Mourners: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Mystery) by Bill Pronzini Read Free Book Online Page B

their trust in me and the people I work for.”
    She held eye contact for several seconds, bit her lip again and shifted her gaze. “Look, I guess I’m just not used to kindness from strangers, even at the best of times. . . .”
    “I understand.”
    “Do you really think you can help?”
    “At least to the point of finding out if this man had anything to do with your sister’s death. If he didn’t, and if he did buy the headstone and all the flowers, maybe I can explain the reasons.”
    “If you’d do that . . . well, I don’t know what to say. Except thank you.”
    He handed her an agency business card, the one with his home and cell phone numbers; watched her study it the way she had his license before she slipped it into her coat pocket. “You can reach me at either of those numbers, day or night,” he said. “I’ll need a contact number from you in return.”
    “All right. But I . . . my home phone is unlisted and I don’t feel comfortable giving out the number. Or my address.”
    He didn’t tell her how easy it would be for him to get them. “A work or friend’s number is fine.”
    “Where I work, then. It’s a private line.” She recited the number. Then, after a few seconds, “Aren’t you going to write it down?”
    “I have a good memory.” He repeated the numbers to prove it.
    The wind gusted sharply, blew her hair into a reddish halo around her head. The effect brought a quick, stabbing memory of Colleen standing at the rail on one of the island ferries in Puget Sound, her hair flying in that same sort of wind-whipped halo.
    “Is that all then?” she said.
    “For now.”
    “Then I’d better go. It’s freezing out here and I’m going to be late for work as it is.”
    “I’ll walk with you to your car.”
    Neither of them said anything until they reached the road. Solemnly she gave him her gloved hand, and when he released it after two beats she said, “I’d like to ask you a question. You don’t have to answer it if you don’t want to.”
    “Go ahead.”
    “Was I right in what I said before? That you’ve lost someone close to you?”
    “. . . Yes.”
    “A relative?”
    “My wife. Ten months ago. Cancer.”
    Her eyes closed, her face registered pain. Symbiotic reaction. The eyelids lifted again, and she held his gaze for amoment before she turned, wordlessly, and walked to the Datsun and shut herself inside.
    He sat there for more than five minutes after she was gone, alone in the brightening morning, not moving, not thinking. More shaken by her and the resemblance to Colleen than he would have thought possible. It wasn’t until another car passed on the winding road that he came out of it and used his cell phone to call the agency.

7
    Runyon’s report on James Troxell’s most recent activities and ties to the Erin Dumont rape-homicide case set off alarm bells. The timing was one thing: Troxell’s strange pattern of conduct had escalated at about the same time as the murder. It could be coincidence, of course. It could also be that the crime had somehow triggered his mourner obsession, dormant or subdued in him since his childhood trauma. The marble headstone and the ongoing supply of flowers fitted that kind of obsession; it was possible he’d supplied the same service to other victims of violent crime, past as well as present.
    It was the other, darker possibility that worried me. Suppose the headstone and flowers were a product of guilt, remorse? Suppose he was the man who had raped and strangled Erin Dumont?
    You looked at Troxell’s upbringing, the shape of his adult life, and on the surface he seemed an unlikely candidate for that kind of vicious criminal act. Successful financial consultant, home in St. Francis Wood, beautifulwife—good old-fashioned American success story. No history of trouble of any kind, none of the warning flags of aberrent behavior. Normal adult male. Except that “normal” is essentially a meaningless term; any psychologist will tell