Someone Always Knows

by Marcia Muller

“Cause of death?”

  “Suicide. She threw herself out the attic window. William Acton survived, however, well into his nineties.”

  “Alone in that house?”

  “Except for a housekeeper, Susan Whitby, whom he later married. They had two daughters—Phylippa, born in 1944, and Chrysanthus, born in 1952.”

  “What happened to them?”

  Mick consulted his notes. “Phylippa Acton never married and died in 2009 in that ritzy retirement home down near the bridge—you know where I mean.”

  I did. The city is full of landmarks, wherever you habitually travel, and this one was close to Avila Street.

  “And the other sister?”

  “That’s where the thread of the timeline breaks. No record. Chrysanthus was eight years younger than her sister, so it’s possible she’s still alive.”

  “Phylippa and Chrysanthus. The Acton family must’ve been heavy into the Greek.”

  “Their last name’s Americanized from Akakios.”

  “I see. Other details on either daughter?”

  “Phylippa was born in the city on April 4, 1944. Attended rich people’s schools here and in Marin. After that she did nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nope. Seems it was deemed proper for ladies of her station and era to be decorative and entertaining—until marriage, of course.”

  “Did she marry?”

  “No. There were suitors, but the war interfered.”

  “And Chrysanthus?”

  “She married a Nathan Smithson, and had a son, Adam Smithson, but the trail ends there. No record of Chrysanthus or her husband and son beyond the late eighties.”

  “Did Acton have any other children with his second wife?”

  “No.”

  “Who inherited the house?”

  “Both sisters. Their mother predeceased Acton by a year. The attorney for the estate conducted a thorough search for the Smithsons or any other living relative when Phylippa died, but came up empty-handed.”

  “So the estate maintained the house?”

  “Right. It paid all bills and property taxes. It’s only in the past several years that they allowed it to go to hell.”

  “Why, do you suppose?”

  “Maybe the estate couldn’t afford the costs—which would be considerable. That might be why they sold out to the Kenyons.”

  “Who was executor of the estate?”

  “Wells Fargo bank and, no, I don’t have any contacts there, but Thelia does, and she’s trying to get at their records.”

  Mick had practically invented the term hacker.

  I said, “You’ll manage.”

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 8

  11:11 a.m.

  As soon as Ted could arrange it, I held a staff meeting to brief everyone on the threat posed to us by Gage Renshaw. Each received the photo of him and a background sheet.

  Then while they all went about their various assignments, I sat in my office, as usual chafing at the paperwork that had appeared in my in-boxes, both physically and on the computer screen.

  I was saved from drudgery by the phone buzzing. Ted. “I’ve got Inspector Larry Kaufman on line one for you.”

  I’d left a message for Larry at his office at the SFPD earlier. Kaufman specialized in undercover relations and was a damn good cop. In the years I’d known him, he’d turned around many a potentially explosive situation with his steady-handedness, tact, and humor.

  “Thanks.” I switched over to Kaufman.

  “McCone, I hear gloom in your voice,” he said. “That referral I sent you last month, did it go bad?”

  “No. I’m sorry I haven’t thanked you for it earlier. But I’m calling about a personal problem.” I laid the Renshaw situation out for him.

  When I finished, he said, “This is a tough one, in terms of the law. Renshaw may have bilked half of South America, but you say he hasn’t pulled off anything here.”

  “That we know of.”

  “And that ties my hands—at least officially. Unofficially I can put an officer on him part time, but if he spots him or her, it’ll tip him to the fact we’re interested in him.”

  “I think Gage always assumes people are interested in him.”

  “Egomaniac, huh? Okay, I’ll have somebody look into where he’s staying.”

  “Great. Thank you.”

  Larry sighed heavily. “Are you sure you don’t know of any crimes—preferably the kind where statutes of limitations haven’t run out—that this Renshaw has committed on American soil?”

  “No, but I’ve got a researcher working on that.”

