The Ever

by Marcia Muller

  Phone ringing. Somewhere . . .

  I propped myself up on my elbows, reached for the extension, but the call had already gone on the machine. By the time I got to the living room, Hy’s voice was saying, “So that’s it—”

  I picked up. “I’m here. Sorry, I was asleep.”

  His voice was grim. “Dan just died.”

  “Jesus. Complications from surgery?”

  “Yeah. His heart gave out.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Bullshit, McCone. You’re no sorrier than I am. Neither of us liked the man.”

  I ran my hand over my forehead; the headache I’d had earlier was again pounding. “Still . . .”

  “Save your emotions for something that really matters,” Hy said. “And what matters is this: Dan may have been the ever-running man’s primary target.”

  “Or he may not have. Why the bombings as a lead-in to the shooting? Why not use a bomb on Dan’s condo instead? Why the change in MO?”

  “. . . I don’t know. Can you come down here?”

  “Of course.”

  I should feel as if something’s just ended. Why do I feel as if it’s just begun?

  Monday

  FEBRUARY 27

  The officer at the SDPD in charge of Dan Kessell’s case was Gary Viner, an old friend of my dead brother Joey. I’d consulted professionally with Gary a few times before, and he maintained the pretense that he’d lusted after me since the days when I was a high-school cheerleader. The sight of my lace-edged panties when I turned cartwheels really got to him, he claimed, ignoring the fact that our cheerleading undergarments had been plain and unrevealing.

  Today as he ushered me into his office, Gary’s manner was somber—no cartwheel jokes. He looked older than his years, his sandy hair thinning and deep lines carved around his mouth and into his high forehead. He motioned me to one of the visitors’ chairs, sat down at his desk, and folded his hands on a file that lay there.

  “It’s good to see you,” he said.

  “You, too. How’ve you been?”

  He shrugged. “Hanging in there.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Oh . . .” He sighed. “The usual cop trouble. My wife left me, got custody of the kids, moved home to Idaho.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  Another shrug. “Takes a certain kind of woman to be a cop’s wife. Ann isn’t that kind. She’s better off. The kids, too.”

  “And you?”

  “I’ll make it through.” A pause. “I still think of Joey. How he didn’t make it through. But my problems are ordinary compared to what his must’ve been. So I remind myself of that and go on.”

  At least something good has come out of Joey’s drug-and booze-soaked death.

  “Joey wasn’t very strong,” I said. “You are.”

  “Thanks.” He straightened, took his hands off the file and opened it. “Dan Kessell. Partner in Renshaw & Kessell International. Shot at close range with a thirty-eight-caliber handgun at approximately nine p.m. on Saturday night. Bullet was removed during surgery. No weapon present at the scene. Died at eleven-thirteen p.m. yesterday, of cardiac arrest after extensive surgery. What’s your interest in the case?”

  “I’ve been working for RKI on a series of bombings at their offices.”

  “I heard about the bombings after Kessell was shot. My people’re talking to the FBI and gathering information on the various incidents, but I’d appreciate it if you’d fill me in.”

  I did, as completely as I could without my files.

  Gary said, “I figured RKI might’ve brought you in on it, now that you’re married to one of the partners. Congratulations, by the way.”

  “Thank you. How’d you—?”

  “There was a mention of it in the Union.”

  Oh, hell! That was Ma’s work.

  At the time, I’d thought it a quaint social gesture, but now it made me feel vulnerable. How many peopIe paid attention to such items? Not a lot, unless they knew you, or you were a celebrity.

  I said, “Well, I’ve worked for RKI before. And I’m not reporting to my husband. If my involvement isn’t already public knowledge I’d like to keep it under wraps.”

  Gary nodded. “No one’s going to hear about it from me. Let me ask you this, though: do you think the bombings and Kessell’s shooting are related? I mean, the change in MO . . .”

  “I’ve wondered about that, too. And I have no conclusions at the moment.”

  “Well, if you come to any, let me know.”

  “Are your people finished with the crime scene?”

