The Ever-Running Man

by Marcia Muller

  “Mr. Tacquerito!” I exclaimed, then immediately regretted it. The ad was an extremely stupid one in which he pranced around in a giant frying pan wearing a taco suit and grinning like a fool.

  Professional pride has no bounds, however. Wynn Daley beamed at me. “At your service.”

  Shan yipped and jumped up on me, licking my hand. He was a happy dog. His owner might have a preposterous résumé, but jobs like that bought a lot of kibble, to say nothing of an expensive condominium to call home.

  Mr. Tacquerito led me to a table in the shade of a palm tree and we sat, Shan on my right foot. I’m more of a cat person, but I like dogs on an individual basis, and this one had decided—rightly so—that he was admitted to the club.

  “What is it you want to know?” Daley asked me.

  “I’d like you to tell me what you experienced the night Mr. Kessell was shot, and then I may have some questions of my own.”

  “Fair enough.” He proceeded to give a version of what I’d read in the police reports.

  “Did you get much of a look at the man who ran past you?”

  “No. It was dark, and he was moving fast.”

  “Did you actually see him come through Mr. Kessell’s gate?”

  “Well, no. But I saw Mr. Kessell’s gate standing open, and I assumed that that was where he’d been.”

  “What about the main gate? It’s always locked, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, yes. The complex has very good security.”

  “But the person was able to get in that way.”

  “The gate closes slowly, in case someone’s entering with parcels or whatever. He could’ve followed Mr. Kessell in.”

  I nodded, recalling how slowly it had closed behind me when Daley had buzzed me in. “Okay, how long before the man ran by you did you hear the shot?”

  “Around the time I was putting my key card into the slot.”

  “Did anyone else in the complex come outside in response to it?”

  “No. People here . . . well, they keep to themselves.”

  A nice way of saying they didn’t want to get involved. Turning your back on your neighbor has spread like a contagion through our nation’s large cities.

  After Wynn Daley and I finished talking, I tried to reach the neighbor who had heard the loud voices coming from Kessell’s patio shortly before the shot, but no one was home. I considered questioning some of the other residents of the complex, but decided against it. People were only beginning to return home from work, and soon it would be the dinner hour; it’s been my experience that when you disturb someone at that time they’re bound to be cranky and uncooperative. But I didn’t want to return to RKI’s condo in La Jolla; I didn’t like it any more than the apartments at Green Street or the San Francisco safe house, and Hy had said he’d be working late at headquarters. Instead I headed to the one place in the city where I could make some phone calls, think in private, and then perhaps talk through my confusion with someone close to me.

  It always gave me a strange feeling to return to the old, rambling house on Mead Avenue where I’d grown up. For one thing, it was now in much better shape than it had ever been when I lived there—with a new roof, paint job, and landscaped yard. For another, I would never be anything more than a visitor there—although one who was welcome to appear unannounced at any time.

  Several years ago Ma had filed for divorce from my father and moved in with her . . . well, “boyfriend” is too undignified a term for the very dignified Melvin Hunt, but that’s what it amounted to until their wedding ten months later. After her departure Pa pretty much let the place go—if it’s possible to let a place go when it’s practically been falling down for decades. When he died, the house was sold for a pittance, but proved too much of a challenge for the new owners; it came on the market again, and my brother John—his own little house in Lemon Grove having become too confining for him and his two growing boys—decided to buy it.

  John’s motorcycle was parked in the driveway, right behind a Mr. Paint truck. Mr. Paint—the contracting firm he’d founded—had grown, and my brother hardly ever wielded a roller or brush or sprayer anymore, but while he complained as much as I’ve been known to do about being desk-bound, he was secretly pleased with his success. And despite his efforts to keep up his working-class image, I knew that a sporty new Honda convertible resided in the garage at the end of the driveway.