  “Well, we’ll keep each other posted.”

  2:07 p.m.

  I set up a schedule for two of my newest hires for surveilling the Webster Street property, then checked with Mick and his department on the results of their search for Renshaw’s whereabouts. No luck so far, but as soon as I came back from a late lunch at one of the food trucks that prowled downtown—a hot dog on a pretzel bun—Renshaw called “to chat.”

  “I have nothing to ‘chat’ with you about,” I said as I hit the button to record the conversation.

  “Sharon, stop being so defensive.”

  “Look, you! You’ve done many dreadful things in your life. When you disappeared, we were relieved that you were gone. No—we hoped you were dead. And now it turns out you were in parts of South America during that time.”

  “Sharp as ever with your research, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I’m sharp, and I have an even sharper tech staff. They’ll find out what you want from us eventually, but I hate to waste the man power, so why don’t you just tell me?”

  “Why would I want to do that? It’ll be fun to watch McCone and Ripinsky squirm.”

  “Maybe we should sit down and talk this thing through. Where’re you staying?”

  “Uh-uh, McCone.”

  “Then come here to the offices.”

  “Not to your home? That lovely Spanish-style house on Avila Street?”

  That’s right—he knows exactly where we live.

  “We separate our business lives from our private lives.”

  “Yeah. That’s why two members of your staff had dinner with you at your house last Saturday.”

  Adah Joslyn and Craig Morland were both our operatives, but close friends as well. She, a former SFPD homicide inspector, and he, a former special agent of the FBI, had met during one of my cases and enjoyed a whirlwind courtship that had ended in Craig’s leaving the Bureau and Washington, D.C., far behind him. They’d eventually married, and so far their working relationship seemed as compatible as their personal one. It was not unusual for them to have dinner at our house.

  I said, “Have you been spying on us, Renshaw? Spying on our friends and associates?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re a sneaky bastard.”

  He laughed. “That’s me, all right. And thorough, like you. I also know that your nephew and his lady have a nice house on Potrero Hill. And that Hank Zahn and the Altman broad are still at the same place; their daughter’s grown up into a real pretty young woman.”

  At the mention of Hank and Anne-Marie’s adopted daughter, my blood pressure spiked. Renshaw had reportedly enticed a young Venezuelan girl to steal from her family and run off with him; what might he do to Habiba? “Don’t you dare to go near her, Renshaw. Don’t you dare!”

  “You know the effect I have on young women, maybe even older women like yourself.”

  I couldn’t go on with this call. He was toying with my emotions. I started to speak, but I knew my voice would give away how enraged and upset I was, so instead I hung up on him.

  Renshaw didn’t call back.

  2:33 p.m.

  I arranged a conference call with Hank and Anne-Marie to warn them about Renshaw and the possible threat to Habiba. Of the two of them, she took the news far more calmly.

  “Are you sure this isn’t just idle talk designed to scare you?” she asked.


  “Could be, but with someone like Renshaw, it’s best to be aware, take precautions.”

  “Well, she’s already a cautious kid, considering what she’s been through.” Habiba’s childhood had been chaotic, and extricating her from that chaos had involved a great deal of danger. If anyone knew the warning signs of danger, it was she.

  “She’s got to be told,” Hank said.

  “Of course,” Anne-Marie agreed.

  “And perhaps removed from harm’s way,” I added. “Is there anyplace the three of you could go until we get Renshaw in hand?”

  “Well, Hank and I certainly can’t leave our clients up in the air, and she has school, but maybe Helene…”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Helene Herber, the headmistress of her school. She and Habiba are very fond of each other.”

  “A school administrator? I’m not sure—”

  “This particular schoolmarm lives in a super-high-security building. And, although Hank and I don’t approve, she’s a card-carrying member of the NRA.”

  “A rabid member?” I myself opposed the NRA and their inflexible stance on gun control, especially as it applied to semiautomatic weapons.

