Sharon McCone is hired by her husband's security firm to track down "the ever-running man," a shadowy figure who has been leaving explosive devices at their various offices. She doesn't have to search for long. When McCone narrowly escapes an explosion at the security firm's San Francisco offices, she catches a glimpse of his retreating figure. The ever-running man is dangerously closeand anyone connected to the firm seems to be within his deadly range. To complicate matters, McCone is forced to question her intensely private husband, Hy, about his involvement in some of the firm's dark secrets. The history of corruption may jeopardize their marriage, but uncovering the secrets of the firm may be the only way she can save her husband's life, and her own.
About the Author
Marcia Muller has written many novels and short stories. She has won six Anthony Awards, a Shamus Award, and is also the recipient of the Private Eye Writers of America's Lifetime Achievement Award as well as the Mystery Writers of America Grand Master Award (their highest accolade). She lives in northern California with her husband, mystery writer Bill Pronzini.
Read an Excerpt
The Ever-Running Man
By Marcia Muller
Grand Central PublishingCopyright © 2007 Pronzini-Muller Family Trust
All right reserved.
"Here's what we have on the ever-running man," Hy said.
He dropped the fat file on my desk and sat in one of the clients' chairs, stretching out his long legs and crossing them at the ankle.
I poked the file with my fingertip. It was at least three inches thick, with multicolored pages. "This is the job you mentioned last night at dinner?"
"And why's he called 'the ever-running man'?"
"Long story. Maybe you should read the file, and then we'll talk."
I shook my head. "I'd prefer an overview from you first."
Momentarily he looked disconcerted, running his fingers through his thick, dark blond curls. A handsome man, my husband, with his hawk nose and luxuriant mustache and intelligent brown eyes. Normally self-assured, too. But he seldom dealt with me on a professional basis; I'd contracted a few times with Renshaw & Kessell International, the security firm in which he was a partner, but I'd reported to either Gage Renshaw or Dan Kessell. Sitting in my clients' chair and having me set the terms was something Hy wasn't altogether prepared for.
To put him at ease, I motioned to the file and said, "Facts, reports, other people's insights-they're static. Why don't you fill me in, make the situation come alive."
He nodded. He was primarily a hostage negotiator, not an investigator, but he understood the process. "Okay. You asked ...?"
"Why you call him the ever-running man."
He steepled his fingers under his chin. "Because every time anyone's seen him he's been running away, and because we've been chasing him for two years. It seems he's capable of running forever."
"And why are you chasing him?"
"He has a vendetta against RKI. As you know, we've got offices in most of the world's major cities. Some are large-New York, Tokyo, Paris, Chicago. Some're medium-sized-Atlanta, Toronto, Sydney, Munich. And others're staffed by one or two people who refer clients to the nearest large office and provide support for our operatives when they're working in the area. There's a complete list of them, along with contact information, in the file."
"And the ever-running man ...?"
Hy stood and began to pace, hands clasped behind his back. "It started two years ago last month. January seventeenth. The auto industry and allied businesses were cutting back on corporate security, and we'd downsized our Detroit area office in Farmington Hills. We had only three people working there. On the seventeenth, the office manager was putting in overtime. There was an explosion, and she was killed."
"The cause of the explosion?"
"Something to do with a leaking gas line-at least that's what the police said. We weren't satisfied with their investigation, so we sent an operative back there to ask around. A woman who was working in an office across the street noticed a man running away from the building a few minutes before it blew, but it was dark and she couldn't see him very well."
"You took that information to the police, of course."
"And they said yeah, sure, thanks a lot. And back-burnered the case."
As Hy continued speaking, he unclasped his hands and began making the wide, swooping gestures that are characteristic of those who fly airplanes. I had never had that mannerism before I became a pilot, but now I caught myself employing it with increasing frequency. It gave me the illusion I could soar even when earthbound.
"Okay," he said. "We put it down as a one-time occurrence. But a month later there was another explosion in a small office in Houston. In the middle of the night, so nobody was killed, thank God, although a witness who was returning home late saw a male-sized figure running in the vicinity. The HPD said the explosion was deliberately rigged, and the FBI was called in, but they never came up with so much as a suspect."
