Someone Always Knows (6 page)

But after graduation, when I'd discovered that a BA in sociology didn't mean much of anything in the real world, I'd returned to working the job that I'd held part time as an all-night security guard in a downtown San Francisco office building, and surprisingly found pleasure in the solitude. Even later when I was hired by All Souls Legal Cooperative, where one of the very few perks was living in its big Victorian, I'd sought out a small studio apartment not far away on Guerrero Street.

Alone, but not lonely. And why should I be?

I'd had relationships (mostly disastrous) and bought and renovated a cottage built as shelter for people made homeless by the earthquake of 1906, and if it hadn't been for an encounter with Hy while on a case in the high desert of Mono County, I might have been living in that manner still.

But Hy…

I smiled at the memory of our first encounter on the shores of Tufa Lake:

“Hey,” I'd called, “what's your name?”

“Heino Ripinsky.”

Jesus
, I thought,
it's no wonder he didn't introduce himself earlier!

Hy must have been used to reactions like mine, because he stopped beside his ancient Morgan, whirled, and leveled an index finger at me. “Don't laugh,” he warned. “Don't you dare laugh!”

I controlled the twitching at the corners of my mouth and spread my hands wide. “Me? Why would I do that?”

He winked at me, vaulted into the Morgan, and was gone in a cloud of dust.

Now Hy touched my elbow—his signal that he wanted out of there.

In the elevator on the way down, he said, “God, those people have gotten stuffy! Ecologically oriented mutual funds. Shares in sustainable corporate farms. Getting in on the ground floor of safe genetically engineered foods. Makes me want to organize a protest and get involved in a fistfight.”

Seemed that, in my isolation, I'd had a somewhat better time than Hy. I squeezed his arm in sympathy.

“You must be exhausted,” he went on. “This stuff with Renshaw—”

“Must exhaust you too.”

“Well, sure.” The elevator stopped at the garage level and we turned toward our assigned spaces. “I just don't understand what he—”

“Let's give the subject a rest for a while.”

“But aren't you worried—”

“As you said, I'm exhausted.”

Understanding, he smiled as he held the door of my car open for me, then turned toward his own. “See you at home, McCone. First one who gets naked wins the prize.”

“What prize?”

“Me.”

“Oh, hell. I won that years ago.”

After I collected my prize, I couldn't sleep. Instead, as I often did, I lay in the dark and reflected on the years during Hy's and my time together. We'd had joy, adventures, conflicts, and near-disasters that had all bonded us closer. What would have blown other couples apart had only served to unite us. I wondered what was yet to come.

More and more I heard people somewhat older than I—not to say a fair number of my contemporaries—talking about retirement. The concept had begun to puzzle me.

What did it actually mean? I asked people.

Not having to get up and go to work in the morning.

But once you get up, what do you do?

Relax, play some golf or maybe some bridge. Buy a good bike and ride everywhere. Plant a garden, take up that hobby you abandoned ten years ago, volunteer at the animal shelter or the library.

Sounded good, but I'd listened to a lot of such plans, and noticed they didn't often come to fruition. I never saw a familiar face in my visits to the animal shelter—where I
did
volunteer. No gardens bloomed in our former neighbors' yards; hardly any happy people went off carrying golf bags or other sports equipment, few bikes ridden by older people whizzed by. But what I did observe was a number of envious glances from previously friendly neighbors of a certain age being directed at me as I went about my busy day. In the new neighborhood, which had become something of a Mecca for families with children, I didn't notice that kind of resentment.

I understood and empathized with the reasons for the older people's resentment: life had tricked them in a nasty way. Promises of an easy, pleasurable old age had been broken by the failing economy, by the greedy corporations that had fueled the recent recession, by the politicians who didn't have the guts to stand up for the issues we'd elected them on.

The American dream had worked splendidly for the young and well educated who could command top earnings; and by sheer luck and hard work (and, frankly, a certain amount of chicanery on Hy's part) it had worked for us. But for many of the rest it had turned out not to be a dream after all. And in some cases it had become a nightmare.

