“Yeah. I had a voice mail from a deputy director while I was straightening out that mess in Lima. Very hush-hush hostage situation. I’ll try to get home soon. And you know what? On the way here I came up with something that might explain why Renshaw’s threatening us…” Short pause. “Look, McCone, the feds’re signaling me. Gotta go. Call you from D.C.”
“Good luck.”
But he’d already broken the connection. I set down the phone and settled into my soft pillows. Whatever Hy had thought about Renshaw’s motivation would keep a few hours.
Mist was drifting past the windows, and from the Golden Gate, I could hear the moan of the foghorns. A warning to ships at sea, they were a soporific to those of us on land. Within minutes I was asleep again.
9:15 a.m.
Hy hadn’t called back from D.C., so I decided to go into the office. It might take my husband a long time to get back to me—as long as it would take for a delicate hostage negotiation to be concluded.
As I’d so ungraciously reminded Patrick the day before, M&R was a 24-7 operation, although on weekends only those immersed in important cases came into the office. Today Ted was there in the fourth-floor reception area, apparently waiting for me; he grabbed my arm and hustled me into my office as soon as I entered.
“He’s back,” he whispered.
“Who’s back? Renshaw?”
“No. The weasel—Flavio St. John.” He motioned at the surveillance monitor.
The artist was seated in the hospitality suite on the lower floor, dark eyes snapping with impatience as he stared fixedly at the door. Weasel was an appropriate description of him, I thought. His hair was black with orangey highlights; his face was narrow, with a pointed chin; his sharp little teeth protruded like a feral animal’s.
Ted added, “He demands to know why you put a stop on his check. Apparently he’s not satisfied with his lawyer filing suit against us.”
“Tell him to go outside and look at the façade.” I turned away from the screen.
“Shar, you’ve gotta do something. Otherwise he’ll become a permanent fixture here.”
“Call security.”
“He told me that’s what you’d say. He said he’d just come back and bring his attorney with him.”
I was in no mood for Flavio’s kind of games. “This is the M&R building. If our security can’t keep a weasel and his attorney out, we’ve got no right to be in business.”
Ted smiled at me. “I’m not in the mood for his games either. Can I personally toss him out?”
I looked at his clothing: today he wore a familiar Edwardian theme. That velvet frock coat could not stand a scuffle. “In the interest of your wardrobe, call security.”
10:54 a.m.
Flavio St. John was rousted by the security guards on our floor, and left, still yowling about a lawsuit. Peace descended.
Ted poked his head through the doorway. “You need some fresh air.” When I didn’t respond, he came in, took my hand, and pulled me to my feet. “Fresh air and some food.”
“Where are we going?”
“To the roof garden. We’ll order up from the deli.”
I looked out the window, saw blue sky and sunshine; the fog had cleared without my noticing it.
Ted tugged at me. “Okay,” I said, “but I want a big BLT—hold most of the green stuff.”
12:31 p.m.
“So what’s been happening while security’s been busy repelling our intruder?” I asked Ted.
We were sitting on lounge chairs under a big blue marketplace-style umbrella. It was one of those days that was so clear you felt as if you could reach out and touch the Bay, the bridges, and the distant hills.
“Not a hell of a lot. The Paragon of the Paper Clips is busy this weekend. Patrick’s away. Thelia’s at her desk, but the others are out and about. Oh, and Lionel left a note that he’s quitting.”
“He’s quitting? I just hired him two weeks ago!”
“Said he got a better offer.”
“Well, why didn’t he give me the chance to improve on it?”
“Face it, Shar, he’s not worth any more than you were paying him.”
I pictured Lionel. Mick was right: a shifty manner and furtive eyes did not make for a good investigator. Now that I considered him, I realized he reminded me of David Janssen as Dr. Richard Kimble in the old TV series The Fugitive. It was incredible that the fictional Kimble hadn’t been apprehended the first time he wandered around looking furtive as hell.
“You know, I really didn’t like Lionel much anyway,” I said.
3:45 p.m.
