The Ever-Running Man

by Marcia Muller

  “Elise Carver?” I asked.

  “Yes.” She tugged at the bag, and it split, a cantaloupe rolling along the bed of the truck and coming to rest under the window of the cab. “Damn cheap bags!” she exclaimed. “And the kids they hire to bag ’em cram ’em way too full.”

  “Let me help you with that.” Before she could protest, I climbed into the truck bed, rescued the cantaloupe, and got back down again. Then I hefted another sack and looked questioningly at the house.

  Elise Carver frowned. “Who are you?”

  “Sharon McCone, a private investigator from San Francisco. I’d give you one of my cards, but . . .” I nodded at the cantaloupe and sack.

  “And you’re investigating what?”

  “I’m trying to locate Dan Kessell. He is your brother?”

  “What d’you want him for?”

  “It’s nothing important. An insurance matter.”

  “Danny being sued?”

  “Oh, no. He’s a witness to an accident, and I need to have him sign a form. Strictly routine.”

  Elise Carver’s freckled face registered uncertainty. “I don’t know if I should talk with you.”

  “As I said, it’s routine.”

  “But how do I know that? I don’t want to get Danny into any trouble.”

  “He wasn’t involved in the accident, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

  “I’m not afraid of anything, I just don’t know—”

  My arms were getting tired from holding the heavy sack and melon. “Look,” I said, “at least let me help you with the groceries and then, if you don’t want to talk to me, I’ll go.”

  “. . . Okay.” She nodded and dug a key ring out of the pocket of jeans that stretched tightly over her ample hips and thighs.

  We went inside, through a mudroom containing a washer and dryer, and into a kitchen that was a far cry from what one would have expected in an old farmhouse: granite countertops, steel-topped center block, richly toned wooden cabinetry, all the latest appliances. Carver indicated where I should set the sack and melon and put hers down beside them. Then she said, “Wait here,” and went out to the truck for the remaining groceries.

  When she came back, I asked, “Weekly shop?”

  “No. Big family dinner tomorrow. My sons and daughters-in-law and all seven grandkids.”

  “May I help you put this away?” I motioned at the sacks.

  “No, it’ll keep. Now, what is it you want with Danny?”

  “A few months ago he was witness to an accident at Oakland Airport’s North Field—a couple of student pilots collided while taxiing. The insurance company that I contract with needs his signature on a form, so the settlement money can be released, but we haven’t been able to locate him at any of his addresses.”

  “That’s Danny. Here today, gone tomorrow.” She ran her fingers through her thick hair, tugging at where it was wind-tangled. “I don’t know if I can help you, though. Danny’s kind of a mysterious character.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  She motioned to a small table in an alcove overlooking the backyard. “Please, sit down. Would you care for some coffee?”

  “No, thanks. But you go ahead.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I can’t take the stuff after about ten in the morning. Don’t understand this coffee culture we’ve gotten into in this country. It’s always go for coffee, come over for coffee. I tell you, if it wasn’t for the caffeine it’d be pretty vile stuff.”

  “I know what you mean. So your brother is mysterious . . . ?”

  “Yeah. We were never close, even while we were growing up, and then he got married to a friend of mine. I didn’t like the way he treated her one bit, and I let him know it. Then when he told me he was going into the military and leaving my friend here to fend for herself, I let him have it with both barrels. After that I didn’t hear from him until about six, seven years ago, when he showed up, all smiles, with a big box of candy and some fancy wine. He’d flown here in his own plane.”

  “And you reconciled?”

  “To a point. Danny shows up every six months or so. Never any advance warning. Always brings expensive presents. He’s owner of some security company, says the work is highly confidential. I don’t have a name for the company, or an address or phone number for him. He tells me he moves around a lot.”

  Probably doesn’t want you intruding on his day-to-day life. That’s the Dan Kessell I know, but . . .

  “Mrs. Carver, what kind of plane does your brother fly?”

