Wolf in the Shadows Read online

  “So what is it, Sharon?” Bob asked. “You ready to come back to me?”

  “No way.”

  “You’re not going to lure another of my promising new operatives away, are you?” Rae had worked briefly for Bob at one of his former gigs, before he sensed she’d be fully as difficult as I and recommended her for the job at All Souls.

  “Not today.” But as I spoke I reminded myself that soon I might have to call on Bob for referrals, should I say yes to All Souls’s offer. Quickly I put the troublesome thought out of my mind and said, “I’m after information. What can you tell me about Renshaw and Kessell International?”

  “RKI? Shit, Sharon, don’t tell me you’re thinking of hiring on with that bunch!”

  “Why is it you always suspect me of looking to change jobs? I’ve been with All Souls ever since you tossed me out on the streets.”

  “Those bleeding hearts aren’t good enough for you. Come back to me. I promise—”

  “RKI, Bob.”

  “Right. You know Ackerman and Palumbo? Paul Chamberlain? The big guys in the international security consulting field?”

  So I’d remembered correctly. “Yes.”

  “Well, RKI’s right up there with them, but that’s where the resemblance stops. A and P are mainly former spooks. At PC you got the guys with law or accounting degrees and nice suits. RKI uses both, but it’s the other types that make them flashy—and dangerous.”

  “Other types.”

  “Yeah, people whose past you really don’t want to know too much about. People who don’t play by anybody’s rules. They’re what makes RKI so effective in certain kinds of situations. Firms that’re desperate or very vulnerable use them. Insurance companies—well, they’re leery.”

  It sounded like a place where Hy would feel right at home. “So who’re the principals there? What’re their backgrounds?”

  “Strictly off-the-wall. Take Gage Renshaw. DEA, years back. Was tapped for a very select and low-profile task force called Centac in the mid-seventies. Then in eighty-five Centac was disbanded. Renshaw was in Thailand; he disappeared. Three years later he resurfaced, came back to the States, apparently affluent. Set up the RKI shop in La Jolla in partnership with his old pal Dan Kessell.”

  “So La Jolla is where they’re headquartered?”

  “With offices in major U.S. and foreign cities.”

  “That’s pretty impressive growth in not much more than five years.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t guarantee that some of the offices aren’t just mail drops, but it looks impressive as hell.”

  “This Dan Kessell,” I said, “what about him?”

  “Kessell’s background is harder to pin down. Special Forces in ’Nam, that much I know. Renshaw’s their front man— gives interviews to the Wall Street Journal; you’ve seen that kind of stuff. Kessell stays out of the public eye.”

  “And he’s an old friend of Renshaw’s from where?”

  “They went to high school together in Fresno, of all damn places.”

  Fresno. Maybe that was the connection. Hy had been born in Fresno; his father had operated a crop-dusting service there. But his parents had divorced when he was twelve, and he’d been raised on his stepfather’s sheep ranch—the ranch he’d inherited, where he now lived—near Tufa Lake. “Bob,” I asked, “have you ever heard the name Hy Ripinsky mentioned in connection with Renshaw or Kessell?”

  He considered. “No, I’d remember if I had.”

  “What about if you wanted to get close to these people without them knowing what you were after? How would you go about it?”

  “Very carefully.”

  “But how?”

  “Sharon, just what are you after?” Now Bob’s tone was concerned.

  “I have reason to believe that a friend of mine got mixed up with RKI and may have gotten hurt.”

  “So you’re riding to the rescue.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “When’re you going to learn?”

  “Probably never.”

  “Sharon, you may think you’re hot stuff because you’ve gotten your picture in the local papers so many times that now you have to work to keep it out, but you’re not in RKI’s league. These people have been around—everyplace. They’re tough and they’re dangerous.”

  “That doesn’t tell me what I need to know.”

  He sighed. “I’m trying to tell you to leave them alone.”

  “Can’t.”

  A silence. “All right, then, I’ll give you this advice: you want to find out about your friend, you level with them. No subterfuge is going to get you what you need to know. Make an appointment with Gage Renshaw, and just come out and ask what happened.”