  “It’s still sealed. Why?”

  “I’d like to take a look at the condo. I’ll probably need Kessell’s lawyer’s okay, but if it’s all right with you . . .”

  “Sure. Just stay clear of the patio; it’s the actual crime scene.” Gary glanced at his watch and stood. “I’ve got a meeting in five minutes, but you’re welcome to stay here and review the file. Just leave it on the desk and shut the door when you’re done.”

  “I appreciate your letting me see what you have.”

  He went to the door and paused with his hand on the knob. “Let’s just say it’s in memory of Joey. Seeing what his death did to your family and his former friends has kept me from eating my gun on a lot of lonely nights.”

  He opened the door and went out, then turned and added with a bittersweet smile, “Hope you’re still turning those cartwheels, McCone.”

  The information in the SDPD file was sketchy. In spite of it being a Saturday, Dan Kessell had put in a full day in his office at RKI headquarters in La Jolla, then drove home, left his car in his garage, and walked a few blocks to Alex’s, a popular restaurant, for dinner with a client. The client, James Hoffman, security chief of Motoscope, a national software firm, had told the police that he’d requested the meeting because he was concerned about RKI’s ability to oversee their executive protection program after the bombings in San Francisco and other cities. Hoffman had been reassured by his conversation with Kessell, and the two parted at eight-twenty in front of the restaurant, Kessell walking off in the direction of his condo, while Hoffman waited for the valet to bring his car around. The parking attendant, maître d’, and waiters at the restaurant confirmed that the men’s conversation had been low-key and businesslike, and they had parted amicably.

  A neighbor of Hoffman’s in suburban Del Mar had seen him arrive home at around five to nine—a reasonable driving time on a Saturday evening—and spoke with him as he got out of his car. However, the time frame between Kessell’s departure from the restaurant and arrival at his deluxe condominium complex near Harbor Drive was inconsistent with the distance. Even a slow walker—and, according to my observations, Kessell’s stride was always brisk—could have traveled the distance in ten minutes. But he had not arrived outside the courtyard entrance to his unit until around nine-fifteen, when a neighbor who was coming back from walking his dog heard what he thought was a shot and encountered a man running out through the wrought-iron front gates. The neighbor thought the intruder had come from Kessell’s unit, went back to investigate, and found Kessell slumped on his patio, blood seeping from a head wound. Kessell’s cell phone was clipped to his belt and the neighbor used it to call 911. The police had canvassed all residents of the complex but only one man said he had heard the shot; he also mentioned he’d heard loud voices coming from Kessell’s patio shortly beforehand. The police were talking to employees of any establishments Kessell might have stopped into along his route home, but so far had come up with no witnesses.

  Searches of Kessell’s condominium and office at RKI were ongoing.

  Autopsy results were pending.

  What a morning. I’d spent most of the time since I arrived down here at eleven waiting to see Gary, reading this fairly useless file—and being reminded of Joey’s death.

  Just when you think the hurt is starting to heal, it flares up, and you know it’ll always be with you.

&nb
sp; I looked up at the clock on the wall—two p.m., time to get moving; I had an appointment with Kessell’s lawyer at three.

  Madison Crawford, Kessell’s personal attorney, had his offices on top of the Shelton Towers, one of San Diego’s newest downtown high-rises. While outside the day was bright and sunny—the rains having blown southeast into Mexico and the mudslides drying up and being cleared—the inside of the office felt gloomy. The walls were light gray and hung with black-and-white photographs that recalled Ansel Adams’s work. The furnishings were black leather, the thick-piled carpeting a darker gray that complemented the walls. A receptionist in a gray dress—regulation color, perhaps?—spoke into her phone and told me Mr. Crawford would be out momentarily. When he emerged from his office to greet me, I saw that Crawford was gray, too—hair, eyes, suit. The only things that saved him from blending into his surroundings were his maroon tie and ruddy complexion.

  He took me into his private office, and we went through the usual rituals: Coffee? No, thanks. Drink? No, thanks. My condolences on Dan’s death. He was a long-time client and will be missed.

