The Ever

by Marcia Muller

  His frankness startled me. I covered my surprise and said, “Well, Mr. Cleary, we’re on the same page. Tell me about Gage Renshaw.”

  Renshaw, Cleary said, would do absolutely anything for money. “As long as I’ve known him he’s had no loyalty to the DEA, no loyalty to any organization or individual—except to himself.”

  While in Washington he had passed on confidential information to the highest bidder. His connections had spread like tentacles from the criminal underclass to the highest levels of the bureaucracy. “And some said even higher,” Cleary added. “Congress, minor officials in the White House—who knows?”

  “So he sold information about . . . ?”

  “How investigations were proceeding. Who was—or wasn’t—about to be indicted. Who was sleeping with whose wife or mistress. What was the drug of choice of the powerful, and who their suppliers were.”

  “And he got away with that?”

  “Gage was clever. There were rumors, but no proof.”

  “Did he deal in drugs himself?”

  “No way.”

  “You think he did drugs?”

  Cleary shook his head. “Nope. Money is Gage’s drug—and I mean that literally. The more he gets, the more he wants. In Washington the rumors got so persistent that the agency was afraid he might become an embarrassment, or create a major scandal for the administration. That’s why they shipped him off to Thailand. Figured things were so corrupt there that he couldn’t embarrass them.”

  “But they assigned him to CENTAC—”

  “Yes. Because a special force like that needs people of Gage’s . . . ingenuity. And he did well for them.”

  I said, “One thing that bothers me—if you knew all of this about Renshaw, how come you allowed him to recruit you for RKI?”

  “Because he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

  “And why did he do that?”

  “He knew my record with the agency. And he knew that I was aware of his.” Cleary smiled ruefully. “In short, Ms. McCone, I was the kind of man he needed. And I had the goods on him.”

  “A touch of blackmail on your part?”

  “Not really. Gage was the one who approached me. Could you have refused?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been made that kind of offer.”

  But Kessell made that kind of offer to Gage when he sold him the partnership in RKI for a dollar. And both were extremely generous with Hy when they brought him on board.

  My God, what is Hy mixed up in?

  And, by extension, what am I?

  Cleary borrowed a heavy coat for me from a woman he knew on hotel security and we walked over to the site of the bombing, along the broad river walk bordered by newish, expensive-looking condos and apartment buildings. The air was bitterly cold, wind off the lake gusting along the river and between the buildings. As we started to turn left at a large, multi-tiered fountain whose cascades sheeted noisily down, there was a hissing sound, and a high arc of spray shot into the air all the way to the opposite shore. Given the temperature and the windchill factor, I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had frozen and hung there.

  “Water cannon,” Bob said, seeing my startled expression. “Goes off at regular intervals.”

  “Why?”

  “Damned if I know. It just does. I never thought about it.”

  We walked down a side street and turned right into what seemed to be an area of converted factories and warehouses similar to where RKI had had its building in San Francisco. Exclusive shops, galleries, professional offices, and a grocery store whose window display of exotic breads made me wish I’d finished my English muffin occupied the street level.

  We turned a corner and I spotted a police barricade. Sawhorses and tape blocked both the street and the sidewalk on either side, and emergency vehicles stood beyond it; police and fire department personnel moved about. Cleary and I pushed our way through a bunch of rubberneckers, and he showed his ID to an officer who guarded the perimeter. The officer raised the tape and let us inside.

  The familiar stench of fire, chemicals, and charred and water-soaked debris took me back to Green Street on the night of the explosion there. My stomach lurched and sweat popped out on my forehead; I closed my eyes, breathed through my mouth. When I opened them and looked up, I took an involuntary step backward, bumping into Cleary.

  At the hotel, he’d described the extent of the destruction, but it still hadn’t prepared me for this. Between two scorched and sooty three-story brick buildings was a gaping space mounded with blackened rubble. The street and opposite sidewalk were puddled and littered with glass, bricks, twisted metal, and other unidentifiable pieces of what had once been a building. Several windows in nearby structures had been blown out. Even mouth-breathing didn’t keep the stench from me; it must have filtered in through my pores. Cleary steadied me as a man in a black trench coat came toward us. I made myself focus on him.

