Virginia Trolley was at the door, wearing her signature black boots, black slacks, black turtleneck, and a red blazer. “I’m glad you’re home, Ramsey. All hell’s broken loose.”
He invited her into his study. There was a fire in the fireplace and the new heavy pale gold draperies were drawn, making the room darker, more intimate.
“I love your house. The new stuff looks great. Did they bankrupt you refurbishing it?”
“The insurance will cover most of it.”
“Good. Now that everything’s brand-new, do you think we could get married, then we could get divorced and I’d get the house?”
“No way you’d get the house unless you bribed a judge,” Ramsey said, and poured her a cup of coffee from the Thermos on a side table.
She sighed. “My husband might not understand, either. Would you consider adopting me?”
“You’re older than I am.”
“Ah, so have you heard of age discrimination?”
“Not me. Thanks for coming by, Ginny. What’s going on downtown?”
“You know everyone still calls you Judge Dredd. It really fits now, what with all your flirting with the underworld. The media has been going nuts about all of it. I’m surprised they haven’t found out you’re home. Be thankful for small favors. It won’t last.”
He brought her up-to-date, finishing with, “Molly, Emma, and I are all going to Ireland day after tomorrow. We were going to leave first thing tomorrow, but Molly was throwing up her toenails all afternoon. She seems better now, but it doesn’t seem too bright to fly right now. I think it was the linguine she ate on the plane. I’m praying it’s not gastritis or an ulcer, though an ulcer wouldn’t surprise me what with all she’s been through.”
Virginia Trolley rose from her chair, walked to the wide French doors, and pulled back the drapes. The clouds were hanging black and low. There was no sign of a moon or any stars. She sighed deeply. “We’ve all been talking about what’s happened. This Shaker guy is bad stuff, Ramsey. If he is behind all of it, the chances of getting enough for an indictment are about the same as the Raiders winning another Super Bowl anytime soon. The odds are astronomical.” She grinned. “Actually, it’s looking like the Forty-niners aren’t going to come up smelling like roses either this fall. Who knows?”
Ramsey sat down in the big leather chair behind his desk. He leaned back, cradling his head on his arms. “I’m hoping it is Shaker because it means the three of us are probably out of danger. Anyway, it’s what the Feds think, it’s what the Denver cops think. They’re all still looking for the creep who took Emma.
“I’m praying we’re out of here before the media discover we’re back. I think all of us being out of the country for a while would be a healthy thing. Have you got anything new?”
Virginia turned from the French doors, letting the drapes drop back into place. “You’re probably right. No leads as to who trashed your house. The neighbors saw nothing. There weren’t any prints.” She paused, looking around the man’s study—dark wainscotting, rich leather furniture, and highly polished oak floor. “The cleaning service took real pride in fixing Judge Ramsey Hunt’s house all right and tight. The Chronicle even wanted a photo of this room after your people refurbished it. It do sparkle, don’t it?”
“Yeah, it do.”
“Any problems?”
“No, everything is fine, at least for the moment. But I’m thinking it might be smart to have some protection.”
“Agreed. I’ll schedule a patrol to come by every half hour or so. Oh yes, I need to show you this, though we don’t think it’s much of anything. Anonymous, of course. It was shoved under your office door.” She pulled it out of her purse and handed it to him.
It was short and to the point.
YOU ARE A MURDERER. YOU WILL DIE.
It was printed carefully with a thick-tip black pen. Ramsey handed it back to her, “No verbosity—it can’t be a lawyer. Any reason to think it’s more than the usual crank stuff?”
“Not much different from what you got right after you destroyed the scum in your courtroom. You haven’t gotten anything else recently, have you?”
“No, not that anyone has told me about.”
“All right, it’s probably nothing. But be careful, Judge Dredd. One of the undercover cops was telling his buddies he’d pulled a Hunt maneuver. In other words, he kicked some butt. He said he’d just wished he’d been wearing a black robe, that would have made him the ultimate cool. Sorry, Ramsey, you’re in the cop lexicon now.” Virginia Trolley looked up to see a little girl standing in the doorway, holding a large portable piano against her chest. The thing came down to her knees. She was clutching it really tightly. She had beautiful thick mahogany-colored hair that was straggling out of a fat French braid.
