Savages: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Novels) (6 page)

“I want your help,” I said.

So we hunkered over the box like a pair of grave robbers and divvied up the contents. One thing became apparent immediately: Nancy Mathias had been something of a pack rat, saving everything, including handwritten notes to and from her husband. I looked through the notes first. There were a fair number, mostly written by her, a few of
them crumpled as if they’d been thrown away and she’d rescued them. The usual “gone to the store, be back in half an hour”—all except one. That one said:

Darling,
Im going to spend the weekend in CV, I need to be by myself. Please dont be angry. And please meet me at Ds at 2:00 on Tuesday. Please! I cant deal with this alone.

N

I showed the note to Kerry. She said, “Deal with what alone, I wonder.”

“Could be just about anything.”

“She sounds desperate. And begging. Three ‘pleases.’ ”

“Which could mean Mathias wasn’t or hadn’t been responsive to whatever it was. That would fit with what Celeste Ogden says about him—cold, self-involved, controlling.”

“Assuming ‘Darling’ was her husband,” Kerry said.

“Pretty safe assumption.”

“No way to tell when it was written. Can you find out?”

“Maybe, if we can figure out what or who ‘CV’ and ‘D’ stand for.”

Insurance policies next. House, two cars, joint term life, all of them with Pacific Rim Insurance. The death benefit amount on the life policy was $50,000, with the Mathiases as each other’s beneficiary. There was a double indemnity clause, which made the payoff to Brandon Mathias $100,000. That was a lot of money to me; to the
head of a multi-million-dollar computer software company it was more in the category of chump change. No motive for murder there—unless Mathias was so overextended for one reason or another that he desperately needed a hundred grand bailout money. Not too likely, but worth checking. If we continued with the investigation, the first thing we’d have to do was look into his entire financial background.

Kerry said, “Here’s something.”

She’d been poring through packets of canceled checks from the current year, and had pulled out one from the Mathiases’ joint Calvert Group investment account. The amount on it was $10,000, dated three weeks ago and made out to T. R. Quentin.

“That’s a lot of money for one check,” she said.

“Yes, it is.”

“None of the other checks in this account or her Washington Mutual account come even close to that amount. No others made out to T. R. Quentin, either.”

I made a note of the name, date, amount, and check number. “Let’s see if there’s anything among the rest of this stuff to explain the ten thousand.”

There wasn’t. Whether T. R. Quentin was an individual or a company of some kind, neither the name nor the initials appeared anywhere else in the records. Kerry, being thorough, checked to see how many checks had been made out to individuals; there were a dozen or so, most to Philomena Ruiz, the cleaning woman, and none for more than $300.

I shuffled through the various bill receipts, all of which were marked “paid” in the same hand that had written the “Darling” note. Nancy Mathias had paid her bills promptly, by both check and computer transfer, and they all looked to be routine—utilities, household expenses, credit card charges, women’s clothing shops, doctor, dentist, house cleaner, gardener, pool service. There were no invoices from lawyers, psychiatrists, or private detective agencies to indicate dissatisfaction, unrest, or suspicion on her part.

One of two property tax bills solved the CV question. The Mathiases owned a second home in Carmel Valley, valued for tax purposes at $350,000. Some second home. But it was a piker compared to their primary Palo Alto residence; that one was worth a million two. Both homes were held jointly. Not that it would have made a difference if she’d been sole owner; they’d have been part of the inheritance package in any case.

There were three Ds among the canceled checks—Delborn Florists, Denise’s Designs, Drovnik Gardening Service. The second was an exclusive dress shop in Atherton—exclusive because of the prices they charged for an “evening suit” and an unspecified lingerie item. Didn’t seem to be any possible connection between any of them and the pleading urgency in the note.

“Is this all of Nancy Mathias’s personal records?” Kerry asked when we were done.

“Everything that was in her office desk, evidently.”

“Poor woman. Her sister was right—she really did lead
a closed-off life. No letters or photographs or scrapbook items, nothing to indicate she had any friends. Not even a calendar or datebook.”

“Even if Mathias forced reclusiveness on her, that doesn’t mean he had her killed.”

“There might be something in her diary.”

“It would have to be pretty compelling,” I said. “So far I just don’t see motive or anything else to justify the kind of investigation Celeste Ogden wants.”