  The man introduced himself to me as Special Agent Lloyd Zyzek of the FBI; he and Cleary had already met, and he’d been told I was on my way. He explained what they knew about the blast. It sounded similar to the Green Street explosion, with three charges set. As in San Francisco, the guard in the lobby had been killed; five other employees had suffered serious injuries. Because the explosion had happened at nine in the evening, there were few people on the street and only three had been hit by falling glass and debris. One of the adjoining buildings was under renovation and vacant; the employees in the other had all gone home by then. People in the block backing up to the RKI offices and others nearby reported being shaken up by the noise and reverberations, but not hurt.

  “We immediately assumed this was a terrorist bombing,” Zyzek said. “At least until we made the connection to the other RKI blasts. We’ll try to dispel that notion in our statements to the press; people’re very nervous about terrorism these days, and we don’t want to fuel public anxiety.”

  “Is the fire mostly out?” I asked.

  “We’ve got some hot spots still, but yeah.”

  “Any idea of what type of bomb he used?” I asked.

  “From what we’ve recovered, we suspect plastic, like in your San Francisco bombing. Timing device was probably simple, remote-controlled. Given the info on the Web these days, any idiot could’ve put them together.”

  But this guy’s not any idiot.

  Zyzek added, “So far we haven’t found enough to see if there’s a signature on them.”

  People who manufacture bombs frequently leave what is called a signature on the device. Nothing so obvious as their names or initials, but some repetitive and largely unintentional detail that tells the experts which bombs were made by the same individual. I made a mental note to check with police in the other cities where RKI’s offices had been blown up about a possible signature. There had been nothing about that in the reports I’d read. If they were reluctant to release the information to me, I’d use my contacts at SFPD.

  I asked Zyzek, “Any sightings of suspicious individuals?”

  “No one’s come forward with any information so far.”

  “Well, thanks for sharing what you’ve got.” I looked at Cleary. “I guess I’d better get back to the hotel and start interviewing your people.” He’d arranged for the employees who had already left the premises last night to meet with me in one of the Sheraton’s conference rooms in staggered shifts, beginning at eleven.

  “I’ll walk you back.”

  “That’s okay; you’ve had a long night, and have more important things to do.” I handed my card to Zyzek. “Will you call me on my cellular number if you find out anything else?”

  He nodded. “I surely will.”

  I turned and walked toward the barricade. The rubberneckers were still there, joined now by a couple of media types. A woman with a microphone came at me, and I dodged, hid my face from the probing lens of a minicam. Felt one of those little psychic tugs you sometimes get when someone’s watching you, and turned to my right.

>   A man, slipping around a lamppost, moving away fast.

  I shrugged off the insistent hand of the woman with the microphone, and went after the man. He sped up, running across the street. My view of him was momentarily blocked by a truck.

  By the time I reached the corner, he’d disappeared. I looked straight ahead, then to the right and to the left, but saw no one resembling him.

  My second glimpse of the ever-running man?

  Minutes later, I leaned against the railing of the river walk in front of my hotel and tried to remember what I’d noticed about the man. The ripples on the brownish-green water soothed me, and soon I closed my eyes and called up his image.

  Medium height. Fat? Thin? Hard to tell because of the loose navy blue jacket he wore. Hair? Gray. No, not gray. His head was covered by a gray baseball cap, its bill pulled low on his forehead.

  Hats like that usually bore some kind of logo—team, equipment company, university. This one had . . . nothing. A man who didn’t want to call attention to himself.

  The lower part of his face: Nose? Shadowed by the cap’s bill. Lips? Thin, or maybe pulled tight by exertion. Mustache? No. Beard? Chin hidden by the upturned collar of the jacket.

  Pants: standard American uniform—blue denim jeans. Shoes: more standard uniform—dirty white, probably cross trainers.

  He could have been Everyman.

