Someone Always Knows Read online

  No tangents, dammit.

  I stretched out again, until the pain in my wrist and shoulder became unbearable. My foot touched the base again, but all it did was wobble the lamp and nudge it away from me. The damned thing remained erect and now was completely out of reach.

  Shit! Now I really hated lamps like that!

  I wiggled backward to ease the strain on my wrist, arm, and shoulder. Sat up with my back against the fireplace next to the post. Blood trickled down from my torn wrist; I could feel it wet and warm inside the sleeve of my sweater. My whole body ached from exertion, frustration, the sharpening edge of panic.

  Car outside. I held my breath. It went by without stopping, its tires swooshing on the pavement. Had it been raining?

  Concentrate. Focus.

  Focus on what? There was nothing nearby now but dust balls beneath the credenza—

  Wait a minute. Was that a glint of metal under there that I hadn’t noticed before?

  I bent forward as low as I could for a better look. Glint of metal, yes. Metal and wood.

  Mousetrap!

  My pulse rate jumped. That was exactly what I needed, didn’t matter whether it was set or unset or held a squashed rodent. If I could just reach far enough with my foot to slide it out…

  I scrunched down again on the hearth, extended my leg, flattened my foot as much as I could. The space under the credenza was narrow, and at first I thought I wasn’t going to get my foot under it. I kicked off my boot and tried again.

  This time I was able to squeeze my toes underneath. But I still couldn’t reach far enough to touch the trap. The edge of the credenza bottom bit into my instep, scraped painfully. I gritted my teeth and kept struggling, gaining a fraction of an inch with each forward push—

  There! My big toe touched the trap.

  I managed to ease it up, hold it in place. Then, slowly, I drew it back toward me.

  My toe slipped off. Damn! Carefully I lifted it into another hold and again slowly eased the trap backward. It wasn’t set, or if it was, the movement didn’t release the spring. The last thing I needed was to have it snap down and crush my toe.

  Now I was able to get two toes onto it, a third. That made moving it easier. I managed to draw it out far enough that the credenza edge was no longer scraping my foot. Then I was able to pull with all five toes.

  Once I had it into the open I saw that it was an old-fashioned kind with a slender metal lever used to set the spring. Good! I dragged it as close to me as I could, twisted my body until I was able to reach it with my free hand. It must have been under the credenza a long time. Not only was it caked with dust, it contained a tiny mouse skeleton.

  My free hand was shaky from the strain. I willed it steady, then anchored the trap with my foot and lifted the spring mechanism far enough to dislodge the skeleton. The trap was ancient, the metal corroded, but dismantling it one-handed seemed to take forever. I was oiled with sweat when I finally wrenched the lever free.

  I pulled myself up until I was leaning back against the fireplace next to the marble post. Then, using the lever as a pick, I went to work on the lock of the handcuff circling my wrist.

  I’d been at it for less than a minute when I heard the sound of another car approaching outside. But this one didn’t pass by—it pulled into the driveway, onto the concrete slab.

  Jesus! Renshaw and Macy were back.

  Frantically I dug at the handcuff lock.

  A door banged open at the rear of the house. I heard the mumble of voices, then distinct words.

  Renshaw, his voice furious: …fucking Ordway’s not gonna get away with screwing me!

  Macy: Maybe he didn’t. Maybe it was the guy who was supposed to deliver the money—

  Renshaw: A double cross in any case. Ordway’s gonna pay one way or another.

  Macy: Gage, you’re not thinking of going back to Mexico—

  Renshaw: The hell I’m not! I need a drink. Shut up and pour me one.

  Come on, dammit, release! Release!

  Macy: What about McCone?

  Renshaw: What about her? That part of it hasn’t changed any.

  Macy: Hadn’t we better check on her?

  Renshaw: What for? She hasn’t gone anywhere.

  Come on, come on, come on!

  Macy: Gage…you’re not going to kill her here?

  Renshaw: No, not here.

  Macy: Where, then? When?

