Wolf in the Shadows (6 page)

Emergency? Security code? I listened to the taped message replay, then hung up. Who were these people? None of the references
I had here in my home office would tell, unless I wanted to stay up all night reading the Yellow Pages. I’d have to wait until
morning when I visited their offices on Green Street.

But damn, the name sounded familiar! Why?

Tuesday, June 8

When I woke at ten after seven the next morning, my subconscious had dredged up what Renshaw and Kessell International was—and
the knowledge made me damned uneasy. Confused, too. I couldn’t see why Hy would be mixed up with them, unless … But if that
was true, it would mean I’d severely misjudged him. It would mean that I, who thought I instinctively understood him, had
rejected what casual acquaintances had assumed all along.

It was too early to confirm anything. For a while I lay under my quilts, hemmed in by the cats. Then I threw off the quilts—and
the cats—showered, dressed in jeans and a sweater, and took a brisk walk down Church Street to a corner store where I bought
a copy of this morning’s
Chronicle
and a whole-wheat bagel.

Mr. Abdur, the store’s owner, smiled and told me the fog had put roses on my cheeks. He was young—well, about my age—and
one of the new breed of neighborhood grocer who had come to realize that pleasantries, rather than surliness, would bring
the customer back. Since taking a vigorous walk to buy the paper was part of an ambitious new morning routine I was trying—without
great success—to adopt, I was pleased to have located a shopkeeper who wouldn’t snarl at me and spoil my day.

When I got home, it was still too early to call anyone to confirm what I’d remembered about Renshaw and Kessell, so I toasted
the bagel and had it with the first of my customary three cups of coffee. I supposed I should eliminate caffeine if I planned
to lead a virtuous life from now on, but I knew I wasn’t going to give it up—just as I suspected that my good intentions
would soon go the way of most New Year’s resolutions. That was okay, though; my vices are so few—caffeine, white wine, chocolate,
and an addiction to late-night grade-B movies—that relinquishing any would practically turn me into a saint.

There was nothing much of interest in the paper; it even felt thin. The comics weren’t funny, the crossword and the Jumble
were all too easy; in desperation I even read the business section, but the lead article on the unexpected withdrawal of an
initial public offering of Phoenix Labs stock failed to stir me. Finally it was nine o’clock, time to make my call.

I dialed the number of one of the city’s larger security firms and asked to speak to Bob Stern, my former boss. Bob, who has
changed companies about once every nine months since I worked for him, saved me from a hideous life by firing me several years
ago, and has spent most of the intervening time trying to hire me back for whatever outfit he’s hooked up with at the moment.
I have a certain reputation in investigative circles here in the city, and while the consensus is that I’d be impossible to
work with, a number of people would like to give it a whirl.

“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 in 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.