Wolf in the Shadows (39 page)

“… Someday, probably. I’m building up to it. Hard to talk about something you’ve never told a living soul.”

“Not even Julie?”

“No.” He shook his head. “She suspected some things, but I couldn’t get into it. I loved my wife, but she was such a … purist.
Such an idealist. Not at all like you.”

“Thanks, Ripinsky.”

He tipped my chin up, looked into my eyes. “Didn’t mean that the way it sounded. It’s supposed to be a compliment. You’ve
got both feet on the ground, you face facts, no matter how unpleasant. You’ve got what it takes, in any situation.” He smiled
smugly. “You’re like me.”

*    *    *

Ten minutes later John still hadn’t returned—giving us time alone, I supposed. The shadows of the yuccas lengthened and turned
purple, bleeding into the dusk. The cars climbing the streets below began to put on their lights. One stopped at the foot
of the driveway, and I heard its door open and close. I stood to see who it was; a long, lean figure started up the hill.

Gage Renshaw.

Hy stood, too. “What’s that son of a bitch doing here?”

I shrugged, watching Renshaw. He came up the drive in his long, loose-limbed gait, wearing the same rumpled suit and frayed
tie that he’d had on yesterday afternoon. I wondered if the man possessed any decent clothing.

Renshaw spotted us and came over. Before he could speak, Hy said, “Don’t you think we’ve spent enough time together this week,
Gage?”

“When’re you going to brush that chip off your shoulder, Ripinsky?”

Hy made a disgusted sound.

I said, “Why don’t we let Mr. Renshaw tell us why he’s here?”

“You can call me by my first name, Sharon.”

I ignored that. “Why
are
you here?”

For a moment he seemed at a loss for words—surely an unusual state. Then he said, “I have some information and two offers.
First, Fontes and Julio Sandoval, Navarro’s contact in the comptroller’s office at Colores, were picked up when they tried
to draw on the L.C. at Banco Internacional in Mexico City yesterday afternoon. They’re admitting nothing, of course, but I
assume being held in a Mexican jail will loosen the tongue of one or the other.”

When he didn’t go on, I prompted him. “And second?”

“Jaime’s okay. You can’t seriously hurt anybody that stupid by hitting him on the head. And he’s talking. You wondered how
Salazar knew you’d be crossing with a coyote?”

I nodded.

“After you snatched Mourning, Salazar began phoning, tapped into his network of contacts here in the South Bay. Someone saw
you talking with Luis Abrego in the Tradewinds Sunday afternoon. Salazar put it together, then got in touch with his contacts
in T.J.”

“Al Mojas gave us away?”

“That I don’t know. But Salazar knew him, knew where he’d be likely to take you across. My guess is he paid Mojas to deliver
you.”

“But why did Mojas warn us about something being wrong?” Hy asked.

Renshaw shrugged.

I said, “I think in his odd way he’d come to like us. He tipped us, figuring we’d at least stand a chance.” I turned to Renshaw.
“Anything else?”

He smiled grimly. “The last missing piece: who shot Diane.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Her husband.”

“What?” Hy and I spoke in unison.

Renshaw nodded. “Seems that a lot of drinking went on at Fontes’s villa Saturday night and early Sunday morning. Security
got lax. Before they doped Tim up and broke his glasses, he managed to get hold of Jaime’s gun. Fool could’ve escaped, but
instead he encountered Diane hitting up the living-room liquor cart and decided to sever his marital ties. Failed miserably.”

“Good Lord,” I said. “She’s not going to try to press charges, is she?” If so, it would be on a par with the mugger who sued
the San Francisco cab driver who pinned him to a wall with his taxi while trying to apprehend him. In a great miscarriage
of justice, the mugger actually won the initial round.

“No, ma’am,” Renshaw said. “Diane’s not admitting to complicity in the kidnapping, of course, and Tim’s willing to overlook
her participation in exchange for her not going to the Mexican authorities about the shooting, a speedy divorce, and a distribution
of their community property that’s weighted heavily in his favor.”

“
I
wouldn’t be that charitable toward her,” I said.

Renshaw glanced at Hy. “Don’t ever marry this woman.”

Hy grunted.

I said, “Okay, you’ve given us your information. What about the offers?”

He hesitated, then addressed Hy. “The partnership’s still open, Ripinsky. We need somebody with your talents.”

Hy’s lips tightened. He stared straight ahead, arms folded across his chest.

“Listen, you can’t hold a grudge forever because I shot off my mouth and made a stupid threat.”

“Which you would have made good on if it hadn’t been for McCone.”

Renshaw’s gaze turned inward. “Maybe, maybe not. But, Jesus, man, how would you have felt in my position?”

Hy seemed to be thinking that over. Finally he said, “About the same.” And smiled wryly.

“Then you’ll consider the offer?”

“I’ll think on it.”

Renshaw turned to me. “As for you, Sharon—or is it still to be Ms. McCone?”

“I guess it’s Sharon—Gage.”

“As you must know, we’re damned impressed with your work. Kessell and I doubt any of our operatives would have handled this
situation better—or more, shall we say, creatively. We’d like you to come to work for us. I’m sure we could top whatever
you were making at All Souls, and there’s a very attractive benefits package.”

The offer took me somewhat by surprise. And it struck me as an easy solution to my employment problem. Too easy, perhaps.
“I’m flattered, Gage, but like Hy, I’m going to have to think on it.”

“Take all the time you need, both of you. The offers will stand.” He hesitated, looking at us as if he hoped we’d ask him
to stay awhile. When we didn’t, he nodded in farewell and walked back down the driveway.