  I went to the side door, rang the bell twice in quick succession, and let myself in with the key John had given me. The kitchen was a mess, as usual—typical all-male household problem. I avoided a slick-looking patch of some unidentifiable substance on the floor, and headed for the door to the hallway. John came through it at the same time, and we bumped into each other. After he gave me a big bear hug, I stepped back and surveyed him; his blond hair was tousled, his face cheerful, and he looked trim and fit.

  “Quiet here,” I said. “Where’re Nate and Matt?”

  “Over at their mother’s.”

  John’s former wife, Karen, and her husband lived only a mile or so away, and the boys alternated between the two households. The arrangement worked well for everyone—especially the boys because, I suspected, they could easily sneak in the occasional unauthorized night away from home. Both parents were aware of their teenage transgressions, but they were also aware that the boys’ sins were small, compared to the scrapes John and Joey had gotten into at their age. As yet neither parent had been obliged to post bail.

  I looked around the kitchen, frowning. “I take it Krista’s off on a buying trip?” Krista was John’s girlfriend, a fashion buyer for an exclusive chain of boutiques. She traveled a lot, but she kept him and the boys in line when in town.

  “How’d you know?” he asked.

  “She’d never tolerate that mess.” I waved my hand at the dirty plates, takeout containers, and smudged glasses.

  “Oh, yeah.” He shrugged. “I was gonna clean it up. She’s not due back till next weekend.”

  “How can you live with it? That stuff in the sink smells.”

  He sniffed. “It does, now that you mention it. How about we clean it up together?”

  “How about I go make some phone calls while you clean it up? Then we can have a drink and talk; there’re a few things I want to run by you.”

  “What about dinner?”

  “What do you have on hand?”

  “Not much, but we could order a pizza.”

  I noted the two pizza boxes stuffed in the garbage can. “How about we go out for a real meal?”

  “Are you down here on business?”

  “Yes.”

  “As long as we can put it on your expense account.”

  “Whatever.” I threw up my hands in surrender and went into the family room overlooking the backyard and the lush greenery of the finger canyon that ran behind the house. When I took my phone from my purse, I could hear John clattering around in the kitchen. Nothing like the prospect of a good dinner on somebody else to energize him.

  Around seven o’clock, after I completed my calls, I went out onto the expansive redwood deck that—so far as I knew—was the only improvement the interim owners had made on the property, and stood by the railing looking out at the finger canyon. It was so overgrown with palms and oaks and eucalypti and madrone and vines that I could barely see the houses on the opposite side. Somewhere down there were the steps that Pa had set into the slope so we kids could climb down to the treehouse he’d constructed in a sturdy oak. The last time I’d seen the little structure, it had been only a platform, and now I wondered if it had deteriorated completely. All my life I’d taken the canyon for granted, but now it struck me as strange to be standing at the edge of a veritable jungle in the midst of a large city, white noise from the freeways blending with the birdcalls and the rustling of wind in the leaves.

  My call to the agency hadn’t been particularly productive. Ted, with whom I’d talked first, had reported that all was under control. Next I’d spoken with Patrick, wh
o sounded bored and grumpy; no one assigned to the RKI case was giving him reports, so he had nothing to plug into his charts. Would I please speak with them?

  Derek was still in the office, so I started with him. He’d found a couple of suspicious circumstances with former RKI employees and was going into the field to interview them in the morning. I didn’t waste time on the details; he’d already e-mailed them to me. Mick was gone for the day, but he’d told Derek he was making headway on the backgrounding of RKI’s partners, and had uncovered some things he felt were better to report to me in person.

  “What things?” I asked.

  “He didn’t say.”

  “When does he plan to do this?”

  “When you get back here, I guess.”

  “I’ll get hold of him. Thanks, Derek.”

  Mick wasn’t available at any of his numbers, nor was Keim. Probably out stuffing their faces at some chic new restaurant. Keim had a friend who was a food reviewer for the Chron, and she and Mick were often invited along on her incognito excursions. I left irritable and demanding messages on their machine and cellulars. Then I returned several calls to clients and one to the Church Street house contractor who wanted my permission to order a part for the bathroom plumbing system. I didn’t know what the hell it was, but I figured if he said we needed it, we did. He then subjected me to a long-winded description of how the job was going, which I interpreted as meaning progressing very well.

