Betrayers (Nameless Detective Novels) (25 page)

So did she. Tired and stressed out. Drinking again, too. She wasn’t drunk or even high, but he could smell the wine on her breath and her eyes wore a slight glaze.

He said, “I can use a cup of tea.”

“I’ll put the kettle on. Bad night?”

“Bad enough.” That was all he’d say about it. And she wouldn’t ask any more. She understood that he didn’t like to talk about his work, preferred to compartmentalize his personal and professional lives. Even if that weren’t the case, he wouldn’t have told her what he’d seen in Zachary Ullman’s bedroom, what had happened out there tonight. Child porn was a highly emotional issue with just about everybody, all the
more so for a psychologically fragile mother with a nine-year-old son who’d been taken away from her.

Neither of them said much until the tea was ready and she’d poured another glass of wine for herself and they were on the couch in the living room. She brooded into her glass for a little time before she said, “What happened today . . . I don’t like burdening you with it, but I need to talk to someone, someone who’ll understand.”

“What happened?”

“Bobby came to school with a fractured arm. The principal called me when he couldn’t get hold of Robert.”

“The boy okay?”

“His arm, yes. It’s not a bad fracture—hairline crack of the ulna.”

“How’d it happen?”

“He said he fell on his way to school.”

“Said he fell? You don’t believe him?”

“I don’t know what to believe,” Bryn said. “He wouldn’t talk about it, wouldn’t look me in the eye. And he didn’t tell anyone at school, classmates or teachers. One of the teachers found out when another boy pushed him in the hall and he yelled and clutched his arm.”

“You think somebody hurt him and he’s covering up? Older kids, a schoolyard bully?”

“That’s one possibility. But he’s usually friendly, outgoing, the kind of boy everybody likes and gets along with.”

“Usually?”

“I told you how Bobby was with me last weekend. Quiet, withdrawn—not like himself at all. I wanted to believe it was just a phase, but now . . . I think it’s more serious than that. More serious than other kids pushing him around.”

Runyon said nothing for a time. Then, “His father?”

“Yes. It isn’t just the fractured arm, Jake. When I took Bobby to the doctor, he didn’t want to take off his shirt so they could put a soft cast on his arm. We made him do it. His back and shoulders . . . bruises, lots of them.”

Christ. “What did he say?”

“He said he got them playing football. But he was lying—I could see it in his eyes. He got those bruises at home.”

“You never mentioned physical abuse before.”

“There wasn’t any while Robert and I were married. I’d swear to that. He’s a controlling, vindictive shit, but I never imagined he was an abuser, too. If I had . . . my God, I’d’ve used it against him at the custody hearing.”

“Why would he change, start hurting Bobby?”

“I don’t know. Financial problems, trouble with his practice or with this woman he’s planning to marry . . . I just don’t know. But I’m afraid he has.”

“Did you talk to him today?”

“Yes. He was home when I took Bobby there from the doctor’s.”

“Accuse him?”

“Not in so many words. I said I thought somebody was hurting Bobby; he said he didn’t believe it. Refused to discuss the matter. There was something about the way he acted . . . evasive. That damn glib lawyer evasiveness. You know?”

“I know.”

“If I did accuse him, he’d just deny it—and make me out to be paranoid for even suggesting such a thing. I don’t know what to do, Jake. What can I do if Bobby won’t admit the truth?”

“Talk to him again, try to convince him.”

“I don’t think I can get through to him. He won’t tell on his father. Robert’s too controlling—Bobby’s afraid of him.”

Runyon was silent.

Bryn tried to gulp some of her wine instead of sipping it with the good side of her mouth. Some of it spilled out, down the front of her robe. She said, “Shit!” and then, when Runyon started to reach out to her, “No, don’t. Don’t.” She mopped up the spilled wine with the hem of the robe in quick, angry movements.

He waited, not saying anything, letting her pick up the conversation when she was ready.

“I’m terrified it’ll get worse,” she said, “worse than a fractured arm. If anything really bad happens to Bobby . . . I couldn’t stand that, I can barely cope with things the way they are now.”

