Backfire

by Catherine Coulter

  Harry nodded. “There isn’t any doubt it was Xu. Everything fits. Mrs. Idling never saw him, but she knew a guy had paid cash to check into room two-seventeen on Tuesday. Jerol told her the guy seemed sick, favoring his arm when he checked in, said the guy seemed really out of it. The Joe Cribbs signature in the ledger is pretty illegible, as if written with the wrong hand. Remember Xu is left-handed, and he was shot in that arm. I’ll bet ballistics matches the bullet to the gun that killed Dr. Chu.”

  Eve said, “But that doesn’t help us tonight. Maybe Xu doesn’t know we’ve got him made, doesn’t know we’re looking for that blue Honda he’s driving. I wish Mrs. Idling hadn’t dismissed the shot she heard as a backfire for those precious minutes before she came over to investigate.”

  Harry said, “The corker is she saw two cars skidding out of the parking lot, with the door to Mr. Cribbs’s room standing wide open.”

  Eve said, “It means he was too sick to ditch the Honda, but he wasn’t too sick to call someone to the motel to help him. He’s been here a day and a half. He could have called the Chinese for help. You think that second car was driven by a Chinese connection?”

  Harry shook his head. “That doesn’t sit right with me, doesn’t feel right. But you know, if not the Chinese, then who? And was that other person the one who shot Jerol?” He thought about that, but no answer stepped up. He said, “That second car, Mrs. Idling is sure it’s an older Corolla. Since there was no license plate matching it in the register, it wasn’t anyone who was staying here, legally, at the motel. If they’re smart, they’ll leave the Honda somewhere and we’ll have no way to trace them.”

  Eve said on a sigh, “Whoever it is, it’s a game changer. With help, Xu can go anywhere he wants now.”

  Cheney called out, “Harry, we need you over here.”

  Harry Christoff’s house

  Laurel Heights, San Francisco

  Saturday morning

  Eve kicked back, put her booted feet on the ottoman. She was wearing the same clothes she’d worn yesterday, and she felt grungy. She leaned her head back against the sofa back and said, “My head hurts.”

  Harry stood over her, a cup of coffee in his hand. “You ate breakfast an hour ago so it’s okay to drink another cup of this fine brew. Then we’ll talk.”

  Talk? That opened her eyes. What did he mean, talk? Eve didn’t want to talk—a guy talk about two adults enjoying sex and no commitment? No, that wasn’t Harry. Harry was honorable to his feet. Like big statue-of-David feet. No, Harry felt guilty because he’d made love to her and now it was morning and somewhere along the line he’d realized she expected more from him, and so he regretted ever pulling down her blue bikini panties. How was he ever going to explain that to her so she didn’t shoot him?

  She stared at him, unblinking. He hadn’t said a word while he’d chowed down on his cereal, one of those health-food brands she’d never heard of, while she’d slathered strawberry jam on her toast. Not a single word about how incredible she was and it was the best night of his life, and how about now let’s get naked right here, on the table? Would she climb up on the table? Yes, she would.

  She continued to stare at him. To her eye, Harry radiated guilt.

  Eve drank a bit of coffee and watched Harry walk to the chair opposite and sit down. He looked indolent and loose, his legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles, and he steepled his fingertips together. Tap, tap, tap.

  Maybe she was wrong, maybe he didn’t feel guilt about having sex with her, wanting now to shoulder the blame, to claim all the fault. Maybe she was wrong. Instead, maybe he was feeling cocky he’d scored with her. Was that better than his feeling guilty about seducing her? Seducing her? What had happened between them—what was it last night, three times? Talk about a busy two-way street.

  Harry said in a brooding voice, “You’re so pretty, it drives me nuts.”

  Pretty? He was beginning his guilt speech by telling her she was pretty and it drove him nuts? No, what she was was a mess. She needed a shower, she needed a couple of multivitamins, she needed to have Harry tell her it wasn’t just because she was pretty that he was attracted to her; what she wanted him to say was something very different, like it was her insides that turned him on, and he didn’t for a single instant feel guilty about making love with her, and he wanted more, he wanted—Eve pulled out her cell. “I want to speak to my dad.”