  But . . . something. Something . . .

  The way he moved. Peculiar uneven gait when he started running.

  The same way the man in the alley behind RKI’s San Francisco building had moved.

  I’d recognize that gait if I saw him running again.

  It had begun to snow in the late afternoon, and the 9:45 flight from O’Hare to San Francisco was delayed an hour. I hadn’t even lain down on the bed in my hotel room, much less in it, and I must have looked so exhausted at check-in that the sympathetic airline clerk bumped me up to the nearly empty first-class cabin. I croaked a thank-you to her; my throat actually hurt from asking questions all day.

  Once on the plane, I accepted a pre-takeoff glass of wine, hoping it would put me to sleep. By the time we were airborne, I was as alert as if I’d slept for a week. I said yes to another glass of wine, tilted my seat back, and sipped contemplatively.

  Too contemplatively. My mind went into overdrive. Finally, after fifteen minutes, I gave up and took out my recorder and headset. Began reviewing the three tapes of interviews with RKI employees that I’d made at the Sheraton that afternoon.

  After all, San Francisco time was two hours earlier than Chicago’s. I’d have plenty of opportunity to rest in my own bed.

  Sure I would. Given the way my sleep cycles operated, by the time I was through with this investigation, I’d have bags under my eyes the size of steamer trunks.

  Tape number one, comments worth noting:

  I saw a pair of men loitering on the sidewalk in front of the building yesterday when I went to lunch at twelve-thirty. Didn’t think much of it, though, because I assumed they were workers from the renovation project next door taking a smoke break . . . They were wearing parkas and jeans and work boots . . . The parkas, I think, were olive drab. Other than that I didn’t pay much attention to them because I was hungry and in a hurry . . . Wait, here’s something strange: the work boots looked new, weren’t even dusty.

  There was a guy from Adams Electric going around checking the wiring that morning . . . Yes, I’m sure he was from them. He had on a uniform and a visitor badge and would’ve had to present his ID to the guard in the lobby and be shown in by the person who ordered the work done . . . That would be Mr. Wilson, head of maintenance.

  I never ordered any electrical work—although if I had, it would have been from Adams—and I didn’t bring anyone up from the lobby . . . No, not yesterday, or any day this month . . . Uniforms like their employees wear can be bought at any outfitter’s, and the lobby guard that morning, Toni Goodman, really isn’t one of our more observant employees . . . Certainly I’ll send her in to talk with you.

  Yes, I’m sure it was an Adams Electric uniform. And he had ID . . . Well, I didn’t examine it with a microscope, if that’s what you mean, but it certainly looked genuine. I had him sign the log, and called up to Mr. Wilson’s office . . . No, I didn’t speak with him, but his secretary said he’d be right down . . . No, I don’t remember him coming down, but a few minutes later the guy was gone, so somebody must’ve let him through the locked door . . . The log? I suppose it was destroyed in the explosion, and I don’t remember the name the guy signed. God, I’m glad my shift ended at noon that day! Just thinking about sitting there and then—boom! It gives me the shivers.

  Yes, I’m Mr. Wilson’s secretary, but I didn’t receive any call from reception about an Adams Electric employee . . . Yes, I was away from my desk for a while that morning—I’m pregnant, have morning sickness. When I leave the desk, Dana in the next cubicle picks up for me.

  She’s always in the bathroom hurling and I’m always picking up for her. I really get tired of it. She knew what she was getting into when she decided to have a kid. Why can’t she be pregnant and still do her job? . . . Okay, I admit it, I did pick up, but I was in a rotten mood and I’d had it with her. I said Wilson would be down and then didn’t pass on the message to either of them. I thought maybe if she got in trouble she’d shape up . . . I suppose the electrician could’ve slipped in behind an employee who was coming into the building. I myself would’ve let him, seeing as he had on a uniform from a firm we often deal with.

