Savages: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Novels) (20 page)

“Hello, Sandra.”

She blinked at him, startled. “Oh—Mr. Runyon. You’re still here.”

“Talk to you for a minute?”

“Well, I’ve got to get things ready inside—”

“We can talk while you’re doing it. I won’t keep you long.”

She hesitated, gnawed at her lip, said, “All right,” and went on in. He trailed after her as she turned the
CLOSED
sign around and then went to put on the lights. Small place, four chairs in four open cubicles. Clean and neat enough, but with a faintly shabby aura. The sweetish chemical smell of hair lotions and conditioners was thick on the dead air.

She said, “I haven’t heard from Jerry. I keep hoping, but . . . not a word.”

“What would you have done if you had?”

“I . . . don’t know. After Sunday and Deputy Kelso, and then the fire at the camp . . . I just don’t know.”

“Kelso give you a hard time?”

“Kind of. At the station and then in front of my parents. He wouldn’t believe I don’t know where Jerry is.”

“Any possibilities occur to you?”

“No. If they had, I’d’ve gone to look.”

“You still love him, then.”

“Sure I do. Why’d you ask that?”

“And he loves you.”

“I thought he did, until he ran away from the camp.”

“How long have you been going with him?”

“About seven months.”

“No problems between you in that time?”

“Problems?”

“Arguments, harsh words.”

“No.”

“He ever hit you for any reason?”

She stopped arranging combs, scissors, other things, in one of the cubicles. “Hit me? Jerry?”

“Ashley Kelso says he could be violent.”

“Not violent exactly, just . . . rough sometimes.”

“Then he did hit you.”

“Not hard, not trying to hurt me.”

“Not even when he was high?”

“No. Ashley told you he beat her up, didn’t she? That’s what she told her father Jerry did to her. Kelso tried to get me to say Jerry beat me up, too, but I wouldn’t because it’s not true.”

“Not true in Ashley’s case, either?”

“She never said anything to me. I don’t believe it.”

“Why would she make it up?”

“Because she’s pissed at Jerry for dumping her and going with me.”

“Jealous?”

“No. She doesn’t blame me, she blames Jerry.”

“So you’re not still friends.”

“Not really, not anymore.”

“Why did Jerry dump you, Sandra?”

“What?” Shocked look. “He didn’t dump me. Did Ashley tell you that?”

“No. Jerry’s folks.”

“It’s not true. Why would they say that?”

“Three weeks ago. Because he found out something about you.”

“Found out what?”

“Secrets, Sandra? Something you were hiding from him?”

“No! I never hid anything from Jerry, I told him everything. He didn’t dump me three weeks ago or any time. I love him and he loves me. We’re going to get married someday—we are!”

Runyon said nothing. The girl looked him straight in the eye, her expression earnest despite the evidence of strain.

“Don’t you believe me?” she said.

B
attle Hardware was the old-fashioned kind of hardware store—narrow aisles, crowded shelves, bins full of nails and screws and the like, rough wooden floors that retained the faint smell of creosote. There were no
customers when Runyon walked in, just one elderly employee perched on a stool behind the counter and the lanky kid with the mop of caramel-colored hair restocking shelves of plumbing supplies.

Zach Battle recognized him. “Oh . . . hi,” he said with neither enthusiasm nor hostility. “Mr. Runyon, right?”

“Right. Your father around?”

“No. He’s at city hall this morning.”

“Mayor’s office?”

“Yeah. Until one o’clock.”

“Talk to you for a minute?”

“What about?”

“What everybody’s talking about in Gray’s Landing.”

“I don’t know anything about those fires.”

“No opinions, no ideas?”

“It’s none of my business.”

“Friend of Jerry Belsize’s, aren’t you?”

“Not really. He does his thing, I do mine.”

“Ashley Kelso have anything to do with why you don’t get along?”

“I don’t have to answer that.”

“That’s right, you don’t. You think Jerry’s guilty?”

