Nemesis (25 page)

What I was seeing then was that pattern of squares, the two largest in the middle about six-by-eight inches each. Convex on this side … and on the other?

I tugged the one end away from the wall. The headboard wasn't as heavy as it looked—made of paneling fitted between the supports rather than solid wood. Didn't take much effort to wiggle it out far enough so that I could squeeze in behind. The squares were not solid pieces that had been attached to the outer portion; rather, they were molded, hollow sections of the paneling itself.

And inside one of the six-by-eight squares … a small cloth bag fastened to the wood with duct tape.

I peeled the bag loose, fingered its bulky contents through the cloth, then brought it out to where the light was better. It was the kind with a knotted drawstring to hold it closed. I loosened the knots, upended the bag into the palm of my other hand.

Thin platinum gold wristwatch with a gold-link band, the case engraved with
Verity
in flowing script. Blood-ruby gold ring. And a pair of dangly gold earrings.

Verity Daniels's missing jewelry.

Got you for sure now, Haxner. Dead-bang.

I slid the items back into the bag, closed and reknotted the drawstring, retaped the bag inside the hollow square exactly as I'd found it, and shoved the headboard back tight against the wall again. Everything I'd turned up had to be left where it was for the police to find with a search warrant. That meant I would have to do some fast talking to convince Figone and Samuels that Haxner was the perp, and do it without revealing specific information or the fact that I'd committed a felony to get it. It could be done if I handled it right. And for Runyon's sake, I damn well would.

That was what I was thinking as I switched off the light, quit the bedroom, hurried down the hallway. But when I came into the living room, the thought went right out of my head. I stopped as abruptly as if I'd walked into a wall.

George Haxner was standing flat-footed just inside the front door.

And the gun in his hand was aimed straight at my gullet.

 

26

You never get used to being on the wrong end of a firearm. Rifle, shotgun, assault weapon, large- and small-bore handguns … I'd had all of those aimed in my direction at one time or another, and the sensation was always the same. Cold clenching in the gut. Every sense suddenly heightened, nerves and muscles bowstring taut. Adrenaline rush of fear that you immediately fight down and control, because you know the worst thing you can do is let it take hold and escalate into panic. All of that happens inside. Outwardly you show none of it, do the same thing you would if you were being menaced by a vicious animal: stand dead still, maintain a blank expression without challenge or bravado, keep a clear head to give yourself time to assess the situation and figure a way out of it.

Five or six seconds passed while I looked alternately at Haxner and the gun, gauging my chances. Not good. There were a dozen feet of carpet and the edge of a coffee table separating us, and the gun was big and steady in his hand. Looked like a Glock 9mm automatic—a weapon with a muzzle velocity that could do the same kind of damage to a man's head as Canaday's .41 Magnum. The only possible advantage I had was the dusky light in the room, and he took that away by reaching behind him with his free hand and flicking on the ceiling globe.

He said in a flat, bitter voice, “Looks like I caught myself a snoop.”

Without moving, I put on what I hoped was a sheepish expression. He was in full uniform, so I said, “You working a different shift at Bayfront today?”

“Same shift. I was there until Krikowski told me about you, then I figured I'd better come back home. Lucky for me I did.”

Damn Krikowski. And damn me for taking it on faith that he'd keep his mouth shut. “I didn't break in. The front door was unlocked.”

“Like hell it was.”

“You just came in that way. Wasn't locked, was it?”

He didn't say anything. The gun moved slightly in his hand.

“Check the other doors and the windows,” I said. “You won't find any breakage or jimmy marks. I just walked in.”

Still had nothing to say.

“Stupid thing to do, I admit it. But all I did was look around—didn't disturb or take anything.”

“Making a hell of a lot of noise when I came in. Sounded like you were moving furniture around. Find what you were looking for?”

“No. Nothing to find.”