  Renshaw: Never mind that. I need a drink. Shut up and pour me one. Then we’ll deal with McCone.

  Got it!

  The lock snapped and the steel staple was loose. I yanked it out, freed my wrist. Lowered the cuffs to the hearth to keep them from jangling. Put on the boot I’d kicked off. Crossed the room as fast and silently as I could.

  Out in the kitchen I heard the clink of glass on glass.

  My legs were wobbly; one of them gave out just as I reached the file cabinet. I couldn’t stop myself from staggering against it. Off balance, I went down on my right knee—the one I’d injured a few years before. Up top the vase teetered, toppled. I grabbed for it as it fell, but it slipped out of my blood-slick fingers and crashed to the floor.

  Shouts from the kitchen.

  I lunged for the .38, caught hold of it, dragged it from the shards of broken glass. Straightened and assumed my shooter’s stance just as Renshaw and Macy came charging in.

  “Hold it right there, both of you! Hands up!”

  They skidded to a stop. Macy squeaked, “Christ, she’s loose!” and then froze. But not Renshaw. His mouth twisted, his face congested with fury, and he clawed for the automatic shoved into his belt.

  I remained with my legs spread, .38 held in both hands at arm’s length. “Don’t do it, Gage!”

  “Fucking bitch! Not gonna let you stop me now!”

  He pulled the automatic free, started to bring it up.

  I fired a second before he did.

  His shot went wild, the bullet smacking into the ceiling. My shot didn’t. It nailed him high on the right side of the chest, jerked him half around and made him lose his grip on the automatic. His knees buckled and he went down. Flopped over, grunting, against the ornate Victorian baseboard.

  I moved quickly, kicked the gun out of his reach. Macy was cringing against the archway wall, both hands as high in the air as he could reach. “Don’t shoot me, I’m not armed, don’t shoot!”

  Renshaw tried to get up, but couldn’t make it. He lay there clutching at his bloody chest, glaring hatred and spitting obscenities. Lucky for the crazy bastard I hadn’t aimed a couple of inches closer to his heart.

  Lucky for me too. I didn’t want another death on my conscience, not even Gage Renshaw’s.

  FRIDAY, OCTOBER 23

  9:17 p.m.

  A busy day had passed since I’d escaped Renshaw’s clutches. Now, finally, I was in my living room waiting for a call from Hy and talking with John about his new housing. He had a sheaf of brochures that contained floor plans and descriptions of the condos in the new high-rise in SOMA where he’d decided to buy.

  “I kind of like the three-bedroom unit with the Bay-view balcony,” he said. “Plank floors. Appliances by some classy European company I’ve never heard of. Granite slab countertops. Ample space for outdoor barbecuing. Walk-in closets. I could save a bedroom for guests and turn the other into a home office. I’d need rugs, though—I hate to walk on bare floors when I get up in the morning. Blinds. All kinds of furniture. And color schemes. D’you think I’d need a decorator?”

  This from a man who, till recently, had been holing up in the deteriorating family home.

  I pulled one of sister Patsy’s quilts over me and stared into the guttering fire. “Buy the condo, John,” I said.

  “You really think I should?”

  “Rooftop pool and tennis courts? Health club? Deluxe catering from two Zagat-recommended restaurants on the ground floor, that offer in-home dining? What’s not to like?”

  “It’s awfully upscale. Ma would call it snoot
y and selfish.”

  “Yeah, until she visited and you ordered up the first Zagat-rated dinner for her.”

  “I don’t know…maybe it is kind of selfish.”

  “So volunteer for a charity. Become a Big Brother—you’re good at that. Use your surplus income to do some good.”

  “I could, couldn’t I? I’d like being a Big Brother—I’ve done it again and again.”

  “Go for it, John. And now shut up because my phone’s ringing.”

  Hy was at JFK, waiting for his flight home to SFO. “How’re things there?” he asked.

  I related the story of my ordeal with Renshaw, omitting some of the more unpleasant details.

