The Ever Page 3

  “I’ll put it on my credit card, and you can reimburse me next expense report. Shampoo and all that stuff. What brand?”

  “. . . Uh, Dove.”

  “A robe. Something pretty to cheer you up. Red, I think. Medium?”

  “Yes.”

  “An outfit for tomorrow. Jeans and a sweater okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Underwear, a nightgown . . . No, I doubt you wear a nightgown. Sizes, please.”

  As she quizzed me and I gave answers, I did tear up. And when she left the office carrying her list, I broke down and cried.

  After I’d cried myself out, I buzzed my nephew, Mick Savage, who was head of our computer forensics department and my best researcher, and asked him to come to my office in ten minutes. Then I went to the restroom and washed my face and applied fresh makeup from the supply I keep there. I was at my desk and trying to look businesslike when Mick came in.

  As he sat on one of the clients’ chairs, Mick glanced at my face; a mixture of concern and surprise flickered in his eyes, but he didn’t comment.

  I broke the ice: “Okay, say it—I look like shit.”

  “You been crying?”

  “Some.”

  He ran his fingers through his longish blond hair, and his mouth turned down. Mick was a grown man and—as his assistant Derek Ford was fond of saying—a technological genius, but in many ways he was still the kid who expected Aunt Sharon to be a rock at all times. The idea of me crying obviously unnerved him.

  After a moment he said, “Well, I guess you’re entitled. I mean, last night . . .”

  “Was awful. Fortunately, our answering machine was blown up, so Ma can’t leave messages on it. I’ve been taking calls from all sorts of people and family members—even Saskia and Elwood.”

  “Doesn’t surpise me that your birth mother would call—but Elwood? How’d he even know about it?”

  Elwood Farmer, my birth father, lived in his own little world on the Flathead Reservation in Montana. “I don’t know, but he did express concern.”

  “The two of you have a strange relationship.”

  “Well, Elwood’s a strange man, but we’re working on the father-daughter connection. Anyway, my cellular’s turned off, and Ted’s holding my calls. I’m safe for a while.”

  Mick’s anxious features—a handsome blending of his mother Charlene’s and his father Ricky’s—softened into a smile. “Grandma must be climbing the walls by now.”

  “More like hanging from the ceiling. But she knows I’m okay; Hy phoned and reassured her.”

  “Still, don’t you think she’d like to hear that from you?”

  “Yes, and she will—tonight, after I’ve had a decent meal and a couple of glasses of wine.”

  He nodded. “I know how you feel. I love Grandma, but . . .”

  “Yeah, but.” I paused. “How’s your caseload coming along?”

  “Finished the Aptech job, and Wells Vision is almost wrapped up.”

  “I’ve noticed nothing much has been coming in for you the past couple of weeks.”

  “It’s February. All the white-collar criminals’re in Hawaii or Mexico.”

  “Then you’ll be free to take on some heavy-duty research for me.”

  “At your service.”

  “Okay, here’s what I need; you can put Derek on it. A rundown on a long list of names of RKI employees and former employees. I’ll ask Ted to copy the pertinent parts of the file and have them on Derek’s desk first thing tomorrow.”

  “Shar, I can take care of it.” Last summer I’d cut Mick out of a major investigation because his caseload was too heavy, and instead had used Derek. I suspected Mick still hadn’t gotten over being excluded.

  “No,” I said, “I need you for something more important—and highly confidential.”

  He sat up straighter, waiting.

  “The bombing last night wasn’t the first RKI has experienced. There’ve been a series of them, and they’ve hired us to investigate.”

  “A series of bombings? God, you never said anything—”

  “I didn’t know about them. Remember RKI’s mantra—”

  “Need to know. Okay, who or what am I researching?”

  “Three individuals: Dan Kessell, Gage Renshaw, and Hy. Deep background.”

  Mick’s eyes widened. “You’re investigating your own husband?”

  “Mick, somebody’s out to destroy RKI. I suspect whoever it is has a grudge against one of the partners. I need to find out everything there is to know about them.”