"And I take it no terrorist organization claimed credit for it." In this post-September eleventh world, that was the logical assumption.
"No. The bomb wasn't much of one-simple black powder with a primitive timing device. Guess he was still learning how to build them."
"Obviously that wasn't the end of it."
I was surprised I hadn't an inkling of what seemed to be a major problem, but I knew the reason Hy hadn't told me about the explosions before this: RKI's inflexible need-to-know rule. Even significant others or spouses didn't need to know about attacks on the firm's infrastructure. But why hadn't I read about the explosions in the papers or seen something on the news?
Well, of course. The media hadn't linked them, and individually they weren't much of a story. Explosions in distant places-unless they're massive or terrorist-related-rarely make the local newspapers.
Hy added, "The police reports're all in the file." He fell silent, staring out the window at the rain falling on San Francisco Bay.
I waited, letting him tell it in his own way and time.
"The next office he hit was Kansas City-again, no one on the premises, and again, someone seen running away. The KCPD techs lifted fingerprints, but they weren't in any of the databases. The FBI began taking more of a serious interest. Our people worked hard at minimizing information passed on to the media. Not a good thing for our clients to realize that their security firm's offices aren't immune to attack."
"And, again, the case was back-burnered."
"After a while, yes." Hy sat back down. "That's when we went on the defensive: closed the smaller offices that weren't worth policing, and put twenty-four-hour guards on those that were. For a while we thought he'd stopped, but the next year he went farther afield, to Mexico City. Guess he didn't want to risk another bombing on US soil so soon after Kansas City. The Mexico City PD's investigation wasn't much-they really didn't care about an attack on an American security firm. But the fingerprints they found matched those from Kansas City.
"After that the guy went underground for a few months, until the guard at our Miami office spotted someone sneaking out of the building and got the bomb squad there in time. No prints, no leads, and again we managed to control media coverage. Finally, last August, he hit our training camp. Blew up a bunch of the clunker cars we use for the new ops to practice evasionary driving."
I thought back to the previous summer. I'd been working a case in the Paso Robles area, and Hy had been spending an unusual amount of time at the training camp in the southern California desert near El Centro.
"You call in the police?"
"Hell, no. We don't even make the camp's existence public. The Imperial County Sheriff's Department knows it's there, but most of the locals think it's some secret government installation. Besides, as explosions go, it wasn't much of one."
"And since then?"
"Nothing. But I don't believe for one minute that he's quit. I feel like I'm sitting on a pile of dynamite, and so do Gage and Dan. This guy's targeted us for some reason, and ..." Hy spread his hands. "So will you take on this job for us? Find the bastard?"
I asked the obvious: "Why, when this has been going on for two years, are you only asking me now?"
"Dan was determined we handle it ourselves; you know how he feels about outsiders. He was opposed to us hiring you the few times we did. And Gage claimed it was too big a case for you, until I pointed out some examples of big cases you've solved. Frankly, I think he's still pissed off at you for the way you outsmarted him down south years ago."
I smiled. Before Hy joined the firm he'd taken on a job for them to negotiate the return of a kidnapped executive, but had disappeared along with the ransom money. Renshaw had hired me to find him-buying into my claim I held a grudge against Hy-so he could recover the money and then kill him. Instead I'd rescued both Hy and the executive from the kidnappers. Gage hated to be conned-especially by a woman.
I asked, "So how'd you convince them I was the one for the job?"
"As I said, I used examples. And reminded them that you're an investigator, while none of us at RKI is; what we do is prevent crimes, and failing that, negotiate. We know now that we can't handle this ourselves, and as far as the cops and FBI are concerned the cases're cold. Besides, you're an outsider-fresh perspective."
"Okay," I said. "Do you have any idea why this guy has targeted RKI?"
"No, but these explosions have been rigged by someone who's very familiar with our operations. Maybe a disgruntled ex-employee who's getting information from an insider."
"Or he's an insider himself. In any case, I'd need a good cover story in order to visit your offices and training camp and talk with personnel. Otherwise, my connection to you would make it pretty clear what I'm doing there."
