Wolf in the Shadows

by Marcia Muller

  “My motives don’t matter. What does is that I can be bought to do what your operatives so far haven’t managed.”

  Renshaw didn’t respond, but his eyes moved swiftly—calculating. He cocked his head as if listening to some internal debate. Then he nodded, said, “Okay, come with me,” and started for the door.

  I got up and followed. “Where’re we going?”

  “Downstairs. There’s a lot of material I need to familiarize you with. Afterward we’ll discuss your price.”

  * * *

  Five minutes later I was seated in the front row of a projection room off the building’s lobby. Renshaw pressed a switch on a console between us; the lights dimmed. He pushed another button, and a man’s picture appeared on the screen.

  “Timothy Mourning,” Renshaw said. “CEO and chairman of the board of Phoenix Labs.”

  Phoenix Labs. Where had I …? Oh, yes—the company whose initial public offering of stock had abruptly been canceled; I’d tried to read the article about it in the business section this morning, and damned near fallen asleep. I studied the man’s face. He was young for a CEO and board chairman, perhaps in his mid-thirties. On the plump side and mustached, he had a slightly receding hairline topped by a wild mop of dark blond curls. I was willing to bet that in high school his classmates had labeled him a nerd; now, while many of them remembered those brief years as their only time of glory, Mourning was head of a corporation. His unabashed grin and the gleam behind his wire-rimmed glasses told me he possessed both a sharp intellect and a zest for living.

  Renshaw pressed the button, and the picture changed. “Diane Mourning,” he said. “Tim’s wife of eighteen years, and chief financial officer of the labs.”

  Diane Mourning’s face was thin, with high cheekbones, an aquiline nose, and wide-set hazel eyes. Her shoulder-length blond hair also curled, but in a more disciplined fashion than her husband’s. Unlike Timothy, she apparently considered posing for a photograph a serious matter: she stared uncompromisingly at the camera, her small mouth set in a firm, straight line. Not much humor there, I thought, and wondered how they got along.

  Again Renshaw changed slides, to a sprawling one-story stucco building surrounded by a chain-link fence topped by barbed wire. Open fields lay on either side, and an oak-dotted hillside rose in the background. A guard shack sat next to the gate, and a sign on it said: Phoenix Labs, Inc.

  “The company’s facility in Novato,” Renshaw explained. “Basic utilitarian plant, but someday there’ll be an office tower next to it. Phoenix is one of the hot firms in the biotech industry. You know anything about biotech?”

  “Not a great deal.”

  “I’ll give you a background file; you read up on it. Basically it’s the wave of the future—genetic engineering, disease prevention and cure. Real growth industry here in the Bay Area. Nine months ago Phoenix announced they were developing a drug called Enterferon-One that can retard the growth of the HIV virus. They’ve planned an IPO of stock to finance the final stages of development.”

  “I read in the Chronicle that the IPO was withdrawn. Why?”

  In answer, a new picture appeared: a narrow road with wild vegetation on either side; a red Mazda sports car sat nose down in the right-hand ditch.

  Renshaw said, “This is where Timothy Mourning was kidnapped. At approximately seven-ten A.M., Tuesday, June first. On the road leading from his home outside Novato.”

  So Phoenix Labs was an RKI client. “Was there anti-terrorism policy on Mourning?”

  “No. He was extremely wary of that kind of coverage.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, much as the existence of such policies is supposed to be confidential, leaks occur. And a leak is a direct invitation to violent fringe groups. Mourning believes in good security and contingency planning rather than insurance. Doesn’t like insurance much, isn’t even covered by keyman or any other kind of life policy. Apparently, though, he operated on the mistaken assumption that nothing could ever happen to him, because he ignored the advice we gave him.”

  “And that was …?”