Haxner's uniform cap was bothering him in some way; he jerked it off and tossed it in the direction of the sofa. It was the first time I'd seen him without it. Close-cropped graying hair covered a bullet-shaped skull, and there were patchy knots of gristle at the edges of his forehead, on his cheekbones, and around his jawline. Hard man, ugly by most standards, and maybe that was the appeal he'd had for Verity Daniels—a hunk of raw meat after the pabulum of Vincent Canaday.

I said, “So what happens now?”

“What you think happens now?”

“You either call the police and have me arrested for trespassing, or I apologize and you let me walk out of here and we forget the whole thing.”

It was a few seconds before he said, “Uh-uh. I come home, find you going through my house, you jump me and I shoot you in self-defense.”

“Why would you want to do that? I told you, I didn't find anything incriminating.”

“Yeah, you told me.”

“Search me if you think otherwise.”

“Smart guy, too smart to take anything with you. Leave it here, bring in the cops, let them find it.”

Haxner was talking about the jewelry hidden in the headboard. Maybe the bloodstains, too. The plastic sheeting and rope in the garage hadn't occurred to him as incriminating or he'd have gotten rid of them by now.

I said, “You don't have anything to lose by letting me walk out of here. Get rid of whatever it is you think I found, and it'd be your word against mine. The police couldn't touch you.”

“You must think I'm stupid. How do I know what else you know?”

“Nobody's going to buy a self-defense claim. Unarmed man my age, with forty years in law enforcement.”

“Take my chances.”

The sweaty tension in him was palpable. He knew how to handle a firearm and he was probably a good shot, but there was nothing in his record to indicate he'd ever fired a weapon in the line of duty, either as a cop or a security guard; and shooting at a target and putting a bullet in a man looking you in the eye are two different things. He was capable of it, but it wouldn't be easy for him. He'd have to nerve himself up to it.

Keep him talking. If I couldn't talk him out of it, maybe he'd lose what nerve he had and do it himself. And if not … take careful baby steps forward and to my right, away from the coffee table, whenever his attention wavered slightly. If it came down to having to rush him, I had to be as close as I could get to have any chance at all.

“The way things stand now,” I said, “a smart lawyer could plea bargain the Verity Daniels killing down to second degree, maybe even to manslaughter. But two murders … that's first degree for sure.”

“Bullshit. Nobody could prove anything with you dead.”

“Sure they could. Krikowski's not the only one who knows I've been investigating you. My partner knows—and she knows I'm here. You going to shoot her, too?”

No response.

“Then there's your neighbors. I talked to half a dozen before I came in here. You think none of them ever saw you with Verity Daniels?”

“You're lying,” Haxner said. “You never talked to the neighbors.”

“Woman in the house across the street: Latina, about forty, mole on her left cheek. Man in the house next door: pushing seventy, bald, scraggly white beard, not too friendly—”

“All right, so you're not lying. Doesn't change anything.”

“Sure it does. I've been in the neighborhood nearly two hours now, asking questions about you, and my car's parked right out front. Add that to what my partner knows, what Krikowski knows, what I told you about my age and reputation. Think about it, Haxner.”

He thought about it, the gristly knots on his face bunching and rippling. “Then I'll have to do it another way.”

“There isn't any other way.”

“Yeah, there is.”

Pretty obvious what he was thinking. Tie me up, bring his car into the garage and load me into the trunk, drive to some remote place and shoot me there. Stupid idea. But if he thought that was his only way out, he'd try it. Only I was not about to let it happen. If I was going to take a bullet from that Glock, it would be right here in this house.

I eased another tiny step forward while he was thinking it over. Then I said, “Why did you kill her?”

“… What?”

“Verity Daniels. No reason now not to tell me.”

A little silence. Then, “Goddamn it, I didn't mean to. It wasn't my fault.”

It's never their fault, the Haxners of the world. It's always the victims'—lovers, family members, friends, strangers, gang rivals, some poor bastard being robbed or assaulted. Always the victims who did something to provoke them into pulling the trigger, picking up the knife, raising the blunt instrument, using their fists or their squeezing fingers.

“She was crazy,” he said. “Crazy woman. I never should've got mixed up with her.”

