She locked the agency, ransomed her car from the parking garage. The Toyota’s engine was starting to make funny pinging noises. Horace’s hand-me-down had better not give her any trouble before she traded it in. Should’ve gotten rid of it weeks ago, when she’d moved out of the Sunset District apartment they’d shared, into her new flat on Potrero Hill. Promised herself she would, and probably would’ve if she hadn’t let that son of a bitch Lucas . . . Antoine . . . crawl into her life. First thing she’d do when this business was finished was dump that sucker and buy herself the best ride she could afford.
The new crib was the entire second floor of a refurbished Stick Victorian on Connecticut Street, easily the nicest place she’d ever lived in the city. She’d only had it a little over a month, and with her life in upheaval the past three weeks there’d hardly been time for her to settle in. Still a stack of unpacked boxes to deal with, still some painting and other work to be done, before she could really start enjoying the place.
As soon as she came in she checked her answering machine. No messages—not that that was surprising. Almost never were anymore; if somebody wanted to leave a phone message for her, they called the agency or went to her cell’s voice mail. The answering machine was something else she might as well get rid of. The landline, too, while she was at it. You just didn’t need either of them anymore these days.
In the kitchen she poured herself a glass of merlot to try to unwind a little. The prospect of sitting around all evening, waiting for the judge to call, really would have her wall-bouncing. If she didn’t hear from him by seven thirty, she’d drive over to Monterey Heights and hope to surprise him at home.
She’d just sat down in the living room, taken her first sip of wine, when the doorbell went off.
Now who the hell was that? Not Vonda or any of her other friends; they never dropped over unannounced. You got solicitors in the evenings here sometimes—salesmen and political and religious prosletyzers. Well, she’d make short work of whoever it was. She was in no mood to talk to anybody tonight except Judge Alfred Mantle.
The Victorian’s owners hadn’t bothered to have a communicator or door buzzer installed when they renovated it, so you had to go all the way down the inside stairs to find out who was ringing the bell. No problem if it was somebody you wanted to see, but an irritation if it wasn’t. Well, it was a minor inconvenience. Everything else about the flat made it worth the high rent she was paying.
She hadn’t put the chain on the door when she came in, didn’t think to put it on before she threw the dead bolt and opened up. Mistake—big mistake.
Soon as she turned the knob, a heavy weight slammed against the panel and drove it straight back into her face. Pain erupted, blood spurted from her nose, and the force of the blow sent her staggering backward along the short hall to the foot of the stairs. Her heel stubbed against the bottom riser. And down she went against the stairs, another of the risers jamming hard into her back, the impact taking some of her breath away.
Dimly, through a haze of hurt, she saw Antoine Delman come inside and push the door closed behind him, throw the dead bolt to lock it. Then he was standing over her, a smile like a rictus on his ugly, blocky face.
“Hello, Tamara,” he said. “Hello, you fucking bitch.”
24
JAKE RUNYON
He had two calls that afternoon on his way back to the agency from an interview on the new case Tamara had given him, a skip-trace for a prominent S.F. couple whose daughter had disappeared. The first call was from Bryn—something of a surprise, since it came during working hours. She seldom called him at all, letting him take the initiative, and never until after five o’clock.
“Jake, I’m sorry to bother you like this; I know you’re busy—”
“Not a problem. What’s up?”
“I know we said tomorrow night, but . . . could you come over tonight instead?”
There was a strained quality to her voice that made him ask, “Something wrong?”
“. . . Yes. Something that happened today.”
“What? You okay?”
“Yes. I don’t want to talk about it on the phone. Can you come over?”
“Right away, if it’s urgent.”
“No, tonight’s soon enough.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. Any time you can make it.”
New development with her health, the facial paralysis? He hoped that wasn’t it; it probably wouldn’t be good news if it was. Support or custody troubles with the ex-husband? No use speculating. He’d find out soon enough.