Eve looked up to see two men approaching—yeah, they were definitely Feds; you couldn’t mistake their private club dress code—dark suits, white shirts, usually dark ties. They were striding toward her, self-assured and arrogant as toreadors entering the ring. She recognized both, of course; she’d been introduced to the new SAC, Cheney Stone, but not the other agent. She’d seen the other one driving out of the parking garage a couple of times, but that was it.
She moved to stand against the wall again, waiting, all indolent and loose-limbed. Let them come to her. She whistled between her teeth. She wondered who’d cornered the market on the federal wingtips.
She heard the agent walking beside Cheney Stone say, “That picture we found in the bushes, the newspaper clipping of Judge Dredd with an X through his face—it’s like he’s sticking it in our faces and laughing.”
Hmmm, there was a clipping of Ramsey left at the crime scene? It was the first she’d heard of it. Not that she expected to know much about what the FBI had found, since she’d never even been inside the locked door on the thirteenth floor in the Federal Building. No, that space was inhabited only by the San Francisco FBI tribe. The U.S. Marshals Service occupied the twentieth floor, their digs only one floor above the senior federal judges’ offices and courtrooms. She didn’t care much for that FBI attitude, one of the reasons she hadn’t considered signing on with them six years before. She’d heard too many stories about some of the special agents—and wasn’t that a self-important title? For the most part, the FBI got results, but too often, it was their way or why don’t you take a leap from the Golden Gate Bridge? Were they prepared to deal with her, or would they try to plant their big Fed feet on some part of her anatomy? She’d see. She’d go around them, or through them, if necessary.
Cheney Stone stopped. “And here’s Deputy Marshal Eve Barbieri.”
He remembered her name, and that was a surprise. Eve shook hands with Stone. “Congratulations on becoming special agent in charge, Agent Stone.”
Cheney gave her a grin. “Thanks. It’s already been two months and I’m still alive and breathing, for the most part. But my once predictable life now consists of herding pit bulls.”
Eve could only agree, her opinion clear on her face even though she kept her mouth shut.
“Since we’ll be working together on Judge Hunt’s shooting, call me Cheney.”
First name? Nice smile, white teeth, seeming sincerity, but with a new SAC, it was wise to be cautious. She nodded, too soon to offer up her own first name.
Cheney said, “Eve Barbieri, this is Agent Harry Christoff. Harry, this is Deputy Marshal Eve Barbieri. She’s worked with Judge Hunt for three years and is a friend of the family.”
Eve took a good look at Special Agent Harry Christoff. He was in his early thirties, tall and lean, with dark brown hair and bright green eyes. He kept himself in very fine shape indeed. Although he was dressed in the obligatory dark suit and white shirt, he wasn’t wearing wingtips. Instead he wore black boots that looked as old as he did, but the ancient boots sported a high shine. As for his tie, it was bright yellow with black squiggles. A rebel? She didn’t think such an animal existed in the Big Machine.
So the new SAC was trying to herd Christoff—good luck. She’d heard of him before, most had. He was known as a loose cannon, and that sparked her interest. He looked as mean as any of the other pit bulls, like he could kick the crap out of you while chowing a pepperoni pizza and washing it down with a Bud. But he had to have something going for him in the brain department, since SAC Cheney Stone had assigned him to this case.
“I know you by rep,” Eve said. “They say you’re a wild hair.”
“Good to know,” Harry said, and stuck out his hand. Eve shook his hand, strong, with tanned, long fingers.
Cheney continued to Eve, “You guys are fast. We’ve already started looking at those boxes of threatening letters to Judge Hunt you sent over.”
She nodded, but she was still distracted studying Christoff, still evaluating—was he smart? Intuitive? Did this particular pit bull have any common sense? Did he have nerve?
She realized, of course, that Agent Harry Christoff was looking her over as well. “Ever have any problems before?” Christoff asked her.
Eve shook her head.
“Looks like the first time a problem cropped up, none of you were around.”
Nice shot. She said on a yawn, “Guess I was out drinking grappa in North Beach, not camping out in Judge Hunt’s backyard, stroking my Glock.”