“Why did you?”

“How many chances you think a guy like me has with a rich young piece? She put it out there, I took it. Christ, she was wild in bed. Do anything and everything.” The ghost of a smile. “Always wanted to get on top. Called it being on her guard.”

“Yeah,” I said. “One of her little games.”

“Had to make a goddamn game out of everything she did. Wouldn't just come here on her own, use the spare key I got for her. No, we had to meet somewhere, have breakfast, have lunch, then I'd have to drive her here and drive her back to her car. Like we were trying to fool somebody. Who the hell cared if I was banging her? Nobody except my bosses and I wouldn't've done it in her condo if she'd wanted me to.”

The spare key had to be the one I'd found in the urn. Daniels must have put it there on the sly without telling Haxner. “The extortion hoax was even crazier. Why'd you go along with it?”

“I didn't. Didn't know what she was up to until it was too late.”

“You must have had some idea. You're the one who told her about Baker Beach and Lands End, right?”

“Yeah. But then she wanted me to make some anonymous phone calls, pretend I was trying to threaten money out of her. Part of a little harmless fun she was planning to have, she said. Harmless fun. Christ! I told her I didn't play those kinds of games. Pissed her off, so she clammed up afterward.” The facial knots bunched and rippled again. “I never knew Runyon was a PI until the night he flashed his ID and asked me about building security. Or what the hell was going on when the cops showed up. Wasn't until the next day that I got the truth out of her.”

“But you went right on seeing her, helping her. Why?”

“Promised me money, ten thousand bucks, more if the lawsuits paid off. I never had that much cash in my life. Now I never will.”

“So you killed her before she paid off.”

“Told you, it wasn't my fault. Damn bitch went psycho on me—I had to protect myself.”

“What made her go psycho?”

“Runyon's coat button. Little thing like that. We're in bed, she tells me she found it the night before in her condo, must've got torn off when she was wrestling with him. She had it in her purse. Showed it to me, all excited. Said she couldn't decide whether to take it to the cops right away or wait and spring it at the trial. I told her forget it, don't run any more crazy risks. She didn't like that. Went off on me all of a sudden like she did when something didn't go her way, only twice as batshit … yelling, calling me dirty names. Next thing I know she's all over me, scratching, biting, trying to break my balls. Crazy woman attacks you like that, you fight back. I smacked her, she grabbed the lamp off the nightstand and tried to brain me, I got it away from her … but she still wouldn't quit.…”

“So you hit with it and then choked her.”

“I don't remember much about that,” Haxner lied. He remembered, all right, and he didn't like the images that had come crawling into his mind; his free hand lifted to finger his throat. “She had me as crazy as she was by then … I just lost it.”

“Leaving you with a dead body on your hands. So you came up with the bright idea of stripping off her jewelry—”

“That's enough, shut up.” The memories were still plaguing him; he kept on rubbing his throat.

“—and putting the button in her hand to lay the blame on Runyon, then you went and got her car and brought it back here—”

“I said, shut up!” He came forward a couple of steps, jabbing with the Glock. “Turn around, walk into the kitchen.”

“Suppose I don't?”

“I'll drop you where you stand. You got five seconds.”

He meant it. He was nerved up enough now; guilt and fear had pushed him right to the edge. There was a darkness in his face, like a chunk of sky roiled with thunderheads.

I turned and moved. The only chance I had was in another place—the kitchen, the garage. If he got close enough, careless enough, I might be able to jump him. If he didn't, I'd have to make a move anyway. I was not about to let him tie me up. Nobody was ever going to tie me up again.

There was nothing I could grab for a weapon in the dining room or the kitchen, and Haxner hung back far enough anyway so that I didn't dare make any sudden moves. The garage was where we were going. The door to it opened inward and I thought I might have a chance to catch hold of its edge going through and swing it back between us, but he was wise to that. He told me to open it as far as it would go, leave it like that, then go into the garage with my hands together behind my back. I did that, so stiff with tension now that it felt as if I were moving through semisolid matter.