The Ever

by Marcia Muller

  I was fascinated by what I found. Hy had barely scratched the surface.

  Tyne was described by various sources as a brilliant surgeon with something of a God complex. His bedside manner left a great deal to be desired: he was abrupt and cold with his patients, totally lacking in empathy. Personally, he was a risk-taker, enjoying dangerous sports. His parents were wealthy and had established a large trust fund for him; after his residency he could have set up his own practice, but instead he enlisted in the navy.

  Why? Certainly not a desire to see the world. He could’ve done that on his own.

  I dug deeper. And found a possible reason.

  Shortly before Tyne enlisted, he was involved in a felony hit-and-run accident in his home town of Indianapolis. The passengers in the other car were not severely injured and got the make and license plate number of his car; when he was apprehended at his parents’ house, Tyne’s blood-alcohol level was high, and charges were filed. Later the charges were dropped. The influence of the wealthy parents? Or had agreeing to put in time serving his country been part of the deal? No way to tell.

  In the Philippines, Tyne at first was reported to be a model officer and physician. He partied heavily, but that was not uncommon on the naval base and in the wide-open town that surrounded it. However, by the time he was designated lead surgeon on the operation to restore Dan Kessell’s shattered leg, Tyne’s professional life was not going well: he’d been put on notice when a nurse reported that he’d been intoxicated on rounds. Three weeks after he operated on Kessell, he made errors resulting in the death of a patient during another procedure—also while intoxicated.

  Relieved of duty and facing a court-martial, loss of his medical license, and a lawsuit by the patient’s family, Tyne went AWOL, first cashing out his trust fund at a Manila brokerage house. And there the trail stopped.

  Another disappearance. Coincidence? I didn’t think so.

  I’d exhausted my research skills. First thing Monday, I’d put Mick on this and see if he could produce further results.

  But Hy—what was his interest in Dr. Richard Tyne?

  I supposed I would have to ask him. And I dreaded it.

  “Gage is probably gone for good,” I said on the phone to Hy, and explained what I’d found out.

  “God. That leaves me stuck with the whole company, and I’m not sure I want it.”

  “I think you should check with your bank, make sure he hasn’t made off with corporate funds.”

  “I already have. He didn’t.”

  “Too bad. If he had we could involve the authorities in looking for him.” The moment I’d been dreading had arrived. “Ripinsky,” I said, “what’s your interest in Dr. Richard Tyne?”

  Silence.

  “The Tyne file was one that was deleted on your iMac.”

  “Oh, that. It was a name I came across in Dan’s office one day when I went in there to get a document he’d signed for me. It was scrawled over and over on a legal pad. So I searched to see who the guy was.”

  “Why didn’t you just ask him about it?”

  “You think I could ever get a straight answer from Dan? He’d’ve accused me of invading his privacy—which I had. But I was concerned that he had a serious health problem he was hiding from Gage and me, so I Googled the guy. I guess he was Dan’s doc in the Philippines.”

  Relief coursed through me. “Did you delete the file yourself?”

  “No. I thought I’d noodle with it again, next time we were up at Touchstone.”

  “So whoever broke in there deleted it.”

  “Had to’ve been. But who would care?”

  I’d need Mick’s results from a deeper search on Tyne before I could hazard a guess.

  I said, “I’ll get back to you on that. But here’s another matter: Paulina Morales.”

  “Gage’s girlfriend?”

  “Right. She’s just eighteen, quit her job when she moved in with him, and now he’s left her with no money and is selling the house out from under her. She’s scared and doesn’t know what to do.”

  “And you want to help her.”

  “Yes. Is there something wrong with that?”

  “God, no. I’ll go over there, see what she needs.”

  “Thanks, I’d appreciate it.”

  “That’s one of the things I love about you, McCone. You care.”

  For a moment I couldn’t speak. I cared about a relative stranger, but I couldn’t unbend and give my husband the reassurance he needed at this crisis point. What did that say about the quality of my caring?

