“Somebody else was with Francine before your mom came, right?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who it was?”
“No.”
“Man or woman?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see.”
“Couldn’t hear them talking?”
“Just Francine. She… started yelling loud and weird…”
“How do you mean, weird?”
“Stuff about cows.”
“Cows?”
“That’s what it sounded like. She said the f word, too.”
“How long was it after she hit you before the other person got there?”
Headshake.
“Bobby, we all know Francine was hurting you. Your mom said she hit you in the face, cut your cheek, and made your nose bleed. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“… Yes.”
“Why did she do it?”
“I wanted a snack, that’s all. But she was taking a tray out of the oven and I got in her way and she burned herself.” Bobby’s face scrunched up at the memory; he pawed at it angrily, as if trying to rearrange it-as if trying to stop himself from crying.
“What did she say after she hit you?”
“Go wash the blood off, change my shirt. And tell my dad I fell down or she’d hurt me real bad. I hated her!”
“Enough to hurt her back?”
“I wanted to.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Okay. So then you went to the bathroom-”
“No. Just to my room.”
“Didn’t wash off the blood or change your shirt?”
“I didn’t feel good, I wanted to lie down.”
“How long were you in your room before the other person came?”
“Not long. Couple of minutes, I guess.”
“And you were still lying down when Francine started talking loud about cows and using the f word?”
“Yes.”
“Can you remember anything else she said?”
“No. Just yelling and then a crash and… hitting sounds. Then she screamed, real loud and short.”
Hitting sounds-Francine and her killer struggling, fighting. The scream from her as she was attacked with the knife, cut off short when the blade went into her chest.
Runyon asked, “What made the crash you heard?”
“Something breaking.”
“In the kitchen?”
“I guess so.”
“Do you know what it was?”
“No.”
Something breaking in the kitchen, just as the struggle started. But there hadn’t been any sign of breakage when Runyon had gone in there. His focus had been on the dead woman, but he’d never yet walked into a crime scene without his trained eye registering anything out of place, everything large enough to see. If there’d been glass or other shards on the floor, the countertops, in the sink, he’d have noticed. Yet Bobby had no reason to lie about hearing a crash…
Runyon asked, “Did you stay in your room after you heard Francine scream?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Until the door slammed. The front door.”
“Did you go into the kitchen then?”
Nod. “Francine… she was lying there with blood all over…” This time the memory made Bobby shudder. “I was glad she was dead. But it made me sick, too, and scared.”
“Like you were having a bad dream.”
“Yeah. I didn’t know what to do.”
“And that’s when your mom came.”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell her you were glad Francine was dead?”
“… I don’t remember.”
“But you told her everything you just told me-about the other person who was there.”
Nod. “She made me change my clothes and lie down again with a wet towel on my nose. After that… I don’t know, she acted funny. She kept saying don’t tell Dad or anybody else what happened, don’t say anything, she’d make everything all right.”
Easy enough now to piece the rest of it together. Bryn may or may not have believed Bobby’s story at first, but with no evidence that anyone else had been in the flat to support it and her son’s face and clothing still bloody, she’d mistakenly assumed the worst: Bobby hated Francine enough to want her dead; he’d retaliated for the blow in the face by stabbing her; some of the blood on his clothes was hers; he’d made up the story about another visitor out of guilt and fear. That was when Bryn decided to take the blame and try to keep the boy hushed up.
“Jake?”
“Yes, son?”
“Can I stay here until Mom comes home?”
Before he answered, Runyon went over to close the basement door. “I wish you could, but I think you know it’s not possible.”
“Why not? You don’t have to tell my dad you found me.”
“Yes, I do. The police, too-he’s already told them you ran away.”
“You said I could trust you. You said you’re my friend.”
“You can and I am. I only want what’s best for you and your mom.”
“Then let me stay here. Please.” The boy’s hands were tightly fisted now; his gaze skittered around the kitchen as if he were looking for a path of escape. “I don’t want to go back to my dad’s. I don’t want to live there anymore; I want to live here with Mom.”
“Maybe we can work that out. I’ll talk to your mom’s lawyer about it.”
“Honest?”
“Yes. Promise. But you can’t stay here now, not yet.”
“Why can’t I?”
“You can’t keep on hiding, Bobby. Your dad’s worried about you.”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes, you do. You know he’s hurting-you don’t want to cause him any more pain, do you?”
“… No.”
“And you don’t want me to get in trouble, right? Remember, I’m a detective. That means I have an obligation to obey the law, and the law says I have to take you back to your dad and notify the police that you’re safe. If I don’t, then I’ll get in trouble and I won’t be able to help bring your mom home. You understand?”
The boy’s hands slowly unclenched; his gaze steadied again. And after a few seconds he murmured, “Yes.”
“Okay. Tell you what. You must be hungry and so am I. Sit down and I’ll fix us a couple of sandwiches before we leave.”
No response. But when Runyon opened the fridge, Bobby moved over to sit at the dinette table and watch with moist, solemn eyes while he made the sandwiches.
23
Alex Chavez and I left the city in my car shortly past eight Saturday morning. He’d been more than agreeable to coming with me and had offered to do the driving, but it was my case and my decision to make this scouting expedition. I would’ve liked to bring Jake Runyon along, too, just in case, but he was so jammed up with the Bryn Darby matter I wouldn’t have felt right pulling him away from it.
Traffic was light once we got across the Golden Gate Bridge; the thirty-mile ride to Novato in northern Marin, where we turned off, took not much more than half an hour. The sun was out for the first time in more than a week, with just a few streaky clouds and a light breeze. Nice day for a drive under different circumstances. Chavez is that rarity, a genuinely happy man, but he didn’t have much to say today; he was still upset at himself for losing the McManus tail yesterday. I didn’t feel much like conversation, either. We’d done all the talking necessary when I phoned him the night before to set this up.
One of my recent birthday presents from Kerry was a GPS unit-part of her ongoing and none-too-subtle efforts to drag me deeper into the techno age. I hadn’t used the GPS much-I can’t get used to the idea of a disembodied voice telling me to turn left, turn right, go straight for x number of miles as if I were a dunce who couldn’t figure out the simple basics of getting from point A to point B. But I had to admit that the thing came in handy once you were off the beaten track and hunting a rural address in unfamiliar territory.
The Chileno Valley was several miles west and north of Novato, long and narrow and running through both Marin and Sonoma counties. Undeveloped countryside, of the sort that surprises visitors from other parts of the country who think California is all sprawling cities and suburbs, congested freeways, surfing beaches, wineries and vineyards, and tall mountains. A vast percentage of the state is still open space: desert, forests, farmland, pastureland, rolling hills and valleys that extend for miles. This valley was hemmed in by rounded winter green hills, some bare sided, others coated with live oaks and madrone. Long stands of eucalyptus bordered sections of the winding two-lane road that ran through it. Dairy cattle and occasional horses grazed in meadows and hollows. Farms and small ranches dotted the area, but they were few and generally far between.