  It sounded good to me; I’ve always preferred the straightforward approach.

  After I hung up, I sat on my sofa with my feet propped on the coffee table and thought for a while. The international security consulting business is an outgrowth of the rise of terrorism against employees and executives of U.S. companies both at home and abroad. The firms provide such services as risk analysis, security program design, preventative and defensive training for personnel, guards and escorts. That’s the part they talk about in Wall Street Journal interviews.

  The activities they don’t like to talk about are what they call contingency services: crisis-management plans for extortions or kidnappings; ransom negotiation and delivery; hostage recovery. Insurance companies that write large anti-terrorist policies specify which of the security firms is to be called in, along with the FBI, in the event of a kidnapping. When Bob said that the insurance carriers were leery of RKI, it meant that their methods were unorthodox, that they would often bypass the step of bringing in the federal authorities. Their tactics in paying ransoms and recovering hostages would be riskier than those of the other firms; they would probably have a high success rate, but when one of their negotiations went badly, it would result in a tragedy.

  What was Hy doing with these people?

  He’d told me an old buddy in San Diego had a business proposition to talk over with him. An old buddy from his childhood in Fresno? Or an old buddy from that nine-year hole in his life? Either way, it had to be someone from RKI, probably Dan Kessell or Gage Renshaw. And my former boss was right: the best way to find out was to ask.

  I went to the phone and dialed the La Jolla number that I’d copied from my answering-machine tape the night before. A woman answered. I asked for Gage Renshaw. He was out of town. What about Dan Kessell? He was unavailable at the moment. Could I perhaps reach Mr. Renshaw in San Francisco? I could try; did I have the number there? Yes, I did, and thank you.

  I dialed the San Francisco number. A man answered. Again I asked for Gage Renshaw. He took my name and put me on hold. Thirty seconds later he was back, asking what the call pertained to.

  “Hy Ripinsky,” I said.

  There was a slight pause. “One moment, please.”

  The next voice that came on the line was strong and resonant—and very guarded. “Gage Renshaw here. What can I do for you, Ms. McCone?”

  “I’d like to schedule an appointment to talk with you about Hy Ripinsky.”

  “Ripinsky …?” In spite of his attempt to imply lack of recognition, I caught an undertone of interest.

  “Mr. Renshaw, you know him.”

  “… Yes. What’s your connection with him?”

  “Friend.”

  “I see.”

  “I’d like to meet with you.”

  There was an odd sound on the line; Renshaw was probably recording the call. “All right, Ms. McCone, I have a light schedule today. Can you be here by ten-thirty?”

  “Certainly.”

  “And you have our address?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll see you within the hour.”

  I set down the receiver and went into the bathroom, where I dabbed on a minimum of makeup and twisted my hair into a knot, which I secured with a tortoiseshell comb. Then I regarded my jeans and sweater i
n the full-length mirror, saw the frown lines between my eyebrows, and laughed wryly. One thing for sure, nobody at RKI would care about the inelegance of my wardrobe. They, and I, had more vital matters to concern us.

  * * *

  The block of Green Street that I wanted was just off the Embarcadero between Battery and Front. From its foot I could see the piers across the wide shoreline boulevard; behind me rose the sheer rocky cliff of Telegraph Hill. The area contains an interesting mix of buildings and businesses: manufacturers’ showrooms and reclaimed warehouses; trendy restaurants and antique shops; television stations and that venerable San Francisco used-furniture institution, Busvan for Bargains. I squeezed the MG into a mostly illegal parking space on Front and walked to RKI’s address.

  It was one of the smaller renovated warehouses—old brickwork and high arched windows, augmented by new skylights and iron trim. Liquid amber saplings grew in brick-faced planters on the sidewalk, and a plate-glass window afforded a view of the building’s rather stark lobby. A man with a movie star’s profile, wearing a plain gray business suit, greeted me at the reception desk; his keenly assessing gaze told me he was a guard, and a bulge under his jacket indicated he was armed. He checked a clipboard for my name, gave me a plastic-coated visitor’s badge, and directed me up a curving wrought-iron staircase to his right.

