Someone Always Knows Read online

  1:21 p.m.

  I was on the phone with Hank Zahn, our primary attorney, when Hy burst into my office. I held up one finger and punched the speaker button. Hank’s familiar voice filled the room.

  “This is a situation I’ve never encountered before, Shar. When you and Hy transferred the ownership of RKI, did you have Renshaw declared legally dead?”

  “I don’t think so. That should be in your files.”

  “Well, it’s not. Do you know who Mr. Renshaw’s attorney is?”

  “No. I doubt he has one. Gage and legality don’t exactly mesh.”

  “I’m going to have to speak with some of my colleagues and do some research.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Depends. A few hours, anyway.”

  “And what the hell do I do with Renshaw while you’re researching? He’s already eating and drinking his way through our hospitality suite.” On the monitor I’d watched Gage order up two huge pastrami sandwiches, potato salad, a sixty-dollar bottle of Merlot, and a big chunk of chocolate cake from Angie’s.

  “Try to find out what he wants,” Hank said. “If he won’t tell you, make nice anyway. Check him into a good hotel—and later stick him with the bill.”

  Every now and then I really like lawyers.

  1:37 p.m.

  Hy was furious—white-lipped, eyes flashing, hands knotted into fists. When I showed him Renshaw on the video monitor, I was afraid he’d rip it off its mountings. I persuaded him to sit down and take several deep breaths before I said, “Okay, you heard Hank advise us to take a low-key approach to this.”

  “Why? I’d like to throttle the bastard. What d’you bet he wants in on the firm?”

  “Then we pay him off. Everybody’s got his price, and from the way he looks, I’d say Gage’s is lower than most these days.”

  I watched Renshaw light a cigarette with a Bic, draw on it. After a moment he flicked ashes onto the table, missing the ashtray.

  Slob.

  Hy, considerably calmer, studied Renshaw on the monitor. “You may be right. I spot a broken shoelace.”

  I buzzed Mick and asked him to show Renshaw in.

  Up close he looked even seedier than he had on the monitor. When he shambled into my office I noted that his hair was unbarbered and the large white shock that hung over his forehead was greasy, and that he hadn’t shaved today. His clothing, khakis and a blue shirt, were rumpled and worn. The raspy catch in his voice from smoking too much had worsened. His beat-up leather flight jacket I could understand: both Hy and I had ones like it; the more years you’re a pilot, the more evidence of your prowess you want to exhibit, and—for whatever reason—a disreputable flight jacket is part of the mystique.

  He spread his hands wide and said, “Here you see me in all my resurrected glory.” Then he plunked himself down in one of the chairs that faced my desk and propped his feet on its edge. Yes, he did have a broken and badly knotted shoelace, and the heels and soles were worn down.

  Hy took the other chair, and I retreated to mine.

  “So, Gage,” Hy said, “long time.”

  “You bet.”

  “What’ve you been doing with yourself?”

  “This and that.” With an annoyed gesture he pushed the shock of white hair off his forehead.

  “How come you haven’t been in touch?”

  “No need to be.” Then he looked around and added, “Nice operation you’ve got here.”

  “We like it,” I said.

  “Bringing in the big bucks. Nice house in the Marina, nice place on the Mendo coast. And Hy, I hear you’ve still got the ranch. Still got a plane too. And this firm has one of those CitationJets, if you need to get where you’re going in a hurry.”

  “Where’d you get all this information?” Hy asked.

  “You’re a fine one to question me. We learned at the feet of the same father.”

  “What does that mean?” Hy asked.

  “Father Mammon. He taught us the lure of the buck.”

  Hy’s expression told me he had no patience for that kind of nonsense. He said, “What do you want, Gage?”

  “What do I want?” He paused, rubbing his stubbled chin as if in thought. “What does Gage want? Well, at the moment he doesn’t rightly know. Why don’t you show me around this place?”

  “It’s off-limits to anybody but qualified personnel.”

  “You were always big on security, Ripinsky.”

  “It’s paid off for me.”