JAKE RUNYON

Except for a headache, a swollen ear, and a dry mouth, he was all right in the morning. Unscrambled, in command of himself again. He could remember everything that had happened at the Belsize farm up to the moment he’d been assaulted. The rest of it was blurred and fragmentary, like images from a particularly vivid dream.

A nurse came in and the first thing he asked her, in a croak that didn’t sound much like his own voice, was how soon he could get out of there. Not until Dr. Yeng examined him, she said. When would that be? On Doctor’s regular rounds this morning. She gave Runyon some water, took his temperature, checked his pulse. He asked if he had a concussion and she confirmed it. How serious? He’d have to speak to Dr. Yeng about that. The only information Runyon could get out of her was that three stitches had
been necessary to close the wound on his temple. He asked where his clothes and belongings were. Clothing in a locker, valuables in a lockbox. He talked her into fetching the valuables bag. The subpoena was there; so were his wallet and cell phone. The .357 Magnum and his license case were missing. Sheriff’s people had them, likely. Better have.

The doctor didn’t show up until after eleven, and by then the antiseptic white walls were beginning to close in on him. Young, Asian, efficient. Dr. Yeng studied the chart, then asked questions while he shined a light in Runyon’s eyes and examined his bandaged temple and cauliflower ear. Had he suffered loss of consciousness after the blow to his head? No. Nausea? Some. Disorientation, dizziness, clumsiness, slow to respond to questions? All of the above, but all gone now.

Yeng seemed satisfied. “Your concussion appears relatively mild,” he said. “The X-rays showed no skull fracture or brain hemorrhage or evidence of blood clots. You’re fortunate you weren’t hit any harder.”

“I guess I am.”

“Have you had any kind of head trauma before last night?”

“No.”

“All to the good. Do you know anything about concussions?”

“A little, not much.”

Dr. Yeng took that as an invitation to deliver a brief technical lecture. After such a trauma, he said, the arteries in the brain constrict, reducing blood flow and lowering
the rate at which oxygen is delivered to the brain. At the same time the demand rises for sugar glucose to provide energy to the brain for healing, but the narrowed arteries are unable to meet the demand; this creates a metabolic crisis, requiring time for the brain to correct the chemical imbalance and the damaged cells to repair themselves. How much time varies with the severity of the trauma, and the individual person’s health and how well he takes care of himself during the healing process. In Runyon’s case, if he was careful and no complications developed, the time should be relatively short.

“Avoid strenuous activity; get plenty of rest,” Yeng said. “If any symptoms should recur—severe headaches, dizziness, double vision, a blackout lasting even a few seconds—you need to see your physician without delay.”

“Understood. Can I get out of here now?”

“I don’t see why not, as long as you’re feeling up to it. After you’ve seen your visitors.”

He’d been expecting that. “Law officers?”

“That’s right. They’re waiting outside.”

“Send them in.”

There were two of them. One brain, one brawn. The brain was in his fifties, short, compact, with sparse sandy hair and a quiet manner, dressed in a suit and tie; his name was Rinniak and he was a special investigator with the county sheriff’s department. The brawn, Kelso, wore a deputy’s uniform with knife-crease trousers and starched blouse and a Sam Browne belt so well oiled the leather gleamed in the room lights. Bulky, thick-necked,
red-faced—half a foot taller and half a yard wider than Rinniak and, judging from his blue starry eyes, about half as intelligent. Kelso seemed vaguely familiar, but Runyon couldn’t place him until he took up an aggressive stance at the foot of the bed, a hand resting lightly on the butt of his service revolver. Right. The one who’d thrown questions at him last night. Deputy in charge of the Gray’s Landing substation, and the kind of suspicious, hard-nosed veteran who resented private sector investigators—the kind you could have trouble with even if you were careful around him.

Rinniak sat in one of the two chairs. He said, “We’ll try to keep this brief, Mr. Runyon. Can you remember what happened last night?”

“Everything before I got blindsided.”

“That’s what we’re interested in.”

Kelso said, “How about you start by telling us what a San Francisco private cop was doing at the Belsize farm.”

“Delivering a subpoena. Or trying to.”

“Who to?”

“Gerald Belsize.”