“Hi,” Ginny said easily. “Are you Emma Santera?”
“Yes, ma’am. Ramsey, Mama’s throwing up again. She told me not to tell you, but I’m worried. Would you make it stop again?”
“Yes, Emma, I’ll take care of it right now.” He turned to Ginny. “I’m going to call Jim Haversham. He owes me. I’ll never forget Savich telling me that it’s always a good thing to have a physician on your debt list.”
“He’s your FBI friend?”
“Yeah. Listen, Ginny, I’ll keep in touch. If anything comes up, you can fax me in Ireland. We’ll be staying at Dromoland Castle just north of Shannon Airport for a couple of days. I don’t remember the county name. I’ll let you know after that.”
“Okay. You keep yourself safe, Ramsey. Good-bye, Emma. Take care of your mama and Ramsey, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Emma slipped into the room and stood by Ramsey while Ginny went out. As soon as she’d left the study, Ramsey picked up the phone.
When he hung up, he swung Emma and her piano up in his arms. “Let’s go tell your mom that she’s lucky. No going to any hospital. Nope, she’s going to have a real live doctor make a house call to see her.”
DR. James Haversham was forty-two, divorced twice, a man who sailed every free minute. He straightened and rubbed his jaw, a habit of long standing. He said finally, still looking down at Molly, still rubbing his jaw, “I need to do some tests.”
“No. Forget it. If I ever go to the hospital, I’ll be dead and I won’t know about it. No tests.”
He sighed. “All right, then. My best guess is that you ate something spoiled. Ramsey told me you had linguine with clams on the plane. From what he told me, nearly all of it is out of your system. But you’re still having bowel spasms and that’s why you started vomiting again. I’m going to give you a shot and some pills. They will help calm your stomach, make you drowsy, and take away the nausea. It’ll take time for your bowels to straighten out. You’re getting dehydrated. I want you to drink plenty of fluids tonight and tomorrow. Okay, the shot’s for your butt. Turn over, please.”
“Ramsey, please take Emma outside.”
But Emma wasn’t about to budge. “No, Mama, you need me. I’ll hold your hand.”
“You need me, too. I’ll hold your other hand. It’s your hour of need, Molly.”
Emma looked up at him. “Was that a joke, Ramsey?”
“All right,” Dr. Haversham said, “both of you turn around so my patient isn’t embarrassed.”
They turned to face the television that was showing a rerun of M*A*S*H, without sound.
They heard a yelp, then Dr. Haversham’s voice. “Now, two of these pills, Mrs. Santera. You’re going to stay in bed, sleep and eat through tomorrow. Drink enough water so that you’re in the bathroom every fifteen minutes. Any more vomiting, though, and you’re coming to the ER. I mean it. Unless you feel better soon, it means there’s something going on here other than food poisoning.” She was shaking her head even as he leaned down and said, “You have a beautiful little girl who needs you. Pick something else to be stubborn about.”
She sighed. “You’re right, of course. Thank you for coming.”
“You’re welcome.” He
turned to leave when Molly called out, “What did Ramsey do for you? He said you owed him and that’s why you came to the house.”
“He saved my life.”
“What did he do?”
“When my first ex-wife got drunk and was going to beat up my other ex-wife, but not ex then, Ramsey stepped in. He distracted Melanie and had her dancing the rest of the night.”
Molly laughed. “That’s quite a debt you’ve paid off.”
Dr. Haversham wasn’t about to tell her that he’d made that up. She was a lovely woman with an easy smile on her face. And he’d put the smile there, brought the laugh. It was probably as effective as his pills and shot. “It sure was. Take care, Mrs. Santera.”
She was nearly asleep. He smiled and shook Ramsey’s hand.
“I heard what you said,” Ramsey said. “I didn’t know you could think that fast on your feet. We’re even now.”
“Oh, no. I still owe you another two or three more favors. I remember that water sure was cold. If you hadn’t gotten me out of there, I wouldn’t be doing favors for anybody.”
He leaned down and automatically put his palm against Emma’s forehead. She gasped and leaped back. Ramsey just smiled and patted her shoulder. “It’s all right, sweetheart. Dr. Haversham just wants to make sure you’re not sick like your mama. He’s always checking everybody around him. Foreheads are his specialty.”
