Someone Always Knows Page 15

  “No,” Gary said, “I meant what were you supposed to do with Ms. McCone?”

  “Take her to general aviation at SAN and hold her there for a guy named Renshaw.”

  As I’d expected.

  “And then?”

  “Turn her over to him and go home.”

  “Did Mr. Ordway tell you what Mr. Renshaw wanted with her?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t think to ask?”

  “Why should I?”

  There was a measured silence, then Gary said, “I think we’re done here. Ms. McCone, are you willing to file a complaint?”

  I balanced the thought of Millan’s future conduct against my illegally entering and leaving Mexico with a handgun in my possession. Of putting my license in jeopardy. Rationalized that Millan would be too frightened to repeat his crime.

  “No, I’m not.”

  Gary blinked, then nodded in sudden understanding. “Then we’re officially done here. But Mr. Millan, I suggest you speedily exit this jurisdiction.”

  Millan speedily exited the room.

  “Gary,” I said, “I want to go home.”

  11:55 p.m.

  Gary was kind enough to drive me “home.”

  When I stepped into the old house on Mead Avenue, bordering on one of San Diego’s finger canyons, the silence nearly overwhelmed me. The rambling place where I had grown up used to ring with the noise of children—too many children, my mother often jokingly complained—but now it was silent as a tomb.

  My brother John hardly ever stayed there, Matt had told me; John had a woman friend with a terrific house on Coronado Island, and it had become home for him. Matt was there off and on, but he had a small place near the beach, and his younger brother was in grad school at UCSD and lived close to campus. Ma, twice widowed, had no use for the house, and hadn’t for some time; she’d moved away with her second husband, and after he died she’d gotten deeply involved with her oil painting—which was acclaimed in certain circles—and now was living on the Monterey Peninsula. Charlene and her husband Vic, the team of international financiers, spent most of their time in London; their various children had scattered. Patsy, the baby of the family, was managing her third successful restaurant in the Wine Country, with the help of her kids and man of the hour. Joey, sad gentle Joey, had been dead of an overdose for more years than I wanted to remember.

  So here was what was left of our childhood. Didn’t anybody care but me?

  I dropped my bag on the floor, crossed the living room, and opened the sliding doors to the deck. The plants in the hanging baskets and redwood containers were all gone. I remembered Ma taking pleasure in watering them every morning. The lounge chairs were butt-sprung, their cushions torn and dirty. The remains of the vegetable garden—a former swimming pool that sonic booms from the Vietnam-era fighter planes out of NAS Miramar had shattered, and that we’d filled with good dirt and tended with a lot of labor—were long dead.

  Nothing lasts. But why did I have to be reminded of it in this cruel way?

  SUNDAY, OCTOBER 18

  9:05 a.m.

  I must have fallen asleep on the living room sofa. I knew I’d been crying; there were salty tracks on my face when I rubbed it. The mid-morning sun filtered through the curtains on the doors to the deck, showing how dirty and shabby they’d become. I got up, pulled the offending curtains back, and slid open the doors. The lodgepole pines and bougainvillea in the canyon were competing for height; the pittosporum and junipers were mostly dead. Exotically colored birds soared above, and brought back the memory of the Summer of the Monkey.

  The golden lion tamarin whom his keeper at the San Diego Zoo had (for God knows what reason) named Herman was small, weighing less than one pound, and had long, red-gold hair that shone wildly in the sunlight. Apparently Herman didn’t like the zoo and escaped to our canyon. Mostly those types of simians live in trees but are very friendly to humans, and Herman’s chittering conversation as he made his way from his tree to our back deck had delighted us children.

  Then suddenly Herman was gone. Captured and sold to a zoo in Atlanta. The little kids cried. For that matter, so did I…

  A footstep sounded somewhere inside the house. I reached for my .38, remembered it was tucked into my bag on the front hall table. I braced to defend myself, then relaxed as a soft voice said, “It’s just me, Shari.”

  Nobody but my long-dead father had ever called me Shari. This voice sounded very like his. The footsteps were sure, as if the person knew the house well. Then my brother John’s arms enveloped me and I collapsed into them.

  “How did you know I was here?” I asked him.

  “The McCone grapevine works as well as your people’s moccasin telegraph.” He was referring to the fact that I am a full-blooded Shoshone, adopted by the McCones soon after birth.

  “Oh, shit,” I said.

  “‘Oh, shit’—why?”

  The escaped expletive had been prompted by John’s having shown up a couple of times during my earlier cases and creating havoc by “assisting” me. All had turned out well in the end, but John was better suited to managing his Mr. Paint chain than detecting.

  I covered by saying, “The McCone grapevine and the moccasin telegraph are worse than the Internet as far as privacy is concerned. You know what? I think I need a drink.”

  “Early for one, isn’t it?”

  “Not really, under the circumstances.”

  “I think I need one too.” He went to the kitchen and soon returned with a tall pair of gin and tonics.

  We sat down on the ratty chairs outside; I could feel one of the plastic straps giving way under my weight. I sipped, then said, “I thought you were mainly staying at Anitra’s place now.”