  Finally, down to business. I said, “I spoke with the SDPD officer in charge of Dan’s case, and he said it would be okay with them if I took a look at the condo. May I have your permission as well?”

  “I have no problem with that. In fact, they called to say they finished there half an hour ago. The private patio out front is still a sealed crime scene, but you can enter the condo through the garage at the back.”

  “Thank you. Is it possible you could allow me access this afternoon?”

  “Certainly.” He buzzed the receptionist. “Sylvia, when Ms. McCone leaves, would you please give her the keys and garage-door opener to Mr. Kessell’s residence . . . Thanks.” He hung up, smiled at me, and said, “All set. I’d appreciate it if you’d return the keys and opener by close of business tomorrow.”

  “I’m sure I can have them here before then. Isn’t it unusual for an attorney to have keys and a garage-door opener to his client’s home?”

  “Yes, it is. Dan only gave them to me a week ago. It surprised me, because he was a very private man. When I asked him why he wanted me to have them, he was vague, said ‘In case something happens to me.’”

  “So he may have been afraid someone wanted to kill him.”

  “That’s possible.”

  “Did you tell this to the police?”

  “. . . No. I only just remembered it.”

  “I’d advise that you do so. Mr. Crawford, I assume you drew up a will for Dan?”

  He nodded. “A trust, a will, the usual.”

  “Can you give me any idea of who will benefit from it?”

  “I’m sorry. Until it’s probated—”

  “I understand. Have you notified the next of kin?”

  He frowned. “As far as I know, Dan had no relatives.”

  “Actually, he has a sister in Fresno—Elise Carver—whom he visited occasionally. Nephews, nieces; grandnephews and -nieces, too.”

  “That’s news to me. They’re not mentioned in his will. But I should have the sister’s address, so I can notify her of his death.”

  I gave it to him, and he copied it down. I asked, “Can you at least give me a general idea of who will benefit from his death? Seeing as it was a homicide . . .”

  “Well, I wouldn’t be violating ethical standards if I told you that much of the estate goes to various charities.”

  “Much of the estate? Are there any bequests to individuals?”

  “I’ve revealed all I can, Ms. McCone.”

  “Let me suggest a name: Gage Renshaw.”

  Crawford’s eyes remained impassive, but the corner of his mouth twitched before he said, “I cannot reveal—”

  “Try this one: Hy Ripinsky.”

  He compressed his lips to control another twitch. Then he said, “I’ve given you all the time I can afford, Ms. McCone. Sylvia will give you the keys and remote on your way out.”

  En route to Kessell’s condo, I considered the probable bequests to Renshaw and Hy. In the case of large firms like RKI, keyman life-insurance policies are usually taken out on partners to compensate for their potential loss. Did the three of them own such policies? I’d assumed so. But individual bequests from one partner to another? That was unusual.

  The complex where Kessell had lived was a two-story Spanish-style building, well landscaped, and spread over an entire block on the edge of downtown, within walking distance of the Gaslight Quarter. I left my rental car at the curb and went to the massive wrought-iron gates. They were locked, with an intercom system for guests and a key-card mechanism for residents. Through them I could see an expansive courtyard full of brightly colored plantings; the units looked to be large, and each was fronted by a high wall and a smaller version of the main gate. I identified Kessell’s unit at the left rear corner by the yellow crime-scene tape that stretched across the gate.

  I walked along the sidewalk to the driveway at the side of the building. When I located the garage for the unit, I depressed the remote’s button; the door rose, and I saw Kessell’s white Jaguar in one of the slots. The rest of the garage was spotless, not so much as a box or a tool stored there, and the garbage can and recycle bin were empty. I searched the Jaguar’s interior and trunk. The glove box contained only the registration slip, which showed it belonged to RKI. The rest of the car was so clean that it must have recently been detailed.