Late in the day and I’d finished my paperwork, but I didn’t want to go home. Lonely there, without Hy. Strange—we’d spent a great deal of our relationship apart, but somehow, after moving into the new house, I felt lost there by myself. An adjustment, I thought, to new surroundings. I’d come to terms with it.
But in the meantime, where to go?
The ocean. The place I loved best. And the home of two of the people I loved the most.
4:23 p.m.
I was walking along China Beach, feeling calmed by the rush of the waves. The fog was rolling in again, blurring the horizon and sweeping away the last faint colors of the setting sun as it tumbled playfully over and under the nearby Golden Gate Bridge. I breathed deeply of the cool, briny air, relished the mist touching my face. No matter how many times I walked along the Bay or the sea, I would never lose my affinity for water. Once I’d listened to a pilot friend describe crossing Lake Michigan—really an inland sea—in her Cessna and resolved to do the same someday. A lot of pilots are afraid of flying over water; if you have to make an emergency landing, it’s like hitting stone. But water has always been kind to me, and someday…
I’d come to the steps that led up from the cove to Rae’s and Ricky’s house on the bluff. Took them two at a time.
Rae Kelleher was my former assistant at All Souls and Ricky Savage was my former brother-in-law. Now Rae was a successful crime novelist, and Ricky’s stock as a country-music star was still rising. Their Sea Cliff home on the bluff above China Beach had become a haven for me.
A haven that offered margaritas, which Rae was mixing in the blender. Mrs. Wellcome, their appropriately named housekeeper, who harbored aspirations of becoming an amateur sleuth, had been given the night off.
“They’re not in season,” Rae said of the margaritas, “but I feel like it’s still summer.”
“How come?”
“Got my latest manuscript off today. I’m now officially on vacation.”
“Congratulations! Where’s Ricky?”
“LA. Zenith Records is having a meltdown.”
“A serious meltdown?”
“No, minor. But the boss must resolve the problem. Sometimes I feel like I married a traveling salesman—only he travels by private jet.”
I looked closely at her. No, no signs of any problem. When Ricky had been married to my sister Charlene theirs had been a deeply troubled relationship; now they’d both grown up and found happiness with partners who better suited them. Still, I asked, “You ever think of moving down south?”
“God, no! Ricky can deal with the Hollywood nonsense, but he loves to escape it. As for me, this city is my inspiration—however ridiculous that sounds.”
“I know what you mean.”
“So, how’s your work going?” Rae handed me a margarita, and I savored a sip before replying.
“Well, let’s see. Gage Renshaw has surfaced.”
“What? I thought he was dead.”
“So did Hy and I. But he turned up in the office on Monday, looking more seedy than I remembered him.”
“What does he want?”
“He won’t say.”
“What do you think he wants?”
“A piece of the business, maybe, although he denies it. To make trouble, in any case.”
“He make any demands?”
“Not yet. You say you’re not starting your next book for a co
uple of months?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“How about helping me out in the hunt for Renshaw?”
Rae often assisted me with my cases—her way, she said, of gathering material for her books, and keeping her hand in at her former profession. She’d always been great at tracking people down.
She considered. “Okay. I usually get pretty bored after I deliver a book. But isn’t the PD doing anything about him?”
“I spoke with Larry Kaufman. He said he’d have somebody try to get a line on Renshaw, but I haven’t heard back. Maybe they couldn’t spare the man power.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me: short on money and perks, short on experienced personnel. I know Larry; I’ll give him a call in the morning. We’ll find the asshole, don’t you worry.”
9:55 p.m.
We’ll find the asshole, don’t you worry.
I thought about those words of Rae’s as I drove home after a hearty dinner of her beef stew. She’d told me years ago that she’d always be part of what my present staff insisted on calling Team McCone. And she’d proven it again and again.
Friendship. What creates it? What sustains it? Similarity of worldview, certainly. Good luck. Give and take. Mutual respect and trust. But there are many more indefinable components that make friendship a mysterious phenomenon. I’ve always been fortunate in my friends, as I have been in my family members and employees.
