“I’ll do that,” Runyon promised, and meant it. There were a couple of cases he’d handled in Seattle he felt that way about. Still cold, as far as he knew, and a source of frustration in the empty hours when he couldn’t sleep.
D eer Run, according to the sign on the western outskirts, had a population of 603. The village was strung out along both sides of the highway for a sixth of a mile-old buildings that housed a cafe, a couple of taverns, a few other businesses, and a newish strip mall at the far end. Hill Road intersected the highway just beyond the strip mall. It led Runyon up a sharp incline, made a dogleg to the left. The first house beyond the dogleg was number 177.
Only problem was, it had a deserted aspect and there was a FOR SALE sign alongside the driveway.
Runyon pulled into the drive. A chill, damp wind thrust against his back as he climbed the front steps, rang the bell. No response. He stepped over to look through an uncurtained window. The room beyond was empty of furniture.
When he came back down the porch steps, he noticed a woman in the front yard of the property across the road. She was leaning on the handle of a weed whacker, watching him. He left the Ford where it was, crossed the road to the edge of her driveway, and called out, “Okay if I talk to you for a minute?”
“Not if you’re selling something.”
“I’m not.”
“Rain coming. I need to get this grass down.”
“I won’t take up much of your time. I’m looking for Pauline Devries.”
The woman straightened and gestured for him to come ahead. She was in her sixties, wearing a plaid coat, woolen cap, and work gloves. The wide swath she’d cut in the high grass along the driveway had a rounded sweep, so that she seemed to be standing in a miniature crop circle. Runyon stopped at the edge, smiling a little to let her know he was harmless.
“You a relative of Pauline’s?” she asked.
“No. A business matter.”
“Thought you said you’re not a salesman?”
“I’m not.”
“What kind of business?”
He showed her his license. She blinked, frowning. The frown used all of her facial muscles, so that her features seemed to fold in on themselves like a dried and puckered gourd.
“Oh, Lord,” she said. “Not Jenny again after all these years? Jenny Noakes?”
“Her murder may be connected to a case my agency is investigating.”
“So that’s why you wanted to talk to Pauline?” The woman sighed heavily. “Well, I guess you don’t know then. She passed away four weeks ago. Complications from diabetes.”
Four weeks. That was why the address and phone listings still showed current. Tamara had accepted them at face value on her first quick check, and he’d made the same natural assumption.
He said, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“So was I. Friend and neighbor for thirty years.”
“Then you know the boy she raised. Her niece’s child, Tucker Noakes.”
“Tucker Devries, you mean.” The woman made a sourlemon mouth around the name.
“She adopted him?”
“Year after the murder. Big mistake, you ask me. But she never married, never had any kids of her own. Maternal instincts got the best of her.”
“Why do you say it was a mistake?”
“He gave her a lot of grief, that’s why. Strange boy, moody, wouldn’t talk to anybody for days, weeks at a time, not even Pauline.” She tapped her temple with a blunt forefinger. “Not quite right in the head, and worse once he got into his teen years. All he ever cared about was taking pictures.”
“Pictures?”
“Went roaming and sneaking around with a camera she gave him for his birthday, taking pictures of everything and everybody in sight. Told Pauline he was going to be a famous photographer someday. Hah! She was sorry when he left, but I sure wasn’t. Nobody else around here was, either.”
“When was that?”
“Must’ve been ten years now. Never even finished high school.”
“He keep in touch with her? Come back to visit her?”
“Now and then he’d show up, when he wanted money. Not to pay his last respects, though.”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
“No idea. Anna might be able to tell you-Anna Kovacs, Pauline’s sister. She was in Fort Bragg for the services and out here afterward cleaning out the house. I asked her where Tucker was but she didn’t want to talk about him. Acted like she wouldn’t lose any sleep if she never saw him again.”
“Where does Mrs. Kovacs live?”
“Some town near Sacramento. I forget the name.” A sudden thought recreated the dried-gourd look. “Could be he didn’t come to the funeral because he’s back in some institution. Wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Institution?”
“Loony bin. They put him in one once, I don’t know what for.”
“Who did?”
“Police, doctors, courts-whoever.”
“When was that? While he was living here?”
“No. Couple of years after he left.”
“Where was this, do you know?”
“Nowhere around here, I can tell you that much.”
“Did Pauline tell you why he was institutionalized?”
“She never wanted to talk about it. Well, she did say something once… what was it? Something about an episode.”
“Psychotic episode?”
“Episode, that’s all I remember.”
A fter five by the time he got back to Fort Bragg. Misty, the wind herding in banks of low, scudding clouds that backed up the Deer Run woman’s forecast of rain. The smart thing to do was to take another motel room here for the night, head out early in the morning. But that would make for another long period of downtime.
He hunted up an Internet cafe. No need to burden Tamara with the basic searches that needed to be done now. The agency subscribed to a bunch of different search engines, some more sophisticated than others, and he had the passwords to most of them.
An address for Anna Kovacs in the Sacramento suburb of Rancho Cordova was easy enough to find. Tucker Devries was a different story. One of those individuals whose lives are scattered enough to keep them off the radar. No easily obtainable address or employment record, didn’t own property anywhere in the state, and his “episode,” whatever it was, hadn’t been of sufficient newsworthiness to make any of the papers with online files. Access to criminal records and DMV files was prohibited by law to private citizens, even those who worked for detective agencies, but Tamara had ways and means of getting the information. He e-mailed a request to her to pull up what she could on Devries.
In the car he started to call the number he’d gotten for Anna Kovacs, to set up an appointment for tomorrow. Changed his mind mid-dial. Better to interview her cold. People were more likely to answer questions about relatives face-to-face than to a stranger’s voice on the phone.
The one call he did make was to Cliff Henderson’s number in Los Alegres-checking in to make sure everything was all right there. Tracy Henderson answered, reported status quo. She wanted a progress report and he put her off because he didn’t know enough yet to be sure he was on the right track with Tucker Devries. She and the rest of the Hendersons had enough to deal with as it was.
Choice to make now. Three hours plus to San Francisco, but then he’d have to fight commute traffic on Highway 80 to Rancho Cordova in the morning. At least a four-hour run straight through to the Sacramento area. As much as he liked to drive, it had been a long and busy day and with the weather turning bad, four hours was pushing his limits.
All right, then. Cut the distance to Rancho Cordova in half tonight, then stop at a motel somewhere. Two hours on the road was manageable, and by then he’d be hungry enough to eat and tired enough to sleep.
18
JAKE RUNYON
Anna Kovacs had no use for her adopted nephew, “that crazy little shit,” and was reluctant to talk about him. Runyon had to do some fast talking, citing the seriousness of the situation with the Henderson brothers, to keep her from shutting the door of her downscale tract house in his face. At that, she wouldn’t let him inside; they had their brief conversation on the chipped concrete porch. And he had to work to keep it focused on Tucker Devries. Mostly what she was interested in was herself.