“Jake…”
“We stay right here, all three of us. I’ll request an EMT unit for Bobby.”
“I should’ve taken him to the doctor myself. But I was so upset, I wasn’t thinking clearly…”
“Bryn, listen to me.” He waited until her eyes focused on him. “You’re certain Francine was the one who picked up the knife?”
“Yes, I told you. She would’ve stabbed me if I hadn’t grabbed her wrist.”
“All right. Then you acted in self-defense. Bobby can verify that she hit him in the face-”
“No. I don’t want him involved.”
“He’s already involved.”
“He won’t talk about the abuse, you know that.” Bryn sucked in a breath, released it. “Will the police arrest me?”
Yeah, they would. This was Francine’s home, there was no witness to corroborate what had happened in the kitchen, and the fact that Bryn had delayed reporting the crime by calling Runyon instead of 911 all mitigated against her; the cops wouldn’t have any other choice. They’d book her on a 187 PC-the unlawful killing of a human being with malice aforethought. The initial charge in a case like this was almost always the most severe, justified or not.
Runyon said, “Don’t worry about that now. When they get here, be polite but don’t volunteer any information. Tell them you’ll answer all their questions when you have your lawyer present. Understand?”
“Yes, but my lawyer only does family law-”
“I’ll get you a criminal defense attorney. When you see him tell him everything you told me, exactly as it happened. Don’t withhold anything.”
“All right. Whatever you say.”
“Sit down while I make the calls.”
“I have to check on Bobby.”
“Go ahead then.”
Runyon watched her disappear through a doorway on the other side of the room. Then he flipped his cell phone open. He knew a couple of SFPD’s homicide inspectors, and Bill’s longtime poker buddy, Jack Logan, was an assistant chief whom he’d had some dealings with as well. But it wouldn’t be a good idea to try personalizing this; that kind of approach could backfire. Better to just make a standard 911 call. He identified himself to the operator, briefly explained the situation, and requested an EMT unit for a child with minor injuries.
The best criminal attorney he knew from his short time in San Francisco was a tough old veteran named Thomas Dragovich. Runyon called Dragovich’s law office, caught him in, and explained the situation in clipped sentences. Dragovich agreed to represent Bryn and reiterated what Runyon had told her, that she wasn’t to answer any questions without him being present; said he’d be at the Hall of Justice to consult with her as soon as she was processed through the system. There wasn’t much else Dragovich could do until she was arraigned, and that wasn’t likely to happen for seventy-two hours. The police could hold her that long while they investigated and turned whatever evidence they’d gathered over to the DA’s office.
After Runyon clicked off, he went quickly through the hallway door and down to where the bedrooms were. Bryn’s low-pitched, crooning voice led him to the last of them: “It’s going to be all right, baby. It’s going to be all right. You didn’t do anything wrong, it was all just a bad dream. Don’t think about it, forget it ever happened. It’s going to be all right.”
The door was open; Runyon stepped through. Boy’s bedroom overstuffed with the kind of material possessions a busy and overindulgent father lavishes on his son in place of quality time and genuine affection. Bryn was sitting beside Bobby on the double bed, the boy lying on his back with one hand limp on his middle, the other holding an ice pack to the center of his face. The T-shirt and Levi’s he wore were clean, blood free. His eyes were open, starey, looking ceilingward while his mother talked to him.
She didn’t hear Runyon come in, didn’t know he was there until he made a small noise at the door. The noise startled her. She stopped crooning, bit her lip, glanced at him, then reached up to smooth a palm across Bobby’s forehead. He took no notice of the gesture; the starey eyes were motionless, the lids unblinking.
Runyon said, “Your attorney’s name is Thomas Dragovich. One of the best. You’ll see him later at the Hall of Justice.”
“Thank you.” Solemn, formal.
Runyon moved over to the bed, leaned down for a closer look at the boy. Bobby’s nose, visible under the ice pack, didn’t look too bad-a little swollen, but not bleeding anymore. A Band-Aid covered the cut on his left cheek. The brown eyes flicked toward Runyon, but only for a moment; a single blink and they went starey again. Aware but nonresponsive. Reaction to the new abuse, Bryn’s fight with Whalen-a retreat into himself, his own private hiding place.
Bryn said, “Don’t try to talk to him, Jake. Please.”
He nodded. “You want to wait in here?”
“Yes. Just the two of us.”
“Okay.”
Runyon left the room, went back down the hall. He was nearing the doorway to the living room when he heard the sounds-the front door opening, somebody coming in. He quickened his step, passed through into the living room. And pulled up short, because he wasn’t looking at police officers or EMTs.
“You,” Robert Darby said, staring back at him. “What the fuck are you doing in my home?”
14
JAKE RUNYON
Lousy timing, dammit. Another few minutes and the law would be here and they’d be the ones to break the news to Darby. Now Runyon would have to do it. And it was bound to make a bad situation even worse.
Runyon made a slow advance, his hands spread in front of him. “Take it easy, Mr. Darby. Bryn’s here, too-she’s in with Bobby.”
“Bryn? She has no more right in my home than you do.” Glowering, glancing around. “Where’s Francine?”
“There’s been some trouble.”
“… What do you mean, trouble?”
“An accident, pretty bad. The police are on the way.”
Darby was a big man, jowly and going soft around the middle, but he had one of those faces that make some lawyers better than others in a courtroom: smooth, tight, unreadable, his feelings hidden behind a pair of piercing gray eyes. He stared at Runyon as if he were a hostile witness who had just made an outrageous statement on the stand.
“What kind of accident? What are you telling me?”
“Maybe you’d better sit down-”
“Answer my question. What’s happened here?”
No way to soften it. “Your fiancee’s dead, Mr. Darby.”
“Dead.” As if the word didn’t compute. “Francine?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“How, for God’s sake? What happened?”
“An accident. Stabbed.”
“Stabbed.” Another word that didn’t seem to compute. Then, in a sudden angry flare, “ You, you son of a bitch?”
“No.”
“Who, then? Who stabbed her?”
“She’s been abusing your son. Hit him in the face today, bloodied his nose, cut his cheek-”
“Who stabbed her!”
“She did it herself, accidentally. She-”
Dark blood suffused Darby’s face. He came up on his toes in a forward lean, his lips peeled back from his teeth. Runyon set himself; no matter how upset the man was, he wasn’t going to get anywhere near Bryn. But Darby didn’t charge him. Stood breathing hard, struggling with his control.
Half a dozen beats. Then, “Where? When?”
“Here. Less than an hour ago.”
“You see it?”
“No. I’ve only been here a few minutes.”
“Then how do you know what happened?”
“Bryn told me. Francine attacked her-”
“I don’t believe it. She’s lying.”
“No. I told you, Francine has been abusing your son. She fractured his arm, among other-”
“Where is she? Where’s Francine?”
“Kitchen. But you don’t want to go in there.”
“The hell I don’t.”
Darby moved then, jerkily, heading for the swing door. Runyon called after him, “Don’t touch anything,” an automatic warning that he regretted as soon as the words were out. Insensitive. And Darby wasn’t listening anyway. Runyon could have followed to make sure the warning was heeded, but he didn’t; he was enough of an intruder already.