"Gage and Dan and I have talked about that. Your cover would be that you're my new wife and want to learn the business."
"A wife who just happens to own a detective agency."
"Look, McCone, we've always kept our professional and our private lives separate. I doubt anyone would make the connection. Besides, this agency is owned by Sharon McCone, not Sharon Ripinsky-which is what we'd call you. The staff at our office here in the city know you, of course, but you've seldom visited headquarters or any of the other locations."
"Still, somebody might recognize me. I've managed to keep my face off the TV and out of the papers for a while, but ..."
"So we disguise you. Dye your hair blonde-"
"No, you don't!" My fingertips went protectively to where my black hair brushed my shoulders.
He shrugged. "Cross that bridge when we come to it."
"Not that particular bridge. We're never crossing it."
"Okay, okay." He held his hands up placatingly. "So you'll take it on?"
I considered. It struck me that we might be jeopardizing our marriage; neither Hy nor I responded well to authority, and in the investigator-client relationship both sides attempt to wield a fair amount of it. "Who would I report to?"
He smiled. "Knew you'd ask. Not me; I'd never subject you to that. You can take your pick-Gage or Dan."
"Gage, then." Better the one I'd had ample practice at manipulating.
"So it's a deal?"
"Deal. I'll have Ted draw up the contract. But I've got to warn you: since the job will take me away from day-to-day operations here and probably involve a fair amount of travel, I'm going to have to ask for more than the usual retainer."
"Retainer?" Hy widened his eyes, all innocence. "How, when your husband is in need, can you charge-"
"Retainer. Ten thousand will do for now."
"Surely you didn't expect me to give a family discount?"
"I didn't, but I had to disabuse Gage and Dan of the idea."
"Well, I'm glad we're all on the same page now."
We both stood, and I went over and put my arms around him. He was wearing his old leather flight jacket, and I pressed my nose into it, breathing in its familiar aroma.
"So you're off to San Diego?" I asked. RKI's world headquarters were located in an office park in nearby La Jolla.
"Yeah. I should be back here by Thursday, latest."
"You taking Two-Seven-Tango?" Our beautiful red-and-blue Cessna 172B.
"In this weather?" He gestured at the rain pelting down outside the big arching window of my office at the end of Pier 241/2. The bay, and a lone tugboat churning by, looked dismal.
"It's a high ceiling," he added, "so I could fly, but I'm not a glutton for that kind of punishment. Southwest's five o'clock flight, a beer, and some of those stale pretzels'll suit me fine. Besides, you might need the plane when you start working on this."
"Good. I'd rather entrust you to the airlines, pretzels and all."
We kissed, and then he moved toward the door that opened onto the pier's catwalk. "Read that file tonight, will you?" he said.
"What else do I have to do?" My tone was somewhat edgy, and I tried to balance it with a smile.
"You could dream of how you're gonna spend RKI's money."
"Yeah. Dream of writing checks to contractors for the house renovation. I'd better read the file."
I let myself into the apartment and shut the door, set on the glass coffee table my briefcase and the pizza I'd bought after leaving the pier. The one-bedroom unit on the top floor of RKI's converted warehouse on Green Street at the base of Tel Hill was the firm's former hospitality suite, reserved for clients who had reason to fear for their safety. A few years ago a drive-by shooter had attempted to take out one of those clients, spraying the warehouse's brick façade with bullets and nearly hitting an innocent bystander. After that, Hy-who primarily worked out of San Francisco-had decided the company should shelter at-risk clients in a less conspicuous location: they'd bought a small apartment building in a nondescript neighborhood out in the Avenues as a safe house, and after that the Green Street apartment went unused. Except for now, when Hy and I occupied it while our house on Church Street was under renovation.
I turned on a table lamp, pulled the curtains shut against the February darkness. The light revealed a sterile living room: tan leather couch and chairs, white carpet and walls, motel art. The rest of the apartment was equally bland, and there was little to reflect Hy's or my personalities or lifestyle. Most of the furniture and breakable things from the Church Street house were in storage while contractors worked to make the small earthquake cottage more habitable for two people.