  “For you, maybe.” He stroked his chin again. “Not for me.” Pause. “What do I want? Not an in with this agency, for sure. No action here. You’ve turned what was a great outfit into a bunch of wimpy yes-men. You still have the training camp down south? The safe houses?”

  RI has always maintained various fully staffed dwellings throughout the country to provide for clients at risk. These range from pricey homes and condos to modest suburban tract houses to sleazy motels. I’d had the dubious privilege of hiding out in one of the worst in San Francisco, a former hot sheet motel near the Great Highway.

  Hy said, “We have a number of safe houses, yes. We still own the camp, but we don’t use it much any more.”

  The training camp is comprised of fifty-some acres, an airstrip, and a few classrooms and housing near El Centro in the Imperial Valley. It was originally used for teaching operatives and clients the tools of their trade: self-defense, evasionary driving tactics, firearms skills, hand-to-hand combat. I’d been there only once, and encountered a horrible situation that had nearly cost Hy and me our lives. If I could help it, I’d never go back.

  “Yeah,” Renshaw said, “it looked kind of dead when I drove by there on my way up here. Where you sending the new ops now?”

  “We outsource the training.”

  “Still, you oughta keep the place up. There’re weeds growing through the asphalt on the runway. And the buildings look like shit.”

  I asked, “Where were you driving up from, Gage?”

  “South.”

  “That’s no answer.”

  “It’s all you’re getting.”

  I noted the word up on a legal pad. Renshaw glanced curiously at me, but didn’t ask what I’d written.

  “You want to buy the camp? We’re putting it up for sale soon,” Hy said. “You could start your own driver-training and stunt school.”

  “Ha. No way.”

  “Why not? You above all that now?”

  They were likely to get off on an unnecessary and unproductive tangent, so I said, “Since you’re so disparaging of the firm, Gage, and not legally entitled to any sort of compensation”—God, that was what I hoped to hear from Hank later!—“just why did you come here?”

  He shook his head slowly. “I can’t articulate it.”

  “Try; I’ve never known you to be at a loss for words.”

  “But I am.” He spread his upturned hands wide.

  “Then why show up at all, unannounced, after so many years?”

  “Maybe I’m sentimental, just wanted to catch up on old times.”

  “Well, it’s been great, but…” I stood up.

  Renshaw stood too. “Now that you’ve mentioned it, though, there just might be something I want from you old pals.” He chuckled and then started for the door. “You folks’ll be hearing from me soon, you betcha.”

  As soon as he was gone, I got on the intercom to Ted, asking him to put an immediate tail on Renshaw.

  Then Hy and I conferred, deciding to set Mick and his department to work on a deep search into Renshaw’s background. I knew surface details, but they were skimpy. Even Hy, who’d been acquainted with him for years, had little insight into Renshaw’s past, and neither of us had so much as a glimmer into what he might have been doing since his disappearance.

  The day had turned warm and cloudless, as so many do in October. Hy and I decided to continue our conversation on the roof garden. It was a lovely space: yew trees planted in big containers; flowers in smaller ones;
plenty of comfy, cushioned redwood furniture to curl up on, plus a couple of round tables with umbrellas. Most important, it was protected from the wind and fog by huge Plexiglas panels.

  While we awaited news about Renshaw, we went over and over what we knew of him.

  Hy: I don’t even know where he was born or anything about his family.

  Me: I don’t think that matters any more. He’s not the type who would have kept in touch with anybody from his warm and fuzzy past.

  Hy: Nothing new on him on Google. Just old stuff from RKI days.

  Me: Mick may turn up something. He has his ways with the behemoth Internet.

  Hy: Well, we know Renshaw was with the DEA, on that super-secret detail known as CENTAC. Even the higher-ups in the government didn’t know about it.

  Me: Well, that doesn’t surprise me. Look at what the CIA concealed from the Obama administration.

  Hy: After CENTAC was outed and then disbanded, Renshaw flew for a while in Thailand.

  Me: And after he teamed up with Dan Kessell and formed RKI, he fell for my ruse about wanting to kill you.