  His voice shook when he said, “That was a pretty narrow escape you had.”

  It was the first time I’d been able to talk with him since it happened. In all the chaos of the past day we’d missed connecting with one another several times. The happiness I now felt at the sound of his voice was immeasurable. “Yeah, it was bad, but it’s over.”

  “McCone, I thought you and I were supposed to preside over M&R like elder statespersons, and let the others take the risks.”

  “So did I, but you know what? Elder statesperson isn’t what either of us is cut out to be.”

  “No, it isn’t. No elder statesperson could be as pissed as I am at the FBI without succumbing to a heart attack. The second hostage negotiation was critically important, yes, but they shouldn’t have kept me in the dark about what was happening with you and Renshaw. Personally I think they wanted to nab him themselves and grab all the glory. They underestimated you.”

  I sat down at our kitchen table and covered my other ear, blocking out the drone of a football game John had turned on in the living room. “What was all that nonsense about them sending a plane to Miami to take you to D.C.?”

  “Initially it was intended to confuse the hostage takers in case they intercepted any communications and found out I was on my way. Which, of course, was totally ridiculous because the guys who took the woman hostage in upstate New York didn’t know me from Barack Obama.”

  “These guys—can you talk about them?”

  “Not on an open line. And they’re not particularly interesting. Just a couple of not-very-bright pseudo-patriots who thought they could save the country by holding the local school superintendent until their demands were met. The second negotiation—the senatorial candidate—was much more serious. I’ll tell you about that when we’re together. But Renshaw—what’s his status?”

  “He’s recovering under guard at SF General from the superficial chest wound I inflicted on him. He’s gone completely mental. Keeps ranting about wanting his money. He earned it legitimately, and Ordway is just holding it for him. Macy’s a buddy from way back who loaned him a room in his house while he was waiting for Ordway to deliver the cash. He’s going to sue—me, you, the City and County of San Francisco, our state government. He’ll take it all the way to the Supreme Court if necessary.”

  “The old criminal’s complaint. Does the money even exist?”

  “Probably Ordway has it, but there’s no way anybody—not even our government—will be able to prove it or wrest it from him.”

  “This Macy—he confessed?”

  “To any number of things; he just couldn’t stop talking. Put it all on Renshaw: Gage planned the whole thing; Gage forced him into going along with his scam. Macy tried to stop him, but finally went along with him because of his crazy raving and threats of physical harm. There may be some truth in that; Macy certainly hopped to it every time Renshaw snapped his fingers. But from the tapes of their interview that the police let me listen to, Macy was definitely not a victim of Stockholm syndrome.”

  “And it was Macy who killed Adam Smithson?”

  “Yes. He claims it was self-defense, that Smithson showed up just after he found the bonds and attacked him. Then he panicked and set the fire.” I paused, then asked Hy about his exposure of Renshaw and Kessell to the CIA.

  “It’s all true. You saw my documentation.”

  “They never did anything about it. Do you think we should go public?”

  Long silence. “Normally I’d say to let it be. M&R doesn’t need any more exposure in the media than we’ve already had. But in this case, a hell of a lot of prominent people and corporations worldwide got away with heinous acts. None that were named in those documents were ever prosecuted or even sanctioned. Some are probably still going about bad business as usual in places like Iran and Iraq.”

  I’d been thinking along the same lines. “So we go public. How?”

  “I’ve got a contact who’s pretty high up at the New York Times. And you’re in tight with the Chronicle.”

  “One of my old college friends is an op-ed writer for the Washington Post. And my high-school friend Linnea Carraway recently moved from the Pacific Northwest to New York, where she hosts a syndicated talk show.”

  “And then there’s the Internet.”

  “The Internet. YouTube. Twitter. Bloggers. Yes!”

  “We’ll have to go about it very carefully. Consult good lawyers.”

  “We can do it.”

  “Forward into battle.”

  “Amen to that.”

