Backfire

by Catherine Coulter

  As he cranked the engine he realized he’d forgotten the corned beef on rye. It was a cop deli, too, probably delicious.

  Harry Christoff’s house

  Maple Street

  San Francisco

  Monday night

  Harry pulled his Shelby into the driveway, cut the engine, and turned to face Eve. She had asked him about every detail of the crime scene in Bel Marin Keys. They had fallen back on talking about the brutal murders as dispassionately and professionally as they could, but it was difficult.

  Eve said, “At least Savich should have a real shot with the Cahills tomorrow morning. We’ve got them isolated in the marshal holding cells, out of contact. They shouldn’t find out about Milo’s murder until Savich springs it on them. There’s a good chance one of them will talk, since Xu killed their lawyer this time, their only contact with Xu and the person they’ve been pinning their hopes on to get them out. What’s left for them to try?”

  Eve opened both her car door and her umbrella, and ducked under it. She stepped onto the driveway and took her first good look at Harry’s house. Even in the dark with the rain pouring down, she could see enough to be surprised at how big it was, probably worth a bundle even in this depressed market. She liked the shake roof and the big windows that gave it a colonial sort of feel even without the columns. She ran through the rain from Harry’s Shelby to the front door. A bright porch light was a welcoming beacon. There were even ferns hanging from under the porch ceiling, still looking perky, though it was nearly Thanksgiving. She imagined the tree-filled yard would be spectacular in the spring and summer.

  “I like your house; it’s the showcase of the neighborhood, isn’t it? You’ll have to tell me how you snagged it.”

  He gave her only a curt nod. It was odd, Eve thought, but Harry had seemed a bit unwilling to bring her here, but, as she reminded him, he’d been to her condo, and now it was time for her to see his digs.

  His wife’s digs, he’d said, not looking at her.

  Since she’d left the Suburban at the marshals’ pool at the Federal Building, he’d offered to take her home. She knew he hadn’t realized he would be making a stop first.

  “Everything is beautiful. You have a gardener, don’t you?”

  He nodded. “His name is Mr. Sanchez. He’s been with me six years, comes once a week. His son helps him now.” He paused for a moment as he stuck his key in the front door, looked over his shoulder at her. “I just realized I don’t know his first name. He’s always been Mr. Sanchez to me. His son goes by Junior Sanchez.” He smiled. “Not Sanchez Junior.”

  He pushed open the door, turned off the alarm, and stepped back for her. “Come on in.”

  Eve shook out her umbrella and slipped it inside a copper umbrella pot. She stood in a small square entryway with a mirror on the wall above a curvy modern table for mail and flowers, but the beautiful Italian cachepot was empty. The gardeners didn’t work inside. He pointed her to the living room, where a big easy chair, an ottoman, and a big-screen TV were displayed front and center, and a pile of newspapers had been tossed in a haphazard stack on the floor beside the chair. Sure, there was a sofa, chairs, and a coffee table, all with an Italian country flavor, but it was obvious he never sat there. Other than the pile of newspapers, nothing else was out of place. No beer cans, no running shoes. Two Sports Illustrated magazines sat on the coffee table. She gave him points when she saw that neither one was the swimsuit issue.

  Still, everything was so “guy,” she had to smile. She looked at the walls, saw they were covered with framed travel posters—of Lake Como, the Alps, Parliament on the Thames—all in full color, inviting you to step right in. She waved toward the posters. “Do you like to travel, Harry?”

  “Yes.”

  She turned to him. “Only a simple yes? No explanation, like whether you’ve been to all these places and which one is your very favorite in the whole world?”

  “That would be Lake Como, I guess. The hiking is great around there. I like Inverness for hiking, too.”

  She said, “I’ve never been to Inverness.”

  “It’s stark, usually cloudy, often raining, and almost, well, painfully real. Would you like some coffee?”

  She checked her watch. “I’d be a moron to drink coffee this late. You have nonfat milk? Splenda?”

  He had both.

