“Yes, but I don’t see—”
“Do you still own it?”
Head bob. “For all the good it’s doing us now.”
“Not rented at present?”
“Not since the last tenant’s lease expired at the end of December.”
“Where’s the property located? Here in the city?”
“No. San Bruno.”
“Single-family house?”
“Yes. It’s not in the best neighborhood, that’s why it’s still—” She broke off, frowning. “Why are you asking about this? You don’t think—”
“Don’t think what, Mrs. Madison?”
“That that’s where Troy is hiding?”
“Possible, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so, if he knows about the property.”
“You didn’t tell him about it? Give him a key at some point?”
“Of course not. The rental agent has the keys.” Her frown morphed into a scowl. “He’d better not be there,” she said. “I won’t stand for that on top of the money he’s cost me. If you think that’s where he is, why don’t you go find out?”
“You’ll have to give me the address.”
“It’s on Bowerman Street in San Bruno, I don’t remember the number. I’ll have to look it up.”
“After the EMTs get here.”
“If they ever get here.”
Runyon said, “Your husband tell you about Troy’s latest call?”
“Call? When?”
“Last night. Demanding ten thousand dollars. Making threats when he was told he couldn’t have it.”
“No, Coy never said a word. Threatened us? You mean, with physical harm?”
“So he told me.”
“Damn him! And tonight he leaves me here alone—” She broke off and sat very still, not looking at Runyon any longer but at something that had begun playing on the screen of her mind. A kind of slow horror parted her lips, widened her eyes. “Oh my God,” she said. “What just happened outside . . . that man in the mask . . . Troy? Could it have been Troy?”
Before Runyon could respond, a door banged below. Heavy, plodding footfalls sounded on the stairs. A few seconds later Coy Madison came duck-waddling in from the hall.
20
JAKE RUNYON
Madison stopped abruptly two paces inside the room, stood blinking his surprise at Runyon and then at his wife. He wore an overcoat over a suit and tie, no hat; his red hair was damp, his smooth cheeks and forehead red blotched.
“Good Christ, Arletta,” he said, “what happened to you? That towel . . . is that blood?”
“I was attacked a few minutes ago. He shot me.”
“Shot you? Who . . . ?”
She shook her head.
Madison went and sat next to her, tried to wrap an arm around her shoulders. She pushed him away.
He said, “The wound . . . it’s not serious?”
“No. But it hurts like the devil.” She grimaced again. “What’s keeping those paramedics?”
“You get a good look at the man who did it?”
“No. He was wearing a mask.”
“A mask? Where’d this happen?”
“Outside by the park. Mr. Runyon chased him off. If he hadn’t been there, I’d probably be dead right now.”
Madison bounced up and waddled over to Runyon, close enough for Runyon to get a whiff of his breath. “I’m grateful you came when you did,” he said. “But why? You haven’t found my brother yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Then . . .” His thin mouth tightened. “Troy,” he said. Runyon waited.
“Maybe it wasn’t a mugger who shot Arletta; maybe it was my brother. He threatened us, I told you that.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Arletta Madison said. “Didn’t you think I had a right to know?”
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Didn’t want to worry me. You bastard, you were so worried you went out and got drunk and tried to get yourself laid.”
“I wasn’t trying to get laid. I was upset, I wanted a couple of drinks to calm down. I shouldn’t have done it, I shouldn’t have called you from that bar—I should’ve come straight home.”
“Bloody well right you should.”
“All right, I’m sorry. But why didn’t you stay in the house instead of going out alone in the dark?”
“Don’t start in, Coy. I’m in no mood for it.”
Madison waved an agitated hand. “Troy . . . sure. He must’ve been over there watching the house, waiting for his chance. If you hadn’t gone out, he might’ve broken in. But you made it easy for him. How many times have I warned you it’s not safe to go traipsing around this neighborhood at night? You just won’t listen.”