“Okay,” I said, “I’m out of here.”
“To where?”
“San Francisco. I want to consult with my staff before visiting your training camp.” I stood, turned to leave.
Once again, he called, “Take care of yourself, McCone.”
This time I didn’t hesitate when I said, “You, too, Ripinsky.”
Friday
MARCH 3
The morning had dawned gray and foggy—the way I felt. I called Patrick, Derek, and Mick into my office, where we sat in a circle on the floor, Patrick’s flow charts spread out before us.
His description of them had been accurate: scribbled notes clogged the margins; arrows pointed in all directions; there were crossouts and question marks. Patrick went over the high points—if they could be called that. His earlier assessment had been right. Nothing made any sense.
When he was finished, I asked Mick and Derek, “Anything else to report?”
Derek said, “That iMac of Hy’s—I recovered three deleted files. One was a letter to the executive director of the Spaulding Foundation.” He handed me a printout.
The Spaulding Foundation: an environmental organization set up and funded by a bequest in the will of Hy’s late wife, Julie Spaulding. Hy was chairman of the board. The letter had to do with how he thought a recent endowment should be allocated, but it wasn’t very cogent, and there were a number of typos. He must have been feeling muddleheaded when he wrote it, and given up. I looked at the date and time when the file was opened: oh, yes, definitely muddleheaded; the night before he started the letter we’d consumed a fair quantity of champagne while relaxing in the hot tub.
“This doesn’t have anything to do with the break-in,” I said. “What else?”
“Another letter. Similar.”
I took the paper from him, scanned it. Hy had apparently started afresh, then given up. “You can get rid of both of these.”
“This other one is more interesting. It’s titled ‘Dr. Richard Tyne.’ Backgrounding on his education from grade school through medical school, internship, residency, and military service.”
I studied the sheets he handed me. Born, Fort Wayne, Indiana. Tyne would be sixty-five by now. Attended elementary and middle school there. The family moved to Indianapolis shortly before he started high school. He’d attended Purdue University for his undergraduate and medical degrees. Internship and residency at South Bend Memorial Hospital. Upon finishing his residency he joined the navy and was assigned to their hospital at Subic Bay in the Philippines.
I looked up at Mick, raising an eyebrow. He nodded. “Tyne was Dan Kessell’s surgeon after his leg was shot up in Vietnam. I still haven’t been able to locate him.”
Seemed Hy had been investigating his own partner’s background. Another thing he’d kept from me.
I said, “Try again. Find out everything you can about Dr. Tyne.”
“Why don’t you ask Hy—” Seeing my frown, Mick switched tacks.
“I’ll get on it.”
After the others had left my office, I wondered why I didn’t just ask Hy about the Tyne file. My hand strayed to the phone, but then I pulled it away. Truth was, I was afraid.
If he denied having started an investigation about the physician who had performed surgery on Kessell in the Philippines, or—worse—refused to explain, it would result in a confrontation that might very well end both my investigation and our marriage. I’d stick to my decision to carry this job through without further personal complications.
Okay, next step. I called Gary Viner in San Diego. Today he was in his office.
“Autopsy and ballistics reports were as we expected,” he told me. “Single shot, from a thirty-eight, close range, powder burns on the left side of the victim’s head. Actual cause of death was a heart attack after extensive surgery. He probably would’ve been brain-damaged if he’d survived.”
“Up-close and personal shooting.”
“Right. He was probably off his guard, because he had a fairly high blood-alcohol level. We located a cocktail lounge on the route between the restaurant and his home, where he stopped off that night. Kessell was something of a regular there, so the waitress remembered him. He had two martinis, and that was on top of wine with dinner. I could read you the details of the reports, but why don’t I just send the files.”
“Thanks. I’d appreciate having both for the record. By the way, did your people find a firearm in Kessell’s condo?”
A pause. “A forty-five in the bedside table. And a three-five-seven Magnum in the room with the TV. Neither had been recently fired, and we’re holding them.”
Gary added, “I see there was another bombing in Chicago. It was all over the news here. The press is speculating that RKI is a target of terrorists, and that it won’t be long before they strike in La Jolla. People’re on edge and paranoid as hell. The FBI and ATF have been sniffing around here about a possible connection to Kessell’s death, and I’m damned annoyed with them. Frankly, if they hadn’t pissed me off so much I probably wouldn’t be giving you access to those files.”
“I spoke with the FBI agent in charge of the Chicago bombing when I was there the day after. He seemed cooperative, although he hasn’t contacted me with any further developments. I also interviewed a number of RKI employees. Nothing conclusive, but it doesn’t feel like a terrorist attack to me.”
“No?”
“No. I still think it’s a personal vendetta being carried on by one, or maybe two, people.”
“Interesting. Did you find out anything at Kessell’s condo that I should know?”
“The neighbor verified what he told your people. The contents of the condo gave me no leads whatsoever. Do I have your permission to keep pursuing this?”
“McCone, we need all the help we can get. Just report anything pertinent.”
“I’ll do that. By the way, did you contact the sister?”