  Finally I said, “That’s one of the things I love about you, too.”

  Although it was Saturday, I went to the pier around noon and put in a few hours clearing paperwork. When I left around three, the sky had turned dark gray; I could smell a storm brewing.

  Saturday afternoon. Nothing to do, no leads to follow. I didn’t want to call any of my friends; they’d be too quick to sense something was wrong, and I couldn’t bear to field their questions. I didn’t want to go back to the safe house—while it was a large apartment, it made me claustrophobic. I didn’t want to drive all the way to Touchstone, where memories of good times—such as the post-wedding party that our friends had thrown for us last August—would only haunt and sadden me. Finally I went to a movie, a hot new comedy that only made me feel worse. It passed the time, however, and on the way home I was hungry enough to pick up Chinese food.

  As soon as I stepped into the apartment, I felt something was wrong. It held the same violated atmosphere I’d sensed at Touchstone.

  I put the takeout on the kitchen counter, did a quick walk-through. This time the intruder hadn’t been so subtle; things were moved, a drawer left partially open. My laptop’s screen was raised, yet I always lowered it when it wasn’t in use.

  But how the hell had anyone gotten in here? Even though Hy had ordered security only as far as the door, it was impossible—

  I went downstairs to the command center. Jason Ng was on duty.

  “Someone’s gotten into my apartment,” I told him.

  “No way.”

  “Don’t tell me no way. He left signs all over the place.”

  “I’ve been monitoring the cameras since two. And, believe me, Ms. McCone, I’ve been very vigilant.”

  “Who was on before you?”

  “Todd Williams.”

  “Get him over here, please.”

  “It’s Saturday night. I’ll try, but Todd’s a party animal.”

  Ng picked up the phone and dialed a couple of numbers without result.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. McCone. I’ll keep trying.”

  “Thanks. And I’m sorry I was so abrupt with you.”

  “Well, it’s an upsetting situation.” Then he frowned.

  “What?” I asked.

  “When I came on shift, Todd told me one of the surveillance cameras had gone out a while back. One that monitors the hallway on your floor. He said he’d tried to get it back on, but nothing worked, and he didn’t want to leave the rest of the monitors untended. So I went up there and took a look. Loose wire. I fixed it.”

  Ng swiveled one of the monitors around, pointed at the image on it. “With that camera out, it would create a blind spot at your apartment door. But whoever unlocked the door would’ve had to have a coded key card, and only you and Mr. Ripinsky have those.”

  “There isn’t a spare, in case someone, say you, needed to get in?”

  “Sure, but they’re locked in the wall safe.”

  “And the cameras on the stairway and the other unit were functioning the whole time?”

  “Todd didn’t mention having any trouble with them.”

  “Well, keep trying to get hold of him. I’ll be upstairs.”

  I went back to the apartment and paced, the violated feeling strong upon me.

  Same intruder as at Touchstone? He had detailed knowledge of security systems. Someone else? His search had left signs, unlike at the coast. Maybe he wanted to leave si
gns? A warning that he could get to me—anyplace, anytime?

  I went to the laptop, booted it up. The new operating system I used allowed me to check the last time any of the files had been opened. All of those whose labels indicated they pertained to the RKI investigation had been viewed between twelve-fifteen and one o’clock. The intruder had spent a fair amount of time finding out what I knew. Nothing was deleted, however, and he hadn’t bothered with the Dr. Richard Tyne file.

  I drummed my fingers on the edge of the table for a few minutes, shut the computer down, and went to the kitchen, where my purse rested next to the containers of cooling Chinese food. Took out my cellular—in order to keep the landline open in case Jason Ng reached Todd Williams—and called Hy’s phone. He answered after four rings, sounding groggy.

  “I was planning to call you, but I fell asleep watching a movie,” he said. “What time is it?”

  “After seven.” I explained about the break-in and asked, “Do you have your key card to this apartment?”

  “I’ll check.” He set the phone down, came back in a few moments. “I must’ve misplaced it. You’d better get the code changed.”