  MONDAY, OCTOBER 26

  8:21 a.m.

  There was a crowd gathered outside the M&R building when I arrived. I whipped my car into the underground parking garage and took the elevator to the ground floor.

  “What the hell is going on?” I asked Lex, the guard at the double street doors.

  “There’s been an accident.”

  It must not have been much of an accident, because he was smiling.

  “Look out there,” he added, motioning toward the glass.

  Six or seven large pieces of concrete lay on the pavement, and dust wafted above them in the sunlit air. The edges of the largest pieces were curved, like the edges of…

  “The clamshell?” I asked Lex.

  He nodded, and I started to smile too.

  “How long ago?” I asked.

  “Oh, maybe fifteen minutes. Big crash, almost scared me to death.”

  “Nobody was hurt, I hope?”

  “Nobody was around.”

  “Nobody?”

  “Yeah, nobody.”

  “Right.”

  “Right.”

  I pushed through the doors and skirted the wreckage. Studied it. Irreparable. Then I looked up at the gaping place where it had been attached to the building’s wall. No structural damage; the wall shouldn’t be too difficult to repair.

  A hand touched my arm. Laura Banks, a reporter for the Chronicle, whom I knew reasonably well. “What happened here, Sharon?”

  “I guess the installation was faulty.”

  “But it was a Flavio St. John installation. He’s known for his perfection. When he finds out what’s happened he’s going to be livid.”

  I was looking beyond her to where two men in dusty work clothing stood grinning at me.

  “Well, everyone makes a mistake sometimes, and I can’t say I’m sorry about this one.” I raised my voice as I added, “That sculpture was as ugly as my husband’s aunt Stella Sue’s butt.”

  Then I excused myself and went to join Hy and John.

  SHARON MCCONE MYSTERIES

  BY MARCIA MULLER

  THE NIGHT SEARCHERS

  LOOKING FOR YESTERDAY

  CITY OF WHISPERS

  COMING BACK

  LOCKED IN

  BURN OUT

  THE EVER-RUNNING MAN

  VANISHING POINT

  THE DANGEROUS HOUR

  DEAD MIDNIGHT

  LISTEN TO THE SILENCE

  A WALK THROUGH THE FIRE

  WHILE OTHER PEOPLE SLEEP

  BOTH ENDS OF THE NIGHT

  THE BROKEN PROMISE LAND

  A WILD AND LONELY PLACE

  TILL THE BUTCHERS CUT HIM DOWN

  WOLF IN THE SHADOWS

  PENNIES ON A DEAD WOMAN’S EYES

  WHERE ECHO
ES LIVE

  TROPHIES AND DEAD THINGS

  THE SHAPE OF DREAD

  THERE’S SOMETHING IN A SUNDAY

  EYE OF THE STORM

  THERE’S NOTHING TO BE AFRAID OF

  DOUBLE (With Bill Pronzini)

  LEAVE A MESSAGE FOR WILLIE

  GAMES TO KEEP THE DARK AWAY

  THE CHESHIRE CAT’S EYE

  ASK THE CARDS A QUESTION

  EDWIN OF THE IRON SHOES

  STANDALONES

  CAPE PERDIDO

  CYANIDE WELLS

  POINT DECEPTION

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  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Welcome

  Dedication

  MONDAY, OCTOBER 5

  TUESDAY, OCTOBER 6

  WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 7

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 8

  FRIDAY, OCTOBER 9

  SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10

  SUNDAY, OCTOBER 11

  MONDAY, OCTOBER 12

  TUESDAY, OCTOBER 13

  WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 14

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 15

  FRIDAY, OCTOBER 16

  SATURDAY, OCTOBER 17

  SUNDAY, OCTOBER 18

  MONDAY, OCTOBER 19

  TUESDAY, OCTOBER 20

  WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 21

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 22

  FRIDAY, OCTOBER 23

  MONDAY, OCTOBER 26

  Sharon McCone Mysteries By Marcia Muller

  Newsletters

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.