Schemers

21

JAKE RUNYON

Los Alegres, early afternoon.

Duty and obligation dictated he take what he’d found out straight to the local police, but he was reluctant to do that just yet. He’d dealt often enough with small-town cops, been on the job himself for enough years, to know what kind of reception he’d get. The lieutenant, St. John, would be skeptical, tell him he didn’t have enough hard evidence against Tucker Devries to warrant a BOLO, much less an APB. Plus he’d have to withhold some of what he’d found out because it had been obtained through a technically illegal search. If he could locate Devries first, he’d have a stronger case. Maybe not strong enough for the law to act immediately, but enough to get them moving. And to give himself a couple of options, if he wanted to pursue them. Confront Devries, try to prod him into an admission of guilt. Or put him under surveillance, stop him before he did any more damage to the Henderson brothers.

There were half a dozen motels in Los Alegres and vicinity, another couple of dozen within a fifteen-mile radius. Runyon began the canvass as soon as he’d made a list from the Yellow Pages in the county directory. The odds were only fair that Devries had decided to hole up in a motel somewhere around here rather than drive back and forth to Vacaville. He could be sleeping in that van of his, or crashing with somebody who didn’t know what he was up to. But there were no other leads to follow. A motel search was the only proactive idea Runyon could come up with.

The places in Los Alegres first, and those drew blanks. North, then, to a stretch of motels at or near freeway interchanges. He skipped the more expensive chain places. Given the kind of work Devries did and the apartment building he lived in, he wouldn’t have much money to spend on lodging. Or much interest in where he stayed beyond its proximity to Los Alegres; his whole focus was on his private vendetta. If he’d rented a motel room anywhere, it would be the cheap variety.

Two hours, nine stops-nine more blanks. Number ten was outside a little town eight miles northeast of Los Alegres, a twelve-unit, no-frills place built in a half square around a lumpy macadam parking lot. Twin Palms Court. But there was only one palm on the property and it looked ripe for a chain saw. Owner with a sense of humor or a substandard IQ.

The office was a tiny room bisected by a counter and presided over by a thin wisp of a man with gray hair just as wispy; a goiterlike growth on one side of his neck gave his head a misshapen cast. His smile was as thin as the rest of him. The bored, indifferent type.

Runyon had used the same opening so often he repeated the words by rote: “I’m looking for a young man, late twenties, dark blond hair, drives a white Dodge Caravan. You have a guest in the past week or so who fits that description?”

“This fella a friend of yours?”

“No.”

“What you want with him, then?”

“Do you know him?”

“You answer my question, I’ll answer yours.”

Runyon showed his ID, and when the deskman had had his look, “He’s involved in a case I’m investigating.”

“He do something, break the law or something?”

“That’s right. And he’s liable to break it again if I don’t find him pretty soon.”

The desk clerk chewed on that for a time. Shrugged and said, “What the hell, then. Yeah, he stayed here. This past week and one time before that. But he checked out this morning.”

“How long was he here?”

“This time? Five days? Let me check.” Quick shuffle through a batch of registration cards. “Five days, right. Left early.”

“Early?”

“Asked for a weekly rate when he checked in and I gave it to him.”

“Mind if I look at that card?”

Another hesitation, another shrug. “What the hell,” the clerk said again and handed it over.

In a weak backhand scrawl: T. Devries, Vacaville. No effort to hide his identity. The license plate number matched the one Tamara had supplied and “Dodge van” had been written in the box marked Make of Car. No credit card information: Devries had paid with cash.

“Any trouble while he was here?” Runyon asked.

“Not when I was on duty. Hardly even saw him. Seemed like a nice enough kid, said he was in the area on business. But I guess you never know, huh?”

“What time did he check out?”

“Little before noon. Twelve’s checkout time.”

Noon. Missed him by four hours. “Did he say anything? Give you any idea of why he was leaving early, where he was going?”

“Said he was almost finished with his business. That’s all.”

Almost finished with his business. Planning something new, and soon. More acid-slinging with a human target this time? He wouldn’t do it in broad daylight, he wasn’t that crazy. When and where? And where was he now?

T ime to talk to Lieutenant St. John. But when Runyon got to the Los Alegres PD, he found that St. John was out on police business and not expected back until five thirty. He left a message, asking the lieutenant to wait if he came in early-the Henderson case, urgent.

C liff Henderson wasn’t at the west-side home construction site. Nobody was; work had been shut down for the day. Runyon drove downtown to the Henderson Construction offices in a newish building along the west bank of the Los Alegres River. The offices were open, but Henderson wasn’t there, either. He’d checked in and then left about half an hour ago, the woman at the desk said. Might find him the Oasis Bar; he and some members of his crew often gathered there for a drink or two after work.