  “How can you misplace something like that?”

  He sighed. “You must remember, I haven’t needed to use it, and it’s been a . . . tumultuous time since I was last there.”

  “Yeah, it has. Where did you keep the card?”

  “My wallet. In the slot above my driver’s license.”

  “Who might’ve had access to your wallet?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Think.”

  “I can’t imagine who.”

  “Well, whoever it is knows security systems, knows the way RKI operates. Can come and go as he pleases. He could be in this building right now.”

  “McCone, get out of there. I’ll have our people make an immediate sweep for explosives, but till then—”

  “I don’t think I’m in any danger. This was just curiosity on his part. Or a warning. If he’s inside the building, he’s not going to blow the place up. I’ll get the key-card code changed right away.”

  “Please, for my sake, just get out of there.”

  “Okay,” I said, “I’ll go.”

  “Where will you be?”

  I thought. Hotels and motels—even the best of them—weren’t secure. I said, “I’ll go to Rae and Ricky’s. They’ve got the best security of anybody I know.” Ricky had more than once been the victim of celebrity stalking.

  “Good idea. I’ll call them, tell them you’re coming—and that I’m putting an additional man on their place.”

  “You don’t need to—”

  “I do, McCone. I’m not going to lose you—not that way. Not any way.”

  Rae said, “Ricky, why don’t you go . . . do something so Shar and I can indulge in girl talk?”

  He folded his arms across his chest and shook his head.

  My former brother-in-law’s handsome face had aged some in recent years, but the lines had only given it character; he’d let some gray strands weave their way into his chestnut hair, but I suspected their spread was controlled by an expensive colorist.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “Something’s wrong in Shar’s life, and I want to be here for her. Like she was for me way back when, even though the trouble was between her own sister and me.”

  “Sometimes things like this are better discussed with another woman.”

  “Sometimes things like this are better discussed when a man can contribute his insight.”

  Rae glared at him, her freckled face flushing. “Can’t you see she’s exhausted and miserable?”

  “If she’s exhausted and miserable, let her alone. Let her go to bed.”

  “At eight-thirty?”

  “What’s wrong with going to bed at eight-thirty? She looks like hell—”

  I cut short the argument. “Stop talking about me as if I weren’t here!”

  They stared.

  I added, “I want a glass of that great chardonnay you keep in your wine cellar. And then some privacy. I need to call Hy.”

  Hy said, “Our best man up there is sweeping the safe house.”

  “How do you know you can trust him?”

  “He’s been with us forever. I know him personally. Believe me, I can trust him.”

  “God, I’m getting paranoid. Were you able to do anything for Paulina Morales?”

  “Yeah, but it wasn’t easy. She was in bad shape when I got to Gage’s house—drunk, and she’d smashed a fair amount of glassware. I pried the name and address of a friend out of her and took her over there. Gave the friend some money and said I’d check in tomorrow.” He paused. “I’m thinking I might find something for her to do here at headquarters, so she can get back on her feet.”

  “That would be great. I don’t know what skills she has—”

  “What I’m thinking of doesn’t take great skills. Anyone can file and answer phones.”

  “You’re a good man, Ripinsky.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve got a lot to atone for.” Another pause. “I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind about talking about . . . this thing between us?”

  “Not tonight. I’m too tired, and so are you.”

  Rae and Ricky were waiting for me when I came back to the living room. Cheese and crackers and salami were laid out on a plate on the raised brick wall of the pit fireplace that Hy and I had used as a model for ours at Touchstone. Ricky poured me more wine, and Rae heaped my plate. To my surprise, I was ravenous.

  “So come clean,” Rae said. “What’s happened between you and Hy?”

  “Why do you think there’s something wrong with us?”

  “Because I can smell man trouble. I’ve had enough of it myself.” She smiled at Ricky. “Even this guy’s given me a hassle or two.”

  Ricky feigned an innocent look.

  What the hell, I thought. They were the closest thing to family I had in the city. Closer in some ways than most of my relatives.

