Wolf in the Shadows (8 page)

“All right,” I said, “what happened then?”

“We waited until the kidnappers finally made contact on June fourth. Still no way to tell if they were Terramarine or one
of the other nut groups. The contact woman spoke with a Hispanic accent; Ripinsky thought she might be a Mexican national.
They wanted two million in small unmarked bills. You know how much that weighs, how cumbersome it is?”

“Very, I imagine.”

“Some two hundred and ninety pounds, enough to fill a couple of trunks. We tried to talk them into a wire transfer to a Swiss
or Bahamian bank account. No dice. They know governments and foreign banks cooperate against extortion attempts. They wanted
cash, and they were very nervous. We did get them to send proof that the victim was still alive.” Another slide appeared on
the screen: Timothy Mourning, holding a copy of the June 4
New York Times
.

Renshaw went on, “Finally Kessell—Dan Kessell, my partner—hit on the idea of an irrevocable international letter of credit
drawn on Phoenix’s bank account here to whatever foreign company they specified. And they went for it. Apparently they knew
somebody they could trust at a firm, Colores Internacional in Mexico City.”

“You checked them out, of course.”

“Yeah. Fairly good-sized operation, makes silk flowers, crap like that. Privately held by a member of one of Mexico’s wealthy
families, Emanuel Fontes. Fontes is an environmentalist, has donated to a number of causes, particularly ones having to do
with the protection of marine mammals.”

“Dolphins. Interesting.”

“What’s even more interesting is that Fontes’s brother, Gilbert, owns a large tuna-fishing fleet headquartered in Ensenada.
Diametrically opposed viewpoints there, and bad blood between them.”

“Bad enough blood to make Emanuel an extremist?”

“We’ve kicked the thought around.”

“Have you tried to get the Mexican authorities to lean on him, find out if he’s connected with any of the fringe groups?”

Renshaw looked at me as if I’d taken leave of my senses. “Down there, where you never know who’s involved in what? No, we
backed off and set it up. The objective was to get the victim back alive; then we’d let the authorities go after the kidnappers—that
is, if we didn’t take care of them first.” He smiled grimly. “Ripinsky was to make the drop; we hoped he might be able to
identify somebody. They went through the usual nonsense: go to this phone booth, wait for another call. Finally they named
the location—that turnoff in San Benito County.”

“What happened down there, do you know?”

“I know. And that was the first time I had a funny feeling about Ripinsky. According to him, there was another car in the
turnoff when he arrived. Its driver panicked, forced him into the boulder, and took off. Ripinsky waited, but nobody else
ever showed.”

“But you don’t believe that.”

“At the time I did, but like I said, I had a funny feeling. Anyway, Ripinsky came back here and we waited some more. Didn’t
take the kidnappers long to reestablish contact. They wanted to move the drop south, said Ripinsky should check into a place
on Hotel Circle in San Diego and they’d call him on Sunday. That gave us real cause for concern.”

“Why?”

“Because it indicated they might’ve taken Mourning into Mexico. If they reneged on setting him free once they had the L.C.,
there’d be no way we could recover him by force. In most foreign countries, we work either with or around the authorities,
but not down there. After last year’s U.S. Supreme Court ruling that it’s okay to snatch criminals from foreign jurisdictions
to stand trial here, Mexico quit cooperating completely. The political situation’s just too damned volatile for us to go in
on our own. Company policy says we don’t set foot south of the border.”

“I see. So Ripinsky flew to San Diego that night?”

“Uh-huh. One of our operatives dropped him off at SFO and returned his rental car.”

“He had the letter of credit with him?”

“Damn right he did.”

“Did he contact your people in La Jolla?”

“He did not. Too risky, in case the kidnappers had him under surveillance. We know he checked into the motel, the Bali Kai,
and on Sunday he sent a message through a woman friend of mine on Point Loma, saying the drop was set for eleven
P.M.
And that’s the last we ever heard. Ripinsky checked out of the motel with the two-million-dollar L.C. and vanished. His rental
car didn’t even turn up.”

I masked my surge of concern by asking, “Has the L.C. been drawn upon?”

“No. We’re monitoring Phoenix’s bank account minute by minute.”

“Any chance Ripinsky met with foul play before he could make the drop?”

