A Wild and Lonely Place (2 page)

A month ago Joslyn had been tapped as one of the department’s two full-time representatives on the newly formed Diplo-bomber
Task Force. There she joined agents of the FBI, the ATF, and the Postal Service in the search for the individual who had bombed
two Washington, D.C., embassies, two cars belonging to foreign diplomats, two homes of delegates to the United Nations, and
two consular offices here in San Francisco. In the past five years the bomber had killed three people and badly injured three
others. Pressure for his capture from both our own government and foreign powers was enormous.

The pressure must have really been on today; Adah’s scowl didn’t soften when she saw me. She waved her hand at her desk and
said, “Do you believe all this shit?”

I eyed the stacks of message slips, each a different color. “Phone tips?”

“Damn eight-hundred hot line’s jammed. One of the callers told the operator he’d been on hold for fifty minutes.”

“Anything useful there?”

“Who knows?” She pointed to the largest stack—blue, weighted down by a stapler. “Those’re the real whackoid callers—the ones
who claim the bomber’s an extraterrestrial or Elvis or the ghost of their dead mother-in-law who hated foreigners. The pink
pile’s tips from folks who sound like they’re out to cause somebody trouble—the ones who accuse their boss or a family member
or the next-door neighbor. Still, they’ve got to be checked out. These white ones”— she poked a third pile—”are from what
you might call theorists. They’re cool, logical, persuasive; they’ve got it all figured out. Usually they’re wrong, but every
now and then you spot a glimmer of truth that can lead to a breakthrough. And this yellow bunch’re from people whose memories
may have been jogged by the TV special—folks who may have noticed something significant at some time and forgotten about it
till now.”

“And these green ones?”

“First priority. Suspicious callers. Our interviewers have been trained to pick up on certain things; sometimes it’s as subtle
as a change in vocal tone, other times the person knows one of the details we haven’t made public.”

“And how soon are you supposed to finish checking them?”

“By my calculations, about an hour ago.”

I was silent, overwhelmed by the size of her task.

Joslyn pushed back from the desk, stretched her long legs out in front of her, and sighed. “You know,” she said, “I never
used to envy you. The long hours you put in, the way the partners in that law firm ragged you, the shit you’d have to take
off sleazes—none of that seemed worth the salary you drew. I’d tell myself, ‘Hey, compared to McCone’s, my life’s not so bad.
I’ve got official status, the respect of the community, a good salary and all kinds of benefits.’ Woman on the way up, I was,
maybe make captain someday.”

I leaned on a corner of her desk. “Well, you’re still a woman on the way up. And I’m still doing all those things you don’t
envy me for.”

“No, you’re not. You’ve got your own agency now, you call the shots. And me…well, the shield has gotten kind of tarnished.”

I frowned questioningly.

“No, nothing like that. I’m still an honest cop. But the shine’s definitely off the metal. Official status? Doesn’t mean squat.
Respect of the community? Forget it. Salary and benefits? I can think of a hundred jobs where I’d do better. And I’m not a
woman on the way up anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I’m pushing forty and still an inspector; that wasn’t in my game plan. And after Bart Wallace moved to Vice, I never got
a new partner. Somebody’s on sick leave, they send in Joslyn to pinch-hit for a while. Somebody’s new on the squad, they’re
temporarily teamed with me. But then the regular partner comes off leave or the new guy learns the ropes and gets assigned
to somebody else, and I’m back to operating solo.”

“But what about your appointment to this task force? That was a coup.”

“Hah!” Her hand swept across the desk, stirring the message slips. “What I got here is paper-shuffling, and what I am is a
goddamn clerk for a bunch of federal agents who think they’re too good to share their ideas with me. No, the Department stuck
me on the task force because years ago they trotted me out as their poster girl, and now they don’t know what to do with me.
You see, in their hurry to revamp their image, they forgot to look closely at my background check; if they had, they’d’ve
thought twice about promoting a girl from Red Hill.” Red Hill was what Adah called Bernal Heights; according to her, it had
once been a hotbed of communists.