Runyon said slowly, “Maybe there’s something I can do.”

“I’m not asking for your help; I wouldn’t ask. Support, advice . . . that’s all.”

“Not enough, if you’re right about the abuse.”

“I’m right, but . . . it’s not the kind of domestic situation a private detective can investigate; we both know that.”

“Officially, no.”

“There’s nothing you could do anyway. You don’t know Robert, how spiteful he is, the way he uses the law like a weapon. You’d only end up getting hurt.”

“Not if he’s guilty.”

“Jake . . . please. Don’t get involved.”

Runyon was thinking about what he’d seen tonight in Ullman’s bedroom. Different kind of child abuse, but abuse nonetheless. Little kids being hurt by adults without conscience or humanity.

“I already am,” he said.

K
erry said, her voice thick with disgust, “It must have been like walking into a chamber of horrors.”

“Pretty close. What the cops found on Ullman’s computer and in those scrapbooks was even worse than what was on the walls. There must’ve been five thousand individual images, plus more than a hundred videos.”

“My God. How long has he been wallowing in it?”

“Fifteen years. Started while he was still married.”

“Is that why his wife divorced him?”

“No,” I said. “He was careful about keeping it hidden from her. Joe Hoffman wasn’t careful at all. Kept his collection in his workshop where his wife stumbled on it. He didn’t have much back then, just a batch of photos that she burned without thinking.”

“How could Ullman keep all his garbage out in the open like he did . . . blown-up photographs on the walls in plain sight? Somebody might’ve walked in there by accident. Or did he want to get found out?”

“I think he did. He confessed readily enough. But he protected himself pretty well just the same. Has no friends, male
or female, never invited anybody to his house except other sickos like Hoffman.”

“Hoffman was his supplier?”

“One of them. They were part of a Bay Area cell—buying, selling, trading with one another.”

Kerry pulled her robe more tightly around herself. We were in our bedroom with the door shut, talking in low voices. Emily was either in bed or still doing homework—I hadn’t checked when I came in a few minutes before—and probably listening to music on her iPod. But we weren’t taking any chances.

“The police found a dozen names on Ullman’s computer,” I said. “There’ll be a lot more arrests in the next few days.”

“Well, I hope Ullman rots in prison for the rest of his life.”

“Not much chance of that. He’s in a pretty bad way—guilt, remorse, self-loathing. I won’t be surprised if he ends up in a psychiatric facility.”

“You believe him that he never actually . . . you know, harmed a child?”

“If he ever did, he’ll confess to it eventually. But I doubt it. He’s a voyeur and a coward, and it’s a good bet he was molested by somebody as a child, but I don’t see him as a molester himself. Except in his imagination.”

“He’s a monster just the same.”

“No argument there.”

“Visualizing himself with all those poor kids in the photos?” Kerry made a faint gagging sound. “With the kids he taught at Whitney? With
Emily
?”

I didn’t say anything.

“She liked and trusted him—one of her favorite teachers. Protected him, for God’s sake. And the whole time . . .”

“Easy,” I said. “Don’t go there.”

“I can’t help it. It makes me want to vomit.”

“Emily thought she was doing the right thing. She’s young; she believes people are basically good and honest and authority figures don’t lie.”

“She’ll be devastated when she finds out.”

“For a while. But she’ll get over it.”

“I don’t want her to find out at school, from the other kids. We’ll have to tell her.”

“First thing in the morning.”

“It won’t be easy.”

“It was a lot harder telling her what happened to her birth mother. She survived that—she’ll survive this, too.”

“So much pain in her life,” Kerry said. “Only thirteen, and all that ugliness and betrayal. She’s such a good kid, she deserves so much better.”

“I know.”

“I wish we could protect her the way she protected Ullman. Keep any more of the ugliness from hurting her.”

“We can try,” I said. “That’s all any parent can do—try.”

For a while the place was a madhouse. Uniformed cops, inspectors, EMTs, even a couple of firemen with axes. Delman had busted his ankle in the fall; they had to cut him moaning out of the dining room ceiling. Her nose had fared better. Sore and a little swollen, but not broken. Lucky. Down the line tonight—lucky.

