Wolf in the Shadows - Marcia Muller [31]
The Mourning house was of redwood and rustic stone, built so the lower story spilled down the slope. Several vehicles crowded the parking area at the top of the drive: a beat-up green Ford, two matching gray-and-maroon vans, which I assumed were RKI’s mobile units, and a BMW in an odd teal blue with a car phone antenna mounted on its trunk. I maneuvered the MG between the vans and got out. Stone steps led alongside the garage to a second gate; again I spoke into a talk box and was admitted. The house’s entrance was off a patio with a small swimming pool; as I passed the pool, I saw a dead mouse floating at the deep end; the container plants on the patio’s retaining wall were wilted and browning.
The door of the house opened, and an armed guard in a gray uniform stepped outside and scrutinized me. Gage Renshaw appeared seconds later. “It’s okay,” he said to the guard. To me he added, “You’re late.”
“Sorry.” I didn’t offer any excuse; he didn’t want to hear one.
Renshaw motioned me into an entry area whose hardwood floor was partly covered by a blue Chinese rug. Directly behind it, across a mahogany table that held a single jade bowl, lay a living room with tall windows that looked out into the branches of the oak trees on the downward slope. I caught a motion to my left and glanced over there; in an adjacent formal dining room sat two men dressed in the same type of gray suit as the guard in the lobby of RKI’s building had worn. The table was covered with telephone monitoring devices; the men were smoking and looking bored.
Renshaw said, “We’ve still got our communications technicians here, in case the kidnappers make contact again.”
“There’s been nothing since we last spoke?”
“No.”
“And the letter of credit still hasn’t been drawn on?”
He shook his head. “Come into the living room. Mrs. Mourning’ll be with us shortly.” He preceded me and flopped into a leather chair, propping his feet on its hassock and clawing at his tie. It was badly frayed around the knot, as if it took a similar beating with each wearing.
I sat down in a matching chair, feeling the buttery softness of the leather. “Nice house,” I commented.
Renshaw shrugged and glanced around; it was clear he hadn’t before given the house a thought.
“I’m going to San Diego after I leave here,” I told him. “Will you give me the name and number of your woman friend who served as your contact with Ripinsky?”
“Alicia Ferris. As in the wheel.” He closed his eyes briefly, dredged up the number, and repeated it to me. “You plan to contact our people in La Jolla?”
“No—for the same reason Ripinsky didn’t.”
He nodded. “You might need them in an emergency, though. Kessell’s back down there now, so go directly to him. You’ll need a code number to get through after hours; I’ll have one assigned and phone it in to you. Where’ll you be staying?”
“The Bali Kai.”
“Any lead you might pick up there’ll be damned cold by now. Besides, our people have already checked with the motel and taken a look at Ripinsky’s charges. Room, bar, restaurant, and the one local call to Alicia.”
“And you say he rented a car down there?”
“Yeah—Avis. Hasn’t been returned yet. We got the license number off the motel registration.”
“What is the number?”
He took a notebook from his inside suit coat pocket and read it to me. “Gold Honda Accord, this year’s model.”
I wrote down the number and description.
Renshaw asked, “You know San Diego?”
I’d been prepared for the question. “Not so well anymore. I grew up there, but my parents have divorced, and the rest of the family’s scattered, too.”
“You must have friends there.”
“Not really. I doubt if I’d recognize most of them if I ran into them on