Not bad. Harry eyed her. She hadn’t taken the bait, hadn’t tried to belt him. He liked attitude, wanted to grin at her amused in-your-face, “you’re not worth my time, Agent Moron” look. He’d seen Barbieri before and thought she was a real looker, but he’d never seen her up close. The close-up reality surprised him. With her long legs in black pants and her black boots that put her close to six feet tall, she nearly reached his eyebrows. They were really shiny black boots, too, maybe shinier than his. Nah, probably not. She wore a raw-looking red leather jacket over a black turtleneck, topping off the tough U.S. marshal look.
But her face spoiled the effect. Despite the outfit, she looked like she should be serving ice cream and cake to kids at a birthday party, smiling and tending them, her blond ponytail bouncing. She was real pretty and sweet-looking and—wholesome was the word, like some former Ohio State cheerleader, like the girl next door voted beauty queen at the state fair. Until you looked at her eyes, dark blue stormy eyes that weren’t at all trusting, and the U.S. marshal showed through again. They were eyes that had seen a lot, though the good Lord knew she couldn’t have seen more than he had in his eight years with the Bureau.
Harry stuck out his hand, wondering if she’d bite it, but she shook his hand, hers cool and dry, all business.
“Why are you grinning?”
“I was wondering if you would bite my hand.”
She arched a dark blond eyebrow. “Only if you try to feed me.”
Harry said, “So you think I’m a wild hair, do you? There’s a story around about you, too, Barbieri. Something about a fugitive in a shopping mall in Omaha last year who tried to take a hostage in a Macy’s women’s room? And you ended up sticking the woman’s head in the john and not letting her up until she dropped her gun?” He grinned at the visual. “Talk about the pot and the kettle.”
Cheney laughed, couldn’t help it, watching the two of them. If they could manage to avoid bloodshed, they might work well together. Barbieri could stand up to anybody, and as for Harry, well, despite his reputation, he had gotten some remarkable results, and that’s why Cheney wanted him on Judge Hunt’s shooting.
Cheney said to Eve, “Your boss told me you’ll be heading up Judge Hunt’s protection team.”
Eve nodded.
“Good. The media is gathered in the lobby. I don’t doubt they’ll try to sneak up.”
“We’ve got that covered,” Eve said. “Just look at Mancusso’s face—show him a lurking reporter and he’ll stuff him into one of the laundry carts.”
“We’ve also had Agent Dillon Savich, chief of the CAU back at the Hoover Building—that’s the Criminal Apprehension Unit—and his wife, Agent Sherlock, fly out to help us with the case. You’ll be working with them as well.”
“Yes, I know,” she said. “I saw you with them earlier.” Eve had watched Cheney hug the woman with the rioting red hair and shake the big man’s hand, all chatty and full of bonhomie, best buds.
Great, Harry thought, he’d be working with Savich and Sherlock from Disneyland East, too, as if there weren’t already enough noses eager to poke under the tent.
Cheney said, “Harry, do you think you can manage to work with Barbieri? Work with her, not make her want to knock your teeth down your throat? Given it’s Barbieri we’re talking about here, she probably wouldn’t hesitate.�
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“You’re recommending caution around Suzie Cheerleader? Not a problem. She’s only heading up the protection detail, so that’s not a lot of work we’ll need to do together.”
Suzie Cheerleader? Eve gave him the fish eye. “I’ll get the job done, whether you work with me or not,” and she shrugged as an eyebrow went up. “The question is, will you, Christoff?”
“In the FBI, we have cases, not jobs.” He held up his hand and said to Cheney, “Like I said, there’s no problem here. I can work with anybody, even cute little cheerleader types.”
Cheney eyed them both, wondering if he was making a mistake. No, but he’d talk to Harry again privately, and ask Marshal Carney Maynard to make sure Eve Barbieri would work with Harry, not go haring off on her own. He had to admit there’d been a time or two when he’d wanted to rip Harry’s face off himself. He said, “Deputy Barbieri, Harry will be point man on this. Your boss has asked that you assist him, as time allows. No hotdogging from either of you, especially you, Christoff, all right?”
Harry said, “Me, hotdog? Not a single lick of yellow mustard on me.”
