Wolf in the Shadows - Marcia Muller [20]
“We’ll talk more later,” he said into the mouthpiece. Then he hung up and regarded me thoughtfully, as if he was memorizing every detail of my appearance.
I stood just inside the door, letting him have a good look. After a moment he nodded, his image of me apparently filed in some mental data bank. He said, “Sit down and tell me what it is you want.”
I came all the way into the office and took a chair in front of the desk. Gage Renshaw remained atop it, hunched, elbows propped on his bony knees.
“Hy Ripinsky had an appointment with someone in your La Jolla office last Wednesday,” I began.
Renshaw didn’t respond, just watched me attentively.
“He called there from Oakland Airport, was told there had been a change of plans, and came here instead.”
Still no response.
“At some point after that, he drove his rental car to a place off Highway One-oh-one in San Benito County, near Ravenswood Road. He had an accident there, dented the car and broke a headlight by running into a boulder. On Saturday night the car was dropped off at SFO by someone other than Ripinsky.”
Renshaw’s reaction to that was so minute I almost missed it—a slight tightening of the lines around his eyes. “Go on.”
“Ripinsky’s plane is still tied down at Oakland Airport. No one at his office has heard from him since he left Tufa Lake. What happened to him? And where is he now?”
“Why are you looking for him?”
I hadn’t decided how to play this part of it yet. To buy time, I said, “My reasons are private and have nothing to do with your firm.”
Renshaw got off the desk and walked around behind it. He straightened a pile of folders in its center, looked at his watch, pushed the lock of white hair off his forehead. Buying some time of his own. “Up to now,” he finally said, “you’ve been very direct, Ms. McCone.”
“As I told you, my reasons are private and unrelated to RKI.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” He leaned forward on the desk, palms flat against its surface, the white lock of hair flopping down again. “I do wonder what a private investigator employed by a local legal-services plan wants with Ripinsky.” To my surprised look he added, “Yes, I recognized your name and had you checked out. It’s a policy of ours. What I discovered muddies an already muddy situation.”
“What situation?”
He shook his head. “You really can’t expect me to level with you if you’re not willing to return the favor.”
And even if I did, he might not. I thought quickly, trying to decide how much to tell him.
Renshaw waited. When I didn’t speak, he straightened and began to pace, long arms clasped behind him. “Ms. McCone, I’ve already given you more time than I intended. What’s your interest in Ripinsky?”
Something in the way he said Hy’s name put me on my guard. I saw a tightening of his mouth, a telltale whiteness of the skin. This man was angry at Hy—very angry. I thought of how Bob Stern had described the people at RKI: “They’re tough and they’re dangerous.”
“All right,” I said, attempting to feed into his anger, “Ripinsky and I were involved in a business deal. I can’t go into the details. He cheated me, and I want to find him.”
Renshaw glanced sharply at me. Again I sensed he was taking a mental photograph, filing it for future recall. After a moment he crossed to the desk and resumed his former position. “I’m glad to hear we’re on the same side,” he said in a confiding tone. “But I’ll need to know more about this business deal.”
“I can’t tell you any more. There are other investors involved, and they value confidentiality.”
For a moment he was silent, pulling at the knot of his frayed green tie. Gage Renshaw didn’t believe my story of the business deal any more