Vixen

18

JAKE RUNYON

The interview with Andrew Vorhees produced results more quickly than Runyon and Bill had anticipated. That same evening, Kenneth Beckett broke his silence with another call.

“Mrs. Vorhees is dead, Mr. Runyon, you know that,” the kid’s voice said without preamble. He wasn’t calling from home; multiple voices punctuated with laughter rose and fell in the background. “It wasn’t an accident. Chaleen did it. I told you, didn’t I? You said you wouldn’t let it happen.”

“I tried, but I got there too late.”

“It’s my fault. If I’d told you sooner…”

“Ken, listen to me. Where are you now?”

“A tavern down the block. Mr. Vorhees came to the apartment again tonight. He was mad, real mad-he knows about Cory fucking Chaleen. He kept yelling at her, calling her names, and she kept yelling back. They forgot about me so I sneaked out and came here.”

“What’s the name of the tavern?”

“… I don’t know.”

“Ask somebody. I’ll come there and we’ll talk. Decide what to do.”

“Can’t we just talk now? I don’t want to be away too long. They might… Cory might come looking for me.”

“I can barely hear you with all the background noise. Better if we talk in person anyway. Find out the name of the tavern, okay?”

There was a short silence. Then the bar sounds cut off-Beckett must have put his hand over the mouthpiece. After the better part of a minute, “It’s the Fox and Hounds. On Pine Street.”

“It shouldn’t take me more than half an hour to get there. Promise me you’ll wait.”

“All right. As long as Cory doesn’t come.”

The Ford’s GPS got Runyon to Pine Street and into a legal parking space in twenty-seven minutes. The Fox and Hounds was an upscale Nob Hill version of a British pub: horseshoe-shaped bar, dark wood booths, dartboards, framed fox-hunting prints, signs advertising a dozen varieties of British ales and lagers. There were maybe twenty patrons, most of them in the booths and grouped in front of one of a pair of dartboards where a noisy match was going on. Beckett wasn’t among them.

So the kid hadn’t waited after all. Faded in, made his call, lost his nerve and faded out. Like a shadow-

No, he was still here. Must’ve been in the men’s room because he emerged from a hallway at the rear, moving in a slow, slump-shouldered walk, and went to sit in front of a full glass of beer at the far end of the bar. He was staring into the glass when Runyon got to him.

“Ken.”

Beckett’s head jerked up. Fear showed in his face, visible even in the dim lighting, until he recognized Runyon; then it morphed into a kind of twitchy relief. “I thought you’d never get here,” he said. “I almost left a couple of times.”

“I’m glad you didn’t. Let’s go sit in a booth. More privacy.”

There was one empty booth, just vacated and at a distance from the dart throwers; Runyon claimed it for them. A waitress appeared, began clearing the table, and asked them what they’d like. Beckett shook his head; he’d left his beer on the bar, probably hadn’t drunk much, if any, of it. Runyon ordered a pint of Bass ale, but only because it was necessary to remain in the booth.

When the waitress went away, he said to Beckett, “Now we can talk. About Mrs. Vorhees’ death, first. What did Cory say about it?”

“She said it was an accident, a fortunate accident. Fortunate for me because now for sure I wouldn’t have to go to prison.” The kid was facing toward the entrance; he cast a nervous look in that direction before he went on. “But I could tell she was lying. I can always tell.”

“You didn’t say anything to her about your suspicions?”

“They’re not suspicions. She made Chaleen kill Mrs. Vorhees.”

“Made him?”

“I told you before, she can make anybody do anything she wants. Any man.”

Beckett was looking toward the entrance again. Runyon touched his arm to refocus his attention. “You want to be free of her, don’t you, Ken? Free to live your own life, work on yachts like the Ocean Queen again.”

“Yeah, sure, but it’s too late now.”

“No, it isn’t. Not if you tell the police everything you’ve told me.”

“The police? No! I couldn’t do that. They’d think I was guilty, too, like they think I stole Mrs. Vorhees’ necklace.”

“Not if I go with you, vouch for you.”