  There was a fire door at the top of the staircase. I pushed through it and immediately confronted another guard station, staffed by a woman this time. Careful people, Renshaw and Kessell. Careful to the point of paranoia.

  The woman also checked a list when I gave my name, then buzzed someone on her intercom. While I waited, I looked around. Three rows of cubicles covered in a gray carpetlike material, offices around the perimeter. No plants, artwork, or chairs where visitors could sit. In about a minute a youngish man emerged from the aisle to my left, introduced himself as Mr. Renshaw’s assistant, and asked that I follow him.

  The cubicles we passed were occupied by men and women performing routine tasks. They stared at computer screens, typed, studied reports, spoke on the phone. In spite of the activity, the area was very quiet; when I commented on it, my escort said, “White noise—it keeps one person’s conversation from interfering with another’s.”

  High-tech people, too, I thought. A bland, sterile workplace like this would depress the hell out of me. I pictured my own office at All Souls—the small Victorian fireplace, the bay window, my salmon-pink chaise longue and Oriental rug, the Tiffany lamp and other mementos of past cases—and offered a silent prayer that the co-op would never blunder this far into the twenty-first century. If that happened, it would be no place for a person like me.

  Renshaw’s assistant stopped in front of a corner office and motioned for me to enter, then departed without a word. A man in a rumpled brown suit sat on top of the metal desk in front of the arched window, feet flat on a chair, talking on the phone. He was tall and thin, almost emaciated. Narrow face with an Abe Lincoln brow; longish black hair with a startling white streak that curled over his forehead; dark-framed glasses that couldn’t hide the keen intelligence in his eyes.

  “We’ll talk more later,” he said into the mouthpiece. Then he hung up and regarded me thoughtfully, as if he was memorizing every detail of my appearance.

  I stood just inside the door, letting him have a good look. After a moment he nodded, his image of me apparently filed in some mental data bank. He said, “Sit down and tell me what it is you want.”

  I came all the way into the office and took a chair in front of the desk. Gage Renshaw remained atop it, hunched, elbows propped on his bony knees.

  “Hy Ripinsky had an appointment with someone in your La Jolla office last Wednesday,” I began.

  Renshaw didn’t respond, just watched me attentively.

  “He called there from Oakland Airport, was told there had been a change of plans, and came here instead.”

  Still no response.

  “At some point after that, he drove his rental car to a place off Highway One-oh-one in San Benito County, near Ravenswood Road. He had an accident there, dented the car and broke a headlight by running into a boulder. On Saturday night the car was dropped off at SFO by someone other than Ripinsky.”

  Renshaw’s reaction to that was so minute I almost missed it—a slight tightening of the lines around his eyes. “Go on.”

  “Ripinsky’s plane is still tied down at Oakland Airport. No one at his office has heard from him since he left Tufa Lake. What happened to him? And where is he now?”

  “Why are you looking for him?”

  I hadn’t decided how to play this part of it yet. To buy time, I said, “My reasons are private and have nothing to do with your firm.”

  Renshaw got off the desk and walked around behind it. He straightened a pile of folders in its center, looked at his watch, pushed the lock of white hair off his forehead. Buying some time of his own. “Up to now,” he finally said, “you’ve been very direct, Ms. McCone.”

  “As I told you, my reasons are private and unrelated to RKI.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” He leaned forward on the desk, palms flat against its surface, the white lock of hair flopping down again. “I do wonder what a private investigator employed by a local legal-services plan wants with Ripinsky.” To my surprised look he added, “Yes, I recognized your name and had you checked out. It’s a policy of ours. What I discovered muddies an already muddy situation.”

  “What situation?”

  He shook his head. “You really can’t expect me to level with you if you’re not willing to return the favor.”

  And even if I did, he might not. I thought quickly, trying to decide how much to tell him.