  Tape number two, comments worth noting:

  The problem is, Bob Cleary rides people too hard, especially those in my division . . . Right, we monitor the executive protection program, twenty-four seven. Keep track of where every client is at every minute. That’s why four of the injured people were my coworkers—the department’s staffed round the clock. The irony is, two of them shouldn’t’ve even been there; they were working unnecessary overtime at Cleary’s insistence—and they were both people for whom he’s expressed a personal dislike.

  Cleary’s an asshole, and I don’t mind if this gets back to him . . . Why’s he an asshole? He runs the offices like his own little fiefdom. If you’re in favor, you’re in for good treatment, a raise, a promotion. If you’re not, it means overtime, heavy workloads, and he bad-mouths you. He’ll say something negative or potentially damaging about anybody who gets on his wrong side . . . No, he never spoke about Renshaw, Kessell, or Ripinsky to me, but he did to Dave Markowski.

  Kessell, Cleary didn’t talk about him. Ripinsky, all he would say is that he was a very dangerous man . . . No, he left it at that. No details. But Renshaw, he hated Renshaw. I don’t know why . . . Corruption? Well, sure Renshaw’s corrupt, but so’s Cleary. He’s got some sweet deals going . . . I don’t know the details, but Ken Manning might be able to tell you.

  Sweet deals? Well, I wouldn’t exactly put it that way. I mean, it’s nothing exceptional: padding the expense accounts, overbilling clients to make the office’s profitability look better to headquarters. Penny-ante stuff, nothing that every single one of our managers isn’t doing. If you ask me, the partners should hire a first-class auditor to look into how they’re being screwed.

  Tape number three, comments worth noting:

  I left at eight-thirty. There were several people on the street . . . Well, one in particular I noticed. He was standing under an awning of a store on the opposite side, looking toward our building. When I got close to him, he turned toward the window behind him. At the time I didn’t think much of it; it’s a lingerie store, and you know how guys are . . . He was pretty nondescript. Wore a dark jacket, jeans, and a baseball cap . . . Light-colored cap, maybe beige. I never really saw his face.

  For a top security firm, the security in the building was a joke. Eric Simms, the personnel manager, hired the lamest people to staff the front desk and surveillance cameras. This Toni Goodman, for instance, she has half a brain cell. Big tits, though. I’d say Simms is sc
rewing her.

  I am not “screwing her”! She is my fiancée, for God’s sake! And I do not hire “lame people.” Who told you this? . . . Confidentiality? Bullshit!

  All I know is the executives we’re supposed to be protecting are out there in the cold with no lifeline since the explosion. Bob Cleary and I are trying to set up an emergency operation in an empty storefront we’ve gotten hold of, but it’s not coming together fast enough. Maybe that’s what the bomber wanted—to leave the people depending on us hanging out to dry and then go after them.

  Maybe it’s not RKI he’s out to get, but one of our clients . . . Well, some of them’re major; I can give you a list . . . The other bombings could be a smoke screen . . . Yeah, I know that’s one hell of an extreme action, but look at Oklahoma City, Nine-eleven. Look at the terrorist crap that’s happened in England and God knows where else. Sometimes I can’t believe the lengths people will go to assert their beliefs.

  With all these encouraging and cheerful comments on my mind, I finally drifted off into a fitful sleep.

  Wednesday

  MARCH 1

  The insistent ring of the bedside phone woke me from a nightmare in which glass and bricks and steel beams were raining down on me. I flailed around in the tangled sheets, threw a pillow to the floor, and sat up, my heart pounding. There was a digital clock on the nightstand; the numbers read 8:25. The phone rang again, then switched over to the machine in the living room; I couldn’t make out who the caller was.

  After a moment I got up and grabbed the pretty silk robe Julia had picked out for me. Pulled it on as I went to the living room. Murky gray light filtered around the mini-blinds—another foggy San Francisco day, but no sound of rain, thank God. The light on the machine flashed reproachfully at me.

  My flight from Chicago had gotten in after one in the morning. I’d taken a cab to the safe house, had a soak in the apartment’s deep tub, and crawled into bed, not expecting to sleep. But I had—a full five hours’ worth.

  Now I pressed the play button on the machine. Hy.