“That’s possible, but not too damn likely. Ripinsky can take care of himself. The assumption I’m acting on is that he made
a deal with the kidnappers—or was in collusion with them from the first.”

“You mean since before you brought him in on the case? How could he have known Phoenix was your client?”

“Because among the materials on the firm that I sent him several weeks ago was a complete, confidential client list. Sheer
stupidity on my part. I ignored what you pointed out earlier: situations change, people change.”

Renshaw paused, his face pale and drawn. “Because of my stupidity, Timothy Mourning is probably rotting in a ditch somewhere
with a bullet in his brain, while Ripinsky’s sitting back and waiting until he thinks it’s safe to draw on Phoenix’s two-million-dollar
L.C.” His eyes glittered against the darkness that surrounded us. “Ripinsky’s going to pay for this.”

I looked away, glad he couldn’t see me all that well. Stared at the slide of Mourning holding the June 4
Times
. The laughter was gone from his face, leaving it a rigid mask of fear. The gleam in his bespectacled eyes had been replaced
by a sheen of horror. Timothy Mourning had known he was going to die.

But not because of Hy’s actions. Imperfect as my understanding of him was, I knew he would never have colluded with the kidnappers
or cut a deal. Would never have caused this innocent man’s death. On the surface, the circumstantial evidence against him
looked bad, but if I dug deep, I knew I’d uncover a different set of facts. And I would dig. Gage Renshaw was not going to
make Hy pay for something he’d had no part in.

Renshaw asked, “Are you still with us, Ms. McCone?”

I hardened my expression as the lights came up. Turned to him and said firmly, “Yes, I am.”

“Then let’s discuss your price.”

The bargain I struck with Gage Renshaw would have been lucrative—had I any intention of honoring it. In fact, it shocked
me to learn just how much money could be made, providing you worked for a certain type of people. The outrageous figure Renshaw
agreed to pay when I delivered information about Hy’s whereabouts told me that for years I’d been shortchanged by even more
than I’d suspected; in fact, made me feel like a mere novice in a field where only hours before, I’d considered myself a consummate
pro. If you threw in expenses, which Renshaw also agreed to pay, for a single job I would have earned only slightly less than
my yearly salary at All Souls.

Yes, there was a lot of money to be made in investigation—providing you wanted to work for a firm like RKI. Providing you
were willing to bend the rules as they did. Providing your sleep wasn’t susceptible to guilt-and horror-induced nightmares.

None of those circumstances applied in my case, though. I pocketed the advance check Renshaw had the business office issue
me for expenses, took down directions to the Mourning home outside Novato, and agreed to meet him there at four. Diane Mourning,
he said, had been adamantly against calling in the authorities, but that hadn’t prevented her from taking RKI to task for
mishandling the situation. Perhaps talking with me would assure her they still were making every effort. Since I’d hoped to
speak with the victim’s wife anyway, the drive up there seemed worthwhile.

My business with Renshaw concluded, I stopped at RKI’s bank and cashed the check. Then I went to a nearby branch of Bank of
America and deposited most of it in my account, holding out some for incidentals. Finally I returned to my office to finish
some paperwork and talk with Rae.

The co-op was quiet; Ted slumped in his desk chair, staring at his computer screen. I reached into my box for my message slips
and said, “
Amo, amas, amat
.” It was the only conjugation I remembered from my high-school Latin classes.

He continued staring at the screen, ignoring me.

I asked, “What’s the Latin phrase for today?”

“Tete futae
and the horse you rode in on.”

Stung by his uncharacteristic grouchiness, I said, “The same to you,” and went upstairs.

Now, what was that about? I wondered as I dumped my bag and jacket on my chaise longue. He’d been perfectly cheerful when
I left the night before. Maybe the stress and uncertainty of this reorganization was taking its toll on him, too.

For about half an hour I took care of my messages and dictated a couple of reports. Then I called Hy’s accountant, Barry Ashford.
Ashford said he had a standing arrangement with Hy to take care of his bills when he went out of town for extended periods.
“Goes back to the days right after Julie died when he was getting busted for doing stupid things at environmental protests,”
he said. “I should’ve explained that to Kate; obviously she’s made this out to be a bigger deal than it is.”

“Did Hy say how long he’d be away?”

“No, but he told me he’d probably be back before anything needed to be paid. In case he wasn’t, though, he wanted to alert
me.”

