Free Mourners: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Mystery) by Bill Pronzini

Besides, he seems to be a very private person.”
    Runyon nodded and got to his feet.
    Linden said, “That’s all then? All your questions?”
    “Unless there’s anything you haven’t told me.”
    “No, no. I’ve been as cooperative as I can be. Completely candid.” Linden gnawed at his thick lower lip, as if he were considering something. He consulted his upturned palms again before he said, “Is it really important to you, why Troxell rented our unit?”
    “It could be.”
    “Is there any chance . . . I mean, it couldn’t be anything illegal, could it? Something that might reflect back on my wife and me, get us in trouble?”
    “Anything’s possible.”
    “Christ,” he said. “Then we all should know about it.
You’d
know if you saw it, wouldn’t you? If you had a look inside the unit?”
    “I might.”
    “In that case I don’t see why we should respect his privacy. You’re investigating him, after all. The man must be up to something.”
    Runyon waited.
    “We have a spare key,” Linden said. “We tell the tenants their key is the only one, but we keep a spare just in case. You never know what might happen. A situation like this . . . well, I could open the unit for you, let you inside briefly, when Troxell’s not there . . .”
    “You could do that,” Runyon said. “It’s one option.”
    “One . . . oh, I see. I could make the key available to youand you could have a look inside yourself. Is that what you mean?”
    “It’s your suggestion, Mr. Linden, not mine.”
    “Yes. Well . . . would you tell us what you find?”
    “If it’s something you need to know, yes.”
    “I suppose it would be all right,” Linden said slowly. “I’ll have to talk it over with Justine first, but . . . When would you want the key?”
    “If it’s necessary, I’ll let you know and you can tell me then if your offer is still open. What’s your home phone number?”
    Linden provided it. “I really should get back to work now,” he said. “The company . . . personal matters . . . well, you understand.”
    Runyon was silent.
    “I appreciate you keeping this confidential. About the unit, I mean. And I hope I’ve been helpful, I hope everything works out all right. If there’s anything else I can do . . .”
    He’d had his fill of the man. He turned for the door.
    “Anything at all,” Linden said behind him. “I always like to do the right thing.”

9
KERRY
    Cybil was waiting at the Cafe Athena in downtown Larkspur when Kerry arrived at 12:25. Five minutes early, and Cybil already had a table and a glass of white wine in front of her.
    She didn’t see Kerry come in; she was looking at one of the Mediterranean murals that decorated the walls, or maybe just staring off into space, her face in three-quarters profile and apparently lost in thought. Kerry took the opportunity to study her. She didn’t look well. She’d always been strikingly attractive, had aged slowly and gracefully; until the past three months, people invariably thought she was ten to fifteen years younger than she was. Eighty-three, now, and she was beginning to look it—the lines in her face more pronounced, a dullness in her tawny eyes, a pale gauntness in her cheeks.
    Kerry felt pangs of concern. And a fresh surge of hatred for Russ Dancer. And guilt, too, because of what she wasabout to do. But she no longer had a choice. Not any more. It had to be done. If only she didn’t have to carry it too far, make it twice as hard on both of them . . .
    She steeled herself and approached the table. At her greeting, Cybil jerked from her reverie and put on a bright smile. A mother’s smile, a cover-up smile. But nervousness showed in the movement of her eyes, her hands on the tablecloth. She suspected that this was not one of their usual lunch dates, that there was a purpose behind it and what that purpose was. Smart woman, Cybil. Except in her youth, when it came to men.
    Kerry kissed her cheek. The skin had a dry, papery feel.