  Eve watched him grind coffee beans, then measure the ground coffee into the filter and dump water in from the sink tap.

  Harry said, “Funny what Savich said about Billy Hammond, his friend at the CIA in Langley. He wouldn’t verify anything at all about the information Xu obtained or was after, even though he’s known Savich for a hundred years, give or take. That kind of secrecy, it’s enough to make you gag in your soup.”

  “At least he apologized,” Eve said. “It must be incredibly sensitive stuff if they’re putting tape over his mouth. I’ll bet they already know exactly what was accessed, since it would be recorded on their servers. They just don’t want anyone else to know, though, even us.”

  “According to Savich,” Harry said, “they weren’t much interested in interviewing the Cahills. They probably know the Cahills didn’t know about the information Xu accessed, or how valuable it is. But maybe they know enough to help us find Xu.”

  “That’s all we want from them, really,” Eve said.

  Suddenly he was staring at her as they stood in his kitchen, listening to the coffee perk, shaking his head.

  “What? Do I have rain still dripping off my nose?”

  He said, “The first time I saw you I thought you looked like a homecoming queen from somewhere in the Midwest, someone who should be frosting cupcakes for her kid’s birthday party. I wondered, how can she possibly be a deputy U.S. marshal?” He shook his head again. “You’re so damned pretty.” Then he waved his hands, as if he were trying to wave away his words.

  Since it was obvious to her that Harry wished he’d kept his mouth shut, Eve waved her own hands at his kitchen cabinets. “You said you liked my kitchen. I had it remodeled last year, you know. I found a really good contractor who came in on budget and on time. You want her name?”

  “Nah, everything works fine. Once in a while the sink clogs, but that’s no big deal.”

  She grinned. “You’re right. Nothing wrong with cooking in the 1940s. Now that I think about it, if you wait another couple of years, all your kitchen appliances will be back in style as retro, except maybe for those green-tinted cabinets.”

  He handed her a mug of coffee, gave her nonfat milk from the refrigerator, and dug out a couple of packets of Splenda from his stuff drawer. As she stirred her coffee, she said, “What you said, Harry—do you know my brothers are always saying the same thing? They still call me Miss Suzie-Q.

  “When I told my dad I wanted to be a U.S. marshal like he is, though, he looked at me up and down and said, ‘That would make me very proud, Eve. It’s a great career choice for you. You’ll be one of the best.’” She paused for a moment, looked down into her coffee mug. “Yes, that’s exactly what he said, straight up. I’ve never forgotten.” She cleared her throat and drank some coffee. “This is very good, Harry. Do you cook?”

  “When the need arises. What did your mom say?”

  Eve took another sip of her coffee, enjoyed the zing of caffeine, though she knew she’d be cursing herself at two a.m. “When my dad told her what I wanted to do, she laughed. And laughed. She was happy. I saw her kiss my dad and shake her head and say something about the apple not falling far from the tree.

  “I look just like my mom, you know. It’s funny what you said, Harry, because my mom was a college cheerleader. And I can still see her cutting our birthday cakes at our big kid parties, hear her singing at the top of her lungs, leading all the kids in a sing-along. I might add that everyone adored her. She was so beautiful, so bo
uncy and fun. She still is.”

  Harry said, “So you fell pretty close to both trees. And your dad’s the U.S. marshal in Chicago?”

  “Yep. Like I told you, he’s an anomaly. He’s served under two different presidents now, unlike most of the ninety-four marshals countrywide. Tell me about your folks, Harry.”

  He shrugged. “They live in London—well, they do for most of the year. They love to travel, always have, and they took me with them. I guess they gave me the travel bug.”

  She could only gape at him. Parents lived in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, for heaven’s sake, or Minneola, Florida, not London, England. “Why do they live in London?”

  He looked like he wanted to tell her to leave it alone, but he said finally, “My dad’s a financier. It sounds old-fashioned, I know, but that’s what he says he is.”

  “What does he finance?”

  “Well, he runs Willet, Haversham, and Bayle.”

