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

on Geary where she went sometimes.”
    “Talk to her there? Hit on her?”
    “No, nothing like that. Just said hello and bought her a drink.”
    “And hung around, watched her?”
    “In a worshipful way. He never bothered her.”
    “How many other times did she see him?”
    “Once or twice more at the tavern. And once or twice when she was out jogging.”
    “Following her?”
    “She didn’t get that impression,” Risa said. “She thought he might live in the neighborhood.”
    “Did he give her any idea where?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “This went on, him turning up, for about a month?”
    “No more than that. Then he must have lost interest or moved away.”
    “And your sister never saw him again?”
    “I’m sure she’d have told me if she had.” Risa paused before she said, “Two years is a long time.”
    Runyon said, “There aren’t any time limits on sexual obsession.”
    “But why would he go away and then all of a sudden come back and attack her without provocation?”
    “People disappear for any number of reasons. And there may have been provocation that night—a more aggressive approach, rejection, sudden rage and loss of control.”
    “My God.”
    “Just speculation at this point,” Runyon said, “but worth looking into. What’s the name of the tavern on Geary?”
    “McRoyd’s Irish Pub.”
    “And the name of the girlfriend who was with Erin at Stow Lake?”
    “Sally Michaels. Sally Johnson now. She got married about six months ago and moved to Morgan Hill.”
    “Do you have an address and phone number?”
    “Yes, but not here. At home.”
    “Call me on my cell phone when you get there. Number’s on the card I gave you. All right?”
    “All right. And . . . thank you, Jake.”
    Jake, not Mr. Runyon. With almost the same little catch in her voice Colleen had when she said his name—
    No. Bullshit, Runyon. What’s the matter with you?
    He said gruffly, “There’s nothing to thank me for yet,” and broke the connection.
    Nobody at McRoyd’s Irish Pub knew a three-hundred-pound, ponytailed man or remembered anyone like that from more than a year ago. The bartender said, “Check back after six o’clock. The boss comes on then, Sam McRoyd. He’s owned this place thirty years—he’s got a memory like an elephant, knows just about everybody who ever lived around here.”
    “Thanks. I’ll do that.”
    A woman’s deep voice said, “Yes? This is Justine.”
    “Is your husband home, Mrs. Linden?”
    “No, he isn’t.” Then, suspiciously, “Who is this?”
    “My name is Runyon, I spoke to him this afternoon—”
    “I know, he told me.” Cold now, as if her voice had been quick-frozen in dry ice. “You should have come to me instead of Ralph.”
    “Would it have made a difference?”
    “It might have. I’m not as easy to intimidate as he is.”
    “There was no intimidation. We had a conversation, that’s all.”
    “You threatened him.”
    “Wrong. I don’t make threats. He offered cooperation and I accepted, that’s all.”
    Humming silence for several seconds. Then, “I suppose that’s why you’re calling. You want the key.”
    “If you’re willing to put it in your mailbox and leave it there for the next couple of days, then you won’t have to deal with me in person.”
    “And then what? You keep calling up and coming back whenever you feel like it?”
    “Chances are you’ll never hear from me again.”
    “What does that mean, ‘chances are’?”
    “Just what I said.”
    “How do I know you won’t keep hassling us?”
    “I’m not hassling you now,” Runyon said. “I’m accepting your husband’s offer. Unless you’d rather rescind it.”
    “Oh, sure. And then you’d go straight to the Housing Authority.”
    “No, I wouldn’t do that.”
    “So you say.”
    “You have my word on it.”
    “Your word. How do I know you’d keep it?”
    “You don’t. You’ll have to trust me, either way.”
    Heavy sigh, exaggerated. “You’d