“So,” I said after he’d driven away, “are you really going to consider it?”

Hy shrugged. “Might as well. Like I told you a few weeks ago, it’s time for a change. You?”

“I don’t know if I could work for that kind of outfit.”

“Well, give it some thought.” He grinned. “Kind of charms me to think of becoming your boss.”

“You’d find me unmanageable and incorrigible.”

“Them’s big words, but I find you that way now.”

A pizza delivery van came up the hill and turned into the driveway. I glanced at the house, saw no sign of my brother.

“Go on,” Hy said, “you’re rich. Pay the man.”

The nouveau riche McCone got up to foot the bill.

Thursday, June 17

When I arrived at Oakland Airport’s north field at a little after two in the afternoon, Hy had already given the Citabria
its preflight check and was leaning against it, looking bored and somewhat impatient. “What took you so long?” he asked.

“Well, first I had to talk with Ted.”

“About what?”

“
Cogito, ergo doleo
.”

“What?”

“I think, therefore I’m depressed.”

“Still?”

“Uh-huh. The interest in Latin was only a temporary respite; he’s about to give up on it.” I tossed my weekend bag into the
rear of the plane.

“Wish there was something to be done for him.”

“Maybe there is. He doesn’t know it, but we’re going to have a long talk when I get back, and I think I’m going to recommend
a therapist whom I went to school with. Anyway, then I had to talk with Rae.”

“How’s she? Any progress with Willie?” Hy found the combination of my assistant and the fence-turned-jewelry-merchant both
bizarre and fascinating.

“Uh-uh. As we spoke, she was doing needlepoint—you know Rae, she’s mastered every craft in existence—and guess what?”

He raised an eyebrow in question.

“It’s a sampler for her office wall, and it says ‘A rule with no exception: If it has tires or testicles, you’re going to
have trouble with it.’ ”

He snorted. “That’s sexist as hell, but really pretty funny.” Then he frowned. “You don’t believe it, do you?”

“Well … sometimes I do, but the kind of trouble I have with the entity that doesn’t have tires isn’t something I’m willing
to forgo.”

“That’s good. So then what? After Rae, I mean?”

“Then I was in conference with the partners.” I’d expected to be at All Souls only long enough to speak with Hank and make
arrangements to clear out my office, but had ended up closeted in the parlor with Hank, Pam, Larry, Gloria, and Mike for over
two hours.

“They all get together to rake you over the coals?”

“Actually, no. They’re restructuring my job to utilize what they call my ‘unique abilities.’ Translation: peculiarities. But
the promotion—without the chore of supervising paralegals and with a minimum of desk duty—stands.”

“As it should. But how the hell did they come around?”

“Seems Hank sat them all down and read them the riot act while I was gone. I don’t know exactly what he said, but he convinced
them that firing me would be tantamount to tossing a national treasure into the trash compactor.” I started to get into the
plane’s rear seat.

Hy put his hand on my shoulder. “No, McCone. Today you’re the pilot.”

“
Really?
” I felt like a little kid does when the training wheels finally come off her bicycle.

“Really. You earned it.”

He got in back, and then I climbed in front. Put on the seat belt and headset, fiddled with switches—fingers eager and slightly
a-fumble.

Through the earphones Hy said, “So are you going to stay there?”

Confidently I flicked a switch; it did what it was supposed to. “At All Souls? I don’t know. I told them I’d have to consider
it.”

“Thought you’d have jumped at the chance.”

“Maybe, like you, I’m due for a change.” My mind was more on the mechanics of takeoff than on my future career. I started
the engine. The propeller jerked, then whirred into silver motion.

Hy said, “You haven’t turned RKI down yet, either.”

“How’d you know?”

“I talked with Gage this morning.”

“You’re not going in with them, are you?”

“Nope. After these past couple of weeks, I’ve decided there’s too much crap going down on this planet for me to spend the
rest of my life doing the kinds of things Gage and Dan want me to. It’s time for me to kick some butt, and the Spaulding Foundation’s
the perfect apparatus for that.”

“Sounds as if you’re gearing up for a fight. Just what is it you plan to do?”

“Things you wouldn’t believe, McCone. Things you flat-out wouldn’t believe.”

“I’ll watch with interest.” Smiling, I thumbed the switch on the mike and said, “Oakland Ground, this is Citabria seven-seven-two-eight-niner….”

Air traffic was light that afternoon. In a very few minutes I was cleared for takeoff, VFR eastbound for Tufa Lake. Runway
27R stretched before me like a long-awaited promise. When the little plane lifted off the tarmac, I felt an intense thrill
of freedom—breaking loose into a world that had no bounds.

Sometimes, I thought, the worth of freedom can be measured only by the cost of what you give up to achieve it. If I chose
a free path when I returned to the city, it would be valuable beyond reckoning.

I looked back at Hy, gave him a thumbs-up sign, and tipped the plane’s left wing into a soaring arc above San Francisco Bay.

New York Times Book Review:

“[Sharon McCone is] the new breed of American woman detective… redefining the mystery genre by applying different sensibilities
and values to it.”

Los Angeles Times Book Review:

“Muller is a good reporter and an eloquent writer…McCone is a character who deserves a wide readership.”

Kansas City Star:

“Fans of Sara Paretsky and Sue Grafton unfamiliar with Sharon McCone are in for a treat.”

Atlanta Constitution:

“Ms. Muller’s pace and plotting are very strong, but it’s her characters—especially McCone—who will lure you back.”

Houston Chronicle:

“One of the most likable of the new generation of women investigators… McCone combines a personal interest in the people with
whom she works with a hard-boiled wit about her life and times.”