I lifted off at oh-dark-thirty in Two-Seven-Tango and set my course due east toward the high desert country. As the faint early-morning lights of the Bay Area faded behind me, I crested the hills at Altamont Pass, where if it had been daytime and clear I’d’ve been able to see the wind turbines rotating beneath me. By the time I was halfway across the great agricultural plain beyond, the fields were taking on definition—mostly brown of varying shades, interspersed with some green, laid out in neat squares separated by access roads.
The sky above the eastern mountains was taking on a pinkish-yellow glow. I watched it grow more and more intense before the rim of the sun appeared; after that the fiery ball rose quickly, illuminating the sharp peaks of the Sierra Nevada. At Yosemite I changed course slightly to the northeast, tuning my mike into the chatter on the UNICOM at the small airstrip outside Vernon, by the lake.
“Four-Eight-Seven, that crate of yours sure needs a new paint job.”
I smiled, recognizing the voice of a friend, Janie Moore.
“Three-Five-Bravo, I’m surprised you fly that Piper in public.”
Another friend, Tim Caxton.
“Break it up, you two,” said the bored voice of Amos Tinsdale, who manned the communications shack. “This is an airport, not a playground.”
Both snorted.
I said into the microphone, “Tufa Tower, Two-Seven-Tango requests permission to land at your playground.”
“Two-Seven-Tango, you’re back! About time. Put her down, but watch out for those two school kids up there.”
“You got it.”
No pretensions or formalities at Tufa Tower Airport, but it’s one of the safest I’ve ever flown into. Good friends and neighbors look out for each other.
After tying down and spending some time catching up with the folks at the small terminal, I asked Janie Moore, a rangy blonde with a long ponytail, if she would give me a ride out to the ranch and back.
“You leaving so soon?”
“Just a quick trip to pick up some stuff we keep there.”
“You guys’re never here any more. I don’t know how long it’s been since we danced at Zelda’s or had a fish fry.”
I didn’t either. “Real life’s kind of catching up with Ripinsky and me,” I said. “I did tell you in our Christmas card that we merged our companies?”
She nodded, starting her Land Rover. “You’re speeding up while the rest of us’re slowing down.”
There it was: that divide again. How to explain that neither Hy nor I wanted to abandon the things that energized us, gave us purpose and interest in life?
I said, “We’ll come up soon, make a party of it. God knows that old house is due for a good cleaning.”
And it was. I’d never seen such stupendous cobwebs, such copious rodent droppings, such peeling paint. I went straight to the big bedroom, where there were two brassbound steamer trunks Hy had picked up somewhere years ago. Strained and grunted as I moved the larger trunk away from the wall, broke a fingernail prying loose a panel behind it. The wall safe resided there, some six inches above the baseboard. I’d memorized the combination when Hy had given it to me, long before we were married, but had had little occasion to use it; my important documents were in the safe at the office, and only Hy’s old ones were here. He’d shown them to me: deed to the ranch; his and Julie’s marriage certificate; her death certificate; a thick file labeled “Chiang Mai.” “Feel free to read it,” he’d said. “All the details of Project 8879J and my exit from Southeast Asia are set down there.”
I’d never read it. I don’t know how most couples operate, but Hy and I have a deep respect for one another’s privacy. He’d told me many details of his nightmarish years in Asia, but nothing about whatever this project was. And because of that omission, I knew the experience had been extremely painful. If I read about it, he’d feel bound to discuss it, and I didn’t want to awaken that pain. He’d seemed grateful at the time that I declined.
But Gage Renshaw had been part of that experience. The file might contain the key to his vendetta.
The papers were inside an old brown water-stained duffel bag. I pulled them out, opened the bag, and peeled off some plastic wrapping to make sure they were the right ones. Yes—8879J.
When I went back to the main room, Janie was standing at the front window, fingering a deteriorating sheer curtain. “Ramon Perez and his wife want to buy this place, you know.”