  “Why now?” His left eyebrow shot up. He still looked, she thought, loose and relaxed, indolent as a lizard, and she wanted to smack him.

  She managed a credible sneer. “What do you care? Oh, I see, if Daddy asks me where I am, I’ll have to confess to him I’m currently only twenty feet from a guy’s bedroom, wherein lies a rumpled bed, and the guy’s name is Harry Christoff, and sorry, Dad, he’s not in the U.S. Marshals Service, he’s a dippy FBI agent.”

  Harry grinned at her. “I love to listen to you spit out a hundred words without taking a breath. Actually I’d like to speak to your dad. Don’t you think it’s about time? He really doesn’t like FBI agents?”

  About time? To apologize to him for seducing his daughter, but, hey, it happened, so let’s move on? She studied his face, took another slug of her coffee, and carefully set the cup down on a magazine to spare the shiny wood surface. He wasn’t smiling. In fact, he was holding himself very quiet, his eyes focused on her face. No way was she going to let him speak to her dad. She said between seamed lips, “I was thinking you don’t really like women except to sleep with them to add another notch to your belt. But that’s not it—you feel guilty, right? You’re sorry you seduced a colleague. Were you thinking about apologizing to my dad? And then you’d like me to just go away so you can forget it ever happened.”

  Harry couldn’t help himself. He smiled at her. What was her idiot talk about his not liking women? About his feeling guilty he’d slept with her? He felt calm and steady, better than he’d felt in so long he couldn’t even remember when or why. Well, Eve, the truth is making love to you made me remember that life is really a very fine thing indeed. You think I feel guilty because I made love with a colleague? Don’t you realize you’re my entire bloody army of salvation? Bring on your daddy. He said, “I’m now a reformed git. Here’s to the power of the ponytail.” He picked up his coffee cup, said slowly, feeling his way, “You think I took advantage of you?”

  She thought about that for a moment. She had to be honest here. “Maybe not every time.”

  Harry wasn’t about to dwell on each glorious time; he’d shake himself out of his chair and that wouldn’t put the focus where it belonged. “That ponytail of yours—it’s a big draw, Barbieri. I look into those big blue eyes of yours, listen to you smart-mouth me, and I find myself thinking I’d like to see that ponytail at the breakfast table for, say, the next fifty years, or so. Yeah, at least fifty years. I come from healthy stock, and so do you.” There, he’d spit it right out, and waited.

  Oh, no, no, that wasn’t a guy’s guilty speech or a cocky speech. What this was was way too fast, way too much, even with his light hand and that intent look in his eyes. Beautiful eyes, he had. No, wait, stop it.

  What was he saying? Eve couldn’t get her brain around it. He wanted to see her ponytail for fifty years? Across the breakfast table? As in marriage? Eve jumped out of the chair, grabbed her jacket, and was at the front door in under thirty seconds.

  He called after her, “What about calling your dad?”

  “He doesn’t need to know yet what kind of deep trouble I’m in.”

  “Can you tell me about this deep trouble? Maybe it concerns me?”

  She shook her head and was gone. Harry didn’t go after her. He listened to her engine rev, heard her back too fast out of the driveway, and hoped she didn’t knock over the azalea pot he hadn’t brought in yet for the winter.

  Harry sat back in his chair and smiled. Sitting across th
e breakfast table from Eve for fifty years. It sounded fine to him, more than fine, it sounded like he’d wake up smiling a whole bunch of mornings. He loved her brain, her smart mouth, her courage, and, well, her gorgeous athletic body as well, and her gorgeous athletic body’s enthusiastic reaction with him was something to make a guy grin like a fool for a millennium.

  He sat back and closed his eyes, wondering how long it would take her to come to grips with what they could be together, given a healthy chance. She’d thought he was going to give her the guy talk about not wanting it to be more than sex? How could she ever think that? Well, there’s your history, stupid.

  He drank the rest of his coffee, set the cup on his knee. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. He caught himself when Xu’s face intruded clearly in his mind’s eye. He was not that far away, and who was with him? The El Cerrito police had found the Honda downtown, but no trace of Xu or his companion.