“You’re not saying that Barbara and Rupert—”

“I’m not saying my crazy parents have hurt my career, but they sure haven’t helped. You know them. She still goes to her Marxist
study group every Wednesday night, and you’ll find her on the front line of every lunatic-fringe protest. And he still turns
up at every open meeting at City Hall to tell them who and what he doesn’t like in local government—which is everybody and
everything. I love them and I wouldn’t change them, but they’re not exactly assets.”

I doubted the situation was as grim as she painted it, but it wasn’t good, either. “So that’s why you asked me for help on
this investigation,” I said. “You want to crack the case and show them all up.”

“I want to hand them the bomber, say ‘fuck you,’ turn around, and walk away. You help me do that and, like I promised, I’ll
recommend you for the reward.”

Again I was silent. For two weeks now Joslyn had been acting in direct violation of policy. She’d given me copies of reports
and files, briefed me on the progress of the investigation. Together we’d brainstormed till both our heads ached. I wanted
to crack the case, too—and not only because of the reward or for Adah’s sake—but now I wondered if I hadn’t been abetting
her in a risky and potentially ruinous course of action. Maybe I should back off.

She must have sensed what I was thinking. “McCone, dont’t listen to me,” she said quickly. “I’m having a bad day, that’s all.”

“You know that’s not all. We need to talk.”

“Talk? We’ve been talking.” She hitched her chair up to the desk and glared at me. “I’m out of time for you. Get the hell
out of here and let me work. I’ll call you when I’ve got something interesting.”

I nodded dubiously and left her along.

Maybe, I thought, it was only the stress of the assignment that was getting to Joslyn. After all, a message was being sent
to the task force from local and state government; from SFPD, ATF, FBI, and Postal Service headquarters; from Congress; from
the White House itself: the Diplo-bomber is making international relations very iffy; get your asses in gear and find him.

* * *

After circling the surrounding blocks for some fifteen minutes, I finally found a parking space near the looming cliff face
of Tel Hill and walked past decorator showrooms and antique shops and small cafés to RKI’s renovated brick warehouse. On the
sidewalk I paused, however, reluctant to go inside. Even being on the premises made me uneasy.

My feelings weren’t due to the type of business they conducted; counter-terrorism contingency planning and hostage-recovery
services were necessary for corporations Operating in today’s high-risk environment, and if RKI’s methods were somewhat unorthodox,
they usually worked. Nor were the feelings due to the fact that most of RKI’s principals and operatives had murky pasts; my
lover, Hy Ripinsky, owned a past that crisscrossed those of Gage Renshaw and Dan Kessell, and now that he’d told me about
it, I understood both the forces and the mistakes that had driven him. The potential for violence that I sensed in RKI’s people
didn’t concern me; I’d long ago been forced to recognize the same potential within myself. And as for ethical considerations—well,
I paid them a lot of lip service, but as recently as last fall I’d availed myself of the firm’s help on a difficult case.

No, what really bothered me was that I might be becoming too much like those people.

There was a time when I’d viewed everyone—both victim and perpetrator—through idealistic, compassionate eyes. No longer. There
was a time when I’d gone strictly by the book, but then I’d found that the book was something that a lot of people in my business
talked about but few had read. Toward the beginning of my career, remorse over having killed a man in order to save a friend’s
life had dogged me for years. But last spring I’d cold-bloodedly shot another man and called it justice. I wasn’t sure that
I liked the woman I was becoming, but she was formed of life experiences I couldn’t eradicate. You work with what you are,
I often told myself on those dark, lonely nights when my misdeeds caught up with me.

I told myself that now, crossed the sidewalk, and pushed through the building’s lobby entrance. The armed guard at the desk
looked up from his closed-circuit TV monitors, surprised. “Mr. Ripinsky’s not in the office this week, Ms. McCone.”

I set my bag and briefcase on the desk and went over to the security gate. “I’m here to see Mr. Renshaw.”

“Sorry, he didn’t tell me he was expecting you.” He made a cursory check of my things, then buzzed me in. Let me get your
badge.”

Since Hy had struck his deal with Renshaw and Kessell last winter, they’d kept my photo I.D. on file with those belonging
to frequent visitors to the San Francisco offices. Not that I used it all that much; Hy seldom used any of RKI’s facilities,
preferring to work out of his ranch in Mono County or the cottage we jointly owned on the Mendocino coast. He was, in fact,
at the cottage right now, and I planned to join him on the weekend.

