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

rejected. Colleen Runyon hadn’t been just his wife, she’d been his best friend, his only real friend; now that she was gone, he had no one else and wanted no one else. It had been that kind of marriage. He was that kind of man. The only person who really mattered to him now was his son, his only living relative, the main reason he’d moved to San Francisco from Seattle—and his son hated him.
    I said, easing into it, “How was L.A.?”
    “Worth the trip. Beckmer’s down there, all right. Holed up with his ex-wife in Santa Ana.”
    “Cozy. You serve the subpoena?”
    “He didn’t want to take it. Tried to get tough.”
    “And?”
    Runyon shrugged. “He took it.”
    “You give Fred Agajanian the good news yet?”
    “Left a message with his secretary. He’s in court this morning.”
    I said Fred would be pleased. Then I said, “I took a call for you yesterday afternoon. Didn’t sound like business. He wouldn’t leave his name, but . . . I had the impression it might’ve been your son.”
    Nothing changed in Runyon’s expression. “Might’ve been. Message from him on my machine when I got home last night.”
    “He sounded upset about something. Everything okay with him?”
    “No. His roommate’s in the hospital. Three gay bashings in the Castro district over the past couple of weeks—he’s the latest victim.”
    “Christ. Hurt bad?”
    “Still critical.”
    “Police have any leads on who did it?”
    “Other than sketchy descriptions of the two perps, no.”
    “Figures. This damn city. SFPD’s in a shambles, the politicians keep tearing each other up over who’s responsible instead of working together to fix the problems, and meanwhile even violent-crime cases get short shrift.”
    “Hate crimes against gays among the shortest,” Runyon said. “I looked up last year’s stats a while ago. Nearly five hundred reported cases, only a handful resolved.”
    “So much for San Francisco’s reputation as a liberal mecca for homosexuals. What was it like in Seattle?”
    “Pretty much the same. Cases like this, it takes a media howl for there to be much of an official effort.”
    “And the only way that happens is if there’re more beatings and maybe one of the victims dies.”
    He nodded. “It won’t get to that point if I can help it.”
    “An investigation of your own?”
    “Joshua asked me to see what I can do. I’d go ahead even if he hadn’t.”
    “So would I, in your shoes.”
    “Already started,” Runyon said. “On my own time. I talked to the second victim last night.”
    “Anything?”
    “Maybe. Too early to tell for sure.”
    “Well, the job doesn’t have to be strictly on your own time,” I said. “Agency facilities are yours if you need them. That includes Tamara and me. If there’s anything we can do, just ask.”
    “No payoff in it.”
    “So? You think this agency’s never done any pro bono work before? Or taken on any personal cases? If it was my kid who was hurting, or somebody in Tamara’s family, wouldn’t you offer to help out if you could?”
    “In a minute.”
    “Okay. That’s all the payoff we need.”
    “Sorry if I sounded cynical.”
    “Hell,” I said, “it’s not easy to be anything else these days.”
    I didn’t have much opportunity to talk to Tamara during the day. Lunch with Pat Dixon, an assistant D.A. who’d become a friend after a revenge bomber case that involved the kidnapping of his son. Both of us busy in the office with ourrespective caseloads, client calls, and a drop-in visit from another client who wanted to talk over a report. It wasn’t until three-thirty that we found time to say more than a few words to each other.
    “How’d the deadbeat dad thing go last night?” I asked. “DeBrissac living in the cousin’s San Leandro house?”
    “If he is,” Tamara said, “he was out later than I was. Three hours’ surveillance was all the down time I could take.”
    “Told you stakeouts were a pain in the butt. How about the