JAKE RUNYON
C
liff and Tracy Henderson lived on Walnut Street. Runyon looked up the location on the Los Alegres map he’d bought, found it on the west side not far from the town center. The address turned out to be an old, two-story house with a columned side porch shaded by a tulip tree. The yard on the other side was fenced. The reason for the fencing was apparent as soon as he started up the front walk: a big brown and black dog, some kind of rottweiler mix, came charging out of the back barking and growling. Good for the Hendersons. A loud and aggressive animal was the best kind of home protection they could have.
The dog kept up the racket as Runyon stood on the front porch thumbing the bell. No response. But as he came back down the steps, a dark gray SUV rolled upstreet and turned into the driveway. Tracy Henderson was at the wheel. He stood waiting as she and her passengers, two young girls, piled out.
“Oh, Mr. Runyon,” she said. “Are you looking for Cliff? He’s at a job site …”
“I’d like to talk to you, if you can spare a few minutes.”
“Of course.” The two girls came up, one on either side of her. She said, “My daughters, Shana and Rachel. I just picked them up at school.”
The thirteen-year-old, Shana, gave him her hand in a solemn, grown-up way. The younger one, Rachel, said “Hello” shyly and stayed where she was, close to her mother. They knew who he was; their solemn expressions conveyed that. Good for the Hendersons on that score, too. You couldn’t protect kids their age by trying to shield them from what was going on.
The dog was still barking. Mrs. Henderson yelled, “Thor! Quiet!” but the command didn’t have much effect. “He’s a good watchdog but once he gets started … Come inside, Mr. Runyon, we’ll talk in the living room. Just let me get the girls settled in their rooms.” She’d been calm enough in the agency offices this morning, but now she looked and acted frazzled. Worry and tension taking their toll.
She deposited him in a living room that ran most of the house’s width across the front. Heavy dark furniture and rose-patterned wallpaper gave it the look of rooms you saw in movies made in the forties. Its focal points created a culture clash: shelves crammed with books along one wall, a television set displayed in front of one draped window. The TV won the clash hands down: ultra-modern fifty-two-inch flat-screen job on a long, high table, like a
shrine to a false god. Runyon, waiting, stayed on his feet even though she’d invited him to sit down.
She was back in not much more than three minutes. “Would you like something to drink? Coffee, a soda?”
“Nothing, thanks.”
“I’m going to have a small scotch. You don’t mind? I don’t usually drink this early, but …”
“I understand.”
She poured the scotch neat, sipped it, made a face, sipped again as she lowered herself into one of a matching pair of overstuffed armchairs. The couch suited him; by turning sideways to face her, he had his back to the monster TV.
She said, “Are you here because you have something to tell us? Or is it more questions?”
“Questions, for now. Trying to cover all the possibilities.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I spoke to your brother-in-law in the hospital earlier.” He told her what Damon Henderson had remembered about the perp. “Do you know anyone who fits that description? Young, compulsive about cleanliness?”
“No.” Wry mouth. “Most of my students and some members of my family would fall into the opposite category.”
Runyon said, “You’re all convinced there’s nothing your husband or his brother did or were involved in that triggered the stalker’s rage. That opens up the possibility that the motive may not be directly related to them.”
“What do you mean?”
“It could be a grudge against another member of the family.”
“I don’t see how that’s possible. There aren’t any other siblings. Or any close relatives except for an elderly aunt who lives in Florida.”
“The first and most brutal attack was the desecration of their father’s grave. That could be significant.”
“You think … something against Lloyd? My Lord, he’s been gone five years.”
“What was the cause of his death?”
“Cancer. Esophageal.” She winced and shook her head as she spoke. “It was a long and painful death, very difficult on all of us.”
Flash memory of Colleen in the hospital bed, close to the end, her body and her face wasted, ninety-six pounds when she died … He put a block up against the memory, locked his mind against its return.
“Your husband and his brother were close to their father?”
“Oh, yes. Very close.”
“What kind of man was he?”
“A good man. Warm, generous.”
“Marks against him, trouble of any kind he might have had?”
“None that I ever knew about.”
“Enemies, business or personal?”
Emphatic headshake. “Lloyd was a
dentist.
And very involved in the community. Men like that don’t make enemies, any more than men like my husband and his brother do.”
“Somebody made one somewhere, Mrs. Henderson.”
“Yes. Yes, of course, but …” Words failed her; she shook her head and finished what was left in her glass.
“I stopped by the cemetery earlier,” Runyon said. “No grave in the family plot for Cliff and Damon’s mother.”
“That’s because she’s still alive.”
“Living where?”
“Assisted living facility in Sonoma. At least she was as of a year ago.”
“So your husband doesn’t have much contact with her.”
“Almost none, as a matter of fact. She … well, neither Cliff nor Damon is close to her.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, they blamed her for breaking up their family. They were just boys at the time, not much older than my girls, and it’s natural for children to take sides in a bitter divorce.”
“Why was it bitter?”
“Mona just decided one day that she’d had enough and was leaving. Blindsided poor Lloyd, evidently. Everyone suspected … well, another man. She married again as soon as her divorce was final, a plumber in Sonoma.”
“Any children from that marriage?”
“No.”
“Did she remain married to her second husband?”
