Mourners: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Mystery) Read Free Page B
Author: Bill Pronzini
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recently died of ovarian cancer; alone in the world except for an estranged gay son who had been taught to hate him by Runyon’s bitter, alcoholic first wife. The son, Joshua, was the reason he’d moved to San Francisco from Seattle. He’d made some slight progress in establishing communication with Joshua, if not in mending a rift that might well be irreparable. The passage of time and the job with us had helped restore his equilibrium. He looked healthier, he’d put on weight, he wasn’t quite so reticent or closed off. The grief was still a powerful force inside him; you could see it in his eyes. It would always be a part of him, I thought, but it seemed he was learning to live with it. We weren’t friends—he hadn’t made any friends here, seemed not to want or need any—but we worked well together, and respected each other, and in the process we, too, were making some slight progress in communication.
He said, “What do you think of these?”
I leaned over his shoulder to look at his computer screen. Surveillance photos taken with his digital camera. The suspected insurance fraud case for Southwestern Indemnity. “Is that Nicholson?” I asked.
“Helping his brother-in-law move furniture.”
“So much for his spinal injury claim. Southwestern’ll be pleased.”
“I’ll close it up tomorrow, then get on the Fisher skip-trace. Unless you need me for something else.”
“As a matter of fact, how’d you like to take over the Troxell surveillance, beginning tonight?”
“Okay with me. Troxell’s the financial consultant with the funeral fetish?”
“That’s him.”
“Tamara was working on his background when I came in.”
I gave him a quick rundown of the afternoon’s events. “Tuesday evening outings seem to be part of Troxell’s pattern. I’d stay on it myself, but frankly two full days of funeral parlors, cemeteries, and solitary beach walks are about as much as I can take.”
“Sure, I understand.”
The understanding was mutual; I wouldn’t have asked him otherwise. It had nothing to do with my being one of his bosses or that I was nearly twenty years his senior. It had everything to do with the fact that I had a family to go home to and he didn’t, and he preferred working to sitting around his empty apartment. His job was the only thing that mattered to him now, except for his son—the one and only activity he had left that gave meaning and purpose to his existence. I knew all about that kind of obsessive sublimation. I’d been a workaholic loner myself, for different reasons, for a not insubstantial part of my life.
He was writing down Troxell’s address when Tamara’s door opened and she came out. She looked like she wanted to bite somebody. Her round face—not so round now thatshe’d shed twenty pounds—wore a scowl that made it seem two shades darker than usual.
“Oh,” she said when she saw me, “you’re back.”
“Few minutes ago. Something wrong?”
“No. Why?”
“That scowl. I like you better with your mouth turned the other way.”
“Yeah, well, no smiley faces today. Like the man says, some days the shit comes down so heavy you feel like wearing a hat.”
I glanced at Runyon. He shrugged. “Line from an old movie,” he said. “
Body Heat
, I think.”
“Uh-huh.” I said to Tamara, “Translation into plain English, please.”
“No,” she said.
“You don’t want to talk about it?”
“That’s what no means.”
“Problem with one of the cases?”
“No.”
“Personal, then?”
“No.”
My turn to shrug. You couldn’t prod her when she was in this kind of mood. I wondered if it had something to do with her boyfriend, Horace; if that was who she’d been talking to on the phone. He’d moved to Philadelphia just after the first of the year to pursue his career as a symphony cellist, and they hadn’t seen each other since. Seven months is long time apart when you’re twenty-five years old, in love, and chock-full of raging
He said, “What do you think of these?”
I leaned over his shoulder to look at his computer screen. Surveillance photos taken with his digital camera. The suspected insurance fraud case for Southwestern Indemnity. “Is that Nicholson?” I asked.
“Helping his brother-in-law move furniture.”
“So much for his spinal injury claim. Southwestern’ll be pleased.”
“I’ll close it up tomorrow, then get on the Fisher skip-trace. Unless you need me for something else.”
“As a matter of fact, how’d you like to take over the Troxell surveillance, beginning tonight?”
“Okay with me. Troxell’s the financial consultant with the funeral fetish?”
“That’s him.”
“Tamara was working on his background when I came in.”
I gave him a quick rundown of the afternoon’s events. “Tuesday evening outings seem to be part of Troxell’s pattern. I’d stay on it myself, but frankly two full days of funeral parlors, cemeteries, and solitary beach walks are about as much as I can take.”
“Sure, I understand.”
The understanding was mutual; I wouldn’t have asked him otherwise. It had nothing to do with my being one of his bosses or that I was nearly twenty years his senior. It had everything to do with the fact that I had a family to go home to and he didn’t, and he preferred working to sitting around his empty apartment. His job was the only thing that mattered to him now, except for his son—the one and only activity he had left that gave meaning and purpose to his existence. I knew all about that kind of obsessive sublimation. I’d been a workaholic loner myself, for different reasons, for a not insubstantial part of my life.
He was writing down Troxell’s address when Tamara’s door opened and she came out. She looked like she wanted to bite somebody. Her round face—not so round now thatshe’d shed twenty pounds—wore a scowl that made it seem two shades darker than usual.
“Oh,” she said when she saw me, “you’re back.”
“Few minutes ago. Something wrong?”
“No. Why?”
“That scowl. I like you better with your mouth turned the other way.”
“Yeah, well, no smiley faces today. Like the man says, some days the shit comes down so heavy you feel like wearing a hat.”
I glanced at Runyon. He shrugged. “Line from an old movie,” he said. “
Body Heat
, I think.”
“Uh-huh.” I said to Tamara, “Translation into plain English, please.”
“No,” she said.
“You don’t want to talk about it?”
“That’s what no means.”
“Problem with one of the cases?”
“No.”
“Personal, then?”
“No.”
My turn to shrug. You couldn’t prod her when she was in this kind of mood. I wondered if it had something to do with her boyfriend, Horace; if that was who she’d been talking to on the phone. He’d moved to Philadelphia just after the first of the year to pursue his career as a symphony cellist, and they hadn’t seen each other since. Seven months is long time apart when you’re twenty-five years old, in love, and chock-full of raging