The Oasis had been operating for a lot of years in the same location on the main drag. Somebody’s house once, judging by the architectural style, long ago converted into a tavern and bedecked with neon signs. Old-fashioned inside, too: long bar, cracked leather booths, pool table, jukebox, animal heads mounted on the walls, business cards and dollar bills thumbtacked to the low ceiling. Guy hangout. Runyon got the usual once-over locals give strangers who walk in. The bar stools and booths were all full, but it didn’t take him long to spot Cliff Henderson-crowded into a booth with three other guys, working on pints of draft beer.

He moved over near the bar, stood there until he caught Henderson’s eye and then gestured to him. Henderson didn’t waste any time joining him. Runyon said, “Talk outside where it’s private,” and led the way through a rear door into a parking lot dominated by pickups and motorcycles.

Henderson listened with no expression other than a tightening of his facial muscles. When Runyon finished talking he said, “I never heard of anybody named Tucker Devries. Who the hell is he?”

“Disturbed personality with a perceived grudge against the Henderson family.”

“What kind of grudge, for Christ’s sake?”

Irresponsible and unkind to lay the burden of Jenny Noakes’s and his father’s infidelity on Henderson’s shoulders just yet. Runyon said only, “Details are still a little hazy.”

“But you’re saying it has something to do with my father.”

“I’m afraid so.”

Henderson shook his head, rubbed stubby fingers over the bristles on his jaw. “Five years since he passed away. What set Devries off after all this time?”

“That’ll come out when he’s in custody.”

“You’re sure he’s the one?”

“He fits the profile, he’s got a history of mental problems, and he’s been in the area off and on since the trouble started.”

“The cops know about this yet?”

“I’m seeing Lieutenant St. John in a few minutes. But the law demands hard proof and I don’t have a lot of it to offer.”

“So what, then? They won’t arrest Devries right away?”

“Maybe not. They’ll have to find him first.”

“Yeah, that figures. And meanwhile, he’s liable to make another move against Damon or me. You think he’s crazy enough to use acid on one of us?”

“I wouldn’t rule it out, Mr. Henderson.”

“Miserable son of a bitch…”

“He drives a fifteen-year-old Dodge Caravan, white, no markings.” Runyon recited the license number. “Pass that information on to your brother and your families. If you spot him anywhere, any time, call the police. Don’t try to play it any other way.”

“I’m not the hero type,” Henderson said. “But I’ll tell you one thing. I’m not about to hide in my house until they catch him, acid or no acid. I can’t live scared. I damn well won’t let him do that to me, either.”

T he talk with St. John went about the way Runyon expected it would. Skepticism, and a faint defensive irritation that a private investigator had managed to turn up information in three days that had eluded his department for three weeks.

“Listen, Runyon, I knew Lloyd Henderson personally for a lot of years. You’ll never convince me he had anything to do with the murder of some young woman in Mendocino County.”

“I’m not trying to,” Runyon said. “It’s Devries who believes it.”

“Because of something of his mother’s that’s been hidden away for twenty years.”

“Something in that trunk, yes.”

“Such as what?”

“Whatever it is, it set him off, pushed him over the edge. Lloyd Henderson’s no longer alive and desecrating his grave wasn’t enough revenge for him.”

“A goddamn psycho.”

“The deadly kind. You knew all along that’s what you were dealing with. We both did.”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

“So what’re you going to do?”

“What do you expect me to do?”

“Put out an APB or at least a BOLO. He’s still in the area.”

“On your say-so? Just like that?” But St. John was chewing on it now, pinch-mouthed, like a dog with a new bone that tasted bad.

“For the Henderson brothers’ sake, not mine.”

“You already tell them about Devries?”

“Cliff Henderson, little while ago. He’s our client-obligation to him as well as to the law. But I didn’t say anything about Jenny Noakes. Not without corroboration.”

“Well, that’s something, anyway. All right. We’ll look into it.”

“Hard and fast, Lieutenant.”

“You don’t have to tell me my job,” St. John said. He slapped his desktop, not too hard, for emphasis. “If you’re right about this Devries character, we’ll find him before he hurts anybody else.”

One of those meaningless promises cops hand out to victims’ families, the media, other civilians. Runyon didn’t try to push it. Wouldn’t have done any good. The lieutenant was all through listening to him.

N othing more for Runyon in Los Alegres. He’d done his job, done his duty. Up to the authorities now. Like it or not, he was out of it.