Ramon and his wife Sara tended the ranch, our horses, and the sheep herd for us.
“He’s mentioned it.”
“They’ve done wonderfully with the herd, moved the horses over to be with theirs, where they seem content. And they can afford at least a portion of the property; they’ve saved their money well.”
“What’re you saying, Janie?” I asked, although I already knew.
“It might be a kindness to everybody concerned if you and Hy let it go.”
She was right, of course. In my haste to get hold of the files, I hadn’t given a thought to stopping in to see the Perezes or the horses, King and Sidekick. I hadn’t really paid attention to the house, except to notice its shabby condition. I didn’t truly believe that we would fly up for a massive cleaning, go dancing at Zelda’s, or throw a fish fry.
“I’ll speak to Hy about it,” I told her. “We’ll see.”
3:59 p.m.
The stack of files had seemed thicker than I remembered; if I made an immediate return to the Bay Area, I’d be in for a long night reading them and an exhausted, ineffectual morning. But if I stayed here, dirty and dismal as the ranchhouse was, I could squeeze in a few hours’ sleep and be somewhat refreshed for the day ahead. So I decided to remain at the ranch overnight to read them, and called Janie to ask if she could take me to the airstrip early tomorrow morning. She readily agreed. “Anytime,” she added. “I’m usually up well before dawn. Just give me a holler.”
In addition to being filthy, the house was so cold that I made myself a pot of strong coffee and took it and the files to bed, where I turned the electric blanket on high. Half an hour later the sheets were still clammy, but I didn’t care. I was immersed in an old story.
Hy’s handwriting: Chiang Mai. The bargain has been sealed. 200 crates of automatic weapons and rocket launchers to be delivered by Renshaw to a private island in the South China Sea, where they’ll be distributed within the week to insurgents in two nearby trouble spots. Financial backing of several multinational companies with operations based in the U.S. firmly in place. Guarantee of no governmental interference.
Whose government? The anonymous countries’—or ours?
Have managed to disrupt Renshaw’s plans. He’s agitated, uncommunicative, but doesn’t appear to suspect me. He can easily be thrown off-balance.
There followed a list of governments, national and multinational companies, and individuals. I sucked in my breath while reading it: a number of US allies; some of the world’s most respected firms and prominent citizens. Two members of the US House of Representatives and a senator, now deceased.
Explosive stuff—literally and I can’t let it happen. We don’t need another Viet Nam.
But I don’t want to be stuck in the muck and mire of investigations and congressional hearings. Last week I promised myself I was getting out, getting clean. Going back to the simple life I thought I was bored with but now yearn for. Well, maybe not all the way back because there is no such way, given what I’ve seen and done here. But a man reaches a point where he can take only so much guilt and recrimination. If there’s anything to be salvaged out of this mess I’ve made, I’ll try to find it.
So here’s the plan:
Tonight that decrepit old copier in the common room will get a workout after everybody’s asleep or out on their flights. Jesus, I hope it doesn’t break down. Tomorrow I have a flight scheduled at oh-dark-thirty—more arms for rebels. But the arms are going deep into the South China Sea, and the plane will be ditched well outside US waters. And this original file pl
us one copy are going with me, to the chopper I’ve arranged to pick me up.
Renshaw will know what I’ve done when he sees the original is gone. His plans to gain millions from arms sales will be blown to pieces—blown, another apt phrase—but he’ll never be able to come after me, because I have the evidence.
The evidence—where will I take it? CIA, probably. At least, they can have it, so long as they agree to leave me out of it.
I leafed through the rest of the file, nearly choking on my disgust as I read of Renshaw’s plans. As I read of how many of the world’s most upstanding citizens and institutions had been willing to fund and profit from them.
This was the original, Hy’s insurance in case whatever agency into whose hands he had placed the copies reneged on its agreement to keep him out of its investigation. And it had, because nothing about it or its results had ever appeared in the media. Now the FBI wanted control of the case.
