Camouflage

7

JAKE RUNYON

He was in the East Bay, done with interviewing a second witness in the hit-and-run case whose name had been provided by the first one he’d tracked down, when Tamara called. He’d intended to talk to Francine Whalen’s ex-husband before the sister in Berkeley, but since he was in the general vicinity, and given what Tamara had uncovered, Gwen Whalen was a better choice. If there was a history of abuse in the Whalen girls’ childhood, it might explain Francine’s behavior toward Bobby. Convincing anyone to admit to that kind of thing, particularly a woman who’d spent time in mental hospitals, was liable to be difficult. Depended on how close Gwen was to her sister, their joint history. The fact that she worked as a caregiver likely meant she had compassion, a sense of mercy. Work on that angle if he could.

Tamara had provided phone numbers. He called the Sunshine Rest Home first; Gwen Whalen’s shift had ended at four, he was told. The facility was in northeast Berkeley, at the edge of the hills near the Albany line, and her apartment was several miles away, on the southwest side of the university. It took Runyon forty minutes to drive there from Union City.

Four-unit apartment building, old and drab, on a street of similar dwellings. Probably a mixture of off-campus housing for U.C. students and relatively inexpensive rentals for moderate-income members of the workforce like Gwen Whalen. Her apartment was number two, first floor rear. She lived alone, apparently; G. Whalen was the only name on the mailbox.

No answer any of the three times he rang the bell. But now that he was here, he was reluctant to leave. Give it a while. Could be she’d stopped to run an errand or two on her way home.

He’d had to park two blocks away, and lucky to get a space that close; Berkeley’s residential streets were always jammed, particularly the ones close to major arteries like this neighborhood was to Ashby. No point in going back to the car to wait, so he walked it off. Ten blocks one way, ten blocks back to ring Gwen Whalen’s bell again. He did this three times, killing most of another hour, before he finally got a response.

The intercom was ancient and in poor repair; he could barely understand the woman’s voice that came through it amid hiccuping bursts of static. She must’ve had the same problem, kept saying, “What?” each time he spoke, so that he had to repeat himself. Name, profession-shortening it to “investigator”-and a request for a brief interview on a personal matter. The intercom went silent. And again he waited. Maybe she’d buzz him in; maybe she wouldn’t.

She didn’t, but she did come to peer at him through a peephole in her door. When he heard heavy steps approaching, he opened the leather case containing the photostat of his license. Let her take a good look at him, then held the license up next to his face and close to the peephole.

Close to a minute went by before she said, “What do you want with me?” The words were slightly muffled by the door, but the wariness in them came through clearly enough.

“Personal matter involving a client.”

“What client? What personal matter?”

“Her name is Bryn Darby. The case involves her son.”

“I don’t know anyone named Bryn Darby.”

That told him something right there. “My investigation has nothing to do with you specifically, Ms. Whalen. I only have a few questions-I won’t take up much of your time.”

Another minute ticked away. Thinking it over, making up her mind. Curiosity tipped the decision in his favor, as it often did in situations like this. A pair of locks clicked in succession; the door opened partway on a chain. The face that peered out through the gap was moon round, topped by a loose pile of dark, curly hair.

“My neighbors are home,” she said.

Not as much of a non sequitur as it might seem. Runyon understood: she was telling him that if he made any kind of false move, all she had to do was scream and somebody would come running.

“Be easier if we talk inside. If you don’t mind.”

She thought that over, too, but not for long. The door closed, stayed closed for ten seconds or so as if she was still uncertain; then the chain rattled and she opened up. And immediately retreated a few steps and stood in a nervously defensive posture, her hands fisted under heavy breasts, as he stepped inside.

Big woman, bulging shapelessly in a set of pale green scrubs. Not quite morbidly obese, but edging up on it. The round face might have been pretty if it weren’t for the bloated jowls, the folds of flesh under her stub of a chin. The fat rolls had a soft, puffy-pink look, the color of a baby’s skin.

“I don’t like to be stared at,” she said.

“I meant no offense, Ms. Whalen. Studying people I meet for the first time is part of my job.”

He shut the door. They were in a longish hallway palely lit by a single globe; a more brightly lit room was visible at the far end. Two odors dominated among the mingled smells: the ghosts of hundreds of fried-food meals, and Lysol disinfectant.

She said, plucking at a sleeve, “These are my work clothes. I just got home, I haven’t had time to change.”

“I admire people who work as caregivers.”

“How did you- Oh. I suppose you know all about me.”

“Not really. A few basic facts.”

“What happened when I was nineteen? And afterward?”

“Yes.”

It was the right answer. She said, “I don’t make a secret of any of that. It’s part of my therapy to be open about it. Not that I go around broadcasting it, but if someone already knows…” She plucked at her sleeve again, turned abruptly, and waddled down the hallway, casting looks back over her shoulder to see how closely Runyon was following.

The lit room was a good-sized living room, clean and tidy to a fault, nothing out of place. The furniture was old but of decent quality. On one wall hung a large, painted-wood crucifix, the colors so vivid the blood on Christ’s hands and feet seemed almost real; there were no pictures, no other adornments. Through partly drawn drapes and mullioned windows Runyon could see portions of a small backyard.

