Nightcrawlers: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Mystery) Read Free Page B

Agency up there, hired by the ex-wife, had figured the same thing; so they’d called us and farmed out the hard part of the job for half the fee, one of those cooperative deals that become necessary when the client isn’t wealthy enough and the fee isn’t large enough for the primary agency to send one of its own operatives out of state. The case was Tamara’s, for the most part. She hadn’t had any luck yet in finding out where DeBrissac was working, if he was working, but now maybe it didn’t matter. The relative’s house in San Leandro looked like a strong lead—just the sort of place a not-too-imaginative skip would pick to hole up.
    I hoped so. The quicker we wrapped this up, the better. Split-fee cases can be unprofitable as hell for the subcontractor if they drag on for any length of time. I’ve never liked them, but they’re unavoidable sometimes in a back-scratching businesslike ours. Paul Ballard had done a favor for me once, so I couldn’t say no when he called on us. Quid pro quo.
    I said to Tamara, “You want me to go over to San Leandro, check out the house?”
    “Have to be after hours. If DeBrissac’s living there, he’s liable to be working during the day.”
    “I don’t mind.”
    “Uh-uh,” she said. “You work too hard as it is. Supposed to be semiretired, putting in almost as many hours as I am.”
    “I still don’t mind. Unless you want to wait a day and send Jake over tomorrow night. He won’t mind, either.”
    “Nope. I’ll do it myself.”
    “Now who’s the workaholic.”
    “Yeah, well. Besides, I kinda like fieldwork. No reason you and Runyon should have all the fun.”
    T he voice on the phone was male, young, and hesitant. Its tone held something else that I couldn’t quite identify—some kind of emotional upset. “Runyon . . . Jake Runyon, please.”
    “He’s not in. May I take a message?”
    “When will he be back?”
    “Tomorrow morning,” I said. “He’s out of town, not due back until after close of business.”
    “So he’ll be home tonight?”
    “Probably. Is this a business or personal call?”
    Dead air.
    “Let me have your name and number, and I’ll—”
    He said, “No, I’ll call him at home,” and the line hummed in my ear.
    Tamara had just come out of the bathroom and was standingthere watching me. As I lowered the receiver, she asked, “What was that about?”
    “Call for Jake.”
    “From?”
    “Wouldn’t give his name. But I think it might’ve been his son.”
    “His son? I thought Jason, Joshua, whatever his name is—”
    “Joshua.”
    “—didn’t want anything to do with him. No contact since before Christmas.”
    “That’s right.”
    “Second thoughts about a reconciliation, maybe?”
    “I don’t think so,” I said. “Didn’t sound like that at all.”
    I had one more nonbusiness call that day, just before five o’clock. This one was personal for me—a little surprising, a little disturbing.
    The caller said his name was Buck Trail. And he was elderly and not entirely sober, judging from his cracked and thickened baritone. “You don’t know me,” he said. “Pal asked me to call for him because he can’t.”
    “What pal is that?”
    “Russ Dancer.”
    It took a couple of seconds for the name to register. My God, Russell Dancer. A name out of the past, a man I hadn’t seen in six or seven years or thought about more than a couple of times in passing since.
    “He wants to see you,” Trail said.
    “Is that right? He still living in Redwood City?”
    “Not for much longer.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “You will.”
    “What does he want to see me about?”
    “Didn’t tell me that. Just asked me to call you up, give you the message. I was you, I’d come on down right away. Tonight.”
    “Why tonight?”
    “He’s dying,” Trail said. “Croakers at Kaiser Hospital give him another day, two at the outside.”

2
JAKE RUNYON
    His flight from L.A. landed at SFO at 5:05, which put him smack into the