Nemesis by Bill Pronzini Page B

ago.”
    â€œHer? Her? How much?”
    â€œSeven figures.”
    â€œSeven—! Goddamn it!”
    Runyon decided to open up a little, see what kind of reaction he’d get. “What would you say if I told you somebody is trying to take some of it away from her?”
    â€œWhat would I say? Good! I hope they get every damn dime that belongs to her.”
    â€œWould you try it if you thought you could get away with it?”
    â€œMe? Hell, no. I wouldn’t want none of her money. Only thing of hers I’d want is her blood.”
    â€œIs that a threat, Mr. Avery?”
    Avery said, “I don’t make threats, man,” and turned abruptly and stalked back inside the house.
    *   *   *
    The three interviews hadn’t netted Runyon much in the way of specifics, or pointed to any of the individuals as the perp. Each man seemed to have plenty of cause to dislike, distrust, openly hate, even fear Verity Daniels; any of the three could be guilty of extortion, terrorism, or both. Or none of them.
    One thing the interviews had accomplished: he had a slightly better handle on Ms. Daniels now. She was a woman who engendered strong emotions in other people, all or most of them negative, either by design or because of personality flaws. Nobody seemed to like her much—and maybe that was the primary reason why she lived such a solitary life. Two million dollars might be enough to buy you a new home, a new look, all the possessions you wanted, but it wasn’t enough to buy you a brand-new persona.

 
    6
    Verity Daniels called at 7:50 that night, while Runyon was heating a can of soup for a late supper. But it wasn’t the right kind of call. She’d heard nothing more from the perp. She was half frantic from all the waiting, she said, and needed to hear a friendly voice. He had so much experience with this kind of thing and she had none—how long did he think it would be?
    After the long day in the East Bay, Runyon was in no mood for telephonic hand-holding. “No idea how long,” he said shortly. “I know it’s difficult for you, Ms. Daniels—”
    â€œVerity.”
    â€œI know it’s difficult for you, but you’ll just have to hang in until he decides to contact you again.”
    â€œIt could be days, couldn’t it? Even a week or more?”
    â€œNot likely he’ll make you wait that long.”
    â€œBut it’s so hard. I feel so … vulnerable, here all by myself. If I didn’t know you were there to help me, I don’t know what I’d do.”
    He had nothing to say to that.
    â€œI don’t suppose … I mean, is there any chance we could get together somewhere for a drink? Tonight if you’re not busy, or tomorrow—”
    â€œNo, that’s not possible.”
    â€œJust one drink, just for a little while?”
    â€œNo, Ms. Daniels. It’s agency policy not to socialize with clients.”
    â€œBut it wouldn’t really be socializing—”
    â€œI’m sorry, no. I don’t mean to be unsympathetic, but I’ll have to ask you not to call again until you hear from the extortionist.”
    Short silence. Then, in a different voice, clipped, edged with anger, “Yes, all right, I understand. Good night, Jake.” She broke the connection immediately, the sharp click like an exclamation point at the end of his name.
    Coming on to him, and angry at the rebuff? Sounded like it. Why? So maybe she had developed the kind of infatuation lonely women sometimes did for men who offered them a professional helping hand. Common enough, though he’d never had to deal with it before. Another possibility: underneath that bland exterior she was a sexual aggressor. Anger was sometimes the reaction of a rejected predatory woman. And the facts and implications he’d gathered today supported the supposition.
    But neither possibility explained why she’d lied