  There had been hundreds of calls yesterday, but nothing helpful in finding Charlene Cartwright, either. It was a manhunt now, pure and simple. Until the end played out, Judge Hunt, Savich, and everyone in their path was in danger. He had to get showered and shaved, get himself to the hospital.

  As he lathered his face, he wondered what he could do that would really count. Other than chase Barbieri down and kiss her stupid and convince her it wasn’t only sex for him.

  He thought he’d ask Savich to write a country-and-western song about a girl with a swinging blond ponytail and shit-kicker black boots.

  Time to get yourself together, Barbieri.

  San Francisco General Hospital

  Saturday morning

  Dr. Kardak straightened over Ramsey and nodded, looking, truth be told, very pleased with himself. “You’re healing very nicely, Judge. Your tube tract is closed and your lung sounds good, barely a crackle or two left. You’re very lucky that bullet didn’t wreck your lung, or worse. I see you’ve cut back on your pain meds, and you’re smiling. I couldn’t ask for more. Our chef said you were eating more of his wonderful meals.

  “All in all, you keep improving like this, and you’re going to have a front-row seat at Emma’s performance next Wednesday.” Maybe not front and center, Dr. Kardak thought, though he didn’t say it aloud. With any luck at all, Ramsey should be able to sit upright for an hour or so.

  Ramsey heard a cheer from the guards at the window as Dr. Kardak left. He grinned over at them. Both of them spent Thanksgiving here; in fact, they had both been with him for more than a week now, and he’d been cogent for at least four of those days. He knew just about everything important about all the people who were taking care of him and was wondering how he could pay them back. SFPD Officer Gavin Hendricks and Nurse Natalie were really hitting it off, and maybe he’d played some part in that. They made a nice couple.

  He felt clearheaded again, he felt in control. He was able to think in a straight line without having to deal with pain trying to jerk him off the path. And his thoughts led him right to Father Sonny Dickerson’s mom. Her name was Charlene Cartwright, and she had to be in her sixties. What kind of a person that age could hatch a plot like this and execute it? He tried to imagine her motoring a Zodiac to his beach, being a good enough shot with a sniper rifle to have killed him dead if he hadn’t turned, and then using that sling shot with that absurd photo of Judge Dredd attached to it. Harder still to imagine her climbing down on the roof of the elevator, pulling up the ceiling hatch and firing down at him and escaping—she must have kept herself in very good shape in prison. Her audacity amazed him, even as a mother avenging her son. Father Sonny was a son who didn’t deserve even a passing thought, much less a full-blown vendetta. Didn’t she know full well that he’d been an obsessive insane pedophile? The fruit must not have fallen far from the tree, he thought. Charlene had to be as crazy as her son in her own way. He opened his laptop and began researching Charlene Cartwright’s criminal record. He wanted to know everything about her, her murdered husband, and her children.

  She’d planned and plotted for five years. Amazing. Thank the good Lord she’d failed. At least until now.

  San Francisco General Hospital

  Saturday morning

  Sherlock sat in Dr. Kardak’s small office on the fifth floor, waiting for him to come back from morning rounds and give her a final check. Thankfully, she didn’t have to worry about having the stitches snipped out of her head, since he’d told her they would resorb by themselves. She’d sent Dillon on to see Ramsey, saying, “I’ll be fine. There’s no reason for us to sit here and twiddle our thumbs together. You’ve got a lot on your plate—go deal with it. Send up a guard if someone’s bored; otherwise, I’ll come to Ramsey’s room when I’m done.”

  Savich had gently lifted her hair and lightly touched his fingertip to the small bandage. “I’ll send a guard. You will not go anyplace without someone covering you like a blanket.” He’d stared at her for a moment, kissed her hard, and left.

  Sherlock knew he was still reliving those moments when he’d thought she was dead, but what could she say? She refused to think what she’d feel and do if Dillon had been the one shot. She pulled out her cell and called Ruth, who was in Maestro, Virginia, with her husband, Dix, and her two stepsons on this fine Saturday morning.