  “Why can’t you just ask Hy if there’s anything in his background?”

  “Because I don’t know what I’m looking for. And it could be something he thinks so insignificant that he wouldn’t mention it.”

  “But you’re married. Don’t you trust him?”

  “I do. But people’s memories are highly selective. Hy usually doesn’t forget anything, but his recollections could be altered by the passage of time. I need facts.”

  “Does he know you’re gonna do this?”

  “We haven’t discussed it but, yes, I think he realizes it’s standard procedure.”

  Mick shook his head. “Jesus, if I ran deep background on Sweet Charlotte, she’d kill me.” Charlotte Keim, my primary financial investigator, and Mick’s live-in love.

  I said, “Well, nobody’s out to destroy her life, so you don’t have to. But you’d do it in a heartbeat if she were in trouble and you thought you could help her.”

  That made him think. After a moment he nodded and asked, “Anything else?”

  “That’s all for now.”

  “I’ll get going tonight, starting with Dan Kessell. I ran into him when he and his assistant and Hy were leaving this morning. There’s something seriously creepy about the guy.”

  “Then find out what makes him that way. And thanks, Mick.”

  After he left my office, I folded my arms on the desk and put my head down on them, like we used to do during rest period in grade school. If only things were as simple now as they’d been back then, when the worst that could happen to you was being cornered at recess by the class bully and being humiliated in front of those who’d escaped her clutches. Now one had to worry about liars, vandals, crooks, abusers, rapists, kidnappers, murderers, terrorists, politicians . . .

  The list was endless.

  Wednesday

  FEBRUARY 22

  “We’ve got a situation that’s similar to the one last August,” I said.

  Patrick Neilan, a former accountant and the operative who assisted Charlotte Keim on cases involving financial matters, raised his eyebrows.

  I explained, “A major job that’ll require me to spend a lot of time in the field. I’ll need you to coordinate things in the office again.”

  His freckled face flushed to complement his red hair, and his wide mouth turned up in pleasure. Patrick loved to organize information, make charts, and formulate theories. He wasn’t bad in the field, either, but he preferred analytical work.

  The waitress arrived with our breakfasts—bacon and scrambled eggs for him, toast and coffee for me. Usually when I go out for breakfast I stuff myself with all manner of cholesterol-laden things, but since the explosion I hadn’t been hungry.

  We were seated in a window booth at Miranda’s, my favorite waterfront diner. After a long period of being in vogue, with lines of hungry customers spilling out onto the sidewalk, the place was undergoing a slump; I patronized it whenever I could, fearing it would close down. It didn’t help that the personable owner, nicknamed Carmen Miranda from his days as a longshoreman who offloaded banana boats, had recently semiretired and turned the day-to-day operations over to his unpersonable son Steve.

  After the waitress left, I watched Patrick pour ketchup over his eggs—an act that for me has a serious “ick” factor—and then said, “Ted will have a file on your desk by the time we get to the office. It’s a thick one, so why don’t you take the day off and read it at home? No interrupti
ons that way.”

  “Great. My ex only bothers me at the office.”

  “What does she want now?”

  “Increase in child support. The last time I picked up the kids, she saw my new car, so she figures she can extort more blood money from me. But you and I know the only reasons I could afford the car is that it’s used and you cosigned the loan. And I know that very little of the money I give her goes to the kids, because they’re always asking me to buy them things she’s supposed to provide. Instead, I suspect it’s going up the nose of the sleazy guy she’s living with.”

  “This isn’t her boss, the one she left you for?”

  “No, he moved out a couple of months ago. This one’s an unemployed musician.”

  I felt sorry for Patrick—more so because my agency had been instrumental in the ex getting her original judgment against him. I said, “Why don’t you talk with Hank Zahn or Anne-Marie Altman? I’m sure they can help.” Their firm specialized in family law.

  “Can’t afford to.”

  “Altman & Zahn and McCone Investigations have a professional courtesy agreement; they’ll charge lower fees, extend credit, and dispense good advice to my employees and me—as I will to them.”

