Someone Always Knows (3 page)

“You got it.”

Hank called me back in the middle of the afternoon. “I've talked with several other attorneys about your problem with Renshaw, and they all agree that there's a legal precedent in your favor. His abandonment, lack of communication…did you try to locate him?”

“Not very hard,” I admitted.

“But you did try?”

“Sure. We're investigators, that's what we do.” My voice had an edge to it.

“Don't get testy with me.”

“Sorry, I didn't mean to. This has been an awful day.”

“Well, hang in there. And send me any info on your or Hy's attempts to locate this pest.”

I went back to my files. In the months since the agency merged with RI and expanded, it seemed paperwork—on real paper or the computer—had come to dominate my life. Whether here in the office or at home, my computers and iPhone fired off messages, reports, and complaints at me with incredible speed. I couldn't ignore the infernal devices; they rang and beeped at me with a persistence I'd never imagined any electronic device could exhibit. Sometimes I longed for the old days—

Well, maybe not. Computers, which I'd previously hated and vowed never to use, now provide all sorts of data with speed and accuracy. For a poor typist like me, the Delete key is of prime importance. Fax machines, cell phones, and high-quality printers allow me to cut through red tape and save time. And the Internet is a great research tool—if I don't take as gospel every word that appears on the screen. I still fact-check in person and with written sources, particularly the older ones, which tend to be more accurate. But the old days? Carbon copies, Wite-Out, endless erasing and retyping…uh-uh, not for me.

When I looked up from a particularly boring case report, I found it was full dark; the lights of the city shimmered before me in a way that I knew predicted cold temperatures for the days ahead. The thought of tacos nudged at me. Time to go home.

8:57 a.m.

M
ick looked through my office door and said, “I've compiled a list of people you may want to talk to about Renshaw.” He handed me two printed sheets. “It's pretty extensive, many of them out of state or outside the country.”

“Let me get Ripinsky in here.”

As we waited for Hy, I studied my nephew. He looked good, fit and rested. If any traces of the problems he and his partner Alison had gone through earlier in the year remained, they weren't major ones. I was about to ask him how the painting on their new house on Potrero Hill was going when Hy came in. The three of us went over the list together.

I said, “In order to contact all these people, we're going to have to co-opt other agencies in the more far-flung locations.”

“I don't think so,” Hy told me. “RI's people—I mean, our people can handle it. And since Renshaw has surfaced here, I'd hazard that he has a connection in the Bay Area.” He looked a shade embarrassed: since we'd joined our firms, he sometimes slipped, speaking as if he were the sole owner of the organization.

I ignored the error—it didn't matter. “Right. But what's he been doing all these years?”

“Scamming,” Mick said. “You'll notice the names on that list live all over the globe, but he primarily focused on South America, maybe because he's fluent in Spanish and Portuguese.”

I looked at the list: Chile, Venezuela, Argentina, Brazil.

“What kinds of scams?” I asked.

“The usual—extortion, blackmail, you name it. In Venezuela he and the sixteen-year-old daughter of a high government official ran off together, taking a good bit of money she'd stolen from her father's safe; when officials found her and returned her to her parents, the money and Renshaw were gone. The brat had the nerve to proclaim to her family that he was ‘the greatest fuck' she'd ever had.”

I paused, thinking about that. In my opinion the young woman must've not had many good fucks. Self-absorbed people like Renshaw are never very good in bed.

“Why didn't the girl's family prosecute?”

“She refused to testify. So they shipped her off to a convent instead. Renshaw speedily exited the country.”

“When was that?” I asked.

“Two years ago. And that's the last trace of him before he came to this office yesterday.”

That was interesting. Mick and his staff were the brightest and best in their area of expertise. If they couldn't find out what Renshaw had been up to recently, who could?

Again I studied the list. “Let's start by divvying up the locals among us.”

We spent a long time breaking up the list, sorting the names by their locations to save driving time and legwork. Mick said he would assign Derek and Patrick to the city and Marin, and I opted for the Peninsula. Hy, who was currently juggling two cases, would assign other operatives if they became necessary and oversee the operation from the office.

My first choice of interviewees, Gil Stratton, president of Quick Stops, an air charter firm that Renshaw had once worked for, wasn't available till four fifteen that afternoon, but a late appointment was okay with me. Stratton was located at Mineta San José International, a good hour's drive down the Peninsula, and I really needed the time to plow through more paperwork.

Before I could really get into it, however, Ted buzzed me. “A new client to see you.”