  “Standard: Vary your route to work. Vary your routines. Do not stop your car to help anyone, no matter what the circumstances. If stopped, do not unlock your doors or open your windows. Use your car phone to summon help. Granted, he couldn’t vary his route to work; he lives on an isolated road—Crazy Horse—and there’s only the one outlet. But he could have changed the time he left home, if he wasn’t such a stubborn creature of habit. As for the rest …

  Renshaw switched slides. A close-up shot of the car appeared, the driver’s-side door wide open. “We assume he was forced into the ditch. He either got out of the car on his own or was driving with the door unlocked and taken out forcibly.” Another slide, the car’s interior, phone still in its cradle. “Either he didn’t go for the phone or had no time to use it.”

  “When was the kidnapping discovered, and by whom?” I asked.

  “Diane Mourning left the house at seven twenty-three. At least one of them varied the routine. She found the car and called us.”

  “Why not the police?”

  “Our agreement with the client is that they call us first. If we feel it’s in their best interests, we notify the authorities. As you probably know, there’s no statute on the books that requires citizens to report kidnapping or extortion attempts.”

  “And did you feel it was in Mourning’s best interests to report it?”

  “No. Initially there was some speculation that Mourning might have staged his own disappearance, and no ransom demand was made that day or on the following two. From the first, though, we proceeded on the assumption that it was an actual kidnapping. There had been threats from lunatic-fringe animal-rights groups against the labs and the Mournings personally.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the production of the new drug, Enterferon-One, requires the extraction of a substance from the cartilage of dolphins. A group called Terramarine has made several bomb threats, and both Mournings, plus other key employees, have received written and telephoned death threats.”

  “All from the same group?”

  “That isn’t clear. But from there it was only a short step to a kidnapping.”

  “I assume you brought Ripinsky in because of the environmentalist angle.”

  “Ironically, no. I’d contacted him several weeks before that about joining the firm. We need someone of his abilities. He and I were to meet in La Jolla on Wednesday; I was prepared to offer him an ownership percentage if that’s what it would take. But by then the Mourning kidnapping had gone down, and I was already here in the city. I brought Ripinsky in on it, figuring he could help us deal with the environmentalists, if necessary. It was also in the back of my mind that giving him a taste of the old action might persuade him to come on board.”

  I wished I could ask about the “old action”—where he’d known Hy, what they’d been involved in, why Renshaw wanted him to join RKI. But I couldn’t do that without undermining my claim that I knew him so well I could easily find him.

  “All right,” I said, “what happened then?”

  “We waited until the kidnappers finally made contact on June fourth. Still no way to tell if they were Terramarine or one of the other nut groups. The contact woman spoke with a Hispanic accent; Ripinsky thought she might be a Mexican national. They wanted two million in small unmarked bills. You know how much that weighs, how cumbersome it is?”

  “Very, I imagine.”

  “Some two hundred and ninety pounds, enough to fill a couple of trunks. We tried to talk them into a wire transfer to a Swiss or Bahamian bank account. No dice. They know governments and foreign banks cooperate against extortion attempts. They wanted cash, and they were very nervous. We did get them to send proof that the victim was still alive.” Another slide appeared on the screen: Timothy Mourning, holding a copy of the June 4 New York Times.

  Renshaw went on, “Finally Kessell—Dan Kessell, my partner—hit on t
he idea of an irrevocable international letter of credit drawn on Phoenix’s bank account here to whatever foreign company they specified. And they went for it. Apparently they knew somebody they could trust at a firm, Colores Internacional in Mexico City.”

  “You checked them out, of course.”

  “Yeah. Fairly good-sized operation, makes silk flowers, crap like that. Privately held by a member of one of Mexico’s wealthy families, Emanuel Fontes. Fontes is an environmentalist, has donated to a number of causes, particularly ones having to do with the protection of marine mammals.”

  “Dolphins. Interesting.”

  “What’s even more interesting is that Fontes’s brother, Gilbert, owns a large tuna-fishing fleet headquartered in Ensenada. Diametrically opposed viewpoints there, and bad blood between them.”

  “Bad enough blood to make Emanuel an extremist?”