Then Dr. Haversham remembered. This was the little girl who’d been kidnapped and sexually abused. He smiled down at her. “You seem to be in great health to me. You’ve got a fine forehead. You stick close to your mom, okay?”
“Yes, sir, I will,” Emma said, but she kept back, staying close to Ramsey. He felt her hand slide into his. She was holding the piano up with only one arm. He quickly reached down and picked her and her piano up. “Let’s see Dr. Haversham out, Emma. Then we can bring some water to your mama.”
“She won’t like having to go to the bathroom all the time, Ramsey.”
“I wouldn’t either, but it’s her fate for a while.”
26
MOLLY SLEPT THROUGH the night. The next morning, she felt weak, but her stomach was settled. Ramsey gave her three slices of toast, thick with strawberry jam. Both Ramsey and Emma sat on the end of her bed, watching her take every bite. Finally, Molly laughed and said, “Enough. Look, two slices. I’m stuffed to my tonsils.”
“You don’t have any tonsils, Mama.”
“Close enough. Now, I need a shower to feel really human. Ramsey, can you get us out of here today?”
He shook his head. “Let’s give it another day, Molly. You’ve got orders to stay close and rest. Take those pills and keep drinking your water. I got you the bottled stuff. If you’re good, if you’re feeling even better this afternoon, we can go over to my favorite Mexican restaurant on Lombard Street for dinner.”
Molly groaned and clutched her stomach.
“Okay then. Chicken soup it is.”
She was exhausted by the time she’d blow-dried her hair and dressed. She looked at the bed, freshly made, the comforter turned back, at Ramsey, who was just smiling at her, and flopped down. “A woman picked out this bed set. It’s so bright and whimsical. Am I right?”
“Yep. Probably my secretary. I like it. Here, drink this entire glass, all twelve ounces. Then, take a nap. I’m going to take Emma over to Cliff House. The beach there is wonderful, right below what we call The Great Highway. She’ll see some seals. We’ll build a sand castle and throw a Frisbee for one of the many dogs that hang out with their owners over there. I’ll bring her back dirty and happy. I want that bottle to be empty.”
They’d been on the beach only twenty minutes when a huge panting black Lab came trotting over to Ramsey and butted his head against Ramsey’s leg. A woman called out, “Just tell him to eat dirt if you don’t want to throw that Frisbee for him.”
But Ramsey patted the Lab’s big head. “You up for this, fella?” He pulled his ancient chewed-up yellow Frisbee out of the old duffel bag that also held his and Emma’s sandwiches, potato chips, and soft drinks, and flung it a good thirty yards. The Lab raced after it.
“Now Bop’s never going to leave you,” a young woman said, striding up to where Ramsey and Emma stood. Emma’s eyes were on Bop as he hurled himself into the air, but couldn’t extend far enough to catch the Frisbee.
“He’ll get it next time. He has to learn your style. Just tell me when you’re tired of throwing for him. This your little girl?”
Emma quietly slipped her hand into Ramsey’s. She pressed against his side.
“Yes,” Ramsey said. “This is my little girl, Emma.”
“I’m Betty Conlin,” the young woman said and thrust out her hand. Ramsey shook it. The woman knelt down in front of Emma. “Hi. How old are you?”
Emma gave her a long assessing look. She said finally, “Bop’s coming back. My mama’s home in bed. We’re here so I can play and try to forget about things. We’re here so Mama can rest and get well.”
“I see,” Betty said and rose, and, naturally, she did indeed see. She smiled. “Here, Bop!”
Ramsey snapped his wrist and sent the Frisbee flying again. Bop had already begun running. He caught it on a three-foot leap. Ramsey yelled out, “Nice goin’, boy, well done!”
He was laughing. There was dog slobber on his hands. Emma was playing in the sand one foot away from him. The sun was bright, making the ocean surface gleam like light blue diamonds. The sound of the waves sweeping onto shore was a constant rumble behind all the human voices. All they needed was Molly with them, lying on a blanket, drinking lots and lots of water and probably needing a bathroom, of which there were none anywhere close. He looked down at Emma and saw that she was staring at Betty Conlin. He didn’t need to worry about any woman coming on to him. Emma would protect him. Well, for the moment they couldn’t have Bop without Betty. Bop came dashing back, played tug-on-the-Frisbee with Ramsey, dropped it, and took off running. Ramsey let loose with a really long throw, skimming low toward the water. He shaded his eyes, watching Bop. The Frisbee caught a sliver of upward air and went flying even farther. Maybe fifty yards?