“If he is, I hope they lock him up for the rest of his life.”

“Doesn’t answer my question.”

“You don’t have any right to ask me questions. You’re not the law here; you don’t even live in this county.”

“Why should you mind talking to me?”

“I don’t mind. I just don’t have anything to say. About Belsize or the fires or any of the rest of it.”

“Your father tell you to keep quiet?”

“No.”

“Deputy Kelso?”

“No. Nobody tells me what to do.”

“Not even Ashley?”

The kid didn’t like that. “Why don’t you go talk to my dad?” he said as if he was issuing a challenge. “He likes to talk. I don’t.”

T
he Gray’s Landing city hall sat on a block-square rise on the other side of the park from the sheriff’s substation. Gray stone edifice built in the twenties in the neoclassical style of public buildings of that era. If there’d been any renovations done since, the work wasn’t obvious either outside or inside. It had a semideserted aspect, as if the town in general had lost interest in the place and the day when it would shut its doors permanently wasn’t far off.

The mayor’s office was on the second floor front. Carl Battle was there, and he didn’t keep Runyon waiting when an elderly secretary announced him. Battle came around from behind an old mahogany desk set in front of a brace of open windows, clasped his hand, all but guided him into one of a pair of thinly padded visitors’ chairs. Deferential, ill at ease. He wore the same suit and tie as on their last meeting, or ones just like them, and his balding head was just as sweaty, his handshake just as damp and limp. It was stuffy in the small private office. No breeze came in through the open windows, and a ceiling fan stirred the air without cooling it any.

“Thank you for stopping by, Mr. Runyon,” he said. “Much appreciated. Ah, how’s your head?”

“Still sore.”

“Of course. But no serious aftereffects, I trust?”

“No.”

“Good, good.” Battle cleared his throat before he said, “Ah, about your medical costs. You remember I suggested the county might pay for them? Well, I spoke to several officials, but—”

“Don’t worry about it. My insurance will take care of most of it.”

“Good, good,” Battle said again, sounding relieved. “I imagine you’re eager to be back in San Francisco.”

“Eager enough.”

“When will you be leaving?”

“Today.”

“Today, yes, I thought you would be.” He went around behind his desk, sat down heavily. “Difficult times,” he said vaguely. “Very difficult.”

Runyon was silent.

“We’ve been overrun with the media, but I suppose you know that. Have they bothered you?”

“I’ve had a couple of calls.”

“Talked to any of them yet?”

“No.”

“Do you plan to?”

“Not if I can avoid it.”

“I don’t blame you a bit. Vultures, the lot of them.” He produced a handkerchief, mopped his face. “I wish to
heaven we could afford air-conditioning. Summer days like this, it’s an oven in here by mid-afternoon. But we’re not a well-off community, much as I hate to admit it. Just don’t have the money in the city coffers to pay for everything we need, even some of the basics. Have to make do with what we have and what we can afford.”

Prepared speech. You could tell by Battle’s delivery and the way his golf ball–sized Adam’s apple bobbed above the knot in his tie. Runyon knew what it was leading into. Subtlety wasn’t one of the mayor’s long suits.

“Gray’s Landing used to be prosperous, you know,” Battle said. He mopped his face again. Sweat beads glistened on the top of his head, but he seemed not to be bothered by those. “Agriculture is our lifeblood. There was a time when there were dozens of prosperous farms in the area, hundreds of acres of fruit and olive orchards, two packing plants that employed more than two hundred people. But times have been lean in recent years. Very lean. First RipeOlive Processors in Stander went to a skeleton crew, then out of business, and right after that Westridge Produce closed its doors. Lost jobs, stores closing downtown, lost city revenue . . . I’m sure you understand the negative effects on a small community like ours.”

Runyon nodded, listening and not listening.