  “We’ve kicked the thought around.”

  “Have you tried to get the Mexican authorities to lean on him, find out if he’s connected with any of the fringe groups?”

  Renshaw looked at me as if I’d taken leave of my senses. “Down there, where you never know who’s involved in what? No, we backed off and set it up. The objective was to get the victim back alive; then we’d let the authorities go after the kidnappers—that is, if we didn’t take care of them first.” He smiled grimly. “Ripinsky was to make the drop; we hoped he might be able to identify somebody. They went through the usual nonsense: go to this phone booth, wait for another call. Finally they named the location—that turnoff in San Benito County.”

  “What happened down there, do you know?”

  “I know. And that was the first time I had a funny feeling about Ripinsky. According to him, there was another car in the turnoff when he arrived. Its driver panicked, forced him into the boulder, and took off. Ripinsky waited, but nobody else ever showed.”

  “But you don’t believe that.”

  “At the time I did, but like I said, I had a funny feeling. Anyway, Ripinsky came back here and we waited some more. Didn’t take the kidnappers long to reestablish contact. They wanted to move the drop south, said Ripinsky should check into a place on Hotel Circle in San Diego and they’d call him on Sunday. That gave us real cause for concern.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it indicated they might’ve taken Mourning into Mexico. If they reneged on setting him free once they had the L.C., there’d be no way we could recover him by force. In most foreign countries, we work either with or around the authorities, but not down there. After last year’s U.S. Supreme Court ruling that it’s okay to snatch criminals from foreign jurisdictions to stand trial here, Mexico quit cooperating completely. The political situation’s just too damned volatile for us to go in on our own. Company policy says we don’t set foot south of the border.”

  “I see. So Ripinsky flew to San Diego that night?”

  “Uh-huh. One of our operatives dropped him off at SFO and returned his rental car.”

  “He had the letter of credit with him?”

  “Damn right he did.”

  “Did he contact your people in La Jolla?”

  “He did not. Too risky, in case the kidnappers had him under surveillance. We know he checked into the motel, the Bali Kai, and on Sunday he sent a message through a woman friend of mine on Point Loma, saying the drop was set for eleven P.M. And that’s the last we ever heard. Ripinsky checked out of the motel with the two-million-dollar L.C. and vanished. His rental car didn’t even turn up.”

  I masked my surge of concern by asking, “Has the L.C. been drawn upon?”

  “No. We’re monitoring Phoenix’s bank account minute by minute.”

  “Any chance Ripinsky met with foul play before he could make the drop?”

  “That’s possible, but not too damn likely. Ripinsky can take care of himself. The assumption I’m acting on is that he made a deal with the kidnappers—or was in collusion with them from the first.”

  “You mean since before you brought him in on the case? How could he have known Phoenix was your client?”

  “Because among the materials on the firm that I sent him several weeks ago was a complete, confidential client list. Sheer stupidity on my part. I ignored what you pointed out earlier: situations change, people change.”

  Renshaw paused, his face pale and drawn. “Because of my stupidity, Timothy Mourning is probably rotting in a ditch somewhere with a bullet in his brain, while Ripinsky’s sitting back and waiting until he thinks it’s safe to draw on Phoenix’s two-million-dollar L.C.” His eyes glittered against the darkness that surrounded us. “Ripinsky’s going to pay for this.”

  I looked away, glad he couldn’t see me all that well. Stared at the slide of Mourning holding the June 4 Times. The laughter was gone from his face, leaving it a rigid mask of fear. The gleam in his bespectacled eyes had been replaced by a sheen of horror. Timothy Mourning had known he was going to die.

  But not because of Hy’s actions. Imperfect as my understanding of him was, I knew he would never have colluded with the kidnappers or cut a deal. Would never have caused this innocent man’s death. On the surface, the circumstantial evidence against him looked bad, but if I dug deep, I knew I’d uncover a different set of facts. And I would dig. Gage Renshaw was not going to make Hy pay for something he’d had no part in.

