The Ever

by Marcia Muller

  “My husband, Hy Ripinsky, was also one of their pilots. He gave me your name.”

  His guarded expression disappeared, and he smiled. “The Ripster! How the hell did he get a good-looking woman like you?”

  Soon I was seated on Kurt Wilhelm’s big leather sofa, a glass of single-malt Scotch in hand. I don’t often drink hard liquor, and I don’t like Scotch—the result of a disgraceful episode during college where I spent most of an evening hugging a toilet bowl—but I can tolerate single-malt, and I sensed it was important to Wilhelm that I join him in a drink. Important because I’d interrupted him in what was probably not his first of the day.

  “The Ripster,” he said, sitting down opposite me in a matching leather chair. “He was one stand-up guy. Fearless pilot. Fearless man. Absolutely.”

  “He still is.”

  “So he sent you to talk with me about the old days?”

  “In a sense. He wanted you to know that Dan Kessell has died.”

  “Kessell? Too bad. A good man. What happened?”

  “Heart attack. Did you know him well?”

  “Dan and me were buddies, yeah. Where’s he been all these years?”

  “San Diego. He was a partner with Hy and Gage Renshaw in an international security firm.”

  “Renshaw. Jesus Christ. What a character.”

  “He certainly is. If you could tell me what you remember about those days in Bangkok, Hy and I would appreciate it.” I took my tape recorder out. “We’re planning a memorial service, and we’d like to have statements from Dan’s friends to read.”

  “I’ll come to the service. When is it?”

  “We haven’t scheduled it yet, but we’ll be sure to let you know.”

  “I’ll be there. Now turn that thing on, and we’ll talk about Dan.”

  Dan had a reputation as a loner, and maybe he was. He didn’t say much about his personal life. But the flying life, that man could hangar-fly with the best of them. A bunch of us—the insiders who knew about the operation—used to get together at a bar near the airstrip. Sadie’s, it was called. We’d go on and on for hours.

  The insiders? Well, we knew what cargo some of those planes were carrying. We knew the side of the operation that wasn’t legit, and we were free to talk about it among ourselves.

  No, the Ripster wasn’t part of that group. He knew, sure, but I always thought he didn’t want to know. He went his own way.

  Yeah, Dan was quiet about his personal life. I didn’t even know where he lived. I did know there was a woman . . . A Thai woman . . . Funny name . . . Sorry, I can’t recall it.

  Let’s see . . . Who else was in that group? Charlie Madsen. He died in a crash in Cambodia. Ralph Levinger. Don’t know what happened to him. Oh, right, somebody you should talk to—Lex Richards. He was closest to Dan of any of us. He and I still exchange Christmas cards; I’ve got his address in Healdsburg on my computer.

  I listened to the tape as I drove back to the pier. One sentence stood out: No, the Ripster wasn’t part of that group.

  Hy wasn’t an insider; he knew, but he didn’t want to know. That was how he’d always portrayed himself.

  Lex Richards, the pilot who had known Kessell better than any of them, lived some seventy miles north of the city in Healdsburg, a small town in the Sonoma County wine country. Kurt Wilhelm had called him and put me on the line; Richards had agreed to talk with me. I was to meet him at a brewpub off the town square at eight. When I got to the pier, I asked Ted if he knew of a place to stay there, and he recommended a small hotel that he and Neal liked; the rates were surprisingly inexpensive. I asked him to make a reservation for me. Then I tidied up a few loose ends, left the pier, and headed for the Golden Gate Bridge and Highway 101.

  Healdsburg is a charming town, but I wouldn’t want to live there. Well, maybe if I lived in the surrounding countryside, which is among the most beautiful in California. But it’s also vineyard land, and prohibitively expensive. Besides, when I’d go into town I’d have to contend with the tourists and cute shops and overpriced—although excellent—restaurants.

