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  Runyon said, “Private investigator,” and proved it with the photostat of his license.

  “Well, crap,” Belardi said lugubriously. “I get somebody I can rely on, hard worker, don’t give me no trouble, and now you’re gonna tell me he’s a thief or molester or some damn thing.”

  “You did hire him, then?”

  “Yeah, I hired him. Minimum wage and a place to stay. Seemed like a good kid, hard worker like I said—”

  “A place to stay. Where?”

  “Here. One of the river shacks.”

  “Which one?”

  “Last to the north.”

  “He there now, would you know?”

  “If his van’s there, he’s there. I don’t pay him to work weekends. Plenty of business, good weather like this, and the customers don’t want to put up with noisy repair work.”

  Runyon nodded his thanks and started away.

  “Hold on a minute,” Belardi said. “What you gonna do? Haul the kid off to jail or something? Leave me with nobody to finish his work?”

  “He’ll be going back to the city, one way or another.”

  “I’m too old to make those repairs myself and a regular handyman costs too much. I don’t suppose you could hold off a few days, let him get the hard part of it done?”

  “No. Not possible.”

  Belardi sighed. “No damn luck, me or the kid.”

  A paved driveway led downhill to the boatyard, and a rutted, weed-choked track from there along the river to where the shacks squatted on the marshy ground. They were small, board-and-batten structures of one large or maybe two small rooms that must have been there for half a century or more; a short, stubby dock leaned out into the muddy water in front of each. There was no sign of life at the first two. The third also appeared deserted until Runyon rolled up in front; then he could see the van pulled in close to its far side wall—Dodge Ram, dark blue, with a dented rear panel.

  The sister’s instructions were to notify her as soon as Kenneth Beckett was found, without contact with the subject, but Runyon was too thorough a professional to act prematurely. He’d make sure Beckett was here and would stay put before reporting in.

  He pulled up at an angle so the nose of his Ford blocked the van, got out into a stiff breeze that carried the briny scent of the river and marshland. A long motionless row of blackbirds sat on a power line stretched across the hundred yards of open land between Lakeville Highway and the river, like a still from the Hitchcock movie. Somewhere upriver, an approaching powerboat laid a faint whine on the silence.

  Runyon followed a tramped-down path through the grass to the shack’s door. A series of knocks brought no response. He tried the knob, found it unlocked. Pushed on it until it opened far enough, creaking a little, to give him a clear look inside.

  Half of the riverfront wall was a curtainless sliding-glass door; it let in enough light so that he could make out a table, two chairs, a standing cabinet, a countertop with a hotplate on it, and a cot pushed in against the side wall. Kenneth Beckett lay prone on the cot, unmoving under a blanket, one cheek turned toward the door and draped with lank black hair half again as long as it had been when the snapshot was taken. The one visible eye was shut. No sound came out of him.

  From the doorway Runyon couldn’t tell if he was asleep or unconscious. Or even if he was breathing.

  4

  JAKE RUNYON

  He went inside. The interior was full of odors—dampness, mustiness, stale food, soiled clothing. None too tidy, either: empty cans of pork and beans and beef stew, empty milk cartons, unwashed glasses, plates, utensils in the sink and on the drainboard. Beckett, on his own without supervision, seemed to care little about cleaning up after himself.

  Runyon leaned over the motionless figure on the cot. The kid was breathing, all right, in a fluttery kind of way—stoned, maybe. There was no visible evidence of drugs or drug paraphernalia in the room, but that didn’t mean there was none hidden away somewhere.

  Leave him be, make his call? What he should’ve done, probably, but instinct dictated otherwise. He gripped Beckett’s shoulder and shook him, kept shaking him until the kid moaned and tried to pull away. Runyon put both hands on him then, turned him over on his back. That woke him up.

  He stared up at Runyon through pale blue eyes that took several seconds to focus and then filled with scare. He said thickly, “Who’re you? I don’t know you.…”

  “My name is Runyon, Jake Runyon. I’m here to help you.”