  She let out a whistle. “They’re so big even I’ve heard of them. They’re worldwide. And they survived the bankers’ rape of the world with fairly clean hands, from all I’ve read. Your dad’s CEO?”

  “Well, not really. He’s the chairman of the board. Actually, he pretty much is Willet, Haversham, and Bayle.”

  “But your name’s Christoff.”

  “Willet and Haversham are his first and middle names, the middle name from his own father, and Bayle is his best friend. They picked the name because Dad liked the sound of it, all snooty and English, like one of their ancient law firms.”

  “So your dad is Willet Haversham Christoff? And what’s your full name?”

  “I’ll tell you on my deathbed.”

  “That bad? Does your name sound like an English duke? All right, I’ll wait. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “I’m an only child.”

  “All right, I’ll keep pulling hen’s teeth. Your mom?”

  “Sylvia is my mom. She’s a fashion consultant.”

  She stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

  He shrugged. “She’d take one look at you and want to haul you off to be photographed for Vogue. And she’d be right. The camera would love you, she’d say. You’ve got great bones.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “She took me with her on photo shoots, showed me all the subtle clues in a person’s face, actually. I’ve found it all very useful to a cop.”

  “With that background, why’d you want to be a cop?”

  Harry said, without hesitation, “My uncle Roy, my mom’s brother, is FBI. When I was six years old he told me I had the heart of a cop. He was right.”

  Harry’s cell rang. “Yeah?”

  His face remained impassive, but his eyes hardened. “We’ll be there in twelve minutes.”

  “What?”

  “You put the Cahills in a holding cell in the Federal Building, right? Someone evidently cleared the Cahills to go back to the San Francisco jail. Cheney called, found out they were transferred at eight-forty-five tonight.”

  “No, that’s not possible. I mean—what happened?”

  Hall of Justice

  Women’s jail

  Monday night

  Cindy Cahill shook her hands to regain some circulation as plump mean-as-a-snake Annette in her too-tight uniform trousers unlocked her wrist chains. “Welcome home,” Annette said. “Hey, you weren’t over in the Federal Building for very long. What was that all about?”

  Cindy shook her head. “No one said a word, dragged me and Clive over there, then brought us back.”

  “Your hubby okay?”

  “Clive would be thriving if it was World War Three.” She and Clive had been taken to the holding cells on the twentieth floor because Savich had wanted to scare them, and not about the CIA, either, but about Xu, as if he’d have a chance of getting into the jail and killing them. Of course, no one had said that, but she’d known it to her toes. Why hadn’t that bitch marshal Barbieri told her what this was all about? Because Barbieri was only a drone, and drones kept their mouths shut, if they even knew the answers.

  As she knelt down to unfasten the ankle chains, Annette said, “Maybe this moving you around has to do with your lawyer being murdered up in Bel Marin Keys this afternoon. Both him and his girlfriend.”

  Cindy’s heart stopped, her breath caught in her throat. She put her hand out to the wall so she wouldn’t fall over. Milo was dead? Murdered? Of course Xu had killed him, she knew it, and that meant he was cleaning house: O’Rourke, Judge Hunt, Milo—she and Clive were the last ones left. Well, Judge Hunt was alive, but why Xu gave a crap about the judge was a huge question in her mind, since he had nothing to do with anything. Had Milo tried to blackmail Xu into giving him more money? Could he have been that stupid? Or was Xu ready to leave the country? He didn’t want to take the chance of anyone finding out his name or anything about him?

  And now she and Clive were the only ones left who could tie him to anything at all. It was bad enough Xu had murdered O’Rourke, but she’d believed he’d had to, since O’Rourke had screwed everything up and alerted the judge. It even made sense to her. Both she and Clive had believed Xu would find some other way to get them out. But to murder Milo? Even though in the last couple of days both she and Clive had begun to have doubts about Milo, he’d always calmed her, always made her feel like she was in charge. And he always reminded her that Xu was backing them, the man who had all the money and would spend as much as it took. Xu wasn’t bad in the sack, either.

