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

that one was worth a million two. Both homes were held jointly. Not that it would have made a difference if she’d been sole owner; they’d have been part of the inheritance package in any case.
    There were three Ds among the canceled checks—Delborn Florists, Denise’s Designs, Drovnik Gardening Service. The second was an exclusive dress shop in Atherton—exclusive because of the prices they charged for an “evening suit” and an unspecified lingerie item. Didn’t seem to be any possible connection between any of them and the pleading urgency in the note.
    “Is this all of Nancy Mathias’s personal records?” Kerry asked when we were done.
    “Everything that was in her office desk, evidently.”
    “Poor woman. Her sister was right—she really did leada closed-off life. No letters or photographs or scrapbook items, nothing to indicate she had any friends. Not even a calendar or datebook.”
    “Even if Mathias forced reclusiveness on her, that doesn’t mean he had her killed.”
    “There might be something in her diary.”
    “It would have to be pretty compelling,” I said. “So far I just don’t see motive or anything else to justify the kind of investigation Celeste Ogden wants.”

6
    JAKE RUNYON
    Except for a headache, a swollen ear, and a dry mouth, he was all right in the morning. Unscrambled, in command of himself again. He could remember everything that had happened at the Belsize farm up to the moment he’d been assaulted. The rest of it was blurred and fragmentary, like images from a particularly vivid dream.
    A nurse came in and the first thing he asked her, in a croak that didn’t sound much like his own voice, was how soon he could get out of there. Not until Dr. Yeng examined him, she said. When would that be? On Doctor’s regular rounds this morning. She gave Runyon some water, took his temperature, checked his pulse. He asked if he had a concussion and she confirmed it. How serious? He’d have to speak to Dr. Yeng about that. The only information Runyon could get out of her was that three stitches hadbeen necessary to close the wound on his temple. He asked where his clothes and belongings were. Clothing in a locker, valuables in a lockbox. He talked her into fetching the valuables bag. The subpoena was there; so were his wallet and cell phone. The .357 Magnum and his license case were missing. Sheriff’s people had them, likely. Better have.
    The doctor didn’t show up until after eleven, and by then the antiseptic white walls were beginning to close in on him. Young, Asian, efficient. Dr. Yeng studied the chart, then asked questions while he shined a light in Runyon’s eyes and examined his bandaged temple and cauliflower ear. Had he suffered loss of consciousness after the blow to his head? No. Nausea? Some. Disorientation, dizziness, clumsiness, slow to respond to questions? All of the above, but all gone now.
    Yeng seemed satisfied. “Your concussion appears relatively mild,” he said. “The X-rays showed no skull fracture or brain hemorrhage or evidence of blood clots. You’re fortunate you weren’t hit any harder.”
    “I guess I am.”
    “Have you had any kind of head trauma before last night?”
    “No.”
    “All to the good. Do you know anything about concussions?”
    “A little, not much.”
    Dr. Yeng took that as an invitation to deliver a brief technical lecture. After such a trauma, he said, the arteries in the brain constrict, reducing blood flow and loweringthe rate at which oxygen is delivered to the brain. At the same time the demand rises for sugar glucose to provide energy to the brain for healing, but the narrowed arteries are unable to meet the demand; this creates a metabolic crisis, requiring time for the brain to correct the chemical imbalance and the damaged cells to repair themselves. How much time varies with the severity of the trauma, and the individual person’s health and how well he takes care of himself during the healing process. In