One flaw in their thinking: Renshaw was Hy’s and mine. We’d be the ones to finally bring him down.
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 21
4:30 a.m.
It was oh-dark-thirty again when I lifted off from Tufa Tower and set my course for Oakland. I watched the lake and the Sierras recede in the distance and the sun begin to wash over the fuselage as it outpaced me. The Bay Area looked clear, cool, and welcoming.
When I touched down at Oakland, Mick was waiting in my car.
As soon as I’d gotten in, I asked if there had been any communication from Hy or any news about him.
“Nothing,” he said, flicking a concerned glance at me. “But we’ve been keeping on top of everything else, especially Don Macy’s whereabouts. He’s been going about business as usual—driving, errands, home.”
“No slight variation in his routine?”
“Well, a professional driver like him doesn’t really have a routine, in the sense of where he goes and with whom. But those new operatives we put on him have logged every passenger and destination. I swear they don’t sleep—and unfortunately, they don’t let me sleep either, phoning in at all hours.”
We were now traveling across the Bay Bridge (my mind, as ever, on those defective bolts) to the M&R building. I asked Mick why he was driving my car, and he described picking it up from my house in a series of automotive maneuverings that astonished me. He hadn’t wanted to waste agency money on a taxi. (This from the son of a multimillionaire, who was about to become one himself!) So he’d woken Alison on one of her rare mornings off and prevailed on her to drive him to my house.
Why not take his car or the bike? I asked. Both were in the shop. Then, when he arrived at my house, he’d found John’s new Jag blocking the driveway. My brother is neither a willing nor a gracious riser, so for a moment Mick considered hot-wiring the Jag. Fortunately he concluded this wasn’t the neighborhood for such early-morning activities. Common sense prevailed further in the person of Chelle, who had seen him and emerged in her bathrobe with John’s keys.
My family members are, if nothing else, inventive.
12:05 p.m.
I set things in motion for a staff meeting at four and then, even though I’d caught a couple of hours’ sleep at home, napped some more on my office sofa.
The sleep had made me groggy, but I pushed through my mental fog and called Rae.
“No sign of the bastard,” she said. “I’ve canvassed all the data storage places he was hanging around, staked out your building too. Nobody’s seen him, and as far as we know, he hasn’t had any contact with Macy either.”
“I don’t think he’d bother to go back to any of those storage companies; he got what he wanted at the Depot.”
“Maybe he’s still in Mexico.”
“No, he got what he wanted there too. Why don’t you give it a rest for now and come sit in on our staff meeting? There’s been a new development you should know about.”
“When’s the meeting?”
“Four o’clock.”
“I’ll be there.”
3:55 p.m.
The conference room was ready, with copies of Hy’s files placed before each seat. Only Craig had read them, since he was the one operative likely to fully understand FBI-speak. People began to filter in and take their places. When everybody was assembled I began.
“I know I don’t have to stress this with you all, but what’s said in this room today goes no farther. I trust you to keep strict confidentiality. No exceptions.
“In a way that’s too complicated to explain now, I’ve found out Gage Renshaw’s motive for attacking this agency, Hy, and me. There’ll be time for you to study the materials in front of you later, so I’ll summarize. They concern an illegal overseas arms deal arranged by Renshaw and his late partner Dan Kessell, and thwarted by Hy many years ago. Renshaw’s motive is revenge. And his plan for revenge is linked to his search for the three and a half million dollars in bearer bonds supposedly secreted in the abandoned house we were investigating on Webster Street.
“Much of this is theoretical, but I assume Renshaw found out about the bonds somehow and received confirmation that they exist—or existed—while he was in Mexico.”
Adah said, “I thought the bonds were destroyed in the fire.”
“Maybe not,” I told her. “As you remember, I saw someone running away from the house immediately before the fire flared up.”
“Renshaw?”
“Could’ve been. The man was Renshaw’s height and body type.”
“Macy’s too. It could’ve been him, acting on Renshaw’s orders.”
