Harry said, “At least the local coverage has finally run out of juice on Kirsten Bolger’s family. They’ll be taking a rest until the trial begins next year, when they’ll light up their torches again.”
Eve marveled at the two agents—married. What could two people in such stress-filled, dangerous jobs possibly have to say to each other after, say, a violent shoot-out, like the one with Bolger in a North Carolina tobacco field? Hey, sweetie, you want to go get a beer to celebrate we’re still alive? She wondered if Sherlock painted her toenails, and imagined a nice French. And Savich was big, tough, hard as nails, good-looking. “Is Savich as fast as he looks?”
Harry nodded as he braked for a red light. “He is. He’s a fourth-degree black belt. Sherlock is a first-degree, a shodan—”
“Yeah, yeah, I also know when you’re a sixth dan, you wear a red-and-white belt. I mean, come on, why care so much about the color of your freaking belt? One big show, a business, that’s all it is. The bottom line in the real world is to beat the crap out of your opponent, however you can.”
“How do you know about a sixth dan?”
“From a book I saw at my boss’s house.”
“At Maynard’s?”
“Yep. He hosts these big barbecues, feeds all hundred of the deputy marshals regularly.”
“That’s a lot of spareribs.” Harry shot a look at her. “Cheney is new at his job, but I wouldn’t mind if he picked up on the barbecue ribs idea from Maynard. So that’s what marshals do? What about fighting?”
She gave him a fast smile, gone in the next instant. “We’ve got martial arts experts of our own, with all sorts of belts and colors. Lots of our deputy marshals are scrappers who like to show off their ripped-up knuckles and bruised kidneys.”
“And you’re not into martial arts?”
“Don’t know about that. I fight dirty, real dirty. Like I said, you want to put your opponent on the ground, his knees around his neck, as fast as possible.” She started to ask him if he’d like to visit her in the marshals’ gym, wear a couple of his prized belts, then remembered her boss telling her, Play nice, Barbieri, play nice. She cleared her throat. “So Savich is a computer expert, right?”
She fought dirty? He thought of her toilet adventure in the Macy’s women’s room in Omaha and smiled. “Give Savich a motherboard and he can make bread with it in no time at all.”
“Hey, that was sort of sweet.”
“Sweet? Hey, I tell you what. Let’s mix it up one of these days, Barbieri. I’ll get you feeling a little respect for the discipline. Because you’re so cute with that blond cheerleader ponytail swinging around, I’ll go easy on you.”
She batted her eyelashes at him, very effective, since she was so damned pretty. “Your best shot is I’ll be dazzled by your multicolored karate belt. Turn right here, we’re nearly there.”
When Harry pulled his Shelby into the Hunt driveway a few minutes later, he couldn’t help it, he gawked. “Some digs.”
“It’s got about the best views in Sea Cliff—the ocean, Marin Headlands, and the Golden Gate Bridge. Looks like all the news people have left. So has the SFPD. I don’t like this; someone should be here.” She pulled out her cell, punched in Carney Maynard’s number, and then she dropped her cell and pointed. “Hey, that’s Emma—she screamed!”
Eve was out of the car before Harry could turn off the motor, her Glock 22 in her hand, her long strides eating up ground.
Molly jerked open the front door, saw them, and thought she’d collapse in relief. “A man, he was staring in the window at us! He ran over toward Mr. Sproole’s backyard!”
Eve shouted, “I’ll take care of it. Get back inside, Molly!”
Eve saw a man running, a blur of black. And he was carrying something