Betrayers (Nameless Detective Novels) (19 page)

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 put the damn keys?”

Runyon found them for her, unlocked the door. Upstairs, she steered him into a big front room full of heavy old furniture and dominated by more of her weird vegetable-like sculptures. She dropped her purse on a brocade couch, let him help her out of her coat. The wound in her arm was still leaking blood; the crimson splotch on the sleeve of a white sweater had grown to the size of a pancake.

“Are you in much pain?”

“No. It’s mostly numb.”

“Where’s the nearest bathroom?”

“Down the hall there.”

He walked her to it. “Better get out of that sweater,” he said then. “Put some peroxide on the wound, then wrap a wet towel around it. That should do until the EMTs get here.”

“Are you going to call the police?”

“Yes.”

“They’ll never catch whoever it was; you know they won’t.”

“I have to report the shooting in any case. And you’re going to need attention for that arm.”

“All right,” she said. Then, in different tones, “Actually, I suppose the publicity will be good for me and my next show.”

He made the call while she was in the bathroom. The 911 dispatcher asked the usual questions, said that EMTs and police would be out ASAP. Which meant half an hour, minimum, for the paramedics; their first responses were Code 3 or Echo priority, the situations in which injuries were life threatening or resuscitation was required, and there were plenty of those every night in the city. The cops wouldn’t be here in a hurry, either: perp long gone, victim not seriously wounded, situation under control. They’d just have to wait their turn.

Pretty soon Arletta Madison reappeared, wearing a sleeveless blouse now, a towel wrapped around her arm. Runyon asked her if the wound was still bleeding. She said, “Yes, but not so badly now.” Then, “
Damn
Coy. This is his fault, you know.”

“How so?”

“When he pisses me off the way he did tonight, I get so mad I feel the walls start closing in.”

“And then you go out for a walk.”

“To cool off, yes.”

“What’d he do to upset you tonight?”

“The usual crap. Called from some bar on Twenty-fourth Street, drunk, to tell me he’d just picked up a woman. Can you believe it?”

Runyon said nothing.

“I swear he does it just to devil me. He doesn’t give a damn about me; he . . .
oh!
Shit!” She’d made the mistake of trying to gesture with her wounded arm. “Where the hell are the paramedics?”

“They’ll be here pretty soon.”

“I need a drink. Or don’t you think I should have one?”

“I wouldn’t. They’ll give you something for the pain.”

“Well, they’d better hurry. How about you? Do you want something?”

“No.”

“Suit yourself. But you don’t have to stand there; go ahead and sit down.”

“You’d better do the same.”

“I’m too restless.”

“Sit down, Mrs. Madison. For your own good.”

The command made her narrow her eyes at him, but she didn’t argue. She sank onto the couch, grimaced, and chewed on her lower lip. Runyon waited until her expression told him the pain had eased before he spoke again.

“I need to ask you some questions, if you feel up to it.”

“Questions? About what?”

“A rental property you own or owned.”

“. . . What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“It’s the reason I came here tonight. I’ve been told you inherited property in the Bay Area.”

“Yes, but I don’t see—”

“Do you still own it?”

Head bob. “For all the good it’s doing us now.”

“Not rented at present?”

“Not since the last tenant’s lease expired at the end of December.”

“Where’s the property located? Here in the city?”

“No. San Bruno.”

“Single-family house?”

“Yes. It’s not in the best neighborhood, that’s why it’s still—” She broke off, frowning. “Why are you asking about this? You don’t think—”

“Don’t think what, Mrs. Madison?”

“That that’s where Troy is hiding?”

“Possible, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so, if he knows about the property.”

“You didn’t tell him about it? Give him a key at some point?”

“Of course not. The rental agent has the keys.” Her frown morphed into a scowl. “He’d better not be there,” she said. “I won’t stand for that on top of the money he’s cost me. If you think that’s where he is, why don’t you go find out?”

“You’ll have to give me the address.”

“It’s on Bowerman Street in San Bruno, I don’t remember the number. I’ll have to look it up.”