  I’d successfully bluffed Renshaw years ago, telling him I wanted to locate Hy so I could kill him. When I’d saved Hy, Renshaw had never forgiven me.

  Ted came up the stairs and stuck his head out the door: Thelia Chen, he said, the operative who’d been tailing Renshaw, had lost him near Goat Alley. The block—colorfully named after the herds of goats that had once grazed peacefully in a pastoral pre–gold rush city—was in actuality a grimy, unpaved passageway ending at a brick wall off Natoma Street South of Market. I knew the territory, since I’d once conducted a long surveillance on an escaped prisoner who had sheltered there. No doors opened on the alley, and the narrow single exit—which Renshaw had apparently taken—came out at Mission, a busy thoroughfare with heavy foot traffic where a man could easily be lost in the crowds. I wished I’d conducted the tail job myself or asked Mick to assign it to someone more experienced than Chen, a former financial analyst with Wells Fargo who hadn’t done much fieldwork.

  “Seems as if Renshaw’s as crafty as ever,” I said to Hy. “He must’ve known we’d have him followed.”

  “He may be crafty, but he’s not putting his skills to good use. Did you notice his clothes?”

  “You know, their shabbiness might’ve been a way of disguising his real status. Why hint at anything that he doesn’t want us to know?”

  “Could be.” Hy looked at his watch. “I’m out of here, have a meeting with a prospective client. Want to come along?”

  “No, I’ve got plenty of work to catch up on here. See you at home for tacos later?”

  “You got it.”

  3:33 p.m.

  Hank called me back in the middle of the afternoon. “I’ve talked with several other attorneys about your problem with Renshaw, and they all agree that there’s a legal precedent in your favor. His abandonment, lack of communication…did you try to locate him?”

  “Not very hard,” I admitted.

  “But you did try?”

  “Sure. We’re investigators, that’s what we do.” My voice had an edge to it.

  “Don’t get testy with me.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to. This has been an awful day.”

  “Well, hang in there. And send me any info on your or Hy’s attempts to locate this pest.”

  I went back to my files. In the months since the agency merged with RI and expanded, it seemed paperwork—on real paper or the computer—had come to dominate my life. Whether here in the office or at home, my computers and iPhone fired off messages, reports, and complaints at me with incredible speed. I couldn’t ignore the infernal devices; they rang and beeped at me with a persistence I’d never imagined any electronic device could exhibit. Sometimes I longed for the old days—

  Well, maybe not. Computers, which I’d previously hated and vowed never to use, now provide all sorts of data with speed and accuracy. For a poor typist like me, the Delete key is of prime importance. Fax machines, cell phones, and high-quality printers allow me to cut through red tape and save time. And the Internet is a great research tool—if I don’t take as gospel every word that appears on the screen. I still fact-check in person and with written sources, particularly the older ones, which tend to be more accurate. But the old days? Carbon copies, Wite-Out, endless erasing and retyping…uh-uh, not for me.

  When I looked up from a particularly boring case report, I found it was full dark; the lights of the city shimmered before me in a way that I knew predicted cold temperatures for the days ahead. The thought of tacos nudged at me. Time to go home.

  TUESDAY, OCTOBER 6

  8:57 a.m.

  Mick looked through my office door and said, “I’ve compiled a list of people you may want to talk to about Renshaw.” He handed me two printed sheets. “It’s pretty extensive, many of them out of state or outside the country.”

  “Let me get Ripinsky in here.”

  As we waited for Hy, I studied my nephew. He looked good, fit and rested. If any traces of the problems he and his partner Alison had gone through earlier in the year remained, they weren’t major ones. I was about to ask him how the painting on their new house on Potrero Hill was going when Hy came in. The three of us went over the list together.

  I said, “In order to contact all these people, we’re going to have to co-opt other agencies in the more far-flung locations.”

  “I don’t think so,” Hy told me. “RI’s people—I mean, our people can handle it. And since Renshaw has surfaced here, I’d hazard that he has a connection in the Bay Area.” He looked a shade embarrassed: since we’d joined our firms, he sometimes slipped, speaking as if he were the sole owner of the organization.

