He brewed himself a cup of tea. Some still edible cheese in the fridge and half a box of crackers, but the prospect of another small, tasteless meal like all those he prepared when he was alone made his stomach churn. In the living room he started to turn the television on, changed his mind, and left it dark. No stomach tonight, either, for the company of talking heads and flickering screen images.
He let himself go dark, too. Sat in his waiting mode on the couch, the tea untouched. He would have sat there like that for hours if he’d had to, but he didn’t have to; it was no more than ten minutes before he finally heard from Dragovich.
Runyon ran down the latest developments for the lawyer, including his suspicion that the person Bryn was covering for was her son.
“Good news on the one hand,” Dragovich said, “not so good on the other. I can mount a strong argument at her arraignment that the homicide charge be dismissed for lack of evidence, but the district attorney is likely to pursue an obstruction charge unless she recants her false story and admits she’s protecting her son. In that case, the judge will surely rule in their favor. Most judges take a dim view of any detained suspect who willfully makes a false statement that hinders a police investigation, no matter what the reason.”
“And if Bryn does recant and cooperate?”
“Then given the extenuating circumstances I doubt there’ll be any further charges. The judge might declare her a material witness, but even if he should, she’d be released from custody. But I gather from my face-to-faces with Mrs. Darby, and from what you say, that convincing her won’t be easy.”
“Not as long as she believes Bobby is guilty.”
“Do you believe he is?”
“No, but it is possible. If I could talk to him… but I don’t suppose there’s any way you can make that happen?”
“Not with Robert Darby in his present state of mind.”
Runyon said, “What about me talking to Bryn without the conversation being monitored? Or the three of us in private?”
“I’ll talk to Farley and Crabtree, but they have every reason to stand on protocol. If you’re allowed to see her, I’m afraid it will have to be with an official audience. Of course, I can consult with her alone and try to persuade her.”
“No offense, but I stand a better chance of getting through to her and finding out what she knows. How soon can you arrange the meeting?”
“Tonight, if they’re agreeable.”
Runyon brewed another cup of tea while he waited for Dragovich to call back. Too strong, bitter; he dumped it out. For the first time in a long time, since the rock-bottom night shortly after Colleen’s death when he’d sat with a bottle of bourbon in one hand and his. 357 Magnum in the other, he felt like having a drink of hard liquor. There was none in the apartment, but even if there had been, he wouldn’t have given in to the momentary craving. He’d never been much of a drinking man, and Angela’s alcoholism and his near suicide had turned him dry except for an occasional beer. Booze for a man like him was a problem, not a problem solver.
It was fifteen minutes before his cell vibrated again. And only the first part of what Dragovich had to tell him was what he wanted to hear.
“Preliminary reports on the fingerprints have come in,” the attorney said. “You’re off the hook and so is Robert Darby.”
“ID match?”
“None yet. It’s possible whoever wielded the knife was never fingerprinted. They’re still checking.”
So it could still be Bobby. Wasn’t likely Darby would’ve consented to the boy being printed, even if Crabtree and Farley had thought to suggest it; later, if it became necessary to Bryn’s defense, Dragovich could get a court order to compel the father to allow it. The fact that a child’s fingers were small didn’t necessarily mean anything, either. Plenty of adults had hands and fingers not much larger than a nine-year-old’s. You could get an ID match from bloody partials, but without a full clear latent and a comparison source, the lab techs would make the same assumption as the investigating officers: the prints belonged to an adult.
Runyon asked, “When do we get to talk to Bryn?”
“The best I could do is tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.”
Damn. “Delaying tactic?”
“Partly. If I know the DA, his intention is to keep her segregated to give her time to think over her position now that she’s been caught in her lie. He also wants an ADA present during the interview. Neither his office nor the police are in any hurry-there are still forty-eight hours left before Mrs. Darby is scheduled for arraignment. I suggest you and I meet beforehand for a strategy conference. Eight thirty in the community room, third floor at Eight-fifty Bryant?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Is there anything else we need to discuss tonight?”
“Bryn’s son. I don’t suppose Darby returned your call?”
“He did, as a matter of fact. Professional courtesy.”
“How’s the boy?”
“Well enough physically, but he still won’t talk about the alleged abuse or what, if anything, he may know about Francine Whalen’s death.”
“Who’s taking care of him?”
“A nurse Darby hired. He seems to be in good hands.”
No, he wasn’t. Runyon found that out twenty minutes later.
When the doorbell rang, he almost didn’t answer it. The only people who came around while he was home were solicitors and, once, one of his neighbors looking to borrow something. But the bell kept up an insistent ringing, and when Runyon finally responded he found himself face-to-face with Robert Darby. A distraught and angry Robert Darby.
“Have you seen him?” Darby said. “Is he here with you?”
“Who? You don’t mean Bobby-”
“Damn right I mean Bobby. He ran away this afternoon and I’ve looked everywhere else. If you’re hiding him, Runyon, I swear to God I’ll make you wish you were never born.”
21
Tamara was beside herself over what she called “those two bitches’ escape.” Not that she blamed Alex Chavez for the lost tail. He was an experienced field man and he’d taken every precaution, but no op can maintain road surveillance when he’s been spotted and the subjects are bent on ditching him. The dangerous last-second lane change would have caught anybody in the profession by surprise.
Alex felt bad about it, though. He’d driven straight back to Dogpatch to stake out the 20th Street house in case McManus and Carson decided to go back there. Chances of that happening were nil now, but Alex had insisted. And Tamara and I both knew his professional ethics wouldn’t allow him to take any overtime pay for the extended stakeout, either.
What upset and frustrated her-me, too-was that we were still hamstrung by the lack of hard evidence necessary to convince the law to take immediate action. What I’d found in the house was plenty suspicious, but we couldn’t report it without admitting that I’d been guilty of illegal trespass and unlawful entry, and my uncorroborated testimony alone wouldn’t constitute sufficient cause for a judge to issue a search warrant. Cops and judges frown on private investigators subverting the law in any way. So does the state Board of Licenses. And never mind the rationale.
By the time I got back to the office, Tamara had used the information The Dog Hole barfly Frank Quarles had given me to run a deep backgrounder on Gregory Pappas. The name wasn’t all that uncommon, but she was sure she had the right man. Born in Athens, Greece, in 1929, immigrated to the U.S. in 1946. Worked for a San Francisco relative who owned a Greek restaurant. Opened his own place on Polk Street, the Acropolis Restaurant, in 1959 and operated it until 1992, when it was gutted by an accidental grease fire. Underinsured, so he hadn’t been able to rebuild or reopen elsewhere-but he’d gotten enough of a settlement, and apparently had had enough put away, to live comfortably in retirement. Married, no children. Wife deceased in 1998. Never owned a home; lifelong apartment dweller. After his wife’s death, moved from the apartment he’d shared with her in the Anza Vista neighborhood to a smaller apartment in the Potrero. Lived at that address for a dozen years until the building was sold and went condo. Residence after that presumably the house in Dogpatch, but nothing to confirm it. Present whereabouts unknown. And most significantly, no death record anywhere.