“That’s also possible.”
“What about the man who was killed in the fire?”
“Nemo James, Michelle Curley’s boyfriend. I haven’t confirmed this yet—and maybe no one ever will, since he was very badly burned—but I believe his true identity was Adam Smithson, son of the man who stole the bonds. I have a photo of James as a boy, but I only saw him in the flesh as an adult in his thirties. After studying the photo and showing it to Chelle, I’ve concluded there’s a similarity in facial bone structure that an expert will probably confirm. There’re also incidents in his childhood that indicate why he would adopt the Nemo alias.”
Derek asked, “Was he after the bonds too?”
“Yes. He knew about them from his father, who died before he could go back for them.”
“Why’d the son wait so long to try to retrieve them?”
“I know,” Mick said. “It occurred to me last night, and I checked with the state board of corrections today. Smithson was in prison all those years under his own name for an armed robbery he committed in San Diego. The personal history he presented to Chelle is an outright pack of lies.”
Julia said, “So this Nemo guy was looking for the bonds and along came Renshaw, who was also looking for them. The timing’s quite a coincidence.”
“Coincidences do happen,” I said, “sometimes in bunches—otherwise there wouldn’t be any such word.”
“True. So Renshaw bumps him off or otherwise disables him and gets the bonds and sets the house on fire. Deliberately?”
“No way of knowing. Until we get hold of Renshaw.”
“We?”
“Yes—we.”
“Tall order.”
Adah asked, “These bonds—can they still be redeemed?”
I glanced at Derek, who was keeping in touch with various financial institutions.
He said, “Yes, but I just found out today that the date they expire is coming up next month—another reason Nemo may have been anxious to get hold of them.”
“And have any of them been redeemed since the fire?”
“Not yet. Renshaw’s probably made some illicit arrangements for cashing them, but hasn’t had the opportunity to act on them so far.”
I thought of Señor Bernardo Ordway. Now there was a man who would know what to do—for a steep fee. That had probably been Renshaw’s reason for going to Mexico.
We talked some more, going round and round on the same issues: Did R
enshaw have any accomplices? Was he as truly unbalanced as we thought? How had he managed to function all those years if he was? What was the trigger that had pushed him into action against Hy and me?
During this session my phone rang: Nadya Collins, the relatively new operative who was tailing Macy. I left the conference room and took the call in the hallway: Macy had gone to Safeway after getting off work, and somehow she’d lost him there. “It’s a big store,” she added apologetically. “He disappeared in the produce department, and when I came out his car wasn’t in the parking lot. I drove over to his house, but it wasn’t there either and the place is totally dark.”
“Continue your surveillance of the house for the next twenty minutes or so, and then I’ll take it from there,” I told her.
Action was what I craved, not more brainstorming. My best lead to Renshaw was Don Macy, and the place to intercept Macy tonight was at his home…if he finally came home. I wanted to be the one to do that.
6:21 p.m.
Nadya was parked a short way downhill from Macy’s rented house. I pulled up behind her gray sedan and flashed my lights to let her know I’d arrived, which was our prearranged signal. She left immediately.
I took my .38 from my purse, where it had been since before I flew to Tufa Lake, and slipped it under the waistband of my jeans at the small of my back. Then I stuffed the purse under the seat and got out of the car. The night air was balmy, as it often is in September and October, San Francisco’s true summer months.
I climbed the short front steps of Macy’s home and pressed the bell. I didn’t expect an answer and I didn’t get one. I moved along the driveway, looking for signs of recent habitation, but there was nothing to see. The blinds and curtains were all tightly drawn. The driveway ended at a cracked concrete pad where a garage or carport might once have stood; it was so deep in the shadows that I hadn’t noticed it before. I took out my small flashlight and shone it around, shielding the beam with my other hand. Oil stains, some old, some newer. Rotted foundation posts from an old superstructure surrounded the concrete.
Someone Always Knows Page 18