  I ignored the error—it didn’t matter. “Right. But what’s he been doing all these years?”

  “Scamming,” Mick said. “You’ll notice the names on that list live all over the globe, but he primarily focused on South America, maybe because he’s fluent in Spanish and Portuguese.”

  I looked at the list: Chile, Venezuela, Argentina, Brazil.

  “What kinds of scams?” I asked.

  “The usual—extortion, blackmail, you name it. In Venezuela he and the sixteen-year-old daughter of a high government official ran off together, taking a good bit of money she’d stolen from her father’s safe; when officials found her and returned her to her parents, the money and Renshaw were gone. The brat had the nerve to proclaim to her family that he was ‘the greatest fuck’ she’d ever had.”

  I paused, thinking about that. In my opinion the young woman must’ve not had many good fucks. Self-absorbed people like Renshaw are never very good in bed.

  “Why didn’t the girl’s family prosecute?”

  “She refused to testify. So they shipped her off to a convent instead. Renshaw speedily exited the country.”

  “When was that?” I asked.

  “Two years ago. And that’s the last trace of him before he came to this office yesterday.”

  That was interesting. Mick and his staff were the brightest and best in their area of expertise. If they couldn’t find out what Renshaw had been up to recently, who could?

  Again I studied the list. “Let’s start by divvying up the locals among us.”

  We spent a long time breaking up the list, sorting the names by their locations to save driving time and legwork. Mick said he would assign Derek and Patrick to the city and Marin, and I opted for the Peninsula. Hy, who was currently juggling two cases, would assign other operatives if they became necessary and oversee the operation from the office.

  My first choice of interviewees, Gil Stratton, president of Quick Stops, an air charter firm that Renshaw had once worked for, wasn’t available till four fifteen that afternoon, but a late appointment was okay with me. Stratton was located at Mineta San José International, a good hour’s drive down the Peninsula, and I really needed the time to plow through more paperwork.

  11:43 a.m.

  Before
I could really get into it, however, Ted buzzed me. “A new client to see you.”

  I clicked my tongue in exasperation. “Who?”

  “Name’s Chad Kenyon.”

  At first the name didn’t register. When it did, I said, “Mr. Kenyon’s had dealings with Julia. Can’t you pass him on to her?”

  “He says he’ll speak only with you.”

  Lucky me. The Kenyon brothers, fat Chad and skinny Dick, are a powerful, albeit not always a welcome, force in the city—indeed in most of the Western states. Their reputation is based on their penchant for buying and selling things with precision and speed. They snap up any object that appeals to them, not for its intrinsic value but because turning it quickly at a profit will illustrate their uncanny expertise.

  A diamond brooch or a ruby necklace? Got plenty in inventory. Cameos? Harder to find, but we got this great pair of earrings and matching bracelet. Net…what? Oh, netsuke. Those little Japanese carvings. You want a fish? Turtle? Butterfly? We can get it for you within the hour. Murano glass? Do we ever have a vase for you!

  Canoes. Are you into them? We got an antique longboat, brought the ancient Hawaiians over from wherever the hell they started. No boats? Okay. How about financial instruments? We picked up these stocks at a fire sale price; they’re kinda dogs, but a smart operator maybe could build on their history. Say, you know that big tract of land up north near Sawyer’s Bar? The state and federal Bureau of Land Management had a falling out over how to use it, so we stepped in quick and now it’s ours. Name the number of parcels you want.

  None of the items they brokered were particularly important to the Kenyons; what mattered was the chases and negotiations. Not even the profits they gleaned seemed to interest them, although they’d made many millions and lived lavishly.

  You would have thought you’d find the Kenyons seated at the top of San Francisco’s social pyramid. After all, this is a town built upon often ill-gotten gold rush gains. Also, we’re tolerant—some say too much so—of our eccentrics, scoundrels, and downright fools. However, we do, in the main, know how to carry on polite conversation and which utensils to use at the dinner table.