Wolf in the Shadows - Marcia Muller [16]
It was full dark now. Vehicles, including a Highway Patrol car, sped past on 101, but none of their occupants seemed to notice me. A good meeting place, then, one where a parked car would attract minimal attention. Meeting place for what, though?
Finally I started the MG, flipped on its headlights, and drove north toward San Francisco. But at the first opportunity I pulled off into a gas station and placed a call to Ron Chan, my contact at Pacific Bell. He was home, pleased to hear from me, and willing to check out the numbers Hy had called, provided I’d have lunch with him next week. I promised I would, and Chan said that he knew a night supervisor at the phone company who owed him a favor. He’d get back to me later tonight or first thing in the morning. Next I tried Hy’s accountant, Barry Ashford, but again got no answer. Then I continued back to the city.
It was nearly eleven when I arrived at my brown-shingled earthquake cottage near the Glen Park district. I hadn’t left the porch light on this morning because I didn’t expect to return after dark, and on the steps I stumbled over something. An indignant yowl arose. “Sorry, Ralphie,” I said and opened the door for my tabby cat. He streaked inside, still scolding.
A sheet of paper had been slipped under the door—an estimate from a contractor for reshingling the cottage’s facade. Nearly two weeks ago it had been sprayed with some ugly graffiti—a consequence of my involvement in the case that the All Souls partners now labeled Jack Stuart’s personal crusade— and I was eager to have the work done. As I went down the hall to my informal sitting room I glanced over the figures. They looked reasonable; I’d give the contractor the go-ahead.
The light was blinking on my answering machine. Ignoring Ralph’s loud pleas for food—augmented now by those of his calico sister, Alice—I played the tape. Ron Chan: Hy had called a La Jolla number first, then one here in the city. Both belonged to Renshaw and Kessell International. Chan also gave the addresses. No additional calls had been billed to the credit card to date.
Renshaw and Kessell International. RKI. It sounded vaguely familiar.
I picked up the receiver and called the San Francisco number. A recorded voice said, “You have reached the offices of Renshaw and Kessell International. Our hours are from nine to five, Monday through Friday. If this is an emergency call, please enter your security code and press one. Stay on the line. A representative will be with you.”
Emergency? Security code? I listened to the taped message replay, then hung up. Who were these people? None of the references I had here in my home office would tell, unless I wanted to stay up all night reading the Yellow Pages. I’d have to wait until morning when I visited their offices on Green Street.
But damn, the name sounded familiar! Why?
Four
Tuesday, June 8
When I woke at ten after seven the next morning, my subconscious had dredged up what Renshaw and Kessell International was—and the knowledge made me damned uneasy. Confused, too. I couldn’t see why Hy would be mixed up with them, unless … But if that was true, it would mean I’d severely misjudged him. It would mean that I, who thought I instinctively understood him, had rejected what casual acquaintances had assumed all along.
It was too early to confirm anything. For a while I lay under my quilts, hemmed in by the cats. Then I threw off the quilts—and the cats—showered, dressed in jeans and a sweater, and took a brisk walk down Church Street to a corner store where I bought a copy of this morning’s Chronicle and a whole-wheat bagel.
Mr. Abdur, the store’s owner, smiled and told me the fog had put roses on my cheeks. He was young—well, about my age—and one of the new breed of neighborhood