9:22 a.m.

I
found a pleasant surprise when I arrived at my office in the morning: my young friend Michelle Curley.

“Hey, how's it going?” I asked, dumping files, briefcase, and purse on the desk.

“Pretty well.” She reached forward and prevented the vase containing the deep-red rose that weekly appeared on my desk, courtesy of Hy, from toppling onto the floor. (Those roses—that's a whole other story.) When we were settled, she added, “I need to ask you a business—or maybe it's a legal—question.”

“I'm not an expert in either of those areas. Maybe you should talk to Hank or Anne-Marie.” When I saw her frown, I added, “They probably wouldn't charge you.”

Michelle had passed on going to college and started her own firm, Natural Habitat Associates. So far as I knew, the only associates were her little brother, Sean, and whoever her current boyfriend might be. But I had great hopes for the fledgling company: Chelle—as she preferred to be called—had been buying, rehabilitating, and profitably reselling dilapidated houses since she was eighteen, aided by her parents, who cosigned loans and helped out whenever they could. Now, according to Chad Kenyon, she wanted to take on a major rehab job—on Webster Street.

She now said, “I think you're more suited to help me.”

“Oh? Why?”

“There's this place I really want. It's shit now—not even habitable—but I've got a vision.”

“I know. Chad Kenyon told me.”

“He
did
come to see you.”

“He also hired us to clear the building of squatters and other intruders. So we'd better not catch you on the premises.”

Chelle frowned. “I thought maybe you could persuade the Kenyons to negotiate with me. But you seem so negative.”

I asked, “You've been hanging around that dump, haven't you?”

“Sometimes.”

“Sleeping there? You told me you do that, you know.”

“Don't worry about me. I've got any problems covered.”

“How?”

“You're about to meet him. He's waiting out front.”

A boyfriend, then. That was a relief—somewhat.

A tall, good-looking man was soon admitted to the office by Ted. Blond, lightly bearded, he looked to be in his mid-thirties. A little old for Chelle, I thought.

She jumped up and went to take his hand. “Shar, meet Nemo James.”

We shook hands and I motioned for them to sit. “Has Chelle taken you to the Webster Street house?” I asked.

“Sure. A few times.”

“Are you aware it's dangerous?”

He shrugged. “I've got a gun for protection.”

“He won't let me touch it,” Chelle said.

“Good. What do you think of the place?”

“That it's a gold mine ready for the old pick and shovel.”

“Are you by any chance from the West?”

“How'd you…? Oh, the ‘old pick and shovel' bit. Yeah, I'm from Utah.”

“So,” Chelle said, “are you willing to help me with the Kenyons, Shar?”

“I'll try, but that's all I can promise.”

“I knew you would!”

“Don't get your hopes up yet,” I told her.

It still struck me as a bad idea for Chelle to rehab the Webster Street house. A very bad idea for a variety of reasons. The tough dealing Kenyons were one factor in the mix; the squatters who would infringe on Chelle's efforts were another. The job would be crushingly expensive and at best she'd turn only a small profit. The place was depressing and, if she and Nemo decided to live there while doing much of the work, as she often did with her dilapidated buildings, it would surely put a strain on their relationship. But the danger of such an endeavor bothered me most. A push down the stairs by an unknown assailant was bad enough; what would happen if matters turned lethal?

I should have told Chelle and Nemo about my fears, but they seemed determined to pursue their plans. I hoped the Kenyons would continue to refuse to sell.

Again, it was one of those complications of life that I didn't need, given the others. So I merely asked her for a prospectus on her project and told her I'd be in touch. Then, when I was sure they'd cleared the elevator doors, I pounded my fists on the desk and shouted, “Ripinsky!”

He came running. “What the hell's going on?”

“My life's turning into a nightmare!”

“You mean Renshaw? I can handle him.”