Eve took one last look at Harry, gave a little finger wave to Cheney, and turned away down the hall.
Cheney said, “I’m serious about this, Harry. Not only does she know Judge Hunt, she knows about most everything that goes on inside and outside the courtroom. You want to use her.”
Harry nodded. “Sure, but bottom line, she’s just the protection.” He gave his boss a maniacal grin and strode off. “Hey, Barbieri, wait up! You and I got stuff to work out here.”
San Francisco General Hospital
Friday afternoon
The first thing Eve heard when she slipped into Ramsey’s cubicle was the sound of machines, some beeping, some humming. Then she saw all the lines running into and out of his body. She couldn’t imagine trying to rest like that. She saw Molly standing over Ramsey, her head lowered, speaking to him quietly. She looked up when Eve came in.
“Eve, it’s good to see you. Do come in. Ramsey, it’s Eve.”
Thank the good Lord he was awake. Eve nodded to Molly, leaned over Ramsey, and felt her throat clog. Not a single word could get through without risking tears. She stared down at him, taking everything in.
Ramsey saw her fear, and he wanted to reassure her, at least smile at her, but it was hard to make his mouth muscles work. He felt oddly detached from his own body. He thought it was all the drugs that were making it hard to focus his mind on anything. But there was no pain, and that was a profound blessing, thanks to the magic morphine pump. He felt her clasp his hand and squeeze, felt her warm breath, like lemons, he thought, when she leaned close. “You’re looking good, Ramsey. I gotta say I’m really happy about that.”
For a moment, he couldn’t find words. Where were the words? “So are you, Eve. Don’t worry, I’m going to pull through, Molly told me so. And don’t cry. I don’t want to walk into the men’s room and read ‘Barbieri’s a weeping wuss’ scratched on the wall. What would that do to your reputation?”
She started to say she never cried, but that lie would perch right on the end of her nose. His voice was thin, insubstantial, and that scared the bejesus out of her. The last thing he needed was for her to fall apart. “We got a regular hoedown outside, FBI everywhere. They’re all huddled together, so I slipped in to see you.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“I can’t imagine why anyone would want to shoot you, of all people.”
Ramsey frowned. Eve squeezed his hand again. “I know, why shoot the judge?”
“Can you tell me what happened, Ramsey?”
Surely he could try to do that again for Eve before his lights went out. “It was late, nearly midnight. I was out back, staring up at the stars and over at the Marin Headlands, and I was remembering Cal asking if he could sink his fingers into those pits on the surface of the moon.”
Was it her imagination or did he sound stronger? Pits in the moon? This hard-as-nails federal judge was wondering about the pits on the moon?
“I didn’t hear a thing out of the ordinary, nor did I see anything or anyone. One shot and I was down and out.” He paused, and the pain suddenly surfaced. He jerked, gritted his teeth, but it didn’t lessen, it was pulling him down. He pressed the morphine button.
Molly said, “If I hadn’t called out to him, Eve, he wouldn’t have turned and moved, and the bullet would have hit him in his chest.” Saying the words broke the dam. Molly burst into tears.
Ramsey said, “No, sweetheart, I’ll be okay. No need to cry.” He hated to see her cry, but there was nothing he could do, only lie there helpless, wanting to howl. “Eve—I remember now. There was a boat. A Zodiac, pulled up near the beach. I saw it.”
Eve’s heart speeded up. A Zodiac—now they had a place to start. She saw his eyes were squeezed tightly shut, his mouth in a thin seam. “Just a moment,” he said, and she watched him press the button again. But she couldn’t stand it. She went to get the nurse, but when she came back he was out again.
Molly was huddled over him, her shoulders shaking. It nearly broke Eve’s heart.
Sea Cliff
San Francisco
Late Friday afternoon
Emma Hunt pushed back her piano bench and rose. She couldn’t concentrate on Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue, though she loved the sheer romantic exuberance of it, how the music built and built until its grandeur, its firecracker opulence, made her fingers tingle and her heart beat faster. But not today. Emma sighed. Ever since her dad was shot the night before, she’d felt deadening fear. She heard Cal and Gage squabbling in the next room, speaking their twin talk, taking pleasure in knowing their mother had no clue what they were saying. Neither did she, but the two of them understood each other perfectly. Did they realize no one else could understand them? Oh, yes, she’d bet a week’s allowance on it.