  Ruth said, “You guys have sure got yourselves in the middle of a big curdling mess out there. You swear to me you’re all right, Sherlock?”

  “Yes, don’t worry, it was only a little tap on the head. Talk to me, Ruth, about Charlene Cartwright. What do you know?”

  “Dane flew to Baton Rouge last night, then drove to the Louisiana Correctional Institute for Women in Saint Gabriel this morning. He said the warden was goggle-eyed to hear what sweet, good-natured Charlene had done. He had to admit that yes, it was true, Charlene had worked out in the gym like a trouper for the past five years or so, and was in excellent shape for any age, really, and remarkable for someone ready for Medicare. Dane didn’t tell the warden she’d styled herself the Hammer. He should be about through with his interview with an inmate who was supposedly Charlene’s best bud, so you should call him in a couple of minutes. You swear you’re okay?”

  After reassuring Ruth about herself and Judge Hunt and how he and his family were holding up, Sherlock dialed Dane, who answered on the third ring. “Hi, Sherlock. I just finished up a very informative interview with Charlene’s confidant, Maria Conchas, so your timing is perfect. Let me search out a private place.” He came back on a couple minutes later. “I’m in a supervisor’s office. Maria’s a piece of work, in prison now for eight years for shooting her neighbor for looking in at her sleeping through her bedroom window, or so she claimed. ‘And I was naked, the nasty peeper!’ Quote/unquote. Maria put the guy in a wheelchair for life with a bullet in his spine. Her punishment is another two years, after which she can waltz out of here on two strong legs.

  “Moving right along. Maria and Charlene spent long hours discussing life and men and how the Big Bad brought you down until you took charge and decided to do something about it. Maria said Charlene wasn’t shy at all, in fact, enjoyed talking about what she was going to do to FBI Agent Dillon Savich when she got out. She called him ‘hateful bastard,’ the one who was responsible for her boy’s death, namely, Sonny Dickerson. Do you know she made Maria call her the Hammer? Said Charlene could turn so mean it scared her to death, but never in front of the guards.

  “Now, I wondered why Maria was so eager to tell me everything about Charlene’s plans, since she had been, supposedly, her best friend. Maria told me she looked up Father Sonny Dickerson in their newspaper files and found out what he’d done five years ago before he’d died, well, before he’d been murdered. Good riddance, she’d thought. She couldn’t believe Charlene wanted revenge for that ‘crazy pervert,’ as Maria called him, even if Charlene was his mother. She told me she knew to her gut after reading about Sonny and what he’d done
that Charlene had to be mad as a hatter to want to avenge him. Charlene said this to Maria, and I wrote this down, ‘I’m going to get it done. I blew off that vicious jerk’s head who made my son the way he was, didn’t I?’ She was talking about her husband. Maria said she believed her and we should, too.

  “I asked her if she knew about the note Charlene sent to Savich. She laughed, said Charlene worked on different wordings for three months before she was happy. Maria recited the note in a dramatic voice, For what you did you deserve this. Maria said she even tried her hand at some variations, but Charlene didn’t like anything she came up with. Maria shook her head and said to me, ‘I mean, who would take that idiot threat seriously? Talk about sappy.’”

  Sherlock said, “So she said Ramsey’s name?”

  “Yes, Maria said Charlene told her about some ‘nasty bugger’ judge she was going to kill, too.”

  “Was there anyone else on her hit list after she killed Ramsey? Had to be someone close. I mean, to make Dillon pay a stiff price, this person had to be close, right?”

  “I’d say so,” Dane said, “since it was you, Sherlock. I know we were all hoping it was random, that any FBI agent would have filled the bill—but it wasn’t random, and I doubt you really thought that for a minute, not really.

  “Charlene wanted you dead because you’re Savich’s wife, the most important person in his world, just as Sonny was to Charlene.

  “Yes, I know it doesn’t make much sense, since Savich was three thousand miles away when Father Sonny was killed, but Charlene didn’t care. If not for Savich and his fancy technology, her precious boy would never have been caught. She thought Sonny would still be flying high and free, and she would be there with him, together again.”