Schemers

17

JAKE RUNYON

Before he drove to Deer Run to talk to Jenny Noakes’s aunt, he wanted more information on the homicide. He spent the better part of an hour in the Fort Bragg library, going through microfiche files of the Advocate-News and the North Bay region’s largest newspaper, the Santa Rosa Press Democrat, for the latter half of 1989. Both carried news reports about the slaying, neither very long, and there was one brief followup in the Press Democrat. That was all.

The search produced one useful fact: the investigating officer for the Mendocino County Sheriff’s Department had been Lieutenant Clyde Van Horn.

There was no listing for Van Horn in the local or county phone directories. So Runyon made his next stop the sheriff’s substation, a short distance from the library. The young officer on the desk didn’t know a Lieutenant Van Horn, but an older deputy on duty did. Van Horn was no longer with the department. Retired five or six years ago. Bought a place somewhere down the coast-Little River, the deputy thought it was.

Little River was about fifteen miles south of Fort Bragg, just beyond the quaint tourist-trap village of Mendocino. Runyon drove down there, stopped in at a grocery store and then a cafe. The waitress in the cafe knew Van Horn; he and his wife came in for breakfast now and then. She was pretty sure they lived on Crescent Drive, a few miles south off the coast highway.

Crescent Drive: short road that bellied out along the bluffs overlooking the ocean and dead-ended after a tenth of a mile. Half a dozen houses and cottages were strung along the oceanside. The first one he tried was deserted. A woman at the second told him the Van Horns lived in the last house before the dead end.

It was a small cottage built at the edge of the bluff above a rocky whitewater cove. Fenced garden in front, a lawn spotted with animal sculptures along the north flank. The Land Rover parked in the driveway told Runyon someone was home. The someone turned out to be Clyde Van Horn.

Van Horn was seventy or so, big, healthy-looking, and willing to talk. They sat in a living room that had two walls made of glass to take advantage of the ocean and whitewater views.

“Sure, I remember the Jenny Noakes case,” Van Horn said. “You always remember the ones that go cold on you.”

“She was strangled, is that right?”

“That was the coroner’s opinion. Damage to the hyoid bone was consistent with manual strangulation.”

“Sexually assaulted?”

“Undetermined. Three months in a shallow grave in the mountains, animals digging up and carting off pieces-there wasn’t a whole lot left for analysis. No DNA procedures back then, not in a county like this one.”

“Where was the body discovered?”

“Heavily wooded area about a mile outside Deer Run. Close to the road. County road crew was doing repairs and one of the workers went into the woods to take a leak and spotted the grave.”

“East or west of Deer Run?”

“East. Why?”

“Curiosity. Turn up any suspects?”

“Her ex-husband seemed like a good bet-her aunt said there was bad blood between them-but he was working in an oil field in Texas when she disappeared. A couple of other possibles, but no physical evidence to lay the crime on either one.”

“You recall their names?”

Van Horn thought about it. “One was a transient, young guy fresh out of the army. Potter, Cotter, something like that. Seen in the vicinity of the general store in Harmony where Jenny Noakes worked and was last seen. But he didn’t have a rap sheet and his military record was clean, so we had to let him go.”

“The other one?”

“Man named Jackson, worked as a handyman in the area. He had a thing for Jenny Noakes, kept trying to date her. She wouldn’t have anything to do with him. They had an argument in a local tavern a couple of days before she disappeared. My money was on him, but like I said, there wasn’t any way we could prove a case against him.”

“Was she in a relationship at the time?”

“More than one, off and on. She wasn’t exactly chaste. Liked men, liked a good time.”

“One of the men Lloyd Henderson, owned a hunting cabin in the mountains east of Harmony?”

Van Horn had a habit of cocking his head to one side when he was thinking; he did it again now. “Henderson… sure. Doctor or something from some place down in Sonoma County.”

“Dentist. Los Alegres.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Lloyd Henderson. Didn’t you say the case you’re investigating involves two men named Henderson?”

“Lloyd’s sons.”

“What, then? You think there’s a connection between him and what happened to Jenny Noakes?”

“Maybe not with her murder, but Henderson knew her pretty well.” Runyon related what Mona Crandall had told him about Jenny Noakes’s surprise visit and pregnancy claim. “It wasn’t long afterward that she disappeared, if Mrs. Crandall’s memory is accurate.”

“Interesting,” Van Horn said. “I don’t remember Henderson saying anything about any of that when I talked to him.”

“You questioned him? Did he admit knowing Jenny Noakes?”

“Had to admit it. They were seen together in Deer Run.”

“To having an affair with her?”

“He wouldn’t go that far. Just acquaintances, he said. But that’s what any married man would say under the circumstances. ’Specially if he knocked her up.”

“But you didn’t consider him a suspect?”

“No cause to. Spotless record, well-respected in his community. Everybody we talked to, including Jenny’s aunt, said their relationship was casual, no trouble, no friction between them. If we’d known about the affair and pregnancy, we’d have leaned on him some. But the coroner couldn’t be certain if she was or wasn’t, as badly torn up and decomposed as the remains were.” Van Horn cocked his head again. “You must’ve talked to Henderson. What’d he have to say for himself?”

Runyon said, “He’s been dead five years.”

“Five years? Then what could he or Jenny Noakes’s murder have to do with his sons being stalked now?”

“No clear idea yet. But the first thing the perp did was dig up Henderson’s ashes and pour acid on them.”

“Man. So the real target was Henderson and his sons are, what, substitutes? Because of Jenny Noakes? That seems like a stretch after twenty years. Why would anybody wait that long to go on a rampage against the family?”

Runyon tilted a hand sideways. “I may be way off base here,” he admitted, “but it’s the only angle I have to work on.”

“Well, suppose you’re right and there is some sort of connection. Who could he be, this phantom stalker?”

“The perp’s in his twenties-that’s been established. Jenny Noakes had a son, Tucker, seven years old when she died. He’d be twenty-seven now.”

“Sure, I remember the kid,” Van Horn said. “Took his mother’s death pretty hard. But I still think you’re reaching. If it’s the son all screwed up with hate and wanting revenge, why pick Henderson as the guilty party instead of one of the others I told you about? And why wait so long?”

“Recently uncovered some kind of proof, maybe.”

“Such as what? Where? How?”

Runyon tilted his hand again. “What happened to Tucker after his mother’s death?”

“Jenny’s aunt took him in.”

“The aunt in Deer Run? Pauline Devries?”

“That’s right. Jenny and the boy’d been living with her since her divorce.”

“She raised him?”

“As far as I know. I lost touch with her after a couple of years. That happens with cold cases… well, I don’t have to tell you.”

“So you don’t know if he’s still in the area.”

“No, no idea what happened to him. You’ll have to ask the aunt, if she’s still living in Deer Run.”

“I will. Did Jenny Noakes have any other relatives?”

“No male relatives,” Van Horn said. “Another aunt, I think.”

“Local?”

“No. I think she lived here in California, but I don’t remember where. Or what her name was.”

“Shouldn’t be too difficult to track down.”

“Internet, huh? Things sure have changed since my day.”

Runyon said, “The changes come faster every year,” and got to his feet.

“Listen,” Van Horn said at the front door, “you find out anything definite about Jenny Noakes’s murder, I’d really appreciate it if you’d let me know. That case has bothered me for twenty years. One of the few I wasn’t able to close.”

“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.