It sounded as if he’d been keeping an open mind about Renshaw’s offer. If things looked good in La Jolla, he’d stay longer;
if not, he’d simply return home. “Did Hy mention why he was going away?”

“Hy? Are you kidding?”

I thanked Ashford and hung up, glad I hadn’t talked with him yesterday. The accountant’s casual attitude toward Hy’s unexplained
absence might have lulled me into a false sense of security, convinced me there was no need to continue looking.

Next I called Kate Malloy. She said she’d been out to Hy’s ranch and spoken with the hands. “Not much there. Hy didn’t tell
them anything, and the reason he paid them for two months is that one man needed an advance because his wife’s having a baby.
Hy just figured it was easier to pay them all the same amount.”

“What about American Express? Were you able to find anything out?”

“Yes. He used the card twice after he rented the car in Oakland: for a ticket to San Diego on USAir on Saturday night, and
at the Bali Kai Motor Inn there. No additional charges since Sunday, but they may just be slow coming in.”

It fit neatly with the story Renshaw had told me. “Thanks, Kate,” I said. “I’ve got a line on Hy, and I’m going to San Diego
tonight. I’ll check in when I know something.” Then I ended the call before she could press me for details.

I swiveled around and slumped in my chair, staring unseeingly out the window. In addition to supporting Renshaw’s story, the
facts also supported what I instinctively knew. If Hy had already been in collusion with Timothy Mourning’s kidnappers when
he left Tufa Lake, he would have made provisions for a lengthy absence, probably liquidated his assets. But Hy’s departure,
prompted by a call from me that precipitated our trip to the Great Whites, had been strictly spur-of-the-moment.

And afterward, when Renshaw contended he’d gone over to the kidnappers’ side? Well, I still had no proof he hadn’t except
my faith that he was incapable of such an act. And that was solid enough proof for me.

I thought for a while more before I buzzed Rae’s office and asked her to come upstairs. She didn’t look much more convivial
than Ted, and she’d continued to allow her appearance to go to hell. Her hair stuck out in greasy little curlicues, her sweater
had holes in it, and her jeans were ripped at the knees. She saw me glance at them and thrust out her jaw as if to say, “You
want to make something of it?”

“Have a seat,” I told her. “I need to ask a favor,”

“I heard about your promotion.” She looked at my chaise longue and apparently decided that moving the jacket, briefcase, purse,
camera bag, stack of files, and bag of Hershey’s Kisses was too much trouble. Flopping on the floor in front of it, she added,
“Congratulations.”

“Thanks—I think.”

“Your rose came. Since you weren’t here to deal with it, I stuck it in a water glass in the bathroom. Couldn’t bear to put
it in your bud vase; that was so dirty I’ve got it soaking in the sink.” She glared at me, as if she’d narrowly prevented
me from neglecting a child.

I ignored the glare, said humbly, “Thank you, Rae.”

“Just see you take care of it. I’m not your gal Friday, you know.” Then she perked up some. “I suppose this promotion means
you’ll be getting a raise. Maybe we should celebrate. You want to go down to the Remedy?”

The Remedy Lounge is All Souls’s favorite tavern, on Mission Street. We hang out there a fair amount, but we don’t usually
head downhill at a little after two in the afternoon. “Now?” I asked.

Rae shrugged, looking hurt.

What the hell, I thought. Maybe if I bought her a beer she’d stop sulking long enough for me to ask my favor. “Why not?” I
said. “Let’s go.”

“Forget it—it was just an excuse to get plastered. I’ve got to watch that. Don’t want to turn into a stereotype.”

“Stereotype?”

“The Irish sot, and the scorned woman.”

“Willie still being difficult?”

“Still. Bastard’s not budging on the prenup. God, as if I wanted his money! I’m not even sure I want
him
anymore. He’s no prize, you know. The man used to be a
criminal
.”

Poor Rae. I was sorry she was hurting, but relieved she wasn’t about to become the third—or was it the fourth?—Mrs. Willie
Whelan. The man had a big heart, but he’d yet to prove he could stick to the straight and narrow; when I met him, he was a
successful dealer in stolen goods, and proud of it. Should his discount-jewelry chain—empire, he called it—collapse, he
might revert to type, and then where would Rae be?