  Now he’d murdered Milo.

  “Hey, you hadn’t heard? That’s amazing. The lieutenant burps and everyone in this place knows a meatball sub was delivered before he’s finished it off.”

  “No, I hadn’t heard,” Cindy said, and she thought, Screw the twenty-five years. She suddenly didn’t care how old she’d be when she got out of prison. At least she’d have a chance of getting out. Were she and Clive really safe here? If Xu really wanted them dead, could he somehow make it happen? She felt fear so corrosive it was like her stomach was turning in on itself.

  “I need to use the phone. I need to call Agent Savich at the FBI.”

  Annette gave Cindy her patented “I can do whatever I want with you since I’m the boss” look and shook her head. “Nope, sweetheart, you can make your call to Agent Savich during business hours tomorrow. This isn’t a hotel. Come on, time for you to shower and get your butt to bed.”

  “But it’s urgent; it’s a matter of life and death—”

  Annette simply sneered at her. “Like I said, Cindy, this isn’t a hotel. Let’s go.”

  Cindy knew Annette wouldn’t budge, and so she bowed her head and followed her to the showers. She’d call Savich first thing in the morning.

  She didn’t pay attention any longer to the guards seeing her naked; it hardly even registered. There were several other women in the showers before lights-out, some of them sullen and quiet, others usually loud and foulmouthed. She’d learned to avoid the two or three bullies, to stick with those who stayed quiet and left her alone.

  How could she get Savich to agree to fifteen years now he knew she was terrified of Xu?

  She managed a bit of lather out of the crappy soap bar as she considered what she’d say to Savich. Better to leave Clive out of it, let him deal on his own. She’d known yesterday Clive wanted to tell Savich and Barbieri everything he knew, down to Xu’s sock size. And she’d stopped him. Had that been a mistake? No, no, tomorrow morning it would be fine. She knew Savich would interview Clive separately soon enough after her to make sure she’d told him the truth.

  She’d still try to bargain for fifteen years. No more, fifteen years. It wasn’t a lifetime of years. She could get through it, she would get through it. If only Mark Lindy hadn’t found out what was happening and freaked out—

&nb
sp; Cindy put the bar of soap back on the shelf and turned to see a tiny Asian woman she’d noticed hovering in the background since yesterday, always deferential and polite to her, trying to get Cindy into a conversation. What was her name? She couldn’t remember. The woman was standing naked in front of her, something in her hand. In a blur Cindy saw it was a blade. She jumped back, but she wasn’t fast enough. The blade sank into her chest even as she slipped and fell on her back onto the wet tiles. She stared at the woman, whispered, “Why did you do that?”

  The woman said, “For my son. I’m sorry.”

  Xu, she thought. Xu had done this. Her last thought was of Clive. Was he dying, too?

  San Francisco General

  Monday night

  Clive Cahill was dead, and Cindy Cahill was fighting for her life in surgery because of a stupid mistake, and it was all her fault, no one else’s.

  Eve sat in the waiting room with Harry, playing the “if only” game—if only she’d stayed longer with the Cahills at the holding cells on the twentieth floor of the Federal Building, if only she’d thought to read the Cahills’ transfer papers from San Francisco jail carefully enough, Xu would never have found them.

  No, Miss Brilliance had looked with only one eye and half a brain at the transfer papers, never seen the error that had to be there that returned the Cahills to the San Francisco jail instead of leaving them right here. She had only glanced at the paperwork, really, then trotted out with Harry, excited to think she’d finally see his house. She hadn’t even thought to double-check; no, she’d happily hopped into Harry’s Shelby and gone with him without another thought about the Cahills’ safety. Her fault. She’d fire herself if she were her own boss.

  Cheney walked into the surgical waiting room with Sherlock and Savich behind him. Before Eve or Harry could open their mouths, Cheney said, “We don’t know yet who got to Clive. It was clean and fast, and before anyone knew anything, the guard heard a yell and there was Clive lying dead on the shower floor, a shiv lying beside him in bloody water.