Fever(22)

“Brian Youngblood?”

Long pause. “Who is it?”

Runyon identified himself, said he was there at the request of Mrs. Rose Youngblood. No answer. Five seconds later the squawk box shut off. Thinking it over, maybe. He waited—two minutes, three. Then the intercom made chicken noises again.

“You still there, man?”

“I’m still here.”

“All right. Come on up.”

The door buzzed and Runyon went into a tiny foyer, then up a flight of carpeted stairs. Another door at the top swung open as he reached the landing. The young black man who stood peering at him through a pair of wire-rimmed glasses was thin, studious, with close-cropped hair that had already begun to recede. Nervous and ill at ease, too, but not necessarily for the same reason.

“Mr. Youngblood?”

Brief nod.

The business card Runyon handed over seemed to bemuse him, make him even more nervous. “A private investigator?” he said. Without benefit of intercom static, his voice was as thin as the rest of him. “You didn’t say that’s what you were. Why would my mother send a detective to see me?”

“She’s concerned about you, the trouble you had last week. She thought I might be able to help.”

“How can you help? It was just a—”

“Brian,” a woman’s voice called sharply from inside. “Don’t talk out there—bring him in here.”

Youngblood winced, a small rippling effect along one side of his face as if the voice had struck a nerve. His expression shifted, took on an almost hunted aspect. He was no longer making eye contact when he said, “We’d better go in.”

Runyon followed him into a big, open front room. Heavy drapes had been drawn across the windows and the room was darkish as a result, palely lit by a desk lamp and a table lamp. Computer equipment dominated it—a workstation that took up one entire wall, not one terminal but two attached to a pair of twenty-two-inch screens, two printers, all sorts of other high-tech paraphernalia, and CD storage shelves. The rest of the furnishings were nondescript: an armchair, a recliner, a sofa, and some chrome-and-glass tables. The beige walls were empty of the kind of religious symbols his mother favored, of any other kind of picture or decoration.

A woman about Youngblood’s age filled the armchair, lounging on her spine. The tall, lean, slinky type. Long, frizzy, tangled hair dyed a henna red that seemed wrong for her light brown skin tone. Spike heels and black net stockings and a green dress stretched tight across high breasts. The hard type, too: bright crimson lipstick, false eyelashes, too much eyeshadow and rouge.

Almost nothing surprised Runyon anymore, but Rose Youngblood had led him to believe her son’s taste in women was conventional and conservative. This one was anything but. Neighbor, maybe?

Youngblood said, in a faintly embarrassed way, “This is Brandy. She’s … a friend.”

Brandy. Right.

Runyon nodded and said hello. Brandy gave him an up-and-down glance, batted her eyelashes, and without taking her eyes off him, she said to Youngblood, “Who’s he?” in a whiskey contralto—affected, not natural.

He went over and handed her Runyon’s card. She looked at it and then made a little production of tucking it into the hollow between her breasts. ‘“Confidential investigator,’ now isn’t that something,” she said. “Good-looking one, too, for a white man.”

“Brandy, please …”

She mimicked him, “Brandy, please. Brandy, please. You’re such a little pissant wimp.”

“Don’t say that. Why do you always have to get nasty?”

“You just don’t want to hear the truth. Neither does that bible-thumping mama of yours.” The purple-shaded eyes slid over Runyon again. “She really hire you to stick your nose into Brian’s business?”

“The agency I work for, yes.”

“Where’d she get the money? Old bitch gives every extra dime to that church of hers.”

Runyon said nothing.

“Told her to mind her own business, didn’t you?” she said to Youngblood. “Told her to just leave you alone.”

“Yes, I told her.”

“So why doesn’t she listen to her little pussy-boy?”

Some piece of work, this one. Runyon had dealt with her type any number of times when he’d worked Vice on the Seattle PD. The tough, domineering, pseudo-sexual pose was calculated to push buttons, force you to play on her terms. All pure ego. The one thing her type couldn’t stand was to be ignored.

He said to Youngblood, “What kind of trouble are you in, Brian?”

“You don’t have to tell him anything,” Brandy said.