selling somethingââ
âNo. I remembered your name, I looked in the phone book.â¦â
He recognized the voice then. âKen Beckett?â
âYeah. I ⦠I have to talk to somebody, Mr. Runyon. I donât know anyone else.â
âWhatâs on your mind?â
Pause. Then, âNot on the phone, okay? I canât talk about this on the phone.â
âAre you home? I can come thereââ
âNo! Coryâs out now, but she might come back any time.â
âMeet me somewhere, then.â
âI canât do that, either. She locks me in at night when she goes out.â
âEvery time?â
âYes.â
Runyon said, âCan you get out during the daytime?â
âI think so. She lets me go down to the yacht club in the morning if sheâs in a good mood. On the bus.â
âWhich yacht club?â
âWhere I used to work. The St. Francis.â
Runyon thought it over. He had a case interview scheduled in the morning, but it could be postponed. From the stressed-out sound of Beckettâs voice, whatever he had to say was important.
âAll right, Ken. What time in the morning?â
âTen oâclock, is that okay?â
âName a place to meet. Iâll be there.â
âJust you? Nobody else?â
âJust me.â
More silence. Then, âI have to be careful. If she finds out, I donât know what she might do.â¦â
âYou can trust me. I donât betray confidences.â
That satisfied Beckett. âYou know the big green clock in front of the St. Francis, right by the parking lot?â
âI can find it.â
âThanks, Mr. Runyon. Iâll see you at ten.â Then, as if to himself before he broke the connection, âI canât be alone anymore.â
Â
10
JAKE RUNYON
Even on a weekday morning, the Marina Green and the area along the West Harbor yacht basin was packed with joggers, women pushing baby strollers, adults and children on benches and grass taking advantage of the warming sun. Runyon had driven down early because parking at the only part of the Green heâd been to before, near Gashouse Cove and Fort Mason, was at a premium and heâd figured the same might be true at the opposite end. Not so. There were plenty of spaces in the lot on Yacht Road near the St. Francis. So he had twenty minutes to kill until ten oâclock.
The big green clock Beckett had mentioned was easy to spotâa Roman-numeral Rolex atop an old-fashioned standard a dozen feet tall, standing between the parking lot and the tan, Spanish-style yacht club. A rocky seawall ran behind the club on the bay side; stretched out in front was the West Harbor basin where club membersâ boats were berthed, a thin forest of masts extending out to Marina Boulevard. In that direction you could see the Golden Gate Bridge and the big sunlit dome of the Palace of Fine Arts.
Runyon was too restless to stand waiting there for twenty minutes. He went the other direction, through a break in the seawall and along a bayfront walkway. From there, if you cared, you had a clear look at the wide sweep of the bay where a few sailboats tacked along and a tourist boat was headed out toward Alcatraz. He paid little attention. Scenic views and panoramas didnât interest him anymore; hadnât since Colleenâs death. He noted landmarks to orient himself or for future reference. Otherwise, places were just places, colorless, void of any distinction or attraction.
He got rid of fifteen minutes on the bayfront walk. Beckett still hadnât showed when he returned to the clock, so he crossed to the concrete strip that ran along the harborâs upper edge. Wandered a short distance past sailboats, yachts, other large craft in their slips, then back again.
A little after ten, and Beckett still hadnât put in an appearance. Runyon did some more pacing around under the clock.
Five