A Wild and Lonely Place Read Online Free PDF Page B

indefinitely. Unless we find out why he’s after them and
     who he is, one of these days he’s going to get past us again and take out a lot of people—including some of our own.”
    I nodded again.
    “So there you have it. RKI can’t afford that. We
can
afford you. Are you with us?”
    In theory I was, but I still wanted to think it over before I signed a contract. “What about the feds’ reward?” I asked.
    He scowled.
    “Well?”
    “The reward will be split fifty-fifty.”
    “Seventy-five to me, twenty-five to you.”
    “Sixty-forty.”
    “Sixty to me?”
    “Goddamn it, yes!”
    “Okay, I’ll think on it. You’ll have my answer by noon tomorrow.”
    “Think on it?”
    “Until noon, Gage.”
    “Sharon, you are the most stubborn, aggravating—”
    “Save it. I’ve heard it all before.”
    He glanced at me with interest. “From Ripinsky, too?”
    “Never.”
    “Why not?”
    Why not? Well, it had to do with the nature of the relationship. I could have tried to explain that to Renshaw, but I didn’t
     bother. It simply wasn’t within the range of his comprehension.

Three
    I’d planned to deliver a final report to an architect who had his offices in one of the renovated piers off the Embarcadero
     at four o’clock, but by the time Renshaw dropped me at my car it was closer to four-thirty. I used my mobile phone to call
     the client, and he told me to come over anyway, so I left the MG where it was and walked there. After we discussed the report,
     I collected a check from him and strolled back along the shoreline boulevard. At the municipal pier next to the Waterfront
     restaurant I turned and took a detour.
    It had been one of those brilliantly clear days that almost make San Franciscans believe a dreary fog-socked summer isn’t
     going to happen after all. At five o’clock the streets were clogged with cars and buses, and the sidewalks teemed with pedestrians
     taking their time on their way home. After-work joggers pounded past me on the pier, and less active types sat on the benches
     facing an iron railing that was crowned with old-fashioned streetlamps. The chimes in the tower of the nearby Ferry Building
     played “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning,” and then a melody whose words I remembered as having something to do with the evening
     breeze. I smiled at this typically San Francisco version of taps.
    When I reached the end of the pier, I leaned on the rail, watched a ferry ply its way toward Marin County, and listened to
     the swash of its wake against the pilings. I thought about Gage Renshaw’s proposition, about the Azadis, about Adah Joslyn.
    I wasn’t sure whether in good conscience I could keep from Joslyn what I knew about the messages the consulate had received.
     Whenever possible I tried to cooperate with law-enforcement agencies and besides, Adah was a friend. By withholding information
     I could hamper the one official body that was capable of putting a stop to the bombings. On the other hand, if I turned down
     Renshaw’s offer I’d relinquish following up on one of the most promising leads in the case so far. And even if I went to Adah
     with the information, I was certain Malika Hamid would deny my story and refuse to cooperate with the task force.
    I looked at the situation pro and con. Tried several approaches, discarded most of them, tried some more. I thought about
     my fear of becoming too much like Renshaw and his cohorts. Realized that if I accepted the proposed contract I would have
     taken one more step toward the line that separated us. But even as I fought the notion, a compelling image kept intruding.
    An image of big shiny dark eyes staring at me over the lip of an enormous marble urn. Big shiny dark eyes that—had it not
     been for the quick actions of a brave young woman—might now be staring blank and dull from a steel drawer in the morgue.
    Habiba Hamid tipped the scales in favor of Renshaw’s offer. I turned and retraced my route along the pier.
    * *