  Since it was March, the town wasn’t too crowded with those seeking souvenirs and gourmet meals and the wine-tasting experience. The Healdsburg Inn on the Plaza was a pleasant surprise, too: friendly service, a comfortable and well-decorated room, and the promise of a full breakfast in the morning. As I freshened up, I decided Hy and I could use a getaway other than the coast or the ranch; we would stay here—

  My God, I’m planning a future for us! In a way, that seems premature. But in another way, it doesn’t.

  The Bear Republic Brewing Company was a block off the plaza, between two new buildings, one of which housed a very chichi hotel. Toni the travel agent had stayed there last year—the cost comped, of course—and had told me it was “a place that doesn’t know what it wants to be.” Well, I could understand that: my earthquake cottage hadn’t decided what it wanted to be since it was constructed in 1906.

  Lex Richards had told me he’d arrive early and take a table in the outdoor seating area of the brewpub, since the weather was beautiful there today. Actually, he’d said, “My table.” When his friend Kurt Wilhelm handed the phone to me that afternoon, the voice that spoke held a measure of authority that told me that the man would command his own table wherever he chose to go.

  The restaurant wasn’t at all pretentious, and the patio was pleasant, heaters having been turned on to counter the evening chill. Richards was seated at a table by the outer railing, and when he rose to greet me, he towered over me—another long, tall drink of water, with curly red hair and a full beard that was showing streaks of white. He pulled out my chair, asked what I wanted to drink, and motioned for the waiter, who took the order and said, “Right away, Mr. Richards.”

  I smiled at Richards and said, “You certainly get good service.”

  It was the right opening comment; he grinned like a pleased child.

  “I come here a lot; the waitstaff and the chef know me.”

  “You live in town?”

  “No, I own a vineyard up Alexander Valley way. You know the area?”

  “Not very well.”

  “My property”—he took a pen from the pocket of his blue shirt and began drawing on a paper napkin—“is here. Near Hanna and Field Stone. I don’t make wine—too much work—but I grow grapes for a lot of prime vintners. It’s a nice life.”

  “After flying for K Air, I’d say so.”

  He capped the pen and replaced it in his pocket. “So you married Ripinsky.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, you’re a pretty lady and he’s an ugly mutt, but you couldn’t’ve done better.”

  I considered the insult to my handsome husband, decided it was a guy thing.

  “So Dan’s dead,” he added.

  “Heart attack, a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Where the hell’s he been all these years?”

  I explained about RKI.

  “Dan had to work for a living? Jesus, I thought he would’ve retired after he made off with K Air’s funds.”

  So I’d been right about the “bankruptcy.”

  “I think he liked keeping his hand in at intrigue and subterfuge,” I said. “RKI isn’t the most ethical of the multinational security firms.”

  Richards smiled. “That’s a good way of putting it. I’m surprised Ripinsky went in with him, though.”

  My wine arrived. I sipped and asked, “Oh, why?”

  “Because he was royally pissed at Dan when he left Thailand.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Probably pissed at himself, too. Seems Dan misrepresented the cargo they were carrying on a flight to Kuwait. Ripinsky didn’t check it out, like he should’ve done, since he was flying left seat.”

  So maybe he didn’t know about what Dan and Gage were into.

  “He quit a couple of weeks after that,” Richards added.

  I recalled a former K Air pilot named Cam Connors telling me about the night
when Hy had decided to leave Thailand. They’d been drinking in a sleazy Bangkok bar when Hy announced, “Man, I’ve got to get out of this life and back to the high desert where I can feel clean again.”

  I’ve misjudged him—horribly.

  “Ms. McCone?”

  “Sorry, just thinking. In answer to why Hy became partners with Kessell—Dan had changed. They became good friends, which is why we’re planning a memorial service for him. We’re collecting comments from the people who knew him well, and I’d like to hear yours.” As I’d done with Kurt Wilhelm, I took out my recorder. Like Kurt Wilhelm, Lex Richards didn’t protest.

  I was closer to Dan than anybody else in Bangkok. Don’t know why he let me into his life, but he did. Maybe it was because we both had unhappy childhoods and unrealized dreams. He wanted to be a doctor, I wanted to be a lawyer. But we both ended up flying. I don’t mean that we didn’t like being pilots, but it fell so short . . .