  His gloomy expression brightened, and I was glad of that. Patrick’s friendly, open face had not been fashioned for frowns.

  When Patrick and I arrived at the pier, I went to the restroom and threw up the coffee and the few bites of toast I’d managed to choke down.

  Jesus, at this rate I’d starve to death! Hy and I had had dinner at a Thai restaurant out in the Avenues near RKI’s safe house the night before, and we’d barely gotten back to the apartment before I vomited. And then I’d had to sit down and call Ma.

  Her opening sally was, “Where have you been all day? Why wouldn’t Ted let me talk with you?”

  “I was very busy, Ma. And I had to shop.” A white lie, but she highly approved of shopping.

  Apparently not enough, though. “Shop? When you were almost blown to bits last night, you went shopping?”

  “Everything I had at the apartment was destroyed. I couldn’t go on wearing the same clothes forever.” I fingered the belt of the beautiful red silk robe that had been among the numerous items Julia had delivered to me before I left the office. It was far nicer than anything I would have chosen for myself, and I suspected it had given her pleasure to pick it out. When I finally did get to the store, I’d buy her something just as nice, by way of a thank-you.

  Ma sighed. “Oh, Sharon, I wish you’d get out of that line of work. It’s so dangerous . . .”

  “And then what would I do?”

  “You’ve got a husband now; I’m sure Hy can support you.”

  “That’s not the point.” My tone was sharper than I’d intended. I softened it. “Investigating is what I do, Ma. I couldn’t just sit around being supported. Besides, I don’t think whoever bombed the building was after me.”

  “Who, then? Hy? Oh, my God, not Hy!”

  “No. He wasn’t even in San Francisco last night.”

  “Oh, Sharon, he leaves you alone so much . . .” Ma started to cry.

  I rolled my eyes and took the glass of Alka-Seltzer that Hy was offering. Thought of Mick’s statement: “I love Grandma, but . . .” Concentrated on the “love,” rather than the “but.”

  “Don’t cry, Ma. I’m all right, and Hy’s all right. That’s what matters.”

  “Oh, but . . .” A snuffling sound, like a pig after truffles.

  I said, “Listen, it’s late. Why don’t you get some sleep, and I’ll call you back tomorrow. Ask Melvin to make you some hot milk—”

  “Sharon Ripinsky, I have never in my life drunk hot milk.”

  Okay, she’s feeling feisty and insisting on calling me what she thinks should now be my name. That’s good. Very good.

  “A hot toddy then. That’ll help you rest.”

  “Melvin, Sharon says you should make me a hot toddy.”

  In the background, my stepfather’s voice said, “One hot toddy coming up.”

  An easygoing and loving man, Melvin Hunt. At one time I’d resented him for stealing Ma away from Pa. Now I blessed him.

  By noon preliminary reports were coming in from Derek. He’d started on the lengthy list of present and former RKI employees who might have a grudge against the company. Among the former employees he’d isolated a few possibles, but most had settled into new lives, some had died, and a few —no surprise—were in prison. We discussed the possibles and agreed he should go deeper on them.

  I knew I should eat lunch, but I was afraid I’d throw up again. When Hank Zahn appeared at the door with a bag from Red’s Java House in hand, I actually cringed. Hank—one of my oldest friends from college days, when a bunch of us had shared a big, run-down house in Berkeley—was a tall, loose-jointed man whose head of curly hair had always resembled a Brillo pad, and did even more so now that it had gone completely gray. His eyes, behind horn-rimmed glasses, regarded me sternly.

  “Ted says you haven’t been eating.”

  “I’ve been eating. It just won’t stay down.”

  “This will.” He set the bag on the desk, pulled out paper-wrapped burgers, a large container of fries, and two Cokes.

  “I don’t think I can—”

  “Just do it. If I’m wrong, I’ll hold your hair back while you hurl.”

  “Oh, thanks. After all, what’re friends for?”

  “Right. As I recall, I did that for you a few times in college.” He sat down and began unwrapping the food.