“Emma?”
She turned to see her mother standing in the doorway, holding Cal and Gage’s hands. Both of them looked grubby from playing underneath the big oak tree outside the music room door. Her mother looked frazzled, but she was trying to pretend she was fine.
Emma smiled, though it wasn’t easy. Her brothers didn’t need to see that she was afraid—no, not just afraid, she was terrified—their father would die. “Mama, do you need me to do something with the boys?”
“No, sweetie, I’m going to clean them up myself. I wanted to tell you the Gershwin sounded wonderful. Do you know I listened to Gershwin himself playing Rhapsody in Blue on iTunes and sometimes you sound just like him? Maybe better.”
Emma rolled her eyes. “You’re my mother. Of course you’d say that. You know I’m not as good as Gershwin. Mrs. Mayhew says he was brilliant.”
Molly said, “Ellie will be here soon to watch the boys so you and I can go back to the hospital.” She glanced at her watch. Emma knew her mother hadn’t wanted to leave her dad at all, that she’d rather have stayed beside his bed, holding his hand, telling him he would be all right. But it was better for the twins that she came home to see them. The hospital staff always patted Emma’s head, her shoulder, telling her every other minute that her father would recover. She was grateful everyone cared so much. She closed her eyes for a moment. Her father’s stillness scared her the most. He was never still, always in motion, laughing or using his hands when he talked. She always clutched her mother’s hand when they were with him.
Cal and Gage pulled away from their mother and ran to the corner of the music room, where they had stacked piano music into two equal piles, one for each of them. What on earth did they plan to do with those piles? They knew better than to tear the pages; she’d yelled at them too much about that over the past year. The boys were arguing now, and about what? Emma said, “I wonder when they’ll start speaking English to each other?”
Molly smiled. “They
already say your name and Mama and Papa to each other.”
“And ice cream.”
That got a small smile. “And ice cream. Don’t worry about the Gershwin, you’re ready to play for the audience and the orchestra. You know they love listening to you. The concertmaster, Mr. Williams, told me you were a miracle. Naturally, I agreed.”
“That’s because Mr. Williams doesn’t have perfect pitch and he wishes he had mine,” Emma said matter-of-factly. “I sure hope Giovanni will like my Rhapsody in Blue.”
“Of course he will. Emma, I really don’t think you should be calling the conductor of the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra by his first name. Maybe best to call him Mr. Rossini. You’re eleven. You want to show him respect.”
Emma was silent for a moment, a frown between her eyebrows, identical to her mother’s. “I know I’m only a kid, but he asked me to call him Giovanni. He said he’d like me to go to Milan to study with Pietro Bianci.” She said the name slowly, careful to get the pronunciation right.
Molly went on alert. “When did this happen?”
“Yesterday at Davies Hall, while you and Dad were trying to get Cal and Gage to behave—before Dad—” Emma swallowed. “He doesn’t think Mrs. Mayhew is the right teacher for me anymore.”
Molly, momentarily distracted, said, “Not only does Mrs. Mayhew know every single serious piece of music for the piano in the universe, she’s played most of them, including Gershwin, both in Paris and London.”
“Mrs. Mayhew is very old, Mama; that’s what Giovanni—Mr. Rossini—said. He told me her teaching isn’t what it used to be.”
Emma’s eighty-two-year-old piano teacher had elegance, style, and immense talent and goodwill. She had known George Gershwin. Who cared if she didn’t play as well as she did fifty years ago? As for Emma going to Italy to study at her age? Not a chance. She wanted to tell Emma she wasn’t about to let her out of her sight until she was twenty-one, maybe even thirty-five, not after what had happened five years ago, but the words fell out of her head. She swallowed. She would have a talk with Mr. Rossini, but even that didn’t seem important now. Ramsey was fastened to more high-tech machines than she’d ever seen in one place. He could still die. Tears gushed up into her throat, and she had to swallow to keep them down.
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