  Yes, Dan had a woman. Lalita Gatip. She was lovely. She had a child, a little boy, and I always assumed Dan was the father, although I never asked. That would’ve been overstepping the boundaries of our friendship. But Dan called the kid Chad—short for Chadwick; that was his father’s name.

  What happened to Lalita Gatip and Chad? Well, I know about her. She was in an accident—a car hit her crossing the street—and was in chronic pain for a couple of years. She got dependent on meds, and when the docs tried to wean her off them, she went to Gage Renshaw. He gave her bad drugs, and she died. The boy, I don’t know about him, but I doubt Dan brought him stateside. Dan wasn’t father material; he acted indifferent around the kid.

  I played the tape three times before I turned out the light in my hotel room. Something important there, but I wasn’t sure what.

  Thursday

  MARCH 9

  As I drove back to the city the following morning, I tried to come up with a method of locating the son of a woman who had died in Thailand all those years ago. So many children—particularly the illegitimate offspring of Americans—had been abandoned in southeast Asia, left to fend for themselves or rely on the kindness of extended families who didn’t really want them. Lalita Gatip’s son could have died before he reached adulthood; if not he would be a man in his late twenties or early thirties now—and might be anywhere in the world.

  Well, maybe my genius nephew would come up with a solution. God knew he needed something difficult to sink his teeth into, after the breakup with Charlotte.

  The pier was bustling with activity when I arrived: deliveries were being made, vehicles were coming and going. I went to Ted and Kendra’s office; they were huddled over the copy machine with a repairman. Ted threw me an exasperated glance and said, “This thing’s all fucked up again. We really need a new one.”

  “Not in the budget.”

  “The repairs and parts for this—”

  “If they’re getting out of hand, we’ll talk about our options later. Anything else going on here that I need to know about?”

  He moved away from Kendra and the repairman, lowered his voice. “Mick and Charlotte got into it over the coffeepot in the conference room about an hour ago. I had to tell them to keep it down.”

  Dammit! I supposed I’d have to deal with that situation soon—but now wasn’t the time. “Otherwise?” I asked.

  “Everything under control. Except for that.” He glared at the copy machine.

  “Good.” I left before he could continue to lobby for better-quality equipment.

  There were message slips on my desk: Hy, Gary Viner, Ma, a couple of clients to whom we’d sent final reports thanking us for good service. I called Hy back first.

  “Ted told me you were in Healdsburg overnight,” he said.

  I summarized my conversations with the former K Air pilots. “Did you know Dan’s woman?” I asked.

  “I met her once, I think.”

  “Was her son his?”

  “Everybody thought so, but no one ever knew for sure.”

  “What about the dose of bad drugs Gage supplied her?”

  “I heard she died of an overdose, but I didn’t know Gage was involved.”

  “And the son?”

  “I never even saw him. When I reconnected with Dan over here, I assumed he didn’t bring him back with him. Maybe he placed him with a family there, made support payments.”

  “Or maybe he just abandoned him.”

  A pause. “I hate to say it, but that would be more Dan’s style.”

  “Well, I’ll get Mick on it right away, and call you with a report in the evening. What’s going on down there?”

  “It’s quiet. Too quiet. I feel like one of the pioneers in a wagon train—the attackers are right over the rise, hiding behind the rocks. I’m heading over to the training camp tomorrow. No problems there, but I want to check anyway.”

  “Well, why don’t I meet you. I’ve been meaning to get down there, but things just keep coming up.”

  He agreed, and we set a time to meet before ending the call. “There’s a guard in the UNICOM shack,” he told me. “He’ll come out to meet you and give you a visitor’s badge.”

  Ma’s message I set aside. The clients’ didn’t require a response. Gary Viner’s gave his number at SDPD.

  “Viner.”

  “Hi, Gary. Sharon. What’s the story on Kessell?”