The sheriff’s men exchanged glances. “What kind of case?” Rinniak asked.

“Assault and robbery. Belsize was a witness.”

“Where and when?”

“Three months ago, in San Francisco. He took his girlfriend down there for the weekend and the two of them—”

“What girlfriend?” Kelso demanded. “You mean Sandra Parnell?”

“That’s right.”

The outthrust jaw tightened. “I should’ve known she was that way.”

“What way?”

“Cheap. Decent girls don’t spend out-of-town weekends with their boyfriends.”

Add prude to suspicious and hard-nosed.

Rinniak said, “Go ahead, Mr. Runyon.”

“Belsize and Parnell were at a SoMa nightclub. On the way out she stopped to use the bathroom and he went on to the parking lot. Spotted two men beating up on a third, stealing his wallet. One of them came after him and he ran back to the club.”

“Yeah, that figures,” Kelso said. “Pure coward.”

“The mugger had a knife. You don’t have to be a coward to run from cold steel.”

“I know him. You don’t.”

Runyon said, “Belsize claimed he couldn’t describe either mugger, but the girl said he told her later that he got a good look at the one with the knife—he just didn’t want to get involved.”

“That figures, too.”

“SFPD arrested a felon named Zander as one of the perps. He had the victim’s wallet in his possession. He swears he’s innocent, claims he found the wallet half a block away. His lawyer contacted Belsize, got no cooperation, so
he called my agency to check him out and deliver a subpoena. Routine business.”

“The girl didn’t tell us about any of that,” Kelso said to Rinniak.

“No reason for her to. It’s not germane.”

“Still should’ve told us.”

Rinniak asked, “How did Belsize check out?”

“Clean.”

“Wrong,” Kelso said. “He’s been trouble his whole life. Only a matter of time before he got into the big time.”

“If you say so.”

“I say so. You never met him, huh?”

“No.”

“Anybody else in his family?”

“Not before last night.”

“How about Manuel Silvera?”

“I don’t know anybody named Manuel Silvera.”

“Belsize’s hired hand. Man you found beaten and strung up in the barn. You did find him, right? Poking around in there where you didn’t belong. Trespassing.”

Rinniak gave him an irritated look. The brawn had a knack for rubbing people wrong, his coworkers included. “Let him tell it, Don.”

“Sure, sure. So tell it, Runyon.”

He told it, leaving nothing out except for his walkthrough of the farmhouse. No point in giving Kelso something else to use against him.

“So instead of leaving, you just started prowling around.
That what you usually do when you go onto private property and nobody’s home?”

“No. I had a feeling something was wrong.”

“A feeling. Sure.”

“Every cop I ever knew was sensitive that way,” Runyon said. “You walk into a situation, it doesn’t feel right, your instincts take over. Sixth sense. You don’t have it, Deputy?”

Kelso scowled at him. Rinniak said, “So you went around back and looked through the kitchen window.”

“That’s right. Just checking. Half-eaten dinner on the table, chairs pulled out—it looked as though the people had left in a hurry.”

“They had a phone call. Anonymous. The caller said their son, Jerry, had been in an accident down by Orford and they better come immediately. You missed them leaving by maybe ten minutes.”

“Lured away so Silvera could be attacked?”

“That’s how it looks.”

Kelso said, “This feeling got real strong then, huh? Led you straight to the tack room in the barn.”

“Not quite. I went to my car for my weapon and a flashlight. It was dusk by then and I—”

“Why’d you figure you needed a gun?”

Runyon mustered patience, kept his face empty and his voice even. “I didn’t figure I’d need it. But I was a police officer in Seattle for a dozen years and I’ve been in enough bad situations not to take any chances. You know my
background by now. You’ve got my license—you must’ve run a check on me.”

“We ran one,” Rinniak said. “Spotless record.”

“Yeah, spotless,” Kelso said.

“Don, for Christ’s sake, let me handle this, will you?” He gestured to Runyon to go on.

“I checked the hay barn first, then the big barn. No real cause to enter either one except that feeling. For all I knew somebody was hurt somewhere on the property. I was in the big barn when I heard a creaking sound. That’s what led me to the tack room and the dead man. I was on my way outside to call nine-eleven when I got clobbered.”