She’d told the inspectors everything she knew about Antoine and Alisha and their con game, along with everything that had happened tonight. Hadn’t kept any of the victims’ names out of it. Hadn’t spared herself, either—fessed up her motives for going after the Delmans. Talked and answered questions until her mouth and throat were so dry she had to keep pouring down glasses of water, which only made her have to call time-out while she went in to pee.

The last of them were gone now and she was all juiced out, physically and mentally. What she wanted was a hot bath and about ten hours’ sleep. But not here, not tonight. Broken laths and plaster all over the dining room, some of that white dust still in the air. Flashes of the rage and terror she’d felt up there
in the dark attic giving her the jimjams. A too-quiet stillness that had already begun to press down on her like a heavy weight.

She got her coat and car keys and beat it out of there.

Could’ve gone to Bill and Kerry’s, Vonda and Ben’s, some of her other friends, but then she’d’ve been stuck with another round of Q & A and she wasn’t up to that. When in doubt, pick on your nearest relative, even if it’s one you’ve had a prickly relationship with all your life. So that was where she went, to sister Claudia on Telegraph Hill—Tel Hi, the residents were calling it now, stupid name.

Claudia was in bed when Tamara got there—alone, fortunately. Her Oreo boyfriend, another lawyer like her, had his own crib; he’d been trying to get her to move in with him, but she kept saying no, she didn’t want to give up her independence. Why anyone would want to live with Claudia was beyond Tamara. Girl was a born-again vegan, wouldn’t eat anything that wasn’t grown organically and scrubbed in purified water, had about as much sense of humor as a duck, refused to own a TV set, and spent her spare time reading obscure law precedents.

She’d also inherited Pop’s sigh when dealing with her “difficult” little sister. She let loose three or four of them when Tamara told her she needed a place to crash for the night, she’d explain why in the morning. But Claudia didn’t argue or lecture, as she might’ve done some other time. Didn’t call her Tammie, either, a name she hated as much as Pop’s Sweetness and wouldn’t’ve put up with tonight. Claudia could be a pain in the ass sometimes, but she was a rock when it came to family unity. She cared in her own tight-assed way. Vice versa, though Tamara didn’t go around admitting it.

The guest room had a private bath. She soaked in a hot tub for half an hour, then swallowed three Tylenol and crawled between cool sheets. Was sure she’d be able to sleep right away, but it didn’t happen. Still too wired. Thoughts and emotions and flash images kept tumbling around inside her head.

So it was over, finished. The Delmans were going down—payback complete, and a good deed done besides, even if Judge Mantle and Doctor Easy didn’t agree. Revenge is sweet, right?

Then how come she felt low again? How come the taste was more bitter than sweet?

Somebody’d said that it was like eating a skimpy meal: you wanted it bad and it went down pretty easy when you got it, but it didn’t fill you up; it didn’t satisfy you for long. Yeah. Could be.

Could also be emotional wipeout. You couldn’t go through what she’d gone through tonight without a bad reaction. Happened that way twice before, hadn’t it? The Christmas hostage thing in the old agency offices and the kidnapping nightmare in the East Bay. The high might come back again tomorrow and last for a while. And every time she looked back on this week in her life she’d smile, feel satisfied and vindicated.

Maybe.

And maybe the high wouldn’t come again; maybe she’d be looking back and wondering if she hadn’t been six kinds of fool, and a lucky fool at that, to let herself get caught up in a personal vendetta that’d almost cost her her life.

She knew what Claudia would say when she found out, the same thing she’d said any number of times before. “When are you going to grow up, Tamara? When are you going to get wise to yourself?” She’d scoffed at that before because she’d always thought she had grown up, was wise to herself. Wrong?

No.

Yes.

Anyhow, she’d learned some things, some hard lessons. About men and relationships, about professional ethics and self-protection, about herself. One thing for sure: she wouldn’t make the same mistakes twice.