We both hated the apartment, and spent whatever time we could at Hy's ranch in the high desert country near the Nevada line or at Touchstone, our oceanside retreat in Mendocino County. But those places were too far away to commute from, either by plane or by car, on a daily basis. We'd been here since the first week of January, when renovations on the house began, and already we were chafing at our confinement-a confinement made more difficult by the building's oppressive security. If I spent too much time there, I felt as if I were under house arrest.
And I missed my cats.
Ralph and Alice were used to going outdoors, so we'd decided that cooping them up in a small apartment would result in chaos. In addition, Ralph had diabetes and required twice-daily insulin shots, which were administered by Michelle Curley, the teenager who lived next door, because-okay, I admit it-I'm afraid of needles. Finally we'd left the cats with said teenager, in familiar territory where they would be well cared for and free to come and go as they pleased. 'Chelle reported they were doing well, aside from a definite hostility toward the workmen at the house, and they certainly seemed fine every time I stopped over to visit them and consult with the contractor. Last Friday, I'd found them sitting on the fence between the adjoining yards; when I patted them, they'd given me brief, friendly glances before turning evil eyes upon our workers.
I opened the pizza box, contemplated its contents, and went to the small kitchen for a glass of wine. Came back, contemplated again, and decided to wait a while before I ate. My briefcase was fat with the file Hy had presented me with, but I felt no desire to take it out and read it. Only a restlessness that made me pace the floor as Hy had done in my office.
I needed to get away from these white walls and the motel-style watercolors of mountain lakes and meadows. Although I was usually content when alone, tonight I needed company. I went to the phone and dialed my friend and sometime operative Rae Kelleher. Only an answering machine at the Sea Cliff home she shared with her husband, my former brother-in-law, country music star Ricky Savage. Only machines at Hank Zahn's and Anne-Marie Altman's-my married attorney friends who, because he's a household slob and she's a household perfectionist, live in separate flats in the same building. Only a machine at the apartment that my office manager, Ted Smalley, shared with his life partner, Neal Osborn. Only a machine at ...
Where was everybody?
I leaned against the wall by the living room window, which looked out onto the rear alley, and pulled back the curtains. The rain had stopped. A lone light shone in the building across the way, shielded by blinds. A cat slunk through the shadows. A couple of buildings away, a garbage can lid thumped, and moments later a man jogged along in a peculiar, uneven gait-probably one of the city's many scavengers who Dumpster-dived for the edible or useful.
I could go to a movie. No, too restless. Have dinner at one of the many restaurants in the neighborhood? Why, when the pizza-my favorite, Zia's Lotsa Pepperoni-didn't appeal? A drink at the brewpub around the corner that Hy and I occasionally visited? A walk? A drive?
No, no, and no.
Then I thought of my half sister, Robin Blackhawk. Robbie was in law school at UC-Berkeley, and for weeks she'd been trying to get me over there to see her redecorated apartment. I knew she studied hard on weeknights, but maybe she'd be willing to take a break and have dinner with me. Then I could come back and tackle the file.
Excerpted from The Ever-Running Man by Marcia Muller Copyright © 2007 by Pronzini-Muller Family Trust. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Most Helpful Customer Reviews
Sharon and Hy, now married, must work through Hy' past as Sharon investigates murder and bombing at Hy's firm
This is the 25th in the Sharon McCone mystery series, and I¿ve read all of the previous volumes. Muller is skillful at blending the mystery and danger with McCone¿s domestic travails, and this book is no exception. I raced through it, like all of the others. It¿s not the knottiest of puzzles, in retrospect, but it will do, and Muller respects her readers by not crossing the line into the implausible or out of character. That being said, there is an inherent problem that authors of long-running ¿domestic detective¿ series run into. The supporting cast keeps mounting with every installment, and the temptation to bring every one of them into the next book. While it¿s inevitable that you cover some backstory in each book, Muller spends most of the first forty pages alluding to the cast members. I didn¿t count, but there are thirty or forty recurring characters ¿ family, friends, employees at McCone¿s agency, her husband¿s partners ¿ that are mentioned, some of them in such a peripheral way that one wonders to what end. This must be confusing to readers new to the series, and I¿d definitely recommend that they start at the beginning for full enjoyment.