“Please do—brutally, if necessary.”

“What else is wrong?”

“It turns out Chelle Curley is determined to rehab the derelict house in the Western Addition that the Kenyon brothers own.”

“So let her strike a deal with them. She's a good negotiator.”

“She's tried, but the Kenyons aren't taking her seriously—or at least Chad isn't. She's asked me as a special favor to intercede, and I don't want to deal with it.”

Hy flopped down onto the sofa. “God, when the brothers took off for Europe I hoped we'd seen their backsides. And now we've got Flavio St. John after us.”

“What!”

“He's filed a lawsuit, something about nonpayment for an ‘exceptional and ageless' piece of art.”

“He's full of shit! The contract specified that payment would be on acceptance of it by us.”

“I've already turned it over to Hank. He said not to sweat it.”

Hy's phone buzzed. He listened, made a few curt replies, and hung up, then rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Oh, my God. You remember that trouble in Lima that I thought I'd wrapped up? It's come unraveled.”

“Oh no! D'you have to go down there again?”

“Yes. ASAP.” He explained what had happened.

My spirits plummeted. “It's not right. How can the CEO of a major corporation get himself kidnapped twice in the same place in the same year?”

“Good question. This time he's going to have to do some detailed explaining.”

“When are you leaving?”

He checked his watch. “Depends on when I can get a flight. There's one that leaves in four hours.”

“Okay, I'll carry on, e-mail anything important to you.”

“Same here.”

“One small favor,” I added. “Will you please take the Kenyon brothers with you?”

Chad Kenyon was very much with me, however. He had called Julia just as she was returning to her office from her morning's work, and in a moment of weakness she'd consented to setting up a luncheon for the three of us at Bella, his favorite Italian restaurant.

Why the hell had she done that? I'd asked.

Well, the Kenyons were good clients; they could put a great deal of money into the agency's pockets.

Why involve me? I'd asked.

She didn't want to eat alone with him.

Great. I was acting as a bodyguard for one of my own employees.

Now she sat beside me, wolfing her ravioli so she could get out of there as soon as possible. Ostensibly her reason was that the hunt for Renshaw was heating up and she needed to get back to it. In reality the hunt was stone-cold dead. Julia was in a hurry because she couldn't bear to watch Chad eat.

Chad loaded grated parmesan onto his linguini vongole. “Like I was saying, there's a fortune to be made in these derelict buildings if you know what you're doing.”

I nibbled on a wilted lettuce leaf from the crab salad I already regretted ordering. Washed it down with a sip of pinot grigio.

“What's the matter?” Chad asked around a mouthful of pasta. “Something wrong with the salad? I'll make them take it back—”

“No, please don't. I'm just not very hungry.”

“You should be like Sweetheart here.” He gestured at Julia, who scowled at her plate. “She can eat and drink me under the table.”

I smiled, nibbled on something green and curly that I always mistakenly call Caligula, then said, “I'd like to meet with both you and your brother to discuss Webster Street.”

Chad's face darkened. “Don't get me started on that little weasel Dick. Soon's we got back from Europe, he's up to his old tricks again—sitting in the woods. Only now he's in so deep, there's no cell reception.”

“He sits in the woods?”

Chad knocked back the rest of his wine and motioned to the waiter for another bottle. “‘Getting away from things' is how he puts it. Backpacks into some weird-ass wilderness and spends days—weeks, even—there. Says it brings him peace. What I call it is hiding.”

I thought of Touchstone, Hy's and my place on the Mendocino coast, and the high desert sheep ranch he'd inherited from his stepfather. I could certainly understand the impulse.

“Hell,” Chad said, “what's he want to hide from when there's so much action here?”

From you, maybe?
I thought.

“What kind of action?” I asked.