The cats were hungry when I got home. I wished that in this new neighborhood I could find someone as reliable as Chelle Curley to look after them when neither Hy nor I was home. But, I reminded myself, Chelle had grown up and now was well on her way to a career as a rehabber. I wondered if she’d persuaded Chad to sell her the house.
I still had reservations about the rehab job, but I’d had to learn to let my younger friends make their own decisions.
11:32 p.m.
For a while I tried to read. Several of my favorite authors had new books out, but my restless mind-set would have ruined good beginnings. I’d flicked through the TV menu, but nothing—current or old—piqued my interest. In between efforts, I’d tried to reach Hy at his various contact numbers, but with no success. Finally I shut off all the lights, wrapped myself in a soft afghan, and lay down on the living room sofa in front of the gutterings of the fire I’d earlier built.
Wind baffled around the chimney and occasionally sent little puffs of ash against the fire screen. The four yew trees planted across the house’s façade scraped rhythmically. Close by, a dog woofed, and I frowned, recalling Chad Kenyon’s remark about families with children leaving the city for the burbs and “taking their damn dogs with ’em too.” The comment smacked of one of the many changes in San Francisco that concerned me. What was a city without families? Without its children, pets, playgrounds, and parks? What was a city where everyone flashed platinum cards but looked as if they’d just hopped off a Google bus?
We used to see elegant old ladies in hats and gloves, strolling in Union Square or lunching at elegant bistros off its alleyways. Elegant gentlemen too, rushing from one important appointment to another. Many of the well-known street performers—mimes, musicians, singers, orators—had faded away. Neighborhoods were becoming indistinguishable, and people who should have known better—given the fancy labels on their beer and wine bottles, pizza and sandwich containers—had taken to dumping their post-picnic trash without regard for amply provided refuse bins in our parks.
My thoughts about the city were making me sad, so I wrapped the afghan tighter, closed my eyes, and focused on the day ahead. First thing, try Hy again. Then, when he told me what he thought Renshaw’s motivation was, I’d move on.
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 11
8:22 a.m.
I dialed Hy’s cell as soon as I felt coherent in the morning. The call went to voice mail. Now, that wasn’t like him at all. He always picked up for me. Unless he was involved in a dangerous situation…
Stop it, McCone! He’s in D.C. at the request of the government.
Well, maybe there is something to worry about after all. Our government…
Why did I always feel like a miscreant whenever the government invaded my life? I paid my taxes on time; I voted faithfully, although I wasn’t sure what good it did; I even contributed—minimally—to my candidates’ campaigns. But there it was, that guilty, hunted feeling.
Time to get going. But why? It was the day of rest, as my adoptive mother called it.
Thinking of Ma reminded me of my entire family—now that is a confusion. My birth mother, Saskia Blackhawk, is a nationally known attorney and advocate for Indian rights who lives in Boise, Idaho. My birth father, Elwood Farmer, is a prominent painter who lives in the Flathead Reservation in Montana. I have a half sister, Robin Blackhawk, in law school at UC Berkeley—my alma mater—and a half brother, Darcy Blackhawk, a deeply disturbed man whose whereabouts vary according to whatever institution his current doctors think will give him the best treatment.
Saskia was unmarried and unable to support me when I was born, so she allowed Ma and Pa, relatives on my maternal grandmother’s side, to adopt me. In those days people weren’t as open about adoptions as they are now, so I grew up thinking I was their natural child, my very different appearance a genetic “throwback” to my Shoshone grandmother. It was an act of kindness on Pa’s part to leave me the documents that helped me discover my real heritage.
Something thumped downstairs on the front steps. The Chronicle. I could wallow in that for a while. I tossed on a warm robe and went down to grab it and start the coffeepot. But it wasn’t the Chron.
It was Jill Starkey’s rag, The Other Shoe.
I didn’t subscribe to it. What was it doing here—and two days late at that?
With foreboding, I unrolled it and looked at the front page.