  “Help me? I don’t need any help.…”

  Beckett struggled to sit up. Runyon let him do that, but held him with a tight hand on his shoulder when he tried to lift himself off the cot. The left side of his face began a spasmodic twitching.

  “You high on something, Ken? Amphetamines?”

  “What? No! I don’t use drugs.”

  “It won’t do you any good to lie to me.”

  “I’m not lying. I’ve never used—” Beckett’s head jerked suddenly, as if he’d been touched by a live wire. His mouth bent into a transverse line. “Oh, Jesus! She told you that, didn’t she? She sent you!”

  “If you mean your sister—”

  “Another one, a new one.”

  “You’re not making sense—”

  Without warning Beckett lunged upward, tearing loose from Runyon’s grip, thrust a shoulder into him, and streaked for the door. There was surprising strength in the kid’s wiry body; the contact sent Runyon reeling sideways into the table, barking his shin against one of the wooden legs and almost taking him off his feet. By the time he recovered, Beckett was through the door.

  Runyon hobbled out after him, spotted him running for his van. Beckett pulled up when he saw the Ford blocking escape. He stood poised indecisively for a couple of seconds, then lunged past the van at an angle toward the river’s edge.

  The tide was on ebb and the bank mostly mud and sparse patches of grass. Beckett lurched and slogged along it to where an old rowboat was drawn up, caught hold of the stern and tried to shove it into the water. But it was mired deep in the brown ooze; he couldn’t break the mud’s hold. Runyon was almost on him by then. Beckett threw a panicky look over his shoulder, tried again to run. This time he got no more than ten feet before his feet slid out from under him and he went down in a sideways sprawl.

  When Runyon reached him, the kid was dragging himself onto his knees. He hauled him upright and spun him around. He had forty pounds on the kid, plus his years of judo training when he was on the Seattle PD; he was prepared to use force if Beckett tried to knee or kick him. But that didn’t happen. Struggled some, that was all.

  Runyon said sharply, “Quit it! Stand still! You’re not going anywhere until we talk.”

  The squirming stopped. Beckett stood with his eyes downcast, his breath coming in short, quick pants. Streaks of mud made the right side of his face look like he’d put on half of a brown mask.

  “I don’t want to talk to you.”

  “You’re going to whether you like it or not. Back inside. Come on, no argument.”

  Beckett gave him none on the slog back to the shack, but he held tight to the kid’s arm to make sure. He shut the door behind them and walked Beckett to the cot, sat him down on it again.

  “You calm enough now to listen to me?”

  “Why can’t she leave me alone?” Beckett muttered. “Why can’t everybody just leave me alone?”

  “Listen, I said. I’m not involved with your sister; I’ve never even met her. I’m a private investigator—the agency I work for was hired to find you. You understand?”

  “Investigator?” It seemed to take a few seconds before the meaning of the word computed. “You mean … Cory hired you?”

  “Her and your bail bondsman.”

  Beckett drew a long, shuddery breath. Then he pushed up off the cot again, but he wasn’t trying to run this time. “Thirsty,” he said, and groped his way to the sink, ran water into a milk-scummed glass, gulped it down.

  “
Better wash some of that mud off while you’re at it,” Runyon said.

  The kid did as he was told, splashing water, scrubbing with both hands. He didn’t make much of a job of it; he was still smeared with brown streaks when he finished. He toweled off and came back to sit on the cot again with his chin lowered, not making eye contact.

  “I won’t go to prison for something I didn’t do,” he said. “Not for Cory, not for anybody.”

  “If you don’t show up for your trial, you’ll go to prison whether you’re innocent or not. You’ve already violated the terms of your bail.”

  “You can’t make me go back.”

  “That’s right,” Runyon said. “But if you don’t return voluntarily, I’m required by law to report the violation and the judge’ll issue an arrest warrant. Is that what you want?”

  Beckett stared off into space, eyes bright with misery. After a time he said thickly, “None of this’d be happening if Cory hadn’t talked me into it.”