  When he set my burger in front of me I eyed it warily, then felt a stab of hunger. Picked up a fry and bit into it.

  “What brings you across the Embarcadero?” I asked. Initially, Hank’s and Anne-Marie’s law firm had occupied half of the office suite that was now my agency’s. When we’d all needed more space because of our expanding businesses, they’d moved across the wide waterfront boulevard to Hills Brothers Plaza. Our paths crossed frequently, and we also socialized, but I missed the daily contact with them.

  Hank said, “I had a message from Patrick. When I returned the call, Ted told me you weren’t doing well, so I thought I’d pop over for lunch and then see what Patrick needs.”

  “He’ll appreciate that.” I took a tentative bite of the burger. Pretty good.

  “But you don’t appreciate me interfering with food.”

  “I didn’t say that.” Another fry. Good.

  “I don’t blame you for feeling ragged. Another few minutes in that building—”

  “Don’t remind me.” Another bite of burger, a sip of Coke. So far, no ominous rumblings in my stomach, no nausea.

  “Still . . .” Hank let the word trail off, on his face the quietly waiting expression a therapist might employ.

  “What d’you mean?”

  “You’ve been in dicey situations before, and come through them pretty damn well.”

  I’d been about to take another bite of the burger, but now I set it down.

  Finally I said, “This time is different. It’s really unnerved me. I was hiding behind my car, watching an inferno that I missed being trapped in by less than a minute. Hank, the heat was so intense, it blistered the paint on my MG. And this guy who was on the desk, Jimmy Banks, he was around the same age as I was when I used to do security guard work during college. Ever since that night, I’ve been going on crying jags and throwing up, and I can’t articulate my feelings, even to Hy, because I don’t know what or why . . .”

  And there I was, crying again.

  Hank got up and came around the desk. Stood behind me, arms circling my shoulders, cheek pressed against the top of my head.

  “Post-traumatic stress, kid,” he said. “And you’re feeling your own mortality.”

  “The mortality concept isn’t exactly foreign to me.”

  “But maybe it wasn’t as real before.”

  “So why is it more real now?”

  “Because your life has changed. You’r
e married. You’ve made that ultimate commitment. In theory, since you and Hy have been together a long time, it shouldn’t make a difference. But take it from one who knows: it does.”

  I closed my eyes, pressed my face into the sleeve of his corduroy jacket. Soon the tears stopped, and I felt something ease inside me.

  After a moment, Hank released me and went back to his chair. I grabbed a tissue, wiped my face, then picked up the now-lukewarm burger.

  Red’s food had never tasted better.

  “I’m drawing a blank on Dan Kessell,” Mick said.

  I looked up from the file I was once again going over and motioned him into the office. “What seems to be the problem?”

  He perched on the edge of my desk. “Well, the facts as we know them are all there. Born and raised in Fresno, Special Forces in ’Nam, honorable discharge after his leg was shattered by machine gun fire and he spent months in a military hospital in the Philippines. But after that, the available information’s sketchy. Nothing much on K Air, and he’s barely mentioned or quoted in articles on RKI, other than as ‘a partner.’”

  “That’s because he’s always stayed in the background. When, say, the Wall Street Journal does a story about the big guys in the corporate security field, Gage is the one they talk to. When something goes wrong, Gage is the spin doc.”

  “Makes me wonder why Kessell wants to stay out of the public eye. Like, does he have something to hide?”

  “Good question. He claims he doesn’t think fast on his feet, isn’t articulate enough. And Gage, as you must have observed, is glib and can be charming when it’s to his advantage.”

  “Do you believe Kessell’s explanation?”

  I frowned as I considered the question. “Now that I think about it, not really. What about personal details?”

  “One marriage, to a Gina Benedetti, in Fresno two years before he went to ’Nam. It didn’t survive the war. No children. Owns a condo in San Diego, a house—more like an estate—on Maui, various commercial real estate holdings, and a house in Timber Cove.”

  “Timber Cove? That’s down the coast from Touchstone, in Sonoma County. Strange he never mentioned it.”