  “He’s being arraigned this afternoon. The feds haven’t gotten back to me on the alibis we couldn’t verify, but I suspect there won’t be enough evidence to charge him with the bombings.”

  “He isn’t the bomber.”

  “So who is?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m working on it.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  Mick said, “This is one tough assignment.”

  “And perfectly suited for your talents.”

  We were at a table in the outdoor dining area at Gordon Biersch, the brewpub across the Embarcadero in Hills Brothers Plaza. I’d decided that, given his stressful circumstances, he needed a pleasant lunch.

  He wasn’t enjoying it, though. He ate a garlic fry, picked up his sandwich, set it back on his plate. His eyes kept moving toward the pier, as if he were afraid Charlotte would follow us over here and begin berating him.

  “I’m not working too well these days, Shar.”

  “So focus on this project. Get your mind off your problems. Did you sleep at the pier again last night?”

  He shook his head. “At the condo. She’s gone, along with all her stuff. I remembered to take the office air bed home with me. She paid for our bed, so it’s hers.”

  “At least it’s your condo.”

  “No, it’s Dad’s condo. He bought it for me.”

  “It was a gift. Your dad has enough real estate; I doubt he’ll begrudge you yours. Have you told Rae and him about the breakup yet?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, you should—and soon. You need support from your family.”

  “Yeah, I do. You hear about the fight Charlotte and I had in the conference room this morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I guess it was really the fight I had. At least, I did most of the yelling.”

  “About what?”

  “Her inability to commit. The fact that she left all the framed photos of us. God, I’d’ve yelled at her for taking the last of the Stilton cheese from the fridge, if I’d thought to. And while I was venting, she was calm, in that smug, superior, older-woman way she has.”

  Keim was seven years older than Mick; at first the age difference hadn’t mattered, but apparently now it did.

  I said, “A scene like that can’t happen again, you know. Not at the agency.”

  “I know.”

  “Look, you’ve got a tough assignment here. Leap into it and forget Charlotte’s just down the catwalk.”

  “I’ll try. But that’s like forgetting giraffes, when you’ve just been ordered not to think about them.” It was an old game Ricky and Charlene had played with their kids�
��a variant on the don’t-think-about-elephants game my parents had played with us.

  “Okay, don’t think about your tough assignment.”

  “Well, now you’ve got me fixated on it.”

  It was a slow afternoon. I met with a couple of new clients, opened case files, then assigned them to the appropriate operatives. Approved Julia’s and Craig’s reports on cases they’d been working and ordered them delivered. In my absence, Mick had come up with a few addresses and phone numbers for former K Air employees. I began calling them, learning little, until I connected with Heidi Schmidt in Kona, Hawaii.

  “Yes,” she said in answer to my inquiry, “I worked for K Air. My boyfriend at the time was an engineer assigned to a project in Bangkok, and I went along. He worked so much that after I’d done the tourist thing, I got bored, and a friend whose husband was a K Air pilot recommended me for a gal Friday job there.”

  That was a term I hadn’t heard in many years; you’d never get away now with such a job description—thank God.

  “Did you know Dan Kessell?” I asked.

  “Not well. He wasn’t friendly with the office staff, just a small group of the pilots.”

  “What about the woman he lived with, Lalita Gatip?”

  “I saw her a couple of times. She was beautiful.”

  “She and Dan had a son, Chad. Did you know him?”

  “I never knew there was a child— Did you say Chad?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, that’s strange. There was a Eurasian boy named Chad. He must’ve been nine or ten. Mr. Kessell asked me to accompany him on a flight to LA. He said he was an orphan and was being adopted by a wealthy family there.”

  “And did you?”

  “Yes. Chad cried when Mr. Kessell turned him over to me, but on the plane he became very silent—an angry kind of silence. By the time we got to LA, the anger was still there but under control. I’d describe him as . . . resolute. He was in this situation, and he was going to cope with it, like it or not. Of course my impressions are filtered by time and limited by a lack of knowledge and perspective; I’m now a child psychologist, but back then I didn’t have the training or expertise to fully evaluate Chad’s emotional state.”