  Anne-Marie chuckled. “Helene’s no gun nut. In fact, she’s been censured by the local chapter for speaking out on the need for caution in gun ownership and for assessing what appears to be a threatening situation before you blast away. If you want, I’ll call her and ask if she can take Habiba in. It shouldn’t be a problem. But shouldn’t the two of you be taking precautions also?”

  “Don’t worry about us.” Like Habiba’s headmistress, we didn’t adhere to the shoot-first-and-think-later approach to firearms, but we each owned weapons and knew how to use them. Hy liked them better than I, having grown up in the rough-and-ready high desert country, but my old .38 Special had saved my life more than once. It, and maybe even my .45, which I seldom carried, would have to come out of their secure storage places till Renshaw was dealt with.

  My appointments and conferences with various staff members done for the day, I decided it was time to check out how the surveillance was going on the derelict house on Webster Street.

  4:21 p.m.

  I came face-to-face with my operative Roberta Cruz on the sidewalk in front of the house. She was tall, nearly six feet, with bluntly cut black hair and an elongated face that looked homely until she smiled. When she did, her wide mouth and sparkling dark eyes could light up a room. Today she was in a solemn mood.

  “How’s the surveillance going?” I asked.

  “I did a couple of drive-bys, then walked around and checked out the neighborhood and the property. There’re multiple ways into the house: front door, back door, broken windows on all floors. Even a hole in the roof that a mountain climber might use if he or she was so inclined. A redheaded kid and a gaggle of other boys stopped and looked at it; from the kid’s gestures, he seemed to be showing something off.”

  “Probably one of the Parsons boys from up the street. They found me when I was pushed down the stairs and went for their mother to help me.”

  Roberta crossed her arms, hands clutching her shoulders. “When I got here, I toured the inside. God, it’s a depressing place. I can’t believe kids actually want to play there. But I do understand why the derelicts like to hang out there at night.” She glanced at her watch. “My relief isn’t here yet, and I’ve got a date.” She grinned gleefully. “Imagine that—a real date with a hetero male in San Francisco.”

  “You take off, Roberta. I’ll relieve you till Courtney gets here.”

  She practically skipped down the block.

  I could understand her elation: ours is not a city known for frequent or successful love connections—be they hetero, same-sex, or any of the other variations. I don’t know why, but I’m a prime example: none of my relationships worked until I traveled to the high desert and nabbed Hy.

  As it turned out, I had a while to wait for the arrival of the other operative I’d assigned to the surveillance, Courtney Masson. I have an ironclad rule that I explain to all new hires: three times you’re late for an assignment, you’re warned, four and you’re fired. This was Courtney’s number three, and she seemed oblivious to the time as she glided effortlessly along the sidewalk. Her blond hair was pulled into a ponytail, her makeup perfect, her sweater and slacks—probably cashmere—spotless and without a wrinkle. A few yards away, she stopped, took out a compact, and refreshed her lipstick—never bothering to glance at the target of her surveillance. When she saw me sitting outside the house on the steps, her hand flew to her mouth.

  I said, “That’s number three, Courtney.”

  “Sharon, oh, my God, I had an important phone call. My uncle in…Des Moines is seriously ill.”

  I doubted that she, or any members of her family, had ever been to Des Moines.

  “Come sit next to me,” I said, patting the step.

  She did, first wiping off the step and adjusting her pants to avoid rumpling them. “Look, I’ll make up the time.”

  “You’re just playing at this job, aren’t you?” I asked.

  “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “Playing at being an investigator. It gives you a certain cachet. You probably tell stories about your exploits at parties. Overly exaggerated stories.”

  Her gaze flicked away from mine. I’d nailed her.

  “The problem with that,” I went on, “is that you don’t know what being an investigator is all about. You don’t understand or abide by the rules of confidentiality. And that’s a very dangerous thing. And we cover one another’s asses. What if you and I were in trouble? In the sights of a potential shooter’s Glock? What would you do?”