  Between bites and sips, I explained the situation with Hy.

  When I finished, they were both silent for a moment. Then Ricky said, “What he did—if he did it—is bad. But I don’t understand: it was a long time ago. He’s admitted to you that he did a lot of other equally bad things during his time with K Air. And he’s changed completely. Why can’t you accept and forgive this?”

  “It’s not the arms dealing per se. It’s the fact that I thought he’d come clean about all of it, and now I find out he hasn’t.”

  “You think he withheld it from you because it might’ve been too much for you to handle?”

  “Possibly. And it worries me that there may be even more he withheld.”

  Ricky exchanged glances with Rae.

  He said, “When Rae and I hooked up, I came clean about a lot of the bad shit that I’d done. And there was plenty of it—so much that there’re things I’ve forgotten. Every now and then something pops to the surface, but I don’t find it necessary to confess it to her, because I’m a different man now, and she knows that.”

  “But those things were woman-related.”

  “And drug-related. To say nothing of unethical business practices, letting myself go along with things I knew were wrong because I wanted so damn bad to be a star.”

  “Not the same.”

  “Maybe not. But the point is, Shar, trust in the present. The man you married is not the man who flew arms into the Middle East—if he did. The man you married is someone who is totally committed and wants to spend the rest of his life with you.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “About the lifetime commitment? He told me. We’re friends, remember?”

  Again, rational advice from a man who—like my brother John—had turned his life around.

  “So what am I supposed to do?” I asked. “Just let this go?”

  “Certainly not. Listen to Hy, and if you still don’t believe him, go after the truth. Nobody could stop you; you’re a fan
atic about truth. But until you know what actually happened, don’t agonize. And in the meantime, don’t make his life hell.”

  I looked at Rae. “How’d he get to be so wise?”

  She smiled. “Some of my wisdom must’ve rubbed off on him.”

  Sunday

  MARCH 5

  Rae and I had talked until almost midnight, while Ricky went downstairs to his studio to work on a new song. Then I slept in one of their guest rooms until my cellular woke me at nine. First good night’s sleep I’d had in . . . I didn’t know how long.

  The caller was Gary Viner. “The body we released to the funeral home wasn’t Dan Kessell’s,” he told me. “At least not the Dan Kessell who was related to Elise Carver.”

  “What!”

  “She and her husband came down yesterday and viewed it. They were planning to meet with his lawyer at his condo later. Only they’d never seen the victim in their lives.” He laughed—a harsh bark. “The sister cried with relief, but I could swear the husband was pissed. He’d probably been spending Dan’s money in his dreams.”

  The wrong Dan Kessell . . . Owns a security company . . . Flies a beat-up old Piper . . . He’s the same old Danny . . .

  Dr. Richard Tyne . . .

  Timber Cove . . . So close to Touchstone . . .

  Ideas were tumbling about in my mind—unformed as yet.

  I asked Gary, “You have anything else on the case?”

  “Nada.”

  “Well, keep me posted.”

  The sky was overcast, but it was a high ceiling. I checked aviation weather, briefly stopped by the pier to make copies of Dan Kessell’s photograph, then drove to Oakland’s North Field and flew to Touchstone. The winter rains had not been kind to our airstrip; a bump had risen in the center, which made for a rough landing and would cause a pretty zippy takeoff—sort of like being launched into the air from a trampoline.

  I’d come prepared to spend the night, so after I secured the plane, I went to the house and dropped off my laptop and briefcase. Then I went to the shed, got into our white Ford pickup, and drove north, toward Mendocino. Turned off Highway 1 south of there, on the road to Little River Airport.

  We hadn’t flown into there in a long time, since we’d graded the dirt strip on our property and then had it paved and—somewhat primitively—lighted, but we knew most of the airport personnel. Bob Gardner, the manager and author of several texts on flying, was behind the desk in the little terminal and welcomed me with some surprise. We did a bit of social chatting—How’s the family? How’s Hy?—and then I got down to business.