  Now for the interior of the condo. A door led from the garage into a laundry room. The washer and dryer looked as if they’d never been used and the cabinets above the appliances were empty. Kessell had been strictly a laundry-and-dry-cleaner man.

  Into the kitchen. It made even an indifferent cook like me envious. State of the art, as was Kessell’s sister’s kitchen in her old farmhouse in Fresno. Unlike Elise’s, however, it looked as if it was seldom used.

  First I did a quick walk-through. The condo was enormous. Lower floor: living room, formal dining room, multimedia room—all with gas fireplaces—office, half bath. Upstairs were a master bedroom suite with a bathroom that put our luxurious one at Touchstone to shame, two guest rooms with individual baths, and a fully furnished exercise room. No wonder Dan had been in such good shape.

  My work was cut out for me. I went back downstairs and looked out the front window. The private patio where Dan had died was more like a yard: flagstone area with teak furnishings, small swimming pool with attached spa, plantings in redwood containers.

  He’d had a nice life, what with this condo and the house on Maui. Even for a partner in RKI. Even with his real estate developments, of which he’d divested himself as soon as they became profitable.

  Maybe I could find the secret to his success.

  All I learned from the living room was that Dan had had a penchant for Asian art. Jade figurines, intricately painted Chinese vases, and lacquered boxes were displayed on the tabletops and in glass-fronted cases. Original prints and paintings, all by Asian artists, were arranged on the walls.

  The formal dining room was uninteresting. Just a rosewood table and chairs for eight, and a cabinet where Imari ware was displayed.

  The kitchen told me Kessell favored microwaveable Lean Cuisine, diet ginger ale, Grape-Nuts, nonfat milk, and Bushmills Irish whiskey. If he’d ever entertained in that elegant dining room, he must have had the meal catered.

  Multimedia room: Kessell listened to jazz on a surround-sound system and watched DVDs on a big-screen plasma TV—mainly action films or war movies, with the occasional horror film thrown into the mix. No surprises there.

  Office: desk drawers empty of anything but supplies. Cabinet with files on household insurance, paid bills, deed to this house and the one on Maui. No papers for the beat-up Piper he flew to Fresno on his visits to his sister. That wasn’t unusual, though; the company probably owned and insured it, as it did Hy’s and my plane. Bank account statements, but no canceled checks. I left them alone, knowing the police would have gone over
them.

  A workstation had a printer on its lower shelf, but there was no computer or discs. Probably the SDPD had taken them.

  Upstairs: the guest rooms were as impersonal as a room at the Hilton.

  Exercise room: lots of expensive equipment. Instruments of torture, I call them.

  Master bedroom: interesting in terms of what wasn’t there. No personal photographs, nothing out of place, no condoms in the nightstand or bathroom. Yet Hy had told me Dan always had a woman or two, and someone like him would have been very concerned about safe sex.

  No handgun. That was strange; people like Kessell—and Hy—slept with a weapon within easy reach. I’m comfortable with firearms and a damn good marksman, but the first time I realized how close to hand Hy kept his .45, I’d been unnerved. Now I was used to it. I couldn’t imagine Kessell not having a weapon handy. Of course, the police might well have appropriated it.

  I turned my attention to the closet: lots of expensively tailored suits and formal wear. Casual wear, all designer labels. Dress shoes and athletic shoes, and several pairs of fleece-lined slippers. A brown flight jacket, its leather smelling like a newly purchased car . . .

  . . . He’s the same old Dan, right up to the flight jacket that’s as beat-up as his plane.

  The same old Dan, as his friends and relatives used to know in the old days in Fresno?

  I didn’t think so. It must be an act he put on for his sister.

  I gave the entire condo another going-over, checking the obvious and not-so-obvious hiding places, and found nothing. Then I left, locking the inner door to the garage, and went around the complex to the main gate, where I pressed the buzzer for the neighbor who had found Dan shot and bleeding in his own front patio. A man’s voice, high-pitched and nervous, answered and said yes, he was Wynn Daley. When I identified myself and asked if we could talk about Mr. Kessell’s death, he was reluctant at first.