  Now John came up behind me, handed me a glass of white wine. “Kitchen’s clean,” he said.

  I took the glass. “Thanks. That’ll make Krista happy.”

  “I’m thinking I ought to marry the woman, or at least talk her into moving in here. She’s good for me—and the boys.”

  “Well, why don’t you ask her?”

  “The letter K.”

  “What?”

  “Karen. And after we divorced there was Kelly, then Kate, and then Kathy. The letter K could spell a problem for me.”

  “I hardly think—”

  My phone rang. I went inside where I’d left it and picked up.

  “McCone.” Hy. There was an urgency in his voice.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “There’s been another bombing.”

  “Damn! Where, this time?”

  “Chicago.”

  “When?”

  “Nine o’clock, their time. I’ve been trying to reach you for fifteen minutes. One person was killed, five others injured. I need you back there.”

  “I’ll get the first flight out.”

  “Thanks. Things’re really starting to fall apart here.”

  “How so?”

  “I’m monitoring a major situation with one of our South American clients and may have to go down there, as well as keeping in hourly touch with a couple of our operatives in the Middle East. And a lot of the employees here at headquarters’re really upset about the Green Street bombing and Dan’s murder and aren’t functioning too well.”

  “Can’t Gage calm them down? He’s good at that.”

  “Well, that’s another problem, McCone: Gage.”

  “What about him?”

  “I don’t know where the hell he is. Haven’t seen him since he left the hospital after Dan died Sunday night. He didn’t go home; the current live-in girlfriend said she hasn’t seen him and he hasn’t called. His cellular’s out of service range. He’s not at any of our branch offices or the training camp. And he hasn’t checked in at the office.”

  “Has he ever done this before?”

  “No. I think something may have happened to him.”

  One down. Maybe two.

  One left to go—my husband.

  “McCone?”

  “Okay, you handle things here. Don’t worry about the situation in Chicago. I’ll deal with it.”

  Tuesday

  FEBRUARY 28

  My flight from San Diego connected with a red-eye out of Los Angeles that put me into Chicago O’Hare only twenty minutes late. Bob Cleary, head of RKI’s operations there, had informed me that no flight had ever arrived at or departed O’Hare on time since 1952, and I wasn’t so sure he was joking. As we landed, I saw a light dusting of snow on the ground and was worried that I’d freeze in my suede jacket. I almost did while wheeling my bag to the cab stand, but there were plenty of taxis waiting.

  Cleary had made me an early-arrival reservation at the downtown Sheraton, a towering structure on the Chicago River near where it empties into Lake Michigan and a few blocks’ walking distance from their ravaged offices. When I got to the hotel, I found my room was ready as promised. I showered and dressed in the black Ellen Tracy pantsuit that before leaving San Francisco for San Diego I’d rescued from the closet at the Church Street house where I’d stored my more “grown-up” clothes—an item that had cost a fortune but was so classic, wrinkle-resistant, and well made that it would get me through any occasion for the rest of my life. Then I sat for a while in front of the room’s window, staring out at the brownish-green water of the river and the wide Michigan Avenue Bridge leading over to Wacker Drive. In the distance, the lake lay gray, placid, and seemingly endless.

  I’d slept some on the LA–Chicago flight, but mostly I’d spent the time reading Derek’s e-mailed reports, thinking about the investigation, and probably muddying the waters more than clearing them. In the end several possibilities had occurred to me, none of them conclusive: to begin with, the ever-running man was an extremely busy individual. He had blown up RKI’s San Francisco building a week ago Monday, shot Dan Kessell on Saturday, and bombed the office in Chicago yesterday. Either he was a version of Superman or there was more than one person involved in the vendetta against the company.