Gwen Whalen turned toward him again. In the brighter light he saw that her deep-sunk eyes were brown and moist-gentle eyes. And now that her wary suspicion had dimmed, the emotions reflected in them were uncomfortably familiar. Pain, loneliness. The same things he saw when he looked into Bryn’s eyes; that had stared back at him for too long whenever he looked into a mirror. Another damaged soul.

She said, “I’m going to have some chocolate milk. I have coffee and tea, too, but no alcohol.”

“Nothing for me, thanks.”

She went into an adjacent kitchen, came back with a plate of chocolate-chip cookies and an oversized, napkin-wrapped tumbler poured to the brim. “Aren’t you going to sit down?”

“Yes, thanks.”

She waited until he sat on one of a pair of Naugahyde chairs, then lowered herself onto a matching couch and set the plate on a low table between them. One of the cookies went down in three bites, followed by half the chocolate milk in a series of gulping swallows that left her with a slick brown mustache.

“I haven’t eaten since noon,” she said, “nothing except two Butterfingers. If I don’t get something in my stomach, I start to feel sick.”

“I understand.”

She ate another cookie, drank the rest of the milk, and carefully wiped off the upper-lip residue with the napkin. “I haven’t always been this fat,” she said then. “I was just the opposite in high school, almost anorexic. I started eating too much after I got out of the hospital the first time, when I tried to kill myself.”

“Why did you want to end your life?”

“The doctors said it was low self-esteem, a lack of direction and purpose. I guess that’s true. I was sad and unhappy and just… you know, drifting.”

“Why? Difficult childhood?”

A vein bulged and pulsed on one temple. It was several seconds before she said, “Yes. Difficult.”

“In what way?”

“I didn’t care about anything,” she said, not answering the question. “I just wanted to die. That’s what I thought then, anyway.”

“But now you think differently.”

“Yes, but it took a long time. I was still sick after they let me out of the hospital. Not so bad that I wanted to die anymore, but I had to go back again later for more therapy before I was finally cured.”

“Cured by the therapy?”

“That, and finding work I cared about, my purpose in life-helping people who are worse off, who need me. I found Jesus, too. He really helped a lot.” She looked up at the crucifix, smiled, and reached for another cookie.

Runyon said, “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

“Well, I’ve been telling you personal things, haven’t I.”

“Are you close to your sisters?”

The cookie stopped moving a couple of inches from her mouth. “My sisters?”

“Francine in particular.”

“Why do you want to know that?” Tense all of a sudden, the hurt in her eyes magnified and joined by some other emotion that Runyon couldn’t quite identify. Fear, maybe.

“The reason I’m here,” he said. “Bryn Darby and her son.”

“I told you, I don’t know anyone named Bryn Darby.”

“Francine does. You know she’s engaged to be married?”

“… No, I didn’t know.”

“You’re not close, then. Don’t communicate often.”

“No. I haven’t seen her in…” She dammed up the rest of what she’d been about to say by shoving the entire cookie into her mouth. Ate it so fast, glancing up again at the crucifix, that crumbs dribbled out unchecked; she choked on one of the swallows and that started a spate of coughing. Her face was a mosaic of pink and dark red splotches.

Runyon watched her get the coughing under control, dab at her mouth with the napkin, then begin picking the crumbs off her lap one by one and depositing them on the plate. At length he asked, “Why don’t you get along with Francine, Ms. Whalen?”

“I don’t have to answer that.” Not looking at him, still picking crumbs.

“No, you don’t. So you don’t care that she’s engaged.”

“Why should I? She doesn’t care about me.”

“What about your other sister?”

“Tracy? Francine doesn’t care about her, either.”

“But you do?”

“Yes, but she lives in Southern California. We talk on the phone sometimes, but I haven’t seen her in… I don’t know, a long time.” Gwen Whalen’s head came up. “Why are you asking me all these questions? What do my sisters have to do with Bryn Darby and her son?”

Runyon said, “The man Francine is engaged to is Bryn’s ex-husband, Robert Darby. They live together in San Francisco.”

“Living together before marriage is a sin.”

“The boy lives with them-he’s nine years old. The father has custody.”

Her eyes rounded. “Nine?” she said.

“Francine takes care of him while the father works. The boy doesn’t like her. His mother thinks he’s afraid of her, that he has good reason to be.”

“Oh, my Lord!”

“Can you tell me why a little boy would be afraid of your sister?”

“No!” Neither a negative response nor a denial, but a cry of anguish. “No, no, no!”

“He has a fractured arm, bruises-”

“Don’t tell me; I don’t want to hear it!” She heaved to her feet, stood spraddle legged with her hands in front of her, palms outward, as if warding off an attack. Her gaze was back on the crucifix. “O Jesus, look down in mercy. Forgive our sins, forgive those who have sinned against us.”

“Francine hurt you and Tracy, didn’t she? When you were growing up.”

Violent headshake.

“Please tell me. I need to know.”

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour-”

“For the boy’s sake. To keep him from being hurt anymore.”

She backed up, still shaking her head. Stumbled against a corner of the couch and staggered off-balance-would have fallen if Runyon hadn’t come up fast out of his chair and caught her arm to steady her. There was a gathering hysteria in her face, the whites of her eyes showing. She wrenched free of him, cringing, as if his touch terrified her.

“You have to leave now. You have to leave. Go away, go away, go away! ”

There was nothing he could do but comply. And in a hurry. If he’d lingered, he felt sure she would have started screaming.