I clicked my tongue in exasperation. “Who?”

“Name's Chad Kenyon.”

At first the name didn't register. When it did, I said, “Mr. Kenyon's had dealings with Julia. Can't you pass him on to her?”

“He says he'll speak only with you.”

Lucky me. The Kenyon brothers, fat Chad and skinny Dick, are a powerful, albeit not always a welcome, force in the city—indeed in most of the Western states. Their reputation is based on their penchant for buying and selling things with precision and speed. They snap up any object that appeals to them, not for its intrinsic value but because turning it quickly at a profit will illustrate their uncanny expertise.

A diamond brooch or a ruby necklace? Got plenty in inventory. Cameos? Harder to find, but we got this great pair of earrings and matching bracelet. Net…
what
? Oh, netsuke. Those little Japanese carvings. You want a fish? Turtle? Butterfly? We can get it for you within the hour. Murano glass? Do we ever have a vase for you!

Canoes. Are you into them? We got an antique longboat, brought the ancient Hawaiians over from wherever the hell they started. No boats? Okay. How about financial instruments? We picked up these stocks at a fire sale price; they're kinda dogs, but a smart operator maybe could build on their history. Say, you know that big tract of land up north near Sawyer's Bar? The state and federal Bureau of Land Management had a falling out over how to use it, so we stepped in quick and now it's ours. Name the number of parcels you want.

None of the items they brokered were particularly important to the Kenyons; what mattered was the chases and negotiations. Not even the profits they gleaned seemed to interest them, although they'd made many millions and lived lavishly.

You would have thought you'd find the Kenyons seated at the top of San Francisco's social pyramid. After all, this is a town built upon often ill-gotten gold rush gains. Also, we're tolerant—some say too much so—of our eccentrics, scoundrels, and downright fools. However, we do, in the main, know how to carry on polite conversation and which utensils to use at the dinner table.

The Kenyons knew nothing of the niceties of life. They dressed loudly, ate hoggishly, and on one infamous evening had been caught by a wire services photographer throwing bouillabaisse at each other in a high-toned Roman bistro. Now, apparently, they were back.

I'd never met either brother, but Julia had, while we were investigating a cult-like group called the Night Searchers who carried out their rituals in a vacant lot belonging to the Kenyons. Her description of Chad as a man who could “gobble a whole steer and then ask for an ox,” and the tape recording she'd made to prove it, made the prospect of a meeting with him less than appealing.

“Are you sure you can't send Mr. Kenyon along to Julia?” I asked.

“Nope. She's out working the Renshaw angle, and besides, Kenyon seems pretty insistent.”

“All right, give me five and send him in,” I said. And then, thinking of the famed Kenyon appetite, added, “And for God's sake, follow up with a tray of noshes.”

Chad Kenyon's big body shook when he walked. His facial skin drooped in great jowls. But to give him credit, kindness showed in his soft brown eyes, and the lines around them testified to much laughter. He was short—a little less than my own five foot six—but in spite of his excess padding, he carried himself well in his expensively tailored blue silk suit. Mercifully his handshake was firm—unlike the gorilla grips I'd recently noticed a lot of men employing.

I seated him in my conversation area and made small talk while Kendra Williams, Ted's assistant—whom he had dubbed the Paragon of the Paper Clips—served coffee and noshes. Kenyon looked the serving plate over with interest, then helped himself to an assortment of mini pizzas.

To be polite, I took a couple myself, then asked, “What can we do for you, Mr. Kenyon?”

“Please, call me Chad.”

“And I'm Sharon.”

He fiddled around with a leather card case, produced one, and laid it on my desk. “I asked to talk with you personally because Little Sweetheart says you're the best in the business.”

“Who's Little Sweetheart?”

“Ms. Julia Rafael.”

“Nice of her to say so. I assume you have a problem.”

“A big one.” He grimaced. “I'm afraid things are going to get out of control if something's not done soon.”

“Tell me about it.”

What Chad Kenyon described was one of those nightmares that occur in many cities: He and his brother had recently bought a derelict, abandoned house on Webster Street. Since they'd moved with their usual speed and neglected to do their homework, they hadn't been aware that strange people were coming and going at all hours, displaying open hostility toward the neighbors. Teenagers and even younger children had been sneaking in, jeopardizing—so their parents claimed—life and limb. Household pets steered clear of the place, exercising animals' innate wisdom, which I wish we humans could tap into. The police came, the police went—the lack of a solution wasn't their fault. They were hamstrung by an overburdened department and city bureaucracy and an increasing crime rate.