  “Oh, some little two-seater. Looks kind of grungy. I think it’s a wonder it flies at all, but he says it’s a classic.”

  And it doesn’t attract attention at Chandler Field, where one of the RKI jets would.

  Carver said, “I’m sorry I can’t help you more. Danny . . . he’s strange, secretive. Always was, even as a kid. The only thing he was ever open about was flying. He loved to fly. Purely loved it.”

  Kessell’s love affair with flying seemed to have cooled down; Hy had told me he kept several pilots on call for when he wanted to use the company’s aircraft, but rarely took the controls.

  When I got back to the plane, I took my briefcase from where it rested on the passenger-side floor, set it on the seat, and opened it. It was an old one I’d had lying around the office, and the catches stuck. I made a mental note to buy a new one next week; maybe I’d splurge and get something really nice, although the lack of longevity of my briefcases was an issue. In recent years, I’d had one stolen, one drowned by a burst water pipe, and one blown up. Maybe I should carry my files in a paper bag . . .

  The original RKI file had expanded into two. I took out the latter and paged through it to the information on Dan Kessell, found Mick’s report on when and where he’d gotten his pilot’s licenses. The date of the last—commercial—was the year Hy would have been two years old.

  Yes, Kessell had been long gone from Fresno before Hy could have had any recollection of him. But hadn’t he and Kessell ever discussed the coincidence that Hy’s father had been Dan’s flight instructor? It wasn’t as if his last name were Smith; Ripinsky was far from common.

  Had Kessell failed to connect the two? Doubtful. Not bothered to mention it? Maybe. Had he mentioned it, and Hy later forgot? Impossible. Hy seldom forgot anything.

  All right, then. Had Hy simply failed to mention it to me because he thought it irrelevant? Withheld the information from me for some private reason of his own? Lied to me?

  No, he hadn’t lied.

  Not yet.

  “Taste,” Hy said, holding out the spoon he’d been stirring the chili with.

  I tasted. “Good. Great, actually. One of your better batches.”

  “I think so, too.” He set the spoon down and sipped his beer. “So how was your day?”

  “Profitable.”

  “You were working?”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, I went to your old hometown.”

  “Fresno?” Something flickered in his eyes.

  “Uh-huh.”

  He set down his beer, leaned against the counter, and crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t suppose I should ask you what you were after there. Since we decided you wouldn’t report to me.”

  On the defensive.

  “No, but I have to ask you something: why didn’t you tell me your father taught Dan Kessell to fly?”

  Hy looked away at the pot of bubbling chili on the stove. He moved over there, lowered the burner’s heat.

  “Ripinsky?”

  “I didn’t know that,” he said, facing away from me.

  “Oh, come on, Ripinsky. Kessell didn’t hire a pilot named Ripinsky who just happened to have been born in Fresno, and not make the connection.”

  “If he did, he didn’t mention it.”

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “Maybe he didn’t think it a very interesting coincidence.”

  “Coincidences are always interesting. He must’ve said something.”


  “Nothing that I recall, but I met Dan a long time ago. It could’ve slipped my mind.”

  “Nothing significant slips that mind of yours.”

  “What, are you accusing me of withholding the information from you?”

  “No, but—”

  “Because it sure sounds that way.” Silence. Then: “Well, I guess the honeymoon’s over.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Take it any way you want to.”

  We locked angry eyes. Before I could reply, the damned phone rang.

  I snatched up the receiver. “Hello!”

  Gage Renshaw. At first I thought he was going to remind me that I was to fly down there on Monday, but then I heard the tension in his voice as he asked, “Is Ripinsky there?”

  “Yes, but if it’s about the ever-running man, you can talk to me.”

  “He’s changed his MO. Dan’s been shot. The two of you had better get down here.”

  “When? Where?”

  “Tonight, outside his condo.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “Bad. Head wound. Bullet’s lodged . . . ah, hell, somewhere. How do I know? They’re operating on him now.”