Violent headshake. Badly agitated now, couldn’t seem to keep his hands still; they moved on the table, folding, clenching, unfolding, scrabbling away from each other with the fingers hooked upward like a pair of white spiders. “I won’t go to the police. I can’t. If you try to force me…”

“I wouldn’t do that. I’m only thinking of what’s best for you. I haven’t betrayed your trust in me so far, have I?”

“… No.”

“Okay. You’re positive Cory and Chaleen conspired to murder Mrs. Vorhees. You don’t want them to get away with it, do you?”

“No.”

“Then you have to do something. What do you think it should be?”

Headshake. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. Just not the police…”

“Then we’ll figure out another way together.” Runyon let a few seconds pass before he asked, “Does Cory have any idea that you suspect her and Chaleen?”

“I don’t think so. I didn’t say anything to make her suspicious.”

“What would she have done if you had?”

“Done?”

“She wouldn’t hurt you, would she?”

“No. Not like… no.”

“Has she ever hurt you, Ken?”

“Slaps a few times, that’s all.” He winced as he said the words, as if he could still feel the sting of those slaps. “She wouldn’t do anything if she knew that I know, just lie and tell me I’m being silly. She keeps saying after the trial everything will be like it used to be, but that’s a lie, too. It’s only going to get worse.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Mrs. Vorhees… that wasn’t the end of it.”

“You think she’s planning something else?”

The waitress reappeared with the pint of Bass, waited for Runyon to pay and tip her before she moved off. Beckett was again staring toward the entrance, his hands still crawling the table. Runyon had the feeling that if his sister were to come in, the kid would immediately slide down and try to hide under the table.

He said, “Ken. Do you think Cory’s planning something else, some other crime?”

Six-beat, while a shout went up from the dart players. Then, when the noise died down, “Something, yeah. I just hope…”

“What do you hope?”

Headshake.

“Do you have any idea what it might be?”

“No. I wish to God I did.”

“Is there any way you can find out?”

“How? She won’t tell me anything, just lies and more lies. And she’s careful now when she talks on the phone to Chaleen.”

“Does he come to the apartment to see her?”

“No. She goes out to crawl in bed with him.”

“He’s never been there?”

“Never. Only Mr. Vorhees-”

Somebody must have come into the tavern just then; Beckett stiffened with his head craned forward like a pointer. But the new arrival wasn’t his sister or anybody else he knew. He sagged back again, drew a shaky breath before his pale eyes met Runyon’s again.

Runyon said, “Do you know what Cory did with the gun you told me about?”

“Gun? Oh, Jesus, the gun…”

“Is it still in the apartment?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she put it in her car. Or gave it to Chaleen.”

“Why would she give it to him?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know why she does anything.”

“Have you looked for it?”

Headshake. “I can’t while she’s there. And she locks me in my room now when she goes out and when she’s in bed with Mr. Vorhees. I tried picking the lock, but I couldn’t do it…”

Good enough, Runyon thought. One worry eased. You couldn’t use a weapon on yourself if you had no idea where it was and no opportunity to hunt for it.

Beckett’s gaze shifted away from him again. “I can’t stay any longer, Mr. Runyon, I have to get back. Mr. Vorhees is probably gone by now and she’ll be looking for me and she’ll be mad.”

“All right. But before you go, tell me what Mr. Vorhees said to Cory when he showed up tonight.”

“Oh, he was pissed, really pissed, about her letting Chaleen do it to her. He called her all kinds of names. Slut, bitch, whore.”

“Did he say how he found out?”

“I don’t remember if he did.”

“Did she deny the affair with Chaleen?”

“Yeah, but he didn’t believe her. He told her he’d make her pay for two-timing him with that bastard. Make both of them pay.”

“Make them pay how?”

Headshake. “That’s when I couldn’t stand it anymore, when I snuck out.”

“Did he seem to have any idea Cory and Chaleen were responsible for his wife’s death?”

“He didn’t say anything about that.” Beckett flattened his hands on the table, shoved himself upright-movements so frantic they nearly upset the glass of ale. “I have to go now. Please.”