“After the EMTs get here.”

“If they ever get here.”

Runyon said, “Your husband tell you about Troy’s latest call?”

“Call? When?”

“Last night. Demanding ten thousand dollars. Making threats when he was told he couldn’t have it.”

“No, Coy never said a word. Threatened us? You mean, with physical harm?”

“So he told me.”

“Damn him! And tonight he leaves me here alone—” She broke off and sat very still, not looking at Runyon any longer but at something that had begun playing on the screen of her mind. A kind of slow horror parted her lips, widened her eyes. “Oh my God,” she said. “What just happened outside . . . that man in the mask . . . Troy? Could it have been
Troy
?”

Before Runyon could respond, a door banged below. Heavy, plodding footfalls sounded on the stairs. A few seconds later Coy Madison came duck-waddling in from the hall.

Madison stopped abruptly two paces inside the room, stood blinking his surprise at Runyon and then at his wife. He wore an overcoat over a suit and tie, no hat; his red hair was damp, his smooth cheeks and forehead red blotched.

“Good Christ, Arletta,” he said, “what happened to you? That towel . . . is that blood?”

“I was attacked a few minutes ago. He shot me.”

“
Shot
you? Who . . . ?”

She shook her head.

Madison went and sat next to her, tried to wrap an arm around her shoulders. She pushed him away.

He said, “The wound . . . it’s not serious?”

“No. But it hurts like the devil.” She grimaced again. “What’s
keeping
those paramedics?”

“You get a good look at the man who did it?”

“No. He was wearing a mask.”

“A mask? Where’d this happen?”

“Outside by the park. Mr. Runyon chased him off. If he hadn’t been there, I’d probably be dead right now.”

Madison bounced up and waddled over to Runyon, close enough for Runyon to get a whiff of his breath. “I’m grateful you came when you did,” he said. “But why? You haven’t found my brother yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Then . . .” His thin mouth tightened. “Troy,” he said. Runyon waited.

“Maybe it wasn’t a mugger who shot Arletta; maybe it was my brother. He threatened us, I told you that.”

“Why didn’t you tell
me
?” Arletta Madison said. “Didn’t you think I had a right to know?”

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Didn’t want to worry me. You bastard, you were so worried you went out and got drunk and tried to get yourself laid.”

“I wasn’t trying to get laid. I was upset, I wanted a couple of drinks to calm down. I shouldn’t have done it, I shouldn’t have called you from that bar—I should’ve come straight home.”

“Bloody well right you should.”

“All right, I’m sorry. But why didn’t you stay in the house instead of going out alone in the dark?”

“Don’t start in, Coy. I’m in no mood for it.”

Madison waved an agitated hand. “Troy . . . sure. He must’ve been over there watching the house, waiting for his chance. If you hadn’t gone out, he might’ve broken in. But you made it easy for him. How many times have I warned you it’s not safe to go traipsing around this neighborhood at night? You just won’t listen.”

“I said don’t start in. It’s as much your fault as mine.”

“Oh sure, blame it all on me. Twist everything around so you don’t have to take responsibility.”

Her arm was hurting her and the pain made her vicious.
She bared her teeth at him. “What’re you doing home anyway? Where’s the bimbo you claimed you picked up?”

“I brushed her off. I started thinking about you here alone—”

“Sure, right. You were drunk; now you’re sober. If there was any brushing off, she’s the one who did it.”

“Arletta . . .”

“What’s the matter with your face? She give you some kind of rash?”

“My face? There’s nothing wrong with my face—”

“It looks like a rash. It better not be contagious.”

“Goddamn it, Arletta—”

Runyon had had enough of this. The bickering, the hatred, the cold deception—everything about the two of them. He said in a flat, hard voice, “All right, both of you shut up.”

They stared at him. Arletta Madison said, “You can’t talk to me like that in my own home—”

“Keep your mouth closed and your ears open for five minutes and you’ll learn something. Your husband and I will do the talking.”