Main headline: “Seafood, Anyone?”
Local private eye Sharon McCone and her husband, Hy “Mr. Mysterious” Ripinsky, have egg on their faces—or is it clam chowder?
The recent renovation of the façade of the vintage M&R building on New Montgomery Street involves a sculpture by the famed and talented (???) Flavio St. John of Rome, Italy. A giant clamshell by St. John that is suspended over the building’s classic entryway attests to the low-level taste currently prevalent in our city—
I screamed in rage and threw the offending newspaper across the room. The hideous little troll had struck again! I wanted to storm over to her shabby offices on Market Street and throw her butt out the window. No, I wanted to throttle her with my bare hands. How about torturing her first? Yeah, that was it! Matches, pins, needles…too bad I didn’t know more about waterboarding—
“Starkey…shit…argh…” The cats were standing in the doorway to the kitchen, staring at me as if I’d gone insane. I silenced myself before I could make any more ridiculous noises.
The worst thing about this situation was that I couldn’t get my hands on the troll because it was Sunday.
Sundays I’m always on call in case any of my operatives need me, and sometimes I drop into the office. I feel the need to check on everybody’s progress; besides, my appearing on the scene tends to energize whatever operatives are working that shift. But mainly I prefer to dedicate the weekends to Hy—if he’s in town—and when he’s not to leisurely activities: trips to the Marin County Farmers Market; long drives in the country; brunch at a favorite restaurant and then a nap; matinees of movies I missed the first time around.
But all I could bring myself to do today was browse through the Chron—when it finally arrived—and rattle around the house, trying, as Elwood Farmer often said, “to assemble my thoughts.” Every attempt collapsed like a structure made of pick-up sticks. I kept calling into the office to check on the Webster Street surveillance, to which I’d assigned a couple of freelance operatives we frequently used. Nothing was happening. I checked for messages from Hy, but there was nothing. Renshaw was leaving me alone—tormenting me again.
8:18 p.m.
I picked at An
ne-Marie’s pesto chicken, lost the thread of my conversation with Hank and her. We’d gotten together, as we often did on Sundays, for an informal dinner, but I couldn’t focus. It didn’t help that Habiba wasn’t there, amusing us with chatter about a science project or speaking in French, which she was learning with great speed.
“How’s Habiba doing at Mrs. Herber’s?” I asked.
“Great,” Hank said. “They built a kite this week and after school tomorrow they’re taking it out to fly on Ocean Beach.”
“Is that wise?”
“Flying a kite? You just run along, and a puff of wind—”
“You know what I mean.”
“Shar, you can’t keep a kid cooped up because of something that might happen. Besides, Mrs. Herber is a crack shot and will be armed.”
My eyes filled with tears. I excused myself and headed for the bathroom.
It wasn’t bad, as bathrooms go. Hanging plants and plush towels and interesting little soaps and hand creams. Of course it would be, since the flat where we were having dinner was Anne-Marie’s.
She and Hank are one of those rare couples who can’t live together—she’s meticulous and he’s an utter slob—but they’ve recognized the dysfunction and taken steps to rectify it. He lives upstairs in their two-flat building in Noe Valley, where he can inflict as much wreckage as possible; she lives downstairs in a place that looks straight out of Architectural Digest. Habiba travels happily between floors according to her mood, although I’m of the opinion that she secretly prefers Hank’s squalor.
After a while I returned to the table. Nobody commented on my absence; they knew part of what was troubling me. Desserts had been placed before my plate: Napoleons. I wolfed down two and felt better.
At least I felt better until, an hour later in the car, I tried to call Hy’s cell to bring him up to speed. Again I got no answer, not even voice mail.
I pulled to the curb; I couldn’t think this through while driving. Hy had been out of touch since the early hours of Saturday morning, when he was about to meet the FBI charter in Miami. It made me wonder if a hostage negotiation had gone wrong. Well, there was one way to find out: Craig. He kept lines open to his former colleagues.
Someone Always Knows Page 7