The guard handed me the badge, and I attached it to my lapel. “Mr. Renshaw’s in the projection room,” he told me. “You know
the way?”

I nodded and went through an unmarked door and down a long white corridor.

Renshaw was waiting for me in the last row of padded chairs, his feet propped on the one in front of it like a teenager at
a double feature. I half expected him to be clutching a grease-stained bag of buttered popcorn. Wordlessly he indicated I
should sit beside him, then fiddled with the buttons on the console between us. The lights dimmed and the projection screen
shimmered.

I’d sat here before, in this exact place, the day he told me he intended to kill Hy.

“Do you mind if we go over the chronology of these bombings?” he asked.

“That wouldn’t hurt.”

A slide flashed onto the screen: a large, austere building, its windows blown out. Glass and rubble littered the foreground,
and a military guard stared down at it as if he wondered where it had come from.

Renshaw said, “Brazilian Embassy, Washington, D.C. March, nineteen ninety. The bomb was in a package delivered by mail, postmarked
D.C. No fatalities, but the clerk who opened it was disabled.”

A second slide replaced the first, showing a plain sheet of paper that bore a single sentence:
VENGEANCE IS MINE.
The letters were Italic—Palatino Italic, to be exact. Joslyn had told me they were a brand of rub-on lettering commonly sold
in art and office-supply stores from coast to coast.

“His message isn’t very original,” Renshaw commented, “but he makes his point. This was also postmarked D.C., arrived at the
embassy the day after the bombing. No fingerprints, nothing distinctive about the paper or the envelope.”

“As was the case with what they recovered of the packaging the bomb came in.”

The next slide showed a black Lincoln Continental standing in front of a restaurant called Fino. The car’s doors had been
blown off, and a body in a dark suit lay twisted on the backseat, legs extending toward the bloody pavement.

I said, “Also D.C. August of ninety. The car belonged to the Saudi Arabian ambassador. He and some of his attachés were inside
the restaurant. The package was on the backseat; apparently the driver noticed it and investigated. The same message, in the
same typeface, on the same stationery stock, was delivered to the embassy the following day. Again postmarked D.C.”

Renshaw clicked slowly through the next few slides. “He hit the office wing of the Pakistani Embassy in November of that year.
No fatalities, same message the next day. Now we move to New York City.”

Another slide: a torn-up living room. Large mirrors on its walls were shattered; their shards reflected a jumble of ruined
furnishings. A primitive wood carving stood in the foreground, decapitated.

I said, “Co-op apartment in the east eighties belonging to an official of Ghana’s United Nations delegation. The bomb was
inside a florist’s box delivered by messenger. The messenger was never identified, and all the florist’s personnel were checked
out and eliminated as suspects. No fatalities, but the maid who accepted delivery was badly injured.”

Renshaw said, “January of ninety-one, right?”

“Right. The usual message arrived at Ghana’s U.N. offices the following day, postmarked midtown Manhattan.”

Renshaw kept advancing the slides. “The bomber really had it in for the U.N. He blew up the head of the Yemeni delegation’s
car in June of ninety-one, severely crippling the son of a minor official. In February of ninety-two the Mexican ambassador’s
apartment was hit. A lot of destruction, but no fatalities or injuries there. In December of ninety-two the entire Panamanian
delegation was at a Christmas banquet at a midtown restaurant. A messenger with a package for them seemed overly eager to
leave; restaurant management got suspicious and called the bomb squad, but the man got away and was never I.D.’d. Of course,
the usual message arrived after each incident.”

“And then he took a couple of years off.”

“Until last December.”

The next slide showed the bombed-out facade of the storefront offices of the Libyan Trade Commission on Howard Street here
in the city.

“One fatality,” I said, “again, the clerk who opened the package. It was mailed from the main post office, as was the message
that followed.”

Another slide: an office with furnishings knocked helter-skelter. There was a big hole in the rear wall, and on the floor
chalk marks outlined where a body had fallen.