The Night Searchers (A Sharon McCone Mystery) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Marcia Muller
International, the firm that evolved into RI after Kessell was murdered and Renshaw fled the country because of the collapse of one of his complicated scams.
“The cases are—?” Hy prompted me.
“Similar, anyway. I gather you’ve brought me here because we can’t talk at home. Is the house bugged?”
“Probably not. I just sent technicians out to go over the place to make sure. They’ll also clear our offices.”
“And you’re absolutely sure no one can eavesdrop on us here?”
“Yes. That device I disconnected”—he gestured at the small cylinder in my hand—“connects with an RI operative twenty-four seven. It also monitors the entire safe house. Nothing happens here that doesn’t communicate to RI’s office if it’s working.”
I set the listening device down on the sticky spot. “But aren’t there others, in other rooms?”
“No, this one works for the entire premises. I deliberately chose this room because it’s so awful nobody would think there was anything worth finding here.”
“It’s awful, all right.”
“McCone, I’m disappointed. I’d planned to spend our second honeymoon here.”
10:04 a.m.
Hy, he told me, actually was involved in a hostage negotiation. That was why he’d gone to the vacant lot. An RI client, Van Hoffman, had vanished two nights ago on the way from his office on the thirty-fifth floor of the Transamerica Pyramid to his car on the first level of the underground parking garage. Hoffman was director of the influential Global Policy Forum, an advisor to governments and powerful individuals. He was married, had two adult children, lived in the affluent Peninsula suburb of Atherton, and was rumored to be a workaholic with few outside interests. When he failed to return home as expected, his wife, Jane, had contacted RI, with whom Global had an executive protection agreement.
Such agreements, which covered key players in various types of firms, became popular in the late 1980s when a rash of hostage-taking plagued the burgeoning bio- and high-tech industries. For a set yearly fee, a company could take out insurance on executives critical to its operations, and RI—then called Renshaw & Kessell International—would provide surveillance and train personnel in evasion techniques and defensive driving. Should a hostage situation occur, Hy would step in as negotiator.
He said, “At least Jane Hoffman understood what to do if he didn’t return home at the assigned time. So many of our clients try to protect their families from insecurity and don’t tell them about our services. Or the potential risks to them. They’re usually the ones we lose.”
It wasn’t until six o’clock the night before that a message had appeared on Hy’s business e-mail account:
WE HAVE YOUR CLIENT VAN HOFFMAN AND ARE READY TO NEGOTIATE. DETAILS TO FOLLOW.
It had, Hy said, been a tense wait. The person made appointments, then broke them; teased and taunted:
SEVEN FIFTEEN. UNDER THE BAY BRIDGE NEAR WHAT USED TO BE PIER 24½. YOU KNOW WHERE THAT IS, DON’T YOU?
“They know about you and me,” I said.
HEY, DON’T RUSH OUT THE DOOR. I’VE CHANGED MY MIND. HOW ABOUT LANDS END? NO, TOO COLD THERE FOR MY BLOOD.
GUESS WE’LL RESCHEDULE FOR NINE FIFTEEN. HOW ABOUT THE VACANT LOT WHERE YOUR HOUSE BURNED DOWN?
“Yeah, he knows a lot about us,” Hy said.
All the time RI’s technicians had been trying to get a fix on the IP address the e-mails were coming from. No luck—it changed with each message.
More messages:
SPEAKING OF VACANT LOTS…NO, NOT YET.
MIDNIGHT? THE WITCHING HOUR? THAT WOULD BE APPROPRIATE.
THIS GUY, YOUR CLIENT, VAN HOFFMAN, HE HOLDS VALUABLE SECRETS. LET’S SEE IF HE’LL GIVE THEM UP.
A half hour later:
NOPE. HE’S A TOUGH ONE. WE’LL MAKE ONE MORE TRY.
Another half hour:
HE’S EITHER VERY STRONG OR VERY STUPID.
HOW COME THE MEDIA HAVEN’T GOTTEN HOLD OF THIS? IT’S A NATIONAL SECURITY RISK.
