“But he wouldn’t tell you who did it.”
“Mugged, he said, but it wasn’t the truth. I can always tell when Brian is lying. But he wouldn’t budge from that story. Just said I shouldn’t worry, it wouldn’t happen again.”
“You didn’t believe him about that, either?”
“No. He sounded scared, not like himself at all. I know my son, Mr. Runyon. He’s not a fearful person. It would take something bad, very bad, to put him in such a state.”
She might’ve exaggerated the violence and Brian’s state of mind; Runyon had known it to happen to other parents, even ones who claimed to “know” their kids. Nobody knew anybody, when you got right down to it. Not even themselves most of the time. Still, she wasn’t the panicky, emotional type. Levelheaded. If she was concerned enough to want an investigation, there was probable cause.
He said, “Before that day, how was your son? His usual self?”
“No. Not the last few times I saw him.”
“How was he different?”
“Worried about something. Upset and secretive.”
“So whatever his trouble is, it’s been going on for some time.”
“More than a month now.”
“Could it have something to do with his work?”
“I don’t see how it could. He’s been in computer work for five years and he’s very good at it, never had any problems with the people he works for.”
“Something to do with a woman?”
She frowned at the question, ran blunt fingers through her skullcap hair. “I don’t see how that can be, either.”
“Brian’s not married, is that right?”
“He was engaged to a girl named Ginny Lawson last year, but she broke it off a month before the wedding.”
“For what reason?”
“Cold feet, Brian said. The commitment and all. But it seemed sudden and out of character to me.”
“As if she’d found someone else?”
“Possibly. I don’t know.”
“How did your son handle the breakup?”
“Not well at first. He really loved that girl.”
“Angry?”
“Hurt, mostly.”
“Brood about it?”
“No. He’s not a man to fret over lost causes.”
“Is he seeing anyone now?”
“Not that I know about.”
“Tell me about his activities, what he does for recreation.”
“Computers. They’ve been his passion ever since he was thirteen.” Pride in the words. “When he’s not working, he spends most of his time on the Internet.”
“Chat rooms, that kind of thing?”
“I don’t think so. No. He plays chess, computer chess.”
“How about clubs, sports?”
“Just church activities. He met Ginny Lawson at a church dance.”
Runyon said gently, “Vices, Mrs. Youngblood?”
Long, stern look. Then she said, “I suppose you have to ask that. The answer is no.”
“Never any problems with liquor or drugs?”
“Never. I’d know if he’d ever been into anything like that.”
Sure you would. “This friend you mentioned, Aaron Myers. Did you ask him about the beating? Away from Brian, I mean.”
“Yes. He said he doesn’t know what happened.”
“Telling the truth or covering up?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Are he and Brian close friends?”
“I don’t know how close they are. They haven’t known each other long, I’m pretty sure of that.”
“What is it they have in common? Computers?”
“Yes.”
“What does Aaron do for a living?”
“He works for a frozen food distributor, but I’m not sure which one.”
“Can you tell me where he lives?”
“Somewhere near Brian. I don’t have the address.”
“What’s your opinion of him?”
“Polite, friendly-a decent young man.”
“Is there anyone else Brian is close to? Anyone who might have an idea of what led to the beating?”
She thought about it. “Well, there’s Dre Janssen. They went to school together. He’s one of Brian’s chess opponents.”
Runyon asked a few more questions, wrote down a few details in his notebook. Brian’s home address and phone number. The name and address of the video store that Dre Janssen managed in the Marina. The facts that Ginny Lawson lived in San Rafael and was employed at a Wells Fargo branch in Sausalito. That was enough to start on.
“When will you start your investigation, Mr. Runyon?”
Low-priority case; he’d have to sandwich it in during the week. No purpose in telling her that. Five-thirty now, too late to do much today, but he had the weekend to fill. If he got lucky, he might get it done quick. He said, “Tomorrow, probably.”
She seemed surprised. “You work Saturdays?”
“Sometimes.”
“What will you do first? Talk to Brian?”
“I’m not sure yet. If I do talk to him, agency policy is not to reveal our clients’ names.”
“That’s all right. He’ll know it was me. Brian doesn’t have anyone else who cares as much as I do.”
She showed him to the door, shook his hand solemnly. He said he’d be in touch as soon as he had something to report; she said, “I’ll pray for him”-not quite a non sequitur. As soon as he was outside, she retreated into the world she occupied behind closed doors-devout Christian world, black woman’s world, mother’s world.
T he Ford needed gas; he stopped at a service station at the top of Twin Peaks to fill the tank. His body needed food; he stopped at a Chinese restaurant on West Portal to fill his belly. One more time killer before he wrapped himself inside his empty apartment for the rest of the night-a stop at the Safeway on Taraval. He seldom ate in the apartment, kept little enough on hand, but one thing he did do regularly was brew a pot of tea. He was almost out of the Darjeeling blend Colleen had liked.
The store was Friday-night crowded. He was in the coffee and tea aisle, taking his time, reading labels, when a woman said, “Excuse me.” The way she said it, as if the words had come out of only one side of her mouth, made him glance at her as he stepped back and she pushed by with her cart.
The first thing he focused on was the scarf. Tied funny under a Scottish style cap: down across the left side of her face, covering it entirely, and knotted under her chin. Only half of her mouth was visible. The right side of her face was oval, high-cheekboned, a thick-haired eyebrow bent in the middle like a snapped twig. Thirty-something. Attractive. Ash-blond hair showing beneath the cap. Body tightly encased in a black-and-white checked coat. That was all he registered before she was past him, without a glance in his direction. He watched her push the cart toward the check-stands up front, wondering a little about that scarf.
He picked out a package of tea, took it up to the quick-check. Misnomer tonight; there was a line and the checker was slow. Three stands over, the blond woman got through with her purchases before he did and was gone by the time he left the store.
His car was parked on Taraval, near Nineteenth Avenue. He headed that way, feeling twinges in his bad leg; cold had that effect sometimes. There was a small, covered parking lot on that side of Safeway, and he was just starting past it when he heard the voices.
Man saying, “Come on, lady, show my buddy here.”
Woman saying, “Leave me alone.”
Another man saying, “Just one look, I never seen somebody with half a face before.”
Runyon paused to look over there. The blond woman in the scarf. The two males had her backed up against one of the slant-parked cars, crowding her. Late teens-he could see them plainly in the floodlights. She was holding her grocery sacks up high in front of her chest, like shields. He heard her say, “Please, just leave me-” before the bigger of the two suddenly reached up and tore the scarf away from her face.
She cried out, dropped one of the sacks-it broke apart on the concrete, scattering the contents-and tried to pull away, her free hand pawing at the scarf. The entire left side of her face had a frozen, twisted look; her mouth might have been split in half, one side normal, the other bent and the lip curled up over her teeth. One of the kids said, “Hey, man, didn’t I tell you?” and the other one laughed like a hyena, and by then Runyon was on them.