It happens everywhere. Urban blight, they call it.

When he'd finished, I said, “I assume you came to us because you want the building cleared and secured.”

“Right.”

“And then what?”

“Well, I don't know. I've had one lowball offer on it—from a young girl named Michelle Curley—but I turned it down. She mentioned you, sort of as a character reference. Another reason I decided to talk with you personally. The kid's been pestering me. Maybe you can call her off.”

Michelle and her family had been my neighbors on Church Street, and she'd done triple duty as my house and pet sitter, my chauffeur when the aftereffects of locked-in syndrome had legally prohibited me from propelling any kind of vehicle, and once—unknown to her mother—my co-investigator. She was now twenty-three, beautiful but with an offhand style that said she didn't dwell on her appearance, and determined to launch the biggest venture of her young life.

“I'll try to get her to stop bothering you. But I can't guarantee anything; she's headstrong.”

“Yeah, she is. Well, anyway, if the house could be secured, maybe I could do some kind of rehab on it. It's a nice old place and I'm looking to set up a home. I'm tired of living in apartments and condos.”

“Then let me tell you what this firm can and can't do in your case. We have to act legally, follow all state and local ordinances. Any illegal activity such as intimidating neighbors, even trespassers, would bring the Department of Consumer Affairs down on us, and if a case were proven against us, we'd lose our agency's license—forever. Now, there are strictly legal methods we can employ, but I'm afraid they'll be expensive.”

“What kind of methods?”

“Extensive surveillance. Exterior photography, night and day. Infiltration by our operatives. Interior photography. Web cams. Utilizing our contacts within the SFPD, so they can make an early response to any trouble. Identification of the people entering and leaving the building, and thorough background checks on them. And that's not all—the list goes on and on. Are you sure you want to pursue this?”

“How expensive would it be?”

I calculated, then wrote down the figure on a note pad and passed it to him.

“That's a lot. Is there any cheaper stuff you can do?”

“We can look over the property, talk with the neighbors, do limited roll-by and walk-around surveillances. Neighbors are a particularly good source: someone always knows what's going on in any given place. We'll also keep in touch with our contacts at the SFPD and other city agencies. That kind of investigation would cost you less than half the more extensive job. And then, if we go forward, we won't add a surcharge.”

He folded the paper and tucked it into his breast pocket. “Let's start with this then.”

It was my kind of case. For all my negative feelings about the directions in which the city was going—extreme gentrification and the high housing costs that went with it; a transportation system that ran badly, if it ran at all; the NIMBYs and the homeless; the lack of important city services—it was still
my
city. If I could help reverse even one of those things, I'd give it a good shot.

I buzzed Ted and he entered with copies of the standard agency contract. Kenyon signed them and wrote out a personal check for the retainer it requested.

As he stood up to leave, he asked, “Sweetheart's not back, huh?”

“Not yet. I'll give her your regards.”

“Thanks.” Chad took the two remaining pizzettas from the tray and exited my office.

I decided to take a run by the Webster Street house on my way to San José for my appointment with Gil Stratton, Renshaw's former employer at Quick Stops. Before I left for San José I stopped by Mick's office. Earlier I'd asked him to take a break from Renshaw and scare up some information on the Webster Street house.

“About this new case,” he said. “I'm coming up with all kinds of interesting stuff on the house. I can pull it together by this evening and e-mail it to you, or better yet, bring it by your place if you're going to be home.”

Mick loves to be personally involved in my cases, and he wishes I'd allow him more time in the field, but—for now, at least—I needed him in the office directing our research. I couldn't deny him this chance to report his findings in his often dramatic style.

“Please come by. We'll be up late, as usual.”

Then I headed for Webster Street.

The house was large, the color of its original paint unrecognizable beneath layers of grime and soot. A chain-link fence topped with barbed wire surrounded the lot, but here and there it had been breached. Graffiti dotted the house's walls, and most of the windows were broken. The small front yard was crammed with gasoline drums, old car parts, a threadbare couch, and other detritus.

As I set the alarm on my Mercedes, I thought of my beloved BMW Z4, burned to a crisp in my house fire two years ago. I hadn't liked any of the new BMWs, so Hy had given me the Mercedes SLK 350 roadster. Red, because it was my favorite color for cars, with a removable hardtop and black ragtop. One of the older models—which are much prettier than what they're making now—and extremely well maintained by its previous owner.