  “And you think it was the ever-running man.” Hy was reaching for the phone. I shoved his hand away.

  “Who else?” Renshaw said. “Perp was seen running away by one of the neighbors.”

  “Okay, we’ll be there as soon as we can.”

  “I’ll send the jet—faster than your plane or the airlines.”

  “We’ll be waiting to hear its ETA.”

  I hung up and faced Hy with the latest bad news.

  Sunday

  FEBRUARY 26

  I woke to sunlight filtering through the mini-blinds and slanting across the foot of the bed in the safe house apartment. At the last minute I’d decided against flying to San Diego with Hy; in a second call advising us of the company jet’s ETA, Renshaw had said that Kessell was still in surgery and would be unable to talk with anyone until the following day at the earliest. Since it now seemed that he was the ever-running man’s central target, I was eager to keep my noon appointment with Wendy Benjamin, Kessell’s first wife’s therapist. I’d go to San Diego when I could speak with Kessell—if he survived what sounded like a long and complicated surgery.

  I got up and drank a couple of cups of coffee while reading the Sunday Chronicle. Slow news day, lots of ads. Sometimes I thought that most of the copy in the paper was written by Macy’s advertising department. A review of a new movie that might be worth seeing, a feature article on the latest computer scams, the comics—that was it for me. I stuffed the paper in the wood basket next to the fireplace and went to get dressed.

  Deciding what to wear was no problem; I’d never had so few clothes in my closet. I laid out a new pair of jeans and a red turtleneck—both courtesy of Julia’s shopping spree—before I took my shower. Styled my hair with the blow-dryer and brush she’d bought me. Applied a minimal amount of makeup rescued from the office restroom, and grabbed my suede jacket, then decided against it. It was warmish here and would be even warmer in Berkeley.

  Before I left, the phone rang. I let it go on the machine. Hy, saying that Kessell had survived the surgery, but was still unconscious and on the critical list. Normally I would have snatched up the receiver, eager to talk with him, but I was running late. Plenty of time to talk later.

  When I was in college I never ventured into the area around Berkeley’s Fourth Street. It was then filled with grimy old buildings and warehouses, many of them unoccupied and falling into ruins. But one day the developers discovered the place, and now it’s a vibrant mixture of restaurants, boutiques, a major independent bookstore, and antique shops, with the occasional thrift store to attract those on a tighter budget. Even the few remaining auto body shops cater more to new Volvos and BMWs than to old VWs and Chevys.

  I had difficulty finding a parking space; everybody seemed to be out enjoying the fine weather. Couples strolled along hand in hand, stopping to peer into the shop windows or read the menus posted outside restaurants. Others walked purposefully, intent on errands. Dogs were leashed to tables in the outdoor dining areas of cafes. I finally wedged the MG into an iffy corner space and told myself nobody gets a ticket in Berkeley on Sunday. Then I headed toward George’s Extraordinaire, where I found Wendy Benjamin seated as she’d said she would be at an umbrella-covered table on the patio.

  Benjamin was a large woman, nearly six feet, and, while heavy, she carried her weight well. Her hair, a dark brown with purplish highlights, was cut short in a style that softened her severe features. As she rose and shook my hand, her keen gray eyes appraised me.

  “You don’t look like you sounded on the phone,” she said.

  “How did I sound?”

  “Older. Very professional. I expected you to show up in a tailored business suit and heels. Frankly, I was surprised you agreed to meet me on a Sunday.”

  As we sat down, I said, “I’m not sure the individual you describe is anyone I’d want to be.”

  “Maybe not. But the impression you convey makes one place confidence in you, sight unseen. Your telephone persona suggests high professional standards.”

  Psychobabble. But why not? She’s a shrink.

  “The eggs Florentine here are wonderful,” she added.

