You answer my question, I’ll answer yours.”
Runyon showed his ID, and when the deskman had had his look, “He’s involved in a case I’m investigating.”
“He do something, break the law or something?”
“That’s right. And he’s liable to break it again if I don’t find him pretty soon.”
The desk clerk chewed on that for a time. Shrugged and said, “What the hell, then. Yeah, he stayed here. This past week and one time before that. But he checked out this morning.”
“How long was he here?”
“This time? Five days? Let me check.” Quick shuffle through a batch of registration cards. “Five days, right. Left early.”
“Early?”
“Asked for a weekly rate when he checked in and I gave it to him.”
“Mind if I look at that card?”
Another hesitation, another shrug. “What the hell,” the clerk said again and handed it over.
In a weak backhand scrawl:
T. Devries, Vacaville.
No effort to hide his identity. The license plate number matched the one Tamara had supplied and “Dodge van” had been written in the box marked
Make of Car.
No credit card information: Devries had paid with cash.
“Any trouble while he was here?” Runyon asked.
“Not when I was on duty. Hardly even saw him. Seemed like a nice enough kid, said he was in the area on business. But I guess you never know, huh?”
“What time did he check out?”
“Little before noon. Twelve’s checkout time.”
Noon. Missed him by four hours. “Did he say anything? Give you any idea of why he was leaving early, where he was going?”
“Said he was almost finished with his business. That’s all.”
Almost finished with his business. Planning something new, and soon. More acid-slinging with a human target this time? He wouldn’t do it in broad daylight, he wasn’t that crazy. When and where? And where was he now?
T
ime to talk to Lieutenant St. John. But when Runyon got to the Los Alegres PD, he found that St. John was out on police business and not expected back until five thirty. He left a message, asking the lieutenant to wait if he came in early—the Henderson case, urgent.
C
liff Henderson wasn’t at the west-side home construction site. Nobody was; work had been shut down for
the day. Runyon drove downtown to the Henderson Construction offices in a newish building along the west bank of the Los Alegres River. The offices were open, but Henderson wasn’t there, either. He’d checked in and then left about half an hour ago, the woman at the desk said. Might find him the Oasis Bar; he and some members of his crew often gathered there for a drink or two after work.
The Oasis had been operating for a lot of years in the same location on the main drag. Somebody’s house once, judging by the architectural style, long ago converted into a tavern and bedecked with neon signs. Old-fashioned inside, too: long bar, cracked leather booths, pool table, jukebox, animal heads mounted on the walls, business cards and dollar bills thumbtacked to the low ceiling. Guy hangout. Runyon got the usual once-over locals give strangers who walk in. The bar stools and booths were all full, but it didn’t take him long to spot Cliff Henderson—crowded into a booth with three other guys, working on pints of draft beer.
He moved over near the bar, stood there until he caught Henderson’s eye and then gestured to him. Henderson didn’t waste any time joining him. Runyon said, “Talk outside where it’s private,” and led the way through a rear door into a parking lot dominated by pickups and motorcycles.
Henderson listened with no expression other than a tightening of his facial muscles. When Runyon finished talking he said, “I never heard of anybody named Tucker Devries. Who the hell is he?”
“Disturbed personality with a perceived grudge against the Henderson family.”
“What kind of grudge, for Christ’s sake?”
Irresponsible and unkind to lay the burden of Jenny Noakes’s and his father’s infidelity on Henderson’s shoulders just yet. Runyon said only, “Details are still a little hazy.”
“But you’re saying it has something to do with my father.”
“I’m afraid so.”
Henderson shook his head, rubbed stubby fingers over the bristles on his jaw. “Five years since he passed away. What set Devries off after all this time?”
“That’ll come out when he’s in custody.”
“You’re sure he’s the one?”
“He fits the profile, he’s got a history of mental problems, and he’s been in the area off and on since the trouble started.”
“The cops know about this yet?”
“I’m seeing Lieutenant St. John in a few minutes. But the law demands hard proof and I don’t have a lot of it to offer.”
“So what, then? They won’t arrest Devries right away?”
“Maybe not. They’ll have to find him first.”
“Yeah, that figures. And meanwhile, he’s liable to make another move against Damon or me. You think he’s crazy enough to use acid on one of us?”
“I wouldn’t rule it out, Mr. Henderson.”
“Miserable son of a bitch …”
“He drives a fifteen-year-old Dodge Caravan, white, no markings.” Runyon recited the license number. “Pass that information on to your brother and your families. If you
spot him anywhere, any time, call the police. Don’t try to play it any other way.”
“I’m not the hero type,” Henderson said. “But I’ll tell you one thing. I’m not about to hide in my house until they catch him, acid or no acid. I can’t live scared. I damn well won’t let him do that to me, either.”
T
he talk with St. John went about the way Runyon expected it would. Skepticism, and a faint defensive irritation that a private investigator had managed to turn up information in three days that had eluded his department for three weeks.
“Listen, Runyon, I knew Lloyd Henderson personally for a lot of years. You’ll never convince me he had anything to do with the murder of some young woman in Mendocino County.”
“I’m not trying to,” Runyon said. “It’s Devries who believes it.”
“Because of something of his mother’s that’s been hidden away for twenty years.”
“Something in that trunk, yes.”
“Such as what?”
“Whatever it is, it set him off, pushed him over the edge. Lloyd Henderson’s no longer alive and desecrating his grave wasn’t enough revenge for him.”
“A goddamn psycho.”
“The deadly kind. You knew all along that’s what you were dealing with. We both did.”
“Yeah. Yeah.”
“So what’re you going to do?”
“What do you expect me to do?”
“Put out an APB or at least a BOLO. He’s still in the area.”
“On your say-so? Just like that?” But St. John was chewing on it now, pinch-mouthed, like a dog with a new bone that tasted bad.
“For the Henderson brothers’ sake, not mine.”
“You already tell them about Devries?”
“Cliff Henderson, little while ago. He’s our client—obligation to him as well as to the law. But I didn’t say anything about Jenny Noakes. Not without corroboration.”
“Well, that’s something, anyway. All right. We’ll look into it.”
“Hard and fast, Lieutenant.”
“You don’t have to tell me my job,” St. John said. He slapped his desktop, not too hard, for emphasis. “If you’re right about this Devries character, we’ll find him before he hurts anybody else.”
One of those meaningless promises cops hand out to victims’ families, the media, other civilians. Runyon didn’t try to push it. Wouldn’t have done any good. The lieutenant was all through listening to him.
N
othing more for Runyon in Los Alegres. He’d done his job, done his duty. Up to the authorities now. Like it or not, he was out of it.
BOOK: Schemers: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Novels)
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