“And now these terrible arson fires . . . the murder of a prominent Latino . . . all the publicity. It has everyone on edge. Frightened, worried. Not themselves. There’s tremendous pressure on public officials like myself, like
Deputy Kelso, to put an end to it before the community is so severely damaged it may never recover.”

Battle worked the handkerchief again, watching him over the top of it. Runyon still had nothing to say.

“Good people, Mr. Runyon. John Belsize and his wife; Don Kelso. Good people under extreme pressure.” Rambling a little now. “You shouldn’t judge them too harshly.”

“I don’t judge them at all.”

“Good, good. I know the deputy has been a little rough on you, but I hope you won’t hold it against him. His job . . . well, it takes its toll on a man. Shortens his temper, makes him seem more severe than he really is. Well, you see what I mean.”

“You don’t have to worry about that, either, Mayor.”

“About . . . what?”

“I’m not going to make trouble for Kelso, or the Belsizes, or you, or Gray’s Landing. No public denouncements, no reports of harassment, no personal injury lawsuit.”

Battle said hastily, “Oh, well, I never thought—”

“Sure you did. But you can put your mind at rest. I’m not vindictive and I’m not litigious. And I want to see the person responsible for the crimes caught as much as you or anyone else.”

“Yes, yes, of course you do.”

“So now we understand each other.”

“Yes. Perfectly. I . . . well . . .”

“That’s all that needs to be said.”

Battle gave him a weak smile, used the handkerchief
again—blotted the top of his head with it this time. When Runyon stood up, Battle said, “Thank you, Mr. Runyon. If there’s ever anything I can do . . .”

“As a matter of fact, there’s something you can do right now.” The label fragment he’d found in the migrant camp trailer was in his wallet; he took it out, laid it on the desk. “Recognize this?”

The mayor squinted at it. “Why, yes. It’s one of Ripe-Olive’s labels.”

“RipeOlive. The processing plant that went out of business last year.”

“That’s right. After forty years. They just couldn’t compete any—”

“You said they went to a skeleton crew before they shut down. Who headed the crew?”

“I believe it was Martin Parnell. Why?”

“Where was it RipeOlive was located? Spander?”

“No, Stander. Five miles south of here, off the frontage road.”

“Many of these labels still around?”

“I suppose so,” Battle said. He turned the fragment over. “On jars and bottles. But this one doesn’t appear to have been used. The glue’s still smooth. How did you come by it?”

Runyon said, “Found it stuck to a shoe,” and retrieved the fragment and put it back into his wallet. Another of the mayor’s sweaty handshakes and a few more murmurs of civic gratitude, and he was out of there.

I
n the shade of a locust tree on the city hall lawn, he used his cell phone to put in a long-distance call to the agency in San Francisco. He was pretty sure, now, that he knew what had tweaked his memory when he first picked up the label fragment, but he needed to be certain. He asked Tamara to pull up the file on his routine background check on Gerald Belsize, read him the list of full- and part-time jobs the kid had held since his high-school graduation.

Right. Number two was summer grunt work at Ripe-Olive Processors three years ago.

FIREBUG

“Tonight. We’ll do it tonight.”

“Can’t we wait a little longer, make sure?”

“We’ve waited long enough.”

“What if he’s not—”

“How many times do I have to tell you? It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

“Stop whining! I hate it when you do that.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t help thinking—”

“You want me to smack you?”

“No.”

“Then don’t argue with me. We’ll do it just like we planned.”

“What about Runyon?”

“Forget about him, will you? He’s doesn’t know anything.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure.”

“. . . All right. Whatever you say.”

“I’m so amped I don’t want to wait until tonight—I want to do it right
now.
”

“God, no, not in the daytime.”

“I’m just saying I want to.”

“But we’re not going to until tonight.”

“Fire’s better at night. Brighter, hotter.”

“Yes.”

“It’s what we both want.”

“Yes.”

“Payback.”

“Yes.”

And the flames, the burning.

“Are we going in and . . . you know, check first?”

“We have to. We can’t leave any traces.”