Funny. Since her death he had taken out and savored many memories of their time together, like you would favorite photographs in a family album. But that day on the sloop, the image of her standing there in the wind and sun, hadn’t been one of them. Why not?
Then he remembered why not.
As he’d watched her, a rush of emotion had welled up and on impulse he’d gone to her and taken her in his arms and kissed her with no little passion-surprising himself because he was not a man given to spontaneous displays of affection in the presence of others. “Well, what prompted that?” she’d said, pleased, maintaining the embrace, and he’d said, “Thinking what a lucky guy I am to be married to you.” And she’d smiled and said, “I feel the same about you. Colleen and Jake, two of the luckiest people in the world.”
Lucky. Two of the luckiest people in the world.
Until all the luck suddenly ran out…
The creak of footfalls on the float alerted him, shoved the memory back into storage. But the approaching steps didn’t belong to Vorhees. The tread came from the other direction-the pudgy yachtsman, Greenwood, returning. He paused alongside the Ocean Queen, peering upward at where Runyon was seated.
“Still no sign of Andy yet, eh?” he said.
“Not yet.”
“You try calling him?”
“Twice.”
“Held up on account of what happened to his wife, maybe. He’s a pretty important man and something terrible like that happens, well, it sets off a media bombshell. Those people can be relentless.”
Runyon agreed that they could.
“Or could be political or union business. That what you’re here to see him about?”
“No. Private matter.”
“Oh, I see,” Greenwood said, the way people do when they really don’t see at all. “You planning to wait much longer? Getting pretty cold out.”
“A while. It’s important that I see him.”
“Well, in that case, my wife thought you might like something to drink to keep you warm. Coffee, tea, a hot toddy.”
“Good of you both, thanks, but I’ll pass,” Runyon said. “Mind if I ask you a question, Mr. Greenwood?”
“Fire away.”
“Have you seen Mr. Vorhees anywhere this evening? Say since four or five o’clock?”
Greenwood didn’t have to think about it. “No,” he said, “and I would have if he’d been at the club or around the harbor. I was here all day. Haven’t seen him since last night.”
“What time was that?”
“Oh, about this time. Maybe a little later.”
“Was he alone or with someone?”
“Alone. Seemed to be pretty upset-his wife, I imagine. He didn’t even want to hear condolences.”
Runyon thanked him again, gave an appropriate response when Greenwood asked him to make sure the security gate was locked after him whenever he left, and another when the yachtsman said good night. Alone again, he sat with his mind a blank slate, the door to his memories locked tight.
The half hour between nine-thirty and ten came and went. By then he was aware of the cold because his bad leg had begun to give out little twinges. At a few minutes past ten he called it quits, more than just restlessness working in him.
A high-powered, determined type like Vorhees being late for an appointment was one thing. Failing to show for it without calling or returning calls was something else again.
Runyon drove from the yacht harbor to Nob Hill. There was no reason to suppose that Vorhees had decided to pay another visit to Cory Beckett, but he had to be somewhere and she was capable of appeasing his anger and luring him back into her bed. Sex was as good a reason as any for a man, even one as tough-minded as Vorhees, failing to keep a business appointment.
The facing windows of the Becketts’ apartment were all dark, but it was getting on toward eleven o’clock; Cory could just as well be in bed alone. Runyon didn’t see the Aston Martin in the immediate vicinity, but Vorhees was too intelligent to park a six-figure set of wheels on a public street, even in an upper-class neighborhood like this. The nearest open-all-night garage was in the next block west; Runyon pulled in there, described the silver sports job to the sleepy-eyed attendant.
“Oh, sure, I know that car. Some sweet ride. Belongs to a VIP-Andrew Vorhees.”
“That’s right. He been in tonight?”
“Not since I came on at six. Left the Aston here a couple of hours last night, but not tonight.”
The Vorhees house in St. Francis Wood was dark except for the night-light on the porch. The driveway was empty, the yellow DO NOT CROSS police strip still in place across the front of the garage. No cars on the street in the vicinity, either.
Runyon made two more phone calls on his way down Sloat Boulevard. Knowing they wouldn’t buy him anything, doing it anyway because he was always thorough. The first, to Vorhees’ cell, again went to voice mail. The second, to his home number, went unanswered.
Whereabouts unaccounted for and incommunicado all evening. Maybe there was a simple explanation, maybe there wasn’t, but whatever the reason Runyon didn’t like the feel of it. Not one bit.
21
FRANK CHALEEN
He sat alone in his office, guzzling single-malt scotch and worrying, worrying. About Cory, Vorhees, Chaleen Manufacturing. About himself and his future. The wall clock read 6:30. Everybody gone for the day but him, and the only reason he was still here was because he had nowhere else to go. He’d be just as alone, just as worried in his Cow Hollow flat.
Spread out on the desk in front of him were the P &L printouts Abby had left for him. He kept trying to tell himself they were full of discrepancies, misconceptions, but he knew they weren’t; Abby was too good a bookkeeper to make mistakes. The statements might as well have been printed in red ink. Drowning in it the past six months-the miserable goddamn economy. Orders and profits way down, creditors yammering for payment of overdue bills, accounts receivable not much more than two-thirds of the operating expenses and getting harder and harder to collect.
Projections for the next six months didn’t look much better. He’d had to lay off three workers this past year, might have to let another go pretty soon. Couldn’t afford to replace the extrusion machine that kept breaking down, and if it crapped out completely, they’d have trouble filling the orders that did come in. At the rate things were going, and without an infusion of cash, he might be able to keep Chaleen Manufacturing afloat another a year or so before his creditors and the fucking bank forced him into Chapter Eleven.
Maybe he should have listened to the old man’s advice. Don’t be too ambitious, don’t try to expand too soon, don’t overextend the profit margin. But Christ, the old man had always been dispensing advice like that, trying to mold him in his own tight-fisted, tight-assed image. Don’t throw your money around, Frank, don’t chase women, don’t gamble, don’t do this, don’t do that. And what had his conservative business practices and vanilla lifestyle gotten him? A heart attack and a hole in the ground at fifty-two without ever really having lived. That wasn’t Frank Chaleen’s way. Never had been, never would be.
Still, there was no denying the bind he was in now. Banks wouldn’t give him a new loan, not for any amount, not with all that red ink; he’d already been turned down half a dozen times. Nobody would float him a private loan, either, none of the rich bastards he’d met in his City Hall days-Vorhees had seen to that. Even Margaret had turned him down, and all he’d asked her for was fifty thousand. “You know I don’t believe in loaning money to anyone for any reason, Frank. And I won’t make an exception for you. You’re a wonderful lover but a poor businessman.” Bitch. She’d deserved what she got the other night-