“Yeah, she and her husband’re flying down soon to make funeral arrangements and talk with the lawyer. I smelled greed there.”
“They’re going to be disappointed; they weren’t mentioned in Kessell’s will. In fact, his attorney didn’t even know the sister existed.”
“Well, that’s life—as I know only too well.”
“Yeah, Gary, that’s life.”
I moved to my comfortable old armchair by the arching window overlooking the bay and began jotting down notes on a legal pad. Sort of a to-do list. After a while I ran out of ideas, but felt satisfied with what I had. I got up, buzzed Patrick.
“Here’s something you can do to help me,” I said. “Call the investigators in each of the RKI bombings, and ask if there was a signature on any of the bombs.”
“Say what?”
I explained about signatures, adding, “If they’re not willing to talk with you, transfer them to me.”
“Will do.”
“Thanks.” I hung up, buzzed Craig.
Craig told me he’d been working his contacts at the FBI, but with little success—which he interpreted to mean they were as baffled with the case as the local police departments and we were.
“Well, keep at it, please.”
Next I dialed an acquaintance, Warren Keane, who was head of parking garage security at SFO. Last night Hy had given me the license plate number of Renshaw’s new Lexus, which was owned by the company. I asked Keane if he and his staff would be on the alert for it and give me a call with its location. He said he’d get on it right away.
Suzanne Richardson, at Sotheby’s in San Diego, was out of the office, and didn’t answer her cellular.
Paulina Morales didn’t answer the phone at Renshaw’s house and she must have turned off the machine.
Again I settled down in the armchair with my now-voluminous case file, paging through it, looking for something, anything, I’d missed. An hour or so later when Keane called back, I’d found nothing.
“Your client’s car is parked on level three of the short-term garage,” Warren told me.
“United terminal. You want the exact location?”
“Yes, please.” RKI was going to have to retrieve the car.
He read it off to me, then added. “Ticket was on the dashboard. Not smart, but lots of people are careless that way. Date and time stamp show he arrived at 7:25 last Monday night.”
“Thanks, Warren. I owe you one.”
“I’ll remember to collect.”
Okay, I thought, short-term parking. Normally that would indicate a swift return. But not when the person’s liquidating his assets and moving funds to Credit Suisse. He used short-term parking because he was in a hurry and didn’t plan to return to the car. Maybe he’d left the ticket on the dashboard in the hope someone would steal it.
United terminal. That limited the search, except they had so many flights departing SFO . . .
I paged through my file to the basic background information on Renshaw. No other residence, except for the Point Loma house—unless he had one in another country that wasn’t covered by the databases we used. No help there.
After a few moments, I picked up the phone and speed-dialed my travel agent, Toni Alexander, who knows everything about airline schedules.
“Seven twenty-five last Monday night,” she said. “Lots of United flights departing at that time, but not as many two hours later. Given the time it takes to check in and pass through security, he probably would’ve boarded at nine or nine-thirty.”
I could hear keys tapping in the background. Toni asked, “You thinking national or international?”
“Probably international.”
Click, click, click.
“That narrows it down to three choices: Tokyo; LA, connecting to Sydney; New York, connecting to Zurich.”
“Any way of checking to see if a Gage Renshaw was on those flights?”
“For me? No trouble. My best connections are at United. But you’ve got to promise me: take a really expensive trip with that new husband of yours soon. I could use the commission.”
I was catching up on paperwork, after going over some routine matters with Ted, when Patrick buzzed me.
“The cops in all the cities where there were bombings were cooperative. There was a signature, and they all match. But it’s one they’ve never seen before, doesn’t indicate any known bomber. I’ll send you the report.”
“Thanks, Patrick.”
“Okay if I leave early? I’ve got an appointment over at Altman & Zahn, about the child support and custody.”
“More than okay. Good luck.”
I looked at my watch. Four o’clock, and I’d never once thought about lunch. The idea of dinner wasn’t appealing, even though by now I should be hungry.
The phone buzzed. Ted.
“Toni Alexander on line two.”
“Shar? Your guy was on the Tokyo flight.”
Tokyo. And from there he could vanish into Asia, drawing on his Swiss bank account for the rest of his life. Gage knew only too well how to disappear.
“Listen,” Toni added, “I have a great deal at a luxury resort that’s just opened on Moorea. You and Hy—”
“Thanks so much for the information. I’ll get back to you about a trip.”
The phone buzzed again. Mick.
“Shar, do you want Sweet Charlotte and me to cancel our weekend plans?”
“What plans?”
“The trip to Big Sur—remember?”
Oh, hell! It had been scheduled for weeks. Mick planned to propose marriage; he’d even bought an engagement ring.
“I take it you’ve found nothing on Richard Tyne or K Air?”
“. . . I haven’t started yet.”
“Why not? It’s been hours.”
“A glitch with my computer. Derek and I just now got it up and running.”
I knew all too well about computer glitches; they could stump even my nephew, the genius.
“We can cancel and go later,” Mick added.
“No, go. This is your special weekend. Besides, I like Charlotte, and I want her in the family.”