  “Into what?”

  Headshake. Runyon repeated the question twice more before he got a low-voiced response.

  “Taking the blame.”

  “The blame. For the crime you’re charged with?”

  “Pretending it was me she was out to get.”

  “She? Who are you talking about?”

  “Mrs. Vorhees.”

  Runyon backed away from the cot, swung one of the chairs away from the table and straddled it. “Let’s get this straight. Did you steal Margaret Vorhees’ necklace?”

  “No. Nobody stole it.”

  “Then how did it get into your van?”

  “Chaleen put it there. She told him to.”

  “Mrs. Vorhees did?”

  “No, no. Cory.”

  “Why would your sister do that to you?”

  Headshake.

  Runyon asked, “Who’s Chaleen?”

  “That bastard. She’s letting him do it to her, too.”

  Trying to make sense of what Beckett was saying was like riding on a fast-moving carousel. Round and round, round and round, and not getting anywhere. “Where did Chaleen get the necklace?”

  “From Mrs. Vorhees. She wanted him to hide it in Cory’s car so it’d look like she stole it.”

  “How could Cory be blamed if you were the only other person on the boat that day?”

  “I wasn’t. She was there when Mrs. Vorhees showed up.”

  “To see you, you mean?”

  “No. Mr. Vorhees. She … No, I’m not supposed to talk about that.”

  “Talk about what?”

  Headshake.

  “Who told you not to talk? Cory?”

  Headshake.

  “All right,” Runyon said. “So your sister was the intended target, but she talked this Chaleen character into framing you instead. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Yeah. She can make anybody do anything she wants. Anybody. Anything. Any time.”

  “Why would Mrs. Vorhees want to frame your sister?”

  “She hates Cory.”

  “Why?”

  Headshake.

  “When did Cory tell you you had to take the blame? Before or after Chaleen planted the necklace in your van?”

  “Before.”

  “And you just let it happen?”

  “… I told you, she always gets what she wants.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “She said we had to, we couldn’t rock the boat.”

  “What boat?”

  Beckett said in a mimicking falsetto, “‘Trust me, Kenny. I know what’s best for both of us. You won’t go to prison, I promise.’” He seemed close to tears now. “She doesn’t care about me. She says she does, but she doesn’t, not anymore. She never cared about anybody but herself. It’s all that goddamn Hutchinson’s fault.…”

  “Hutchinson. Who’s he?”

  Headshake.

  Ramblings. Yet as improbable and inconsistent as Beckett’s story sounded, it didn’t strike Runyon as lies, delusions, or drug-induced fantasy. The kid was an emotional weakling strung out on fear, not a chemical substance. Fear of his sister, it seemed, as much as of being sent to prison.

  “Anything more you want to tell me, Ken?”

  “No. I shouldn’t have … I … no.”

  “So what’s it going to be? Back to San Francisco voluntarily, or do I notify the authorities?”

  A rapid series of headshakes this time. “I want to stay here,” he said. “I like it here.”

  “You can’t do that. I told you, it’s either your apartment or a jail cell on an unlawful flight charge. Be smart. Let me take you back.”

  “No.”

  “Then let your sister come and get you—”

  “No!”

  “I have to tell her as well as the authorities where you are.”

  Beckett flattened himself facedown on the cot again, yanked the blanket up to his neck. “No more talking … my head hurts, I can’t think. Go away, leave me alone.”

  “Listen to me—”

  “No! Go away!” Another upward jerk on the blanket so that it covered his head. Burying himself under it. Hiding. “Go away, go away, go away!”

  Runyon had no choice now. He went outside to call the agency.

  5

  I seldom go into the office on Saturdays anymore; it was pure chance that I happened to be at my desk when Runyon’s call came in. My weekends are usually reserved for family activities, but this day was an exception.