Fifteen minutes later:
THERE’S A VACANT LOT AT
“The cases are—?” Hy prompted me.
“Similar, anyway. I gather you’ve brought me here because we can’t talk at home. Is the house bugged?”
“Probably not. I just sent technicians out to go over the place to make sure. They’ll also clear our offices.”
“And you’re absolutely sure no one can eavesdrop on us here?”
“Yes. That device I disconnected”—he gestured at the small cylinder in my hand—“connects with an RI operative twenty-four seven. It also monitors the entire safe house. Nothing happens here that doesn’t communicate to RI’s office if it’s working.”
I set the listening device down on the sticky spot. “But aren’t there others, in other rooms?”
“No, this one works for the entire premises. I deliberately chose this room because it’s so awful nobody would think there was anything worth finding here.”
“It’s awful, all right.”
“McCone, I’m disappointed. I’d planned to spend our second honeymoon here.”
10:04 a.m.
Hy, he told me, actually was involved in a hostage negotiation. That was why he’d gone to the vacant lot. An RI client, Van Hoffman, had vanished two nights ago on the way from his office on the thirty-fifth floor of the Transamerica Pyramid to his car on the first level of the underground parking garage. Hoffman was director of the influential Global Policy Forum, an advisor to governments and powerful individuals. He was married, had two adult children, lived in the affluent Peninsula suburb of Atherton, and was rumored to be a workaholic with few outside interests. When he failed to return home as expected, his wife, Jane, had contacted RI, with whom Global had an executive protection agreement.
Such agreements, which covered key players in various types of firms, became popular in the late 1980s when a rash of hostage-taking plagued the burgeoning bio- and high-tech industries. For a set yearly fee, a company could take out insurance on executives critical to its operations, and RI—then called Renshaw & Kessell International—would provide surveillance and train personnel in evasion techniques and defensive driving. Should a hostage situation occur, Hy would step in as negotiator.
He said, “At least Jane Hoffman understood what to do if he didn’t return home at the assigned time. So many of our clients try to protect their families from insecurity and don’t tell them about our services. Or the potential risks to them. They’re usually the ones we lose.”
It wasn’t until six o’clock the night before that a message had appeared on Hy’s business e-mail account:
WE HAVE YOUR CLIENT VAN HOFFMAN AND ARE READY TO NEGOTIATE. DETAILS TO FOLLOW.
It had, Hy said, been a tense wait. The person made appointments, then broke them; teased and taunted:
SEVEN FIFTEEN. UNDER THE BAY BRIDGE NEAR WHAT USED TO BE PIER 24½. YOU KNOW WHERE THAT IS, DON’T YOU?
“They know about you and me,” I said.
HEY, DON’T RUSH OUT THE DOOR. I’VE CHANGED MY MIND. HOW ABOUT LANDS END? NO, TOO COLD THERE FOR MY BLOOD.
GUESS WE’LL RESCHEDULE FOR NINE FIFTEEN. HOW ABOUT THE VACANT LOT WHERE YOUR HOUSE BURNED DOWN?
“Yeah, he knows a lot about us,” Hy said.
All the time RI’s technicians had been trying to get a fix on the IP address the e-mails were coming from. No luck—it changed with each message.
More messages:
SPEAKING OF VACANT LOTS…NO, NOT YET.
MIDNIGHT? THE WITCHING HOUR? THAT WOULD BE APPROPRIATE.
THIS GUY, YOUR CLIENT, VAN HOFFMAN, HE HOLDS VALUABLE SECRETS. LET’S SEE IF HE’LL GIVE THEM UP.
A half hour later:
NOPE. HE’S A TOUGH ONE. WE’LL MAKE ONE MORE TRY.
Another half hour:
HE’S EITHER VERY STRONG OR VERY STUPID.
HOW COME THE MEDIA HAVEN’T GOTTEN HOLD OF THIS? IT’S A NATIONAL SECURITY RISK.
Fifteen minutes later:
THERE’S A VACANT LOT AT
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