Someone Always Knows (16 page)

“Arson?”

“Yeah. He burned up a neighbor's garage, a paid job, something to do with antiques the guy had stored there and the insurance on them. Cops had both of them dead to rights, but before they could pick Renshaw up, he stole a plane and nobody down there's ever heard from him again.”

“He stole a
plane
?”

“Yeah, from a little grass strip out in the country. Crop duster.”

“How'd he learn to fly?”

“From the crop duster. Guy helped him get his license and everything. Nice way to repay him, huh?”

“Yeah. This crop duster still around?”

“Nope—died shortly after Renshaw stole the plane. His widow's still alive, though: Mrs. Charley Weeks, at Silver Threads Retirement Home in San Mateo. She sends me a Christmas card every year, because I helped her out with the heavy chores after Charley died.”

A good, generous man, this Artie Jones.

9:30 a.m.

S
o back I went to the Peninsula. San Mateo seemed asleep on this cheerless, damp October morning. Mist from the sea drifted over the coastal range and showed few signs of dissipating, although, in one of the strange inversions we frequently experience in the Bay Area, the weather in the city had appeared promising.

John had been asleep when I'd gotten home last night and I'd slipped out while he was showering this morning. No acting as my investigative assistant today. With Chelle I wasn't sure what had happened; maybe she'd gone back to her parents'.

From the car I called Silver Threads Retirement Home. Seemed they were well into their day, judging from the perky voice of the woman who answered the phone. Mrs. Weeks? She was in the middle of her Zumba class. Sure, I could come over and watch.

The woman who admitted me to the exercise room told me the Zumba hour was almost over. I asked about the program, and she said the instructors were licensed by an organization called Zumba Academy. The exercises included music with fast and slow rhythms, as well as resistance training, and the music came from an eclectic assortment of dance styles: salsa, mambo, flamenco, samba, and tango. Mrs. Weeks's Zumba Gold-Toning was a class for older participants with the goal of improving one's muscle strength, posture, mobility, and coordination. And, of course, of socializing.

I could tell that Zumba was working for the women in the class. As near as I could guess, they ranged from ages seventy to eighty-five, and were as supple and coordinated as most people who could claim half their years.

When the session was over, the leader pointed out a slender woman with a pert gray hairdo. She was in avid conversation with another of the participants, and it took me a moment to catch her attention. When she came over to me, I said, “Mrs. Charley Weeks?”

Her bright-blue eyes blinked at me. “Mrs. Charley Weeks. That brings back memories.”

“Why?”

“First of all, call me Rita. I'm widowed, haven't been a ‘Mrs.' for a long time. The reason I retained Charley's surname is that it's a damn sight better then Backalulu.”

I had to agree with her.

“So who're you?” she asked, using a towel on her damp hair.

I gave her my card and explained what kind of information I was after.

“Gage Renshaw,” she said. “That's a name I haven't heard in decades.”

“But you do recall him?”

“How could I not recall a man who stole my husband's airplane—and our livelihood? What did he take from you?”

“It's what he plans to take that concerns me.”

Rita led me to a table in a small area with vending machines, bought me a cup of coffee. I told her more about Renshaw's past and recent activities.

“Well,” she said when I'd finished, “I always knew he was a bad egg. Superficially charming, but with a dark side such as you see in most sociopaths.”

Another amateur psychologist, like Gil Stratton, the FBO owner at San José airport?

Rita added, “I know what I'm speaking of; I used to be a psychiatric nurse.”

“What are the indications of a sociopathic personality?”

“It all depends upon the individual you're dealing with. As for the traits I would have assigned to Gage…” She paused, refreshing her memory. “Failure to accept responsibility for his own actions, shoving the blame onto others. Many short-term relationships and extreme promiscuity. Manipulativeness, denial, callousness. Pathological lying. And more. In short, all of the characteristics that those of us who are relatively normal don't have or, if we do, manage to control.”

“That's one hell of an analysis for someone who must've known him only in passing.”

“I'm a quick study where nuts are concerned.”

“Have you had any recent contact with Renshaw?”

“Of course not; he's forgotten I ever existed. I hope.”