  Emily was one of the leads in a musical production her school was putting on and had to attend a semifinal rehearsal, and Kerry had gone over to Redwood Village, the Marin County care facility where her mother, Cybil, lived. Cybil is eighty-eight and in fragile health, not quite bedridden but no longer able to get around much by herself. The three of us had visited her the previous Sunday, but Kerry was worried about her and wanted to see her again, even though they talked on the phone nearly every day now. I offered to go along, but she said no, too many visitors at once was too tiring for Cybil and she would rather just make it a mother-daughter visit this time.

  That was fine with me, but it left me at loose ends. I did not have anything I particularly wanted to do by myself, didn’t feel like spending the day alone at the condo. There was some paperwork to be finished up on the employee background check, so I decided I might as well go on down to South Park. I had company while I slogged through the notes and printouts on my desk because Tamara had decided to work today, too, as she often did on Saturdays. She was even more of a workaholic than I’d been in my prime.

  She was busy at her computer, so I took Runyon’s call. Good news that he’d found Kenneth Beckett, but the details of their conversation didn’t set any better with me than they did with him. Jake’s instincts are pretty well honed; if he believed Beckett’s story was straight goods, then it probably was. Which, as Tamara had suggested, made Cory Beckett the complete opposite of the person she’d pretended to be in Abe Melikian’s office. Control freak, sex addict, schemer. With motives that didn’t seem to make much sense. Why would she talk her brother into taking the fall on a bogus theft charge? How could it benefit either of them?

  I’d told Tamara that it didn’t matter if a client lied to us as long as it had no effect on the job we’d been hired to do, and that was true enough up to a point. But if the lies and misrepresentations involved a felony, we had a legal obligation not to ignore them.

  “You haven’t notified the client?” I asked Runyon.

  “No. I thought I’d give Beckett a few minutes to calm down, then make one more try at reasoning with him.”

  “Likely to do any good?”

  “I doubt it. He’s pretty strung out.”

  “But not on drugs.”

  “No. Doesn’t look to be any in the shack, but I’ll search it after we’re done to make sure.”

  “So that’s probably another lie by his sister. She didn’t want us talking to him, but in case we did we’d put down anything h
e said to junkie ravings.”

  “Same take here.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Suppose I break the news to her, see if I can find out what she’s up to. If you can convince Beckett to let you bring him back, go ahead. But in that event deliver him here to the office for the time being, not to their apartment.”

  “Right.”

  “Let me know if that’s how it plays out. Otherwise, hang around the shack and keep an eye on him until you hear from me.”

  “He’s not going anywhere,” Runyon said. “I’ve got his van blocked with my car and his keys in my pocket to make sure.”

  After we rang off, I went in to brief Tamara. She said, “Weird. What d’you think the Beckett woman’s up to?”

  “No idea … yet.”

  “How about I do a deep backgrounder on her? That stuff I pulled up last week only scratched the surface.”

  “Go ahead when you have the time.”

  “Like right now.”

  * * *

  The Beckett apartment on Nob Hill was only ten minutes or so from South Park, but street parking up there is always at a premium and garage parking fees are exorbitant. It took me another ten minutes to find curb space, one that was only marginally legal and two steep uphill blocks away.

  I was short of breath by the time I reached the building, a venerable four-story pile near Huntington Park that may or may not have been some fat cat’s private mansion a hundred years ago. Nob Hill, or Snob Hill as the locals sometimes call it, is where many of the city’s upper-class families and affluent yuppie transplants hang their hats. It takes big bucks to live there, and I found myself wondering if Cory Beckett had dragged enough out of her two marriages to pay the rent, or if somebody else—not her deckhand brother—was contributing to the monthly nut.

  Right. Somebody named Andrew Vorhees.

  In the coincidental and serendipitous way things sometimes happen, I had probable confirmation much sooner than I could have expected. About ten seconds after I reached the building, as a matter of fact.

  Just as I stepped into the vestibule, the entrance door opened and a lean guy with tanned, craggy features came striding out. His glance at me as he passed by was brief and dismissive; I was nobody he knew. But I’d seen his picture and I knew him: Andrew Vorhees in the flesh.