  “I am, but I needed to pick up some documents I have stored here. What’s your excuse for coming back to the old homestead?”

  Oh no, I wasn’t going to get into that! All I’d have to do was mention a case and I’d have a well-meaning but bumbling partner.

  I lied, “I had a late-afternoon meeting down here yesterday and most of the flights were jam-packed, so I decided to wait till this morning.”

  “Why didn’t you fly down and back yourself?”

  “Seemed like too much trouble at the time.”

  “Well, what’s with that fancy corporation you and Hy founded? They can’t pay for a good hotel?”

  I shrugged. “Staying here was a nostalgic impulse, I guess.”

  We looked deeply into one another’s eyes. His were gray, mine were black, and both pairs were shifty.

  “Liar,” he said.

  “Liar,” I repeated.

  After a moment of silence, John stood and went to look out over the canyon.

  “Remember the Summer of the Monkey?” he asked.

  “I was just thinking of that when you came in.”

  “I called the zoo in Atlanta a few months ago. Herman’s still alive—fat and sassy as ever.”

  “Whatever made you do that?”

  “Was feeling lonely. Anitra left me.”

  “Oh no, John. Why?”

  “Found somebody else.”

  “So where have you been living?”

  “Look around you, baby, this is it.”

  Not good. Not good at all.

  “John, you’ve made a small fortune from the Mr. Paint franchises. You can afford—”

  “Why?”

  “What d’you mean—why?”

  “What’s the good of having someplace nice, when there’s nobody to share it with?”

  That brought me up short. What was the good of it? I’d had the company of my four siblings until I went to college, then roommates and members of the security firm I worked for part time. Even when I’d been working at All Souls I’d spent a lot of time there, in spite of having a tiny studio apartment on Guerrero Street. And then along came Hy who, no matter how long gone nor how far away, is always with me.

  Now I flashed on the nights when walking into our empty hom
es on both Church Street and Avila Street had felt inescapably lonely.…

  John went to the kitchen for more gin and tonics. I leaned on the railing and said a soft good-bye to the canyon. To the Summer of the Monkey and also to my childhood.

  When my brother came back and pressed the drink into my hand, I said, “Is my advice usually dependable?”

  “More often than not.”

  “Then here it is: sell this house and move to one of those swanky condominium towers with three-hundred-and-sixty-degree views. Buy all-new furniture. Clothing too.” I eyed his ripped jeans and stained T-shirt disdainfully. “Get a spiffy new car. No more picking up your dates in Mr. Paint trucks.”

  “What’s wrong with a Mr. Paint—”

  “And you might consider moving away from San Diego. San Francisco’s always been a comfortable fit for me.”

  John sat, sipped his drink, and set it on a small table—one of the few on the deck that wasn’t tipping at a dangerous angle.

  “You know,” he said, “I’ve lived down here my whole life, except for those two semesters when I tried college at San Luis Obispo. My business is headquartered here. My boys are here. Some of Charlene and Ricky’s kids are right up the freeway in Bel Air.”

  “I see more of those kids up north than you do down here. They’re always visiting their father and Rae. Yours will do the same.”

  “Ma—”

  “Is buried in her art projects in Monterey. Charlene and Vic spend more of their time in London than Bel Air. Patsy’s moving closer to San Francisco with every restaurant she opens.”

  “And Joey’s dead.”

  “Stop that!” I wanted to smack him. “Joey’s dead, and Pa’s dead, and so are a lot of other people we cared about. But this conversation isn’t about dying—it’s about living, and living well.”

  He gulped his drink, stood up, and backed toward the open doors. “I can’t talk about this now, Shar. I really can’t.”

  But you will, I thought as I watched him go inside. You damn well will.

  12:21 p.m.

  John has never been one to carry a grudge or even pout for long. His bedroom door opened and shut, then I heard a couple of heavy objects drop to the floor in the entryway. He came out on the deck and said, “You’re right. Let’s go.”

  I turned, surprised. “Go where?”

  “To my new life.”

  “San Francisco?”

  “Yup.”

  “Just leave without—”

  “Spiffing up the house? Packing up treasures? Having the practically nonexistent mail forwarded? Contacting a real estate agent?”

  It made sense—clean break, no time to sit around contemplating Swiffer mops or Aunt Susan’s favorite knickknack. We’d be back to do those things later. Not now.

  5:43 p.m.

  The smell of grease invaded my nostrils. Cheese and onions too. I struggled up from where I was curled on the car’s bucket seat and groaned.

  “Come on, Shar,” John’s voice said. “A burger. French fries. Vanilla milkshake.”

  They did smell good. I sat up all the way. “Where are we?”

  “San Luis. I remembered this little stand from when I was in school here. It’s just the same.”

  I ran my hands through my disheveled hair and shook my head to clear it as he unwrapped my meal. God, I was hungry! And the “junk” food, as many would call it, was good!

  When we’d left John’s house, he’d surprised me by opening the garage doors and revealing a beautiful red Jaguar.