“Where've you been living lately—in a cave? The city's exploding. Techies and all their lovely money are flowing in. Rents and home prices are soaring. Land too. You remember that hole in the ground on Russian Hill where you were investigating that witchy stuff last spring? I turned it over the day I got back from Italy, and there're already condos on it—a hundred percent occupied too. Families and poor people're heading toward the burbs, taking their damn dogs with 'em too. It's a goddamn renaissance!” He thrust out his arms, nearly swatting the waiter, who had returned with the wine. The server barely reacted; this was where Chad ate most of his meals, and the staff had become accustomed to him, I supposed.

“
Dios mio
,” Julia exclaimed, “I'm going to be late for that meeting.” She started to slide out of the booth.

“Come on, stay,” Chad told her. “Have some of those raspberry tarts you love.”

“No,” I said. “She's officially on the clock for the agency now. See you later, Jules.”

She fled before Chad could say anything more. I smiled inwardly, because I suspected she'd earlier asked the maître d' for a bag of the tarts—which she did love—to go.

So there I was, trapped with Chad, who was in the process of wiping clam sauce from his lips with his tie.

“I went to see that blighted building you hired me to investigate,” I said, picking up the thread of our conversation from before Julia's departure. “I went by there yesterday afternoon.”

“Yeah? What did you think of it?”

I'd decided not to tell him about someone pushing me down the stairs; he was likely to make a federal case of it. “It's really grim. I doubt you can sell it in its current condition.”

He groaned. “Maybe I should've sold it to the Curley kid.”

Reluctantly I told him, “She's still interested.”

“Well, if I change my mind I'll get in touch with her. But she'd have to come up on the price.”

“Other than that, there's been no interest?”

“Zip.”

“Well, we'll try to secure it. Maybe then you can sell it for what you paid, even make a profit.”

“Profit's what it's all about. But you know that.”

It isn't, but the Chad Kenyons of the world would never believe that.

Of all my operatives, only Patrick and Kendra were in the office when I returned from the horrible luncheon.

“Where're all the others?” I demanded.

“Out,” Patrick said.

“I can see that. Where?”

“On the cases you assigned them.”

“Oh.” I consulted my calendar. “Okay, why don't we schedule a staff meeting for five o'clock then? Wind up the week.”

“Shar, the weather's supposed to be really nice the next three or four days,” Patrick said. “People'll be heading out of the city for the weekend. Or leaving work early and knocking back a couple of cold brews on their porches. I myself am leaving as soon as possible to take my boys to Lake County.”

“Meaning not everybody's a workaholic like me?”

“I didn't say that.”

“I told you when I hired you that sometimes we work twenty-four seven. What about the clients? Don't they need some satisfaction from us?”

He just looked at me.
Frustrated female
, his eyes said.

Well, maybe I was.

“Okay,” I said, “we'll start out next week well. No meeting till nine o'clock Monday morning.”

“Thanks.” He disappeared into his office.

Kendra just sat there, her dark eyes conflicted.

“What?” I snapped.

“I could help out late—”

“No. You get an early start on the weekend too.”

“But really, I could.”

“Go!”

She nodded and fairly slunk out of the conference room.

Damn! Poor Paragon of the Paper Clips—I'd hurt her feelings by rejecting a gift she could scarcely afford to offer. Kendra has a large extended family at home, and her services as chief cook, cleaner, and caretaker are in high demand. Yet she always tries to pick up the slack here, staying late and issuing familial orders by phone:
The dryer is
not
busted; try cleaning the lint trap. Three hundred and fifty degrees is what you cook the casserole at. Don't give her the red pills! They could kill her. Hers are the blue ones.

All of this delivered in a pleasant modulated tone—well, except when someone is about to administer a potentially lethal overdose.

I went to my office, huddled in my chair under Mr. T., and stared out at the Bay.

Had I turned into a temperamental boss? A slave driver? Simon Legree?

No, I was just trying to hold my employees to my own too-exacting standards. And that wasn't fair. They had lives, plans, and families—all of which I should respect. And maybe I should learn to tend more to my own.

But not until I took care of Renshaw, the bastard. Not yet.