  And then there was the possibility that Dan’s death might have had nothing to do with RKI’s troubles. An angry spouse of a cheating wife, a disgruntled friend, someone he owed money to—there were any number of other explanations. And since Kessell had so zealously guarded his private life, there was no way of knowing without further intensive digging.

  Exactly how had the shooter gotten through the locked gate at the condo complex? Yes, it closed slowly, but a man with Dan’s past was always watching his back; he would not have allowed a stranger to enter behind him—much less someone who held a grudge against him. But what if the killer had come up behind him with the murder weapon? Forced him inside? That would make sense.

  I turned my attention from the dead to the alive—namely, Gage Renshaw. I knew him better than I knew Dan, had seen him at various quasi-social business functions, but seldom with the same woman; Hy had told me that so far as he knew, Gage had never been married, and he moved women in and out of his house on a six-month basis. The latest was named Paulina Morales, but otherwise neither of us knew anything about her.

  And then there were Renshaw’s missing years in Southeast Asia. Gage was impulsive, dangerous, and downright strange. There could be any number of reasons why he’d dropped out of sight Sunday night. Perhaps he’d gone off on an investigative tangent of his own, but that didn’t feel like something he would do; Gage hired people like me to find out things.

  I looked at my watch. Nearly nine, when I was supposed to meet Bob Cleary for breakfast in the hotel coffee shop. I wished I had time to call Mick to discuss the information that he had for me. But he wanted to talk in person, rather than on the phone or by e-mailing a report. That didn’t sound good.

  I grabbed my bag and headed down to the coffee shop.

  It was apparent that Bob Cleary hadn’t slept all night. Yellowish-green circles that resembled recovering bruises stood out under his reddened eyes, and his thinning gray hair looked as if he’d recently washed it but hadn’t bothered with a blow-dryer; comb-tooth tracks revealed his pink scalp. He sat across from me and toyed with a cup of coffee. I played with an English muffin, spilled my own coffee onto the table. Said, “Sorry. Long day yesterday, and now jet lag’s catching up with me.”

  “I thought maybe you’d catch a few
winks after getting to the hotel.”

  “No. Rush hour traffic made it a long trip in, and when I’m on an investigation I’m too wired to rest much.”

  “Know what you mean. I’m mainly an administrator now, but when I was with the DEA—forget sleep.”

  I regarded him, placed him at around Renshaw’s age, in his early fifties.

  “You know Gage Renshaw while you were with the agency?”

  “Some. In D.C. before he went overseas. He was the one who recruited me for RKI when he joined up with Kessell.”

  “An odd duck, isn’t he?”

  “More of a son of a bitch.”

  His frankness startled me. I covered my surprise and said, “Well, Mr. Cleary, we’re on the same page. Tell me about Gage Renshaw.”

  Renshaw, Cleary said, would do absolutely anything for money. “As long as I’ve known him he’s had no loyalty to the DEA, no loyalty to any organization or individual—except to himself.”

  While in Washington he had passed on confidential information to the highest bidder. His connections had spread like tentacles from the criminal underclass to the highest levels of the bureaucracy. “And some said even higher,” Cleary added. “Congress, minor officials in the White House—who knows?”

  “So he sold information about . . . ?”

  “How investigations were proceeding. Who was—or wasn’t—about to be indicted. Who was sleeping with whose wife or mistress. What was the drug of choice of the powerful, and who their suppliers were.”

  “And he got away with that?”

  “Gage was clever. There were rumors, but no proof.”

  “Did he deal in drugs himself?”

  “No way.”

  “You think he did drugs?”

  Cleary shook his head. “Nope. Money is Gage’s drug—and I mean that literally. The more he gets, the more he wants. In Washington the rumors got so persistent that the agency was afraid he might become an embarrassment, or create a major scandal for the administration. That’s why they shipped him off to Thailand. Figured things were so corrupt there that he couldn’t embarrass them.”