  Renshaw waited. When I didn’t speak, he straightened and began to pace, long arms clasped behind him. “Ms. McCone, I’ve already given you more time than I intended. What’s your interest in Ripinsky?”

  Something in the way he said Hy’s name put me on my guard. I saw a tightening of his mouth, a telltale whiteness of the skin. This man was angry at Hy—very angry. I thought of how Bob Stern had described the people at RKI: “They’re tough and they’re dangerous.”

  “All right,” I said, attempting to feed into his anger, “Ripinsky and I were involved in a business deal. I can’t go into the details. He cheated me, and I want to find him.”

  Renshaw glanced sharply at me. Again I sensed he was taking a mental photograph, filing it for future recall. After a moment he crossed to the desk and resumed his former position. “I’m glad to hear we’re on the same side,” he said in a confiding tone. “But I’ll need to know more about this business deal.”

  “I can’t tell you any more. There are other investors involved, and they value confidentiality.”

  For a moment he was silent, pulling at the knot of his frayed green tie. Gage Renshaw didn’t believe my story of the business deal any more than I believed his abrupt shift to the role of confidant. I met his eyes, saw they were amused, felt my lips twitch in the beginning of a smile.

  Renshaw smiled, too. “Well, here we are, Ms, McCone— two stubborn bullshitters at a standoff. You want Ripinsky, and I’ll admit I want him, too. Same objective. Motive? Maybe the same, but probably not. What are we to do?”

  I couldn’t level, not with this man. My motives—concern, caring, something like love—weren’t within his frame of reference. Oh, he’d heard of them, all right, maybe even experienced them a time or two, but in this situation they simply didn’t apply.

  “Your move, Ms. McCone.”

  Again I met his eyes; they were no longer amused. I said, “All I can tell you is that when I find Ripinsky, there’ll be nothing good in store for him.”

  “Either you’re telling the truth or you’re a very good actress. For your sake, I hope it’s the former.”

  “Why?”

  Behind the sheen of his glasses his eyes went hard and icy. The skin around his mouth paled. “Because,” he said, “if you have any affection for Ripinsky,
you’re going to be badly hurt. When I find him, I intend to kill him.”

  Five

  Now I had to call upon all my acting skills. With an effort, I kept my voice level as I asked, “What did Ripinsky do to you?”

  Renshaw shook his head. “That’s confidential—like your business dealings with him.”

  I thought for a moment. “All right,” I said, “I’ll tell you what I think happened. You or your partner hired Ripinsky, possibly to deal with a situation that required his specific talents. Ripinsky screwed up or double-crossed you. You say you want to find him, so you probably don’t have any more of a clue to his whereabouts than I do. That’s why you agreed to see me; you thought I might give you a lead.”

  Renshaw regarded me with narrowed eyes.

  “That’s where I can help you,” I added. “If you tell me what went down, I can find him. You see, Ripinsky and I used to be lovers; I know how he thinks.” Two lies there, McCone.

  Renshaw raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “You were lovers, and now you’re willing to turn him over to me?”

  I shrugged. “Situations change. People change.”

  “That’s cold, Ms. McCone.”

  “You were a friend of Ripinsky once?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, then, you ought to understand. Why should I feel any differently than you, now that it’s over?”

  That gave him pause. He got up, began pacing again. I watched him carefully. This man wanted to kill Hy; if I were to prevent that, I’d need to know him.

  “Ms. McCone,” he said after a bit, “I understand you’re a good investigator, and I suppose you have the inside track if what you say about your former relationship with Ripinsky is true. But I still doubt you can find him when our operatives haven’t been able to locate him since Sunday night.”

  Sunday night—not Saturday, when the rental car had been dropped off. “We’ve reached a stalemate, then.”

  He faced me, hands on hips. “You realize I don’t believe a word of your story—the business deal, the other investors who require confidentiality, Ripinsky cheating you. I’m not sure I even believe what seems more logical—that he dumped you and you’re attempting to use me to get back at him. All of this seems like a smoke screen for some private agenda that I’m not going to try to guess at.”