He turned when he heard Betty say something. He nodded and watched Bop finally catch the Frisbee well into the surf. He bounded back through a spray of water that looked like diamond droplets beneath that crystal sunlight.
“Did you see that, Emma?” He was grinning as he turned.
Emma was gone.
He felt instant overwhelming panic.
“What’s wrong?” Betty was saying even as she was patting Bop.
“Emma,” he said. “Emma.” He whirled about searching. He heard a cry, jerked about toward the Cliff House, but saw a little boy fighting with his sister.
He yelled again at the top of his lungs, “Emma!”
Oh God no. This couldn’t be happening. No, she had to be close. They couldn’t have taken her far, not in just the couple of minutes Ramsey hadn’t been looking at her. The sun was in his eyes.
Then he saw a man walking quickly down the beach, heading south. He was wearing a long dark brown overcoat. There was a huge bulge in that overcoat. He had Emma under that overcoat. How had he done it so fast?
Ramsey took off after him. He didn’t say a word, didn’t scream at the man, just sprinted. The man stumbled suddenly, lurching toward the water. Emma’s head poked out of the side of the overcoat.
She yelled at the top of her lungs. “Ramsey! Ramsey!”
Now he did call back. “It’s over!” He was nearly on him. The man jerked back his head, saw that it was over, dropped Emma, and took off back up the beach to the high concrete retaining wall. Ramsey started after him, then heard someone yell. He whipped back and saw Emma.
She was lying motionless on the beach. Two little girls were standing over her, one of them holding a blue bucket in her hand. A woman was running toward them. He ran back, gently pulled the little girls back, and knelt down beside Emma. She was drawn up in the fetal position, her ey
es closed, her hair slashed across her forehead, strands stuck to her cheeks.
“Emma.” He lightly touched his hand to her shoulder. “Emma, love. It’s me, Ramsey. Are you all right?”
She moaned low in her throat. Slowly, she turned to face him, staring up at him.
“Are you hurt?”
She shook her head. “Well, just a little. He covered my face and hit me on my head.”
The bastard had struck her, put her under his coat, and simply walked away. He looked toward the retaining wall. There were a lot of people milling around up there, but no man wearing an overcoat. Of course he could have just taken it off, and probably had.
He gathered Emma up against him, hugged her tightly, and kissed her. He’d nearly lost her. No more than three, maybe four minutes, and he’d nearly lost her. A woman said, “Did that man try to steal her?”
“Yes, he did. Did you happen to see what happened to him once he made the retaining wall?”
The woman shook her head. “No, I was looking right here.”
“It happened so fast,” Betty said, running up. Bop was pushing his head against Ramsey’s legs, the Frisbee in his mouth. “From one instant to the next. She was just gone. I’m so sorry.”
The woman didn’t say anything more, just gathered her two little girls close. “We’re leaving,” she said. The children whined and argued, but the woman had a firm hold on their arms and dragged them away.
“Do you want me to call the cops?”
“No,” Ramsey said, slowly rising. He still held Emma tightly against him. He was kissing the top of her head. “I’m so sorry, Emma, so sorry.” He turned to Betty Conlin. “Bop can have the Frisbee and the sandwiches.”
The police would question the people on the beach, all the people on the sidewalk at the top of the retaining wall, but Emma was burrowed against him, she was shuddering, he had to get her home. He kept her pressed against him even in the front seat of his old Porsche. It was a tight squeeze but he didn’t care.
He was still holding her when he stood at his desk, calling Virginia Trolley. When she came on the line, he said, “Ramsey here. A man just tried to steal Emma on the beach near Cliff House. He dropped her when he saw I was about to catch him. I couldn’t go after him because Emma was down. He was wearing a long brown overcoat, scuffed black-and-white running shoes, a brown knit cap on his head, dark sunglasses. He moved like he was over forty. No, not all that tall, maybe five-ten. Yeah, he was white. If you could send some people over there to find someone who saw the bastard. Yeah, thanks. See you in a few minutes.”
The Target Page 25