It was a little slow in the beginning with a lot of background material but Sharon McCone's been evolving through the years and I've been reading her series since the 80's. This book centered around her husband Hy, his life before he met Sharon.
This is the latest in Marcia Muller's Sharon McCone series, and is an excellent addition to the series. McCone is hired by her husband's firm to investigate a series of bombings of the firm's offices. She learns things about the firm she dislikes, and isn't sure to what extent her husband Hy Ripinshiy is involved in. The case jeopardizes their relationship.
I was hooked by the 1st chapter. I only intended to read a couple of chapters before retiring for the night. I got so caught up in the plot and characters that I didn't retire until morning when I read the last word. I recommend this book to all mystery lovers.
Haven't read this series before but will backtrack to pick the others up. Entertaining book. Easy to get into characters and plot.
A good read.
This was the first book I have read by Marcia Muller in the Sharon McCone serires. I was impressed with the different characters she brought into the mystery and how she developed these characters and cast and uncast suspicion on them. I will definiteley look for additional books in the series to read.
The plot was well developed and exciting. The investigation never became bogged down. The relationships of the characters are well developed. This book was a prime example. I feel as though I know the characters. Enjoyed this thriller.
Marcia Muller has been in my library since she began her writing career and I look forward to Sharon McCones' adventures. I like the continuing story line of her romance and marriage to Hy. So often the story stops at the wedding when really the story is just beginning. I would like to see a little more depth and growth in Sharon. I would think her life experiences would have lead her to a more secure place and reduce her "I'm the only one who can do this" mentality. She has good staff and an excellant partner no reason to dwell in a solitary and somewhat depressing zone. Let's see a little teamwork and perhaps a little humorous interaction with her fellow characters, life is not all that dark and dreary. Let's lighten up a bit.
Yet another disappointing entry in the once pretty good Sharon McCone series. A pedestrian plot with routine investigative procedures will leave you yawning. The denouement chapter is so rushed and lacking in excitement that it leads you to believe that author Muller had a deadline to meet to get her first royalty check. As usual, the narrative is pockmarked with boring and pointless soap opera sub-plots about the personal lives of our heroine and the people around her.
Newly married Sharon McCone is hired by her husband's security firm to find out who's trying to literally blow RKI off the map, one location at a time. The bomber is only seen running away, thus the tag. People die and buildings burn, one partner is killed, and another disappears. Sharon's marriage is on the brink of collapse. Marcia Muller takes us on a sprint through a maze that is the past of the three RKI partners Sharon's husband being one of them. All are implicated in questionable Middle East activity. Assumed identities and intertwining plots come together in an exciting and entertaining story. Review by Wanda C. Keesey
Renshaw & Kessell International corporate security firm hires Sharon McCone to uncover who is responsible for the recent bombings of their facilities that has killed several employees and obviously has damaged their reputation. McCone accepts the case although she has reservations because her husband Hy Ripinsky works there. The partners Gage Renshaw and Dan Kessell explain to McCone that they need an outsider with a fresh perspective who solves crimes rather than prevents or negotiates as they do. They also mention the ¿ever-running man¿ is behind the bombings. As she leaves, the SF office is hit with security guard Jimmy Banks dead and McCone fortunate but now angry. --- She realizes the ever-running man is nearby, but wonders how he knows the layouts of RKI except if he is or was an insider. She begins questioning management including an irate Hy about some of the historical questionable cases that he prefers left buried. As the married couple argues below the belt including comparisons to his first wife ¿Saint Julie¿. the ever running man knows that McCone is investigating and decides she must die for not minding her business even if that is her business and Hy also must be killed for his role in the firm. --- The ever running McCone mystery series remains as fresh and exciting although this is the twenty fifth entry. The story line plays out on two interrelated levels the investigation and its impact on the relationship between Hy and Sharon that has exploded into acrimony. Fans will learn more about Hy¿s life that he does not want to divulge even to his spouse. The ever running man is a great villain as he plays cat and mouse with McCone whose professional and personal lives have mixed together with neither looking quite upbeat. Marcia Muller is at her best with this brisk McCone mystery. --- Harriet Klausner