  Renshaw asked, “Are you still with us, Ms. McCone?”

  I hardened my expression as the lights came up. Turned to him and said firmly, “Yes, I am.”

  “Then let’s discuss your price.”

  Six

  The bargain I struck with Gage Renshaw would have been lucrative—had I any intention of honoring it. In fact, it shocked me to learn just how much money could be made, providing you worked for a certain type of people. The outrageous figure Renshaw agreed to pay when I delivered information about Hy’s whereabouts told me that for years I’d been shortchanged by even more than I’d suspected; in fact, made me feel like a mere novice in a field where only hours before, I’d considered myself a consummate pro. If you threw in expenses, which Renshaw also agreed to pay, for a single job I would have earned only slightly less than my yearly salary at All Souls.

  Yes, there was a lot of money to be made in investigation—providing you wanted to work for a firm like RKI. Providing you were willing to bend the rules as they did. Providing your sleep wasn’t susceptible to guilt-and horror-induced nightmares.

  None of those circumstances applied in my case, though. I pocketed the advance check Renshaw had the business office issue me for expenses, took down directions to the Mourning home outside Novato, and agreed to meet him there at four. Diane Mourning, he said, had been adamantly against calling in the authorities, but that hadn’t prevented her from taking RKI to task for mishandling the situation. Perhaps talking with me would assure her they still were making every effort. Since I’d hoped to speak with the victim’s wife anyway, the drive up there seemed worthwhile.

  My business with Renshaw concluded, I stopped at RKI’s bank and cashed the check. Then I went to a nearby branch of Bank of America and deposited most of it in my account, holding out some for incidentals. Finally I returned to my office to finish some paperwork and talk with Rae.

  The co-op was quiet; Ted slumped in his desk chair, staring at his computer screen. I reached into my box for my message slips and said, “Amo, amas, amat.” It was the only conjugation I remembered from my high-school Latin classes.

  He continued staring at the screen, ignoring me.

  I asked, “What’s the Latin phrase for today?”

  “Tete futae and the horse you rode in on.”

  Stung by his uncharacteristic grouchiness, I said, “The same to you,” and went upstairs.

  Now, what was that about? I wondered as I dumped my bag and jacket on my chaise longue. He’d been perfectly cheerful when I left the night before. Maybe the stress and uncertainty of this reorganization was taking its toll on him, too.

  For about half an
hour I took care of my messages and dictated a couple of reports. Then I called Hy’s accountant, Barry Ashford. Ashford said he had a standing arrangement with Hy to take care of his bills when he went out of town for extended periods. “Goes back to the days right after Julie died when he was getting busted for doing stupid things at environmental protests,” he said. “I should’ve explained that to Kate; obviously she’s made this out to be a bigger deal than it is.”

  “Did Hy say how long he’d be away?”

  “No, but he told me he’d probably be back before anything needed to be paid. In case he wasn’t, though, he wanted to alert me.”

  It sounded as if he’d been keeping an open mind about Renshaw’s offer. If things looked good in La Jolla, he’d stay longer; if not, he’d simply return home. “Did Hy mention why he was going away?”

  “Hy? Are you kidding?”

  I thanked Ashford and hung up, glad I hadn’t talked with him yesterday. The accountant’s casual attitude toward Hy’s unexplained absence might have lulled me into a false sense of security, convinced me there was no need to continue looking.

  Next I called Kate Malloy. She said she’d been out to Hy’s ranch and spoken with the hands. “Not much there. Hy didn’t tell them anything, and the reason he paid them for two months is that one man needed an advance because his wife’s having a baby. Hy just figured it was easier to pay them all the same amount.”

  “What about American Express? Were you able to find anything out?”

  “Yes. He used the card twice after he rented the car in Oakland: for a ticket to San Diego on USAir on Saturday night, and at the Bali Kai Motor Inn there. No additional charges since Sunday, but they may just be slow coming in.”