Our general contractor had called earlier, wanting to show me the progress that had been made on the house, so after I left the pier I drove over to Church Street. As I parked in the driveway, I felt a rush of nostalgia, as if I were visiting an old home after I’d been gone a long time. Even the neighboring houses seemed visions from my distant past.
Jim Keys, who had also been the general contractor on the renovations at the RKI safe house, greeted me at the front door and led me back past empty rooms and through the kitchen. Although the front portion of the house wasn’t being affected by the add-on, we’d stored the furnishings so the hardwood floors could be refinished and the walls repainted.
The room that had once been my bedroom now had a large hole in one corner of the floor; Jim pointed it out, and led me toward an oak spiral staircase that descended to the space behind the garage that soon would be a bedroom and bathroom.
“Watch your step,” he cautioned. “The railing and posts aren’t being delivered from the woodworker till next week.”
Once downstairs, I was surprised at how much had been done since I’d last visited. The Sheetrock was in place and partially mudded; electrical switches and plugs, minus the plates, were in the proper places; the bathroom fixtures were installed, and its floor was partially tiled. At first the project had gone slowly, mainly because hard-packed dirt that reached almost to the floor joists of the kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom upstairs needed to be removed—dirt that was shoveled there when the earthquake cottage was raised up to make room for the garage. Then there had been some structural problems. But now all was moving swiftly toward completion.
“Floor refinishing guys for upstairs come Monday,” Jim said. “We’ve already got your lights, closet doors, and hardware for down here. Painters’re scheduled for Thursday. Carpet company for down here the next Monday, blinds for the windows and final detail work that next Tuesday. After that we’ll schedule the walk-through, and if it’s all to your liking, you’ll be ready to move in.”
And who will I be moving in with? The Hy I’ve always known and loved? A stranger I happen to be married to? Or by myself?
Jim frowned. “Anything wrong?”
“Oh, no. It looks great. I’m just kind of distracted today.”
“No wonder. I heard about RKI’s buildings being blown up. You think it’s terrorists?”
“I don’t know what to think at this point, but it’s been a difficult time. Thanks for the tour, Jim. I guess I’ll go next door and visit my cats now.”
Ralph and Allie were perched on the fence, staring malevolently at the house. When I came outside, they saw me and blinked. Then Ralph jumped down and hit the ground, running to be patted. Allie followed more slowly, reluctant to show she’d missed me; after all, I was the one who’d deserted them.
Apparently the cats’ expectation was that we were going into their house. When I headed for the Curleys’, they hesitated, then trotted after me. At least they were getting some exercise for a change; in our last phone conversation ’Chelle had told me that they spent most of their time on the fence, moving only their heads, tails, and eyeballs.
Nobody came to the door, but I found ’Chelle in the backyard, cutting flowers. She was a skinny, spiky-haired fifteen-year-old with a fake diamond stud in her nose and several earrings in either lobe. No visible tattoos, but she’d once informed me she had a spider on her butt. She did pet-sitting for people all over the neighborhood and saved her money—not for a college fund, but because she wanted to buy real estate. “Land,” she was fond of saying, “that’s where it’s at.” I wouldn’t have been surprised if she swung her first deal before high-school graduation.
“You see what they’ve done at your place?” she asked. “Awesome.”
“It sure is.”
“Makes me think I should buy a broken-down house—not that yours was—and rehab it.”
“You have those kinds of skills?”
“No, but I know a
couple of guys I could subcontract the job to.”
I thought back to when I was her age. My biggest ambition was to become head cheerleader.
I said, “Then go for it.”
“I think I will. There’s this place a few blocks over, it’s falling down. By the time I’ve got the money, they’ll be thanking me for taking it off their hands.”
We talked a little more, mostly about the cats, and then I left her to her dreams.
Saturday
MARCH 4
Michelle Curley had her dreams, I had my nightmares.
On the clifftop platform at Touchstone, waves thundering below, inundating the beach. Water pouring into the sea caves where bootleggers once stashed the Canadian whiskey they smuggled in by boat. Undermining the cliffs, making the land up here vulnerable.
But the geologist who inspected the caves and the land told us we would be fine unless we wanted to live here for a thousand years!
The waves threw spray so high it touched my face. The land beneath me began to tremble. And then the earth and the platform split apart, and I was falling into a chasm . . .
I sat up in bed, heart pounding. Sweat made my flesh clammy. Every dream is a metaphor, and the meaning of that one was all too obvious.
No more sleep for me; it was already four-nineteen in the morning.
I got up, went to the kitchen, looked in the fridge. Half a bottle of sauvignon blanc. I’d drunk the other half with the deli sandwich that had passed for dinner. If I sucked down the rest of it now, I’d be useless all day. I could take a bath, but I didn’t feel like it. I had some sleeping pills my doctor had prescribed after a particularly personal case that had threatened both my livelihood and my life itself. But the pills would make me even more groggy tomorrow than alcohol.
So what else to make the night pass?
Work.
I went to the dining room table, where my laptop was set up, and began my own search into the life and times of Richard Tyne, MD.
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