  “Run like hell, I suppose.”

  “Leaving me to do battle. And probably getting yourself shot in the back. Maybe get both of us killed.”

  “But things like that don’t happen—”

  “They happen all the time. Just read the newspapers.”

  “They don’t happen to me!” Her voice escalated.

  “No, they don’t. And I certainly don’t want them to. That’s why I’m letting you go.”

  Shocked silence. “You’re firing me?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry, but it’s best for the agency—and best for you.”

  She stood, shaking all over like a dog that’s been doused with water. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer about this!”

  “That’s your right.”

  “You bitch!” The words echoed up and down the quiet street.

  I just looked steadily at her. She turned and stormed up the block, turned a corner, and was gone.

  Another problem. They come in batches. And I particularly don’t like this one. Don’t like this case either. Jesus, my last major case centered on a vacant lot owned by the Kenyon brothers and filled with cast-off crap. Now this!

  9:32 p.m.

  Hy and I were at a formal reception at The Academy of Sciences in Golden Gate Park—an event we’d scheduled months ago and couldn’t back out of—for Save the Animals of San Francisco, one of the many ecological organizations of which he was on the board. He was being his usual charming self and I was hating every moment of it.

  Becoming more and more surly by the minute, truth be told. Twice I’d traveled down the escalator to view the fish, and twice I’d suffered the smothering, damp heat of the rain forest’s exotic plants until I’d gotten to the observation deck on the third level, where I could cool off in the fresh air. A few times I’d stepped behind pillars or turned my head to avoid people I knew.

  The Academy is now housed in a relatively new structure in Golden Gate Park, and the Steinhart Aquarium is one of its gems, containing a vast assortment of creatures, both marine and amphibious. The displays in which they are housed replicate their natural habitats and reflect the diversity of their environments. I especially love the Philippine Coral Reef Gallery—one of the largest displays of an undersea wonderland in the world. Sometimes I st
and before it mesmerized, imagining myself dwelling inside—zipping through the formations, streamlined and supple and free. Tonight, though, the aquarium wasn’t doing anything for me; even Claude, the rare albino alligator residing in the Swamp Gallery, failed to charm me.

  Usually I’m pretty perky at parties and in crowds. If you grow up in a house where relatives and friends are always arriving without being invited and staying till they’re given notice to vacate, you have to be. In college it had been much the same: long late-night conversations on the back stairs of an old house that an ever-changing ragtag collection of us had shared on Durant Avenue near the UC Berkeley campus.

  But after graduation, when I’d discovered that a BA in sociology didn’t mean much of anything in the real world, I’d returned to working the job that I’d held part time as an all-night security guard in a downtown San Francisco office building, and surprisingly found pleasure in the solitude. Even later when I was hired by All Souls Legal Cooperative, where one of the very few perks was living in its big Victorian, I’d sought out a small studio apartment not far away on Guerrero Street.

  Alone, but not lonely. And why should I be?

  I’d had relationships (mostly disastrous) and bought and renovated a cottage built as shelter for people made homeless by the earthquake of 1906, and if it hadn’t been for an encounter with Hy while on a case in the high desert of Mono County, I might have been living in that manner still.

  But Hy…

  I smiled at the memory of our first encounter on the shores of Tufa Lake:

  “Hey,” I’d called, “what’s your name?”

  “Heino Ripinsky.”

  Jesus, I thought, it’s no wonder he didn’t introduce himself earlier!

  Hy must have been used to reactions like mine, because he stopped beside his ancient Morgan, whirled, and leveled an index finger at me. “Don’t laugh,” he warned. “Don’t you dare laugh!”

  I controlled the twitching at the corners of my mouth and spread my hands wide. “Me? Why would I do that?”

  He winked at me, vaulted into the Morgan, and was gone in a cloud of dust.

  Now Hy touched my elbow—his signal that he wanted out of there.