“Was there anyone he was close to when you knew him?”

Again she paused, considering. “He did have a sort of friend, a man who drove people for a living. Taking people to and from the airstrip, that sort of thing. A tall, heavy, unattractive person—I think Renshaw liked having someone like that around to manipulate so he could shine.”

“What was this man's name?”

“It was a long time ago. Let me think.” She pressed her fingertips to her brow. “His first name was Don.”

“And his last?”

“Macy, I think. Yes, Don Macy. Like the department store.”

I drove back up the Peninsula and headed for the office. On the way I worried about having so easily invited my brother into my life. I loved John, and he and I had always gotten along, but I didn't really know him after all these years. Would he be a clingy guest? Demanding? The man who came for a week and stayed seven years? No way of predicting. Had I been too impulsive?

But then I flashed on the sterile, lonely house on the canyon in San Diego: no way he could go on living in such a manner. If there was trouble ahead for us, we'd deal with it.

Traffic was a bitch as I crossed the city. Too many cars, too many people—it had been my driving mantra for years. But here I was, one of them, using up too much fuel, spewing too many fumes into the atmosphere. I'd've ridden a bike, but an old knee injury prevented me from doing so. Taking public transit wasn't really an option in a job like mine, when I might need to leave on a moment's notice, final destination god knew where. So a car was the only solution. Fortunately mine was fuel-efficient and had good emission control, in spite of its image as a rich person's luxury gas-guzzler.

After I'd parked in the M&R underground garage, I bypassed the main lobby by taking the private high-speed elevator to the fourth floor. Early-afternoon quiet there—nobody hanging around chatting, no clients waiting, except for two men in dark-blue vested suits who were flipping through our battered back copies of
Bloomberg Businessweek
. I stopped, eyeing them from a vantage place beside the reception desk.

They looked extremely buttoned down, even for a Monday afternoon in San Francisco: blue-and-gray-striped ties, starched white shirts, highly polished black wing tips. I'm not saying that we who live in the Bay Area are careless about our appearances, but we do tend to relax some. These men were fully suited up for a power conference. Except for their hair color—one's blond, the other's dark brown—they could have been identical twins, right down to their cleanly shaven faces and manicured fingernails. They reminded me of Craig when he'd put in his first appearance.

FBI. Had to be.

I cleared my throat and the men looked up. “Ms. McCone?” the blond one said.

Yes, he'd been well briefed, probably with photos.

I nodded. “And you are?”

“Special Agent Arthur Kincade, of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. This is my partner, Agent Seth Palmer. Your associate, Mr. Savage, said you'd be coming in and we should wait for you.”

So Mick was in the office. Good; that meant he'd turned on the surveillance cams after these two arrived. I studied the IDs the agents extended; they looked genuine.

I said, “What can I do for you?”

“Could we sit down…?” This from Kincade.

“Certainly. Better here than in my private office; it's in chaos and the cleaning staff haven't been in yet.”

Kincade nodded and the three of us sat on a cluster of chairs near one of the windows. Palmer crossed his hands on his lap, while Kincade leaned forward, lacing his long fingers between his knees.

“Your husband, Mr. Heino Ripinsky—is it possible he could join us?”

“Not at this time. It's my understanding that you've already been in touch with him.”

Kincade widened his eyes and glanced at his partner, who didn't react. So the first agent was going to do all the talking while the other observed. A common interrogative procedure.

“Why would you think that?” he asked me.

“In his last communication with me, several days ago, my husband indicated he was on his way to D.C. at the request of the Bureau.”

“I have no information as to that.”

“Then why are you here?”

“We understand that you and your husband are connected to a Mr. Gage Renshaw.”

Now that was interesting; they'd linked Renshaw to Hy and me. “‘Connected to' isn't the right term.”

“What is?”

“Perhaps ‘have knowledge of' would be better.”

“All right, Ms. McCone. You have knowledge of him. Where is Mr. Renshaw?”

“Why do you want him?” Did it have something to do with Renshaw's—for the want of a better word—vendetta against M&R?

Kincade replied, as if by rote, “That's classified information. Has Mr. Renshaw contacted you recently?”