“Until he died of a stroke about three years ago. Her health began to deteriorate afterward and that’s when she went into the facility.”
“What’s the name of the facility? And her full name?”
“Sunset Acres. Mona Crandall. Are you planning to
talk to her? I can’t imagine what she could possibly have to tell you.”
“Neither can I, right now.” Runyon made a note of the names. “I take it your father-in-law had plenty of friends. Who were the closest?”
“Well, Hayden Brock, for one. They played golf together every weekend. And Dr. George … George Thanapolous.”
“Dentist or medical doctor?”
“Orthopedist. He’s retired now. Hayden still practices law even though he’s well into his seventies. His offices are downtown on Spring Street. Brock, Leland, and Brock.”
Runyon added that information in his notebook.
“If you want to talk to Cliff,” Mrs. Henderson said, “he should be home around five or so.”
“Not necessary. You’ve given me all the information I need for now. You can fill him in on what we discussed.”
The dog started barking again, long and loud, when he left the house. He could still hear it when he was half a block away, even with the car windows rolled up.
S
amantha Henderson was waiting for him when he arrived at the home she shared with Cliff’s brother, Damon. Development of tract houses in a country setting west of town—the custom-built, expensive variety on large lots with plenty of landscaping to give the illusion of privacy. Some enterprising developer’s idea of gracious living, small-town version.
The two-car garage was detached, separated from the colonial-style house by a walkway and a narrow strip of
ground planted with flowers and low-growing cypress shrubs. The door to the garage was on that side, not quite directly opposite a side door into the house. Mrs. Henderson stood by while Runyon examined the door. The lock wasn’t much, just the standard push-button variety. It would have taken little effort to spring it with a credit card, much less a tire iron. But the perp had made more noise doing it than he’d bargained for.
“Damon was in the bathroom when he heard it,” the woman said. “He grabbed a flashlight and rushed out there. He should have called the police instead.”
Runyon agreed without saying so. He pushed the door open, stepped inside. Mrs. Henderson followed him and put on the lights. One car parked in there now, a silver Lexus that was probably her husband’s; it had brand-new tires. The Mitsubishi wagon parked in the driveway would be hers.
He glanced around, getting the lay. Long cluttered workbench along this wall, the cartons of files in a triplestacked row on the other side of the door. More cartons and gardening equipment along the far wall, three bicycles at the back end. Nothing disturbed or out of place that he could see.
He asked her, “Where was your husband when you found him?”
“There on the floor, next to his car.”
“So he was attacked as soon as he opened the door and came inside.”
“Yes. He hadn’t taken more than three steps.”
“Was his flashlight on?”
“When he came in, yes, but he was hit so quickly … he dropped it and it went out. He didn’t see anything.”
“How did the man leave? Same way he came in?”
“No, through one of the automatic doors. It was open.”
“Overhead lights on when you came in?”
“Not until I put them on.”
“Show me the button that works the garage door.”
It was on the wall near the light switch. But not too near. Runyon pushed it, watched the door slide up quickly and with a moderate amount of noise. There was a light on the unit above the door, but it didn’t come on. Broken? Looked that way.
The perp couldn’t have been inside very long before Damon came blundering in. Just long enough to shine a flash beam around and break the door opener light. Why? There didn’t seem to be any reason he’d want to leave that way, with the noise the unit made when it was activated, when he could slip out quietly in the dark the way he’d come in.
Samathana Henderson said, “My God … do you suppose he was in here
before
that night?”
“It’s possible. Side door always kept locked?”
“At night, yes, but not always during the day. But he wouldn’t … in broad daylight? Would he take that kind of risk?”
He might, if he was bold enough. Or crazy enough. The question, if he had been here before, was why take the risk? Hunting for something, maybe?
Runyon asked, “Have you looked through the garage since the attack? Checked to see if anything is missing?”
“Missing? I don’t understand.”
“Could you check now?”
“But … I can’t imagine what …”
“Please, Mrs. Henderson. Just have a look around.”
She spent fifteen minutes doing what he asked. Once she said, “I can’t tell if any of Damon’s business files are missing, you’d have to ask him.” A little later she said, “As far as I can tell everything seems to be here,” but two minutes later she contradicted herself.
Some boxes and a small trunk were jammed under a corner of the workbench. When she dragged the trunk out and opened it, she made a small, surprised sound. “Somebody’s been in here.”
Runyon went to peer over her shoulder. Photo albums, loose photos, loose letters, childhood drawings, other memorabilia.
“It was neatly arranged,” she said. “The letters, the photos, all in packets. “Damon would never make a mess like this. Neither would Michael … my son, Michael. He’d have no reason to poke around in here.”
“Some of those photos look fairly old.”
“They are. Most of the things in here belonged to Damon’s father. We brought the trunk over here after he died.”
The father again. Runyon asked, “Can you tell if anything’s been taken?”
“Not for sure. But … one or two of the albums, maybe … I seem to remember there were more than five. The letters and other stuff … I don’t know. Damon should be able to tell you. Or Cliff.”
“Do me a favor? Call Cliff tonight and ask him to come over, take a look, and then let me know what’s missing.”
“Yes, I’ll do that.”
“These letters. What type are they?”
“Oh, you know. Personal correspondence. From Lloyd to his wife when they were courting and when he was in the army in Korea. From the boys when they were away at camp.”