  “I guess I’ve already started in on my new life,” he said somewhat sheepishly. “I bought it last week.”

  I’d happily taken over the passenger seat and slept for a few hours. Now, between bites of burger, I asked, “Why’d you want to stop here?”

  “Why d’you think? I’m hungry!”

  My brother was returning to his normal ravenous self. I hoped his new life would continue to agree with him.

  8:11 p.m.

  My phone buzzed as we sped north toward the Salinas Valley. Mick. For a moment I felt a flash of hope that he was calling with news of Hy.

  No. Instead he said, “I’ve got a line on a guy, Artie Jones, who used to be a friend of Renshaw’s. Lives in the East Bay—El Cerrito. I called him, and he’s willing to talk with you.”

  Well, even if it wasn’t the news I’d hoped for, it was good.

  “I’m about two hours from the city,” I said, “maybe two and a half to El Cerrito, depending on traffic. How late is Jones willing to stay up?”

  “I’ll check. Hold on.” He must have had Jones on another line, because he was back within seconds. “Guy says come ahead whenever you can. He’s a musician, and he doesn’t have a gig tonight.”

  “Musician, huh?”

  “I didn’t tell him whose son I am, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Good. It might be a bargaining chip for me.”

  “Jones sounds like he dislikes Renshaw enough that you won’t need any chips.”

  “Okay, tell him I’m on my way. And Mick, I have a surprise for you.” I smiled and winked at John.

  “A good surprise?”

  “One of the best. See you soon.”

  9:55 p.m.

  Traffic was light, even for a Sunday night, and we beat my estimate for our arrival in the city. I directed John to my house and removed my car from the garage, and he replaced it with his. I’d explained about Chelle’s staying there and he’d assured me that while he’d only raised boys, he was good at dealing with distressed young women too. I was surprised he didn’t insist on immediately getting a piece of my investigation, and I quickly headed for the Bay Bridge.

  I’m always wary when crossing that particular span. It’s actually two spans, bisected in the middle of the Bay by Yerba Buena Island. Originally constructed in 1936, the bridge has had a troubled history. A fifty-foot section of roadway collapsed during the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake; extensive seismic retrofitting was done on the western portion, and the eastern portion was totally replaced. Since then faulty and defective rivets have broken, along with crossbars, tension rods, and bolts. All of these problems have caused huge cost overruns and commuter confusion.

  But still I drive the bridge. There’s also said to be an old statue of a troll—supposedly a symbol of good luck for bridges—on the substructure. But even though I’ve searched for it with binoculars from a friend’s sailboat I’ve yet to see it. Probably an apocryphal story.

  El Cerrito is a small city of some twenty-five thousand that slopes from the Bay shore toward Wildcat Canyon Regional Park. Artie Jones’s house was on a cul-de-sac midway uphill above San Pablo Avenue, a main shopping area. The middle of three pink stucco bungalows—Hollywood-style from the thirties or forties, with pitched roofs, dormer windows, and half porches—nestled between two fifties-era apartment houses. All three bungalows were alike, down to their pebbled front yards. Lights glowed softly behind the blinds on the windows of Jones’s.

  The enormous man who opened the door looked as if he might be from Samoa or one of the other Pacific Islands. His hair was pulled back in a bushy ponytail and his muscular forearms were covered with tattoos. He showed me into a small living room crammed with overstuffed furniture, motioned me to a couch, and flopped down on an armchair across from it. The chair creaked in protest.

  “So,” Jones said, “you want some dirt on Gage Renshaw? I got plenty.”

  “How did you come to know him?” I asked.

  “His family showed up on the block when I was ten, maybe eleven. We was living down south in Torrance then, my dad worked at the refinery. One day old Gage was there on the streets, and nothing was ever the same.”

  “How so?”

  “Before, us kids all got along. Sure, we had our fights and we was in trouble some of the time, but that was minor stuff, like tagging or slashing tires.” He grinned. “One time a bunch of us took on the tires of a Chevy belonged to this old bugger who was always on our backs fo
r making too much noise. Do you know how hard it is to slash a tire?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Hard enough to make a big guy like me give it up as a career choice. Anyway, Gage was into bigger stuff than that.”

  “Wait—let’s back up a bit. What about Renshaw’s family?”

  “Father, mother, two brothers—Bob and Pete. Folks’re both dead now.”

  “Are the brothers still around?”

  “Bob and Pete—I don’t know where they’re at, but it’s not around here.”

  Another search to put Mick and his people onto, if necessary.

  “Okay, what kinds of bigger stuff was Renshaw into?”

  “Started with housebreaking and auto theft. Then he graduated to dealing drugs. Never used them himself, but he got a lot of the kids hooked. Me, I never touched the junk. This body”—he thumped his chest—“ain’t no temple of my soul, but I aim to keep it ticking so long as I can.”

  “Good for you. Was Renshaw ever arrested?”

  “Nope. He was cagey—the cops couldn’t get nothing to stick. Not even the arson.”

  “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.

  MONDAY, OCTOBER 19

  9:30 a.m.