  Even though I normally would have welcomed a suggestion from a person who frequented the restaurant, I resisted and ordered a cheese-and-mushroom omelet.

  Wendy Benjamin’s eyes acknowledged my response: I wasn’t someone to be analyzed or manipulated.

  After the waiter left, she said in an apologetic voice, “I hope I didn’t offend you. I’ve made comparing people’s voices on the phone with their actual selves into something of a hobby. When I talk with someone, I jot down impressions, then correct them after we’ve met.”

  “And what have you found?”

  “Most people sound very different than they really are. One man, the property manager of the building where I rent office space, sounded as if he should be a TV newscaster: very deep, charismatic, sexy voice. When I met him—well, he was a total train wreck. Bald, very obese, bad complexion, horrible breath and posture. You, on the other hand, are very professional. And I suspect you’re older than your years. As for appearing more casual, I assume you’re something of a chameleon. You dress in the manner that the situation calls for.”

  I spread my arms. “Brunch in Berkeley on a Sunday.”

  She toasted me with one of the glasses of orange juice the waiter had set in front of us.

  I considered taking out my recorder, but sensed this woman wouldn’t allow its use. “So,” I said, “Gina Hines.”

  “You realize I’m only speaking with you because Gina is dead and her husband requested I cooperate. And Gina and I didn’t have a long-standing relationship.”

  “You’re covered on the confidentiality issue. If you’d like me to sign a release—”

  She dismissed my suggestion with a quick hand gesture. “Not necessary. As a matter of fact, Gina was an interesting case. She only came to me for three sessions, and I wish I’d had more time to break down her barriers.”

  “What kind of barriers?”

  “Well, when her daughter made the first appointment for her, she described her as someone who needed to manufacture great drama in her life. But the woman who came to that session was not overly dramatic. In fact, she was afraid. So afraid she did not want to leave her house.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “That was what I worked on. The usual labels—agoraphobia, fear of crowds, for instance—did not apply. The fear was real, but it took three sessions before I even touched upon it. And then, I caught only a glimpse.”

  “And that was . . . ?”

  “She mentioned a former husband, and a meeting with him on the street. When I began probing, she cut me off. Left the session with twenty minutes to go, and never scheduled another.”

  “What did
she say about the meeting?”

  “I consulted my notes this morning, to be clear on this. All she said was ‘I destroyed his life, and now he’s going to destroy mine.’”

  “She didn’t give you any further explanation?”

  “No, that’s when she bolted from my office.”

  When I returned to the apartment, there was another message on the machine from Hy, saying Kessell’s condition remained the same. His tone was curt and curiously formal. There was also a message from Ma, pleading that I call her. Much as I appreciated her concern, I simply couldn’t face another long, semi-hysterical conversation. The cheese-and-mushroom omelet at George’s Extraordinaire had been terrible, my stomach was threatening to rebel, and my head was throbbing. I found a bottle of aspirin in the medicine cabinet, popped three, and lay down on the bed. Soon I was asleep.

  Phone ringing. Somewhere . . .

  I propped myself up on my elbows, reached for the extension, but the call had already gone on the machine. By the time I got to the living room, Hy’s voice was saying, “So that’s it—”

  I picked up. “I’m here. Sorry, I was asleep.”

  His voice was grim. “Dan just died.”

  “Jesus. Complications from surgery?”

  “Yeah. His heart gave out.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Bullshit, McCone. You’re no sorrier than I am. Neither of us liked the man.”

  I ran my hand over my forehead; the headache I’d had earlier was again pounding. “Still . . .”

  “Save your emotions for something that really matters,” Hy said. “And what matters is this: Dan may have been the ever-running man’s primary target.”

  “Or he may not have. Why the bombings as a lead-in to the shooting? Why not use a bomb on Dan’s condo instead? Why the change in MO?”

  “. . . I don’t know. Can you come down here?”

  “Of course.”

  I should feel as if something’s just ended. Why do I feel as if it’s just begun?