“Okay. Just remember, I’m available whenever you want to talk again. Any time, day or night.”

“Thanks, I-” The kid broke off as if struck by a sudden thought, blinked a couple of times, and then said, “Jesus, the trial. It’s coming soon, on Monday. Will you be there, Mr. Runyon? It won’t be so bad for me if you are.”

“Count on it.”

Beckett nodded once, shaped his mouth into what was probably meant to be a smile but came off more like a grimace, then rushed for the door and was gone into the night.

The Becketts were already in the Civic Center courtroom, seated at the defendant’s table with their lawyer, Sam Wasserman, when Runyon walked in Monday morning. Both of them dressed in dark conservative clothing, Kenneth uncomfortable-looking in a suit and tie, his sister calm and cool behind a mask of solemn concern. She sat close to him, shoulders touching, her hand on his clenched fingers on the table.

Not many of the seats in the spectator section were occupied. Andrew Vorhees was not among the handful of people seated there; neither was Frank Chaleen. The only person Runyon recognized was a Chronicle reporter, probably looking for an angle he could use to stir up fresh interest in a socialite’s “accidental” death. A couple of the others would also be newshounds, the rest the type of courthouse junkies who attend felony trials at random for their own amusement.

He sat down in the front row to the far right of the defendant’s table, where both of the Becketts would be sure to see him. The kid spotted him first; some of the rigidity in his posture seemed to ease and an expression that might have been gratitude or relief animated his thin face. Cory followed his gaze, frowned briefly when she saw Runyon, then whispered something to her brother that made him turn his head to face the bench and keep it there. After that one glance at Runyon, she ignored him. Making it obvious that to her his presence was nothing more than a minor annoyance: he had nothing to do with the matter at hand.

Vorhees still hadn’t put in an appearance when the judge, a stern-faced woman in her fifties, came out of chambers and the bailiff called the proceedings to order.

Runyon had expected the trial to last a minimum of one full day, but it was over in less than half an hour-aborted by a nolle prosequi from an Assistant DA. The reason given was that the complainant was recently deceased and her next of kin-her husband-didn’t wish to pursue prosecution; therefore the DA’s office had decided to accede to his wishes and was recommending that the charges against the defendant be dropped. The Becketts’ high-priced lawyer didn’t have to say a word in his client’s defense. The judge delivered a brief lecture to Kenneth warning against the dire consequences of any repeat offense, and banged her gavel.

Case dismissed.

Cory embraced her brother, whispered something to him that caused his head to bob up and down. He looked a little stunned, as if he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around the verdict. Runyon thought he might be able to edge in for a word with Beckett, but she didn’t let that happen. She hustled the kid out of the courtroom without a glance in Runyon’s direction, the bulky Wasserman helping her run interference. The reporters followed them out, yammering for interviews, but their luck wasn’t any better.

Runyon was the last to leave. On his way out of the building he was thinking that the fallout from the talk with Andrew Vorhees had been just what he and Bill hoped for. They’d not only managed to destroy or drive a deep wedge into Vorhees’ relationship with Cory Beckett, but to convince him to let her brother off the hook. There was always the chance that he’d be angry and vindictive enough to pay her back in part by hurting her brother, but given what they knew about him and his methods, and what they’d told him about the frame-up, the odds were good that he’d do just what he had done-declined to pursue prosecution.

Besides, they’d had some insurance: even if Vorhees had pressed the theft charge, Sam Wasserman would likely have gotten Beckett off. The DA’s case was shaky with the plaintiff dead and no one else to testify directly on her behalf, and losing it would have been a black mark on an already less-than stellar record in this election year. The DA would have been only too willing to let the whole thing drop.

So far so good. Question now was, how would the Vorhees/Cory Beckett/Chaleen mess play out? Volatile, secretive, parlous bunch, capable of just about any action or reaction, which made anticipating what any of them would do next difficult, if not impossible. Runyon’s one hope was that whatever happened, poor Kenneth Beckett wouldn’t get caught in the middle again.