“What constitutes ‘recently'?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I can't, until I know what you consider recently.”

The men exchanged glances. Kincade said, “Two weeks ago. Exactly.”

“That's true, but I don't know where he is now.”

“We are recording this conversation, Ms. McCone.”

“You should have told me that in the beginning. Under the law—”

“Are you attempting to be obstructive?”

Yes. Because I don't like the sort of adversarial agents the Bureau sends out to conduct these “conversations.” Because I don't like your high-handedness. Because I don't like either of you.

But all I said was, “I am not attempting to obstruct anything.”

“We want to know about Gage Renshaw. Where is he?”

“As I said, I don't know.”

“This is a federal investigation. Penalties for obstruction are severe.”

I was getting angry—unreasonably angry, I supposed—but their smug, stone-faced reactions and replies and now this veiled threat had pushed any number of my buttons.

I didn't respond.

“Ms. McCone, we can take you into custody—”

“On what grounds? I've answered your question truthfully.”

Kincade shook his head now, finally showing his frustration.

I said, “Perhaps I could propose a compromise?”

“And what would that be?”

“I don't know where Gage Renshaw is, but I do know where he's recently been. My husband is currently conducting a hostage negotiation for the Bureau. I'd like to know if he is safe.”

The agents exchanged glances. Kincade said, “Excuse us for a few moments,” and they got up and left the offices.

Kincade returned shortly. “My partner's checking with the Bureau.” He sat down and looked at the view. “I've always admired your city, how you've blended the old with the new.”

For one whose rage was near the boiling point, I replied civilly enough. “It's taken a great deal of effort, and our planners haven't been fully successful, but we're all learning from our mistakes.”

And then we sat in silence. Eventually Agent Palmer returned and handed a slip of paper to Kincade. He read it, then said, “Mr. Ripinsky is safe and will be returning to you shortly. He has been conducting a particularly delicate negotiation for us at a remote location near the Canadian border. No telecommunication has been allowed for fear the hostage takers will pick up on it.”

Hy—safe. Even my skeptical nature would not allow me to disbelieve it. The relief I felt was intense.

“Thank you. Thank you both.”

They nodded, then Kincade said, “Now, about where Mr. Renshaw has been…”

“He visited these offices two weeks ago today. He seemed disturbed, down on his luck, and he couldn't articulate what he wanted from us. My researcher tells me he was last seen in Mexico—Baja California Sur—in a small town called Santa Iva, in the company of a prominent American expatriate, Bernard Ordway.”

“Doing what?”

“Connecting with people from his past, I assumed. Renshaw lived a good part of his life in Mexico and South America.”

The agents nodded; they knew his story. “And where is he now?” Kincade asked.

“As I said before,
I don't know
.”

The agents continued to question me. When had I last seen Renshaw? Had he tried to contact me? Did he have all my contact numbers? Exactly what had he said when he came to our offices? Then they backtracked: How long had I known Renshaw? Under what circumstances had we met? Had I had any professional dealings with him? Had we gotten on personally at any point?

I answered truthfully, glossing over the fact that we'd first met when I'd tricked him into thinking he was hiring me to kill Hy. I wanted to distance myself from the bastard as much as possible. Finally the agents left, admonishing me to contact them immediately should I have any more contact with Renshaw.

“From what I overheard on the intercom, that was pretty heavy stuff,” Mick said after we'd locked ourselves securely within my office.

“Yeah, it was. What do you think about them looking for Renshaw?”

“Frankly, I'm surprised they didn't start long ago.”

“Well, his exploits in Latin and Central America would've fallen under the jurisdiction of the CIA, and you know how these agencies are about sharing.”

“I hope their interest isn't somehow connected to Hy's disappearance. I mean, you have only those two guys' word that he's tied up in a negotiation.”

“I don't suppose you overheard what they were saying when they went into the hall?”

“No, they whispered.”

“Or what the one said on the phone?”

“Negative.”

I flopped into my desk chair. “Will you get me a drink? Bottom of the bar, single malt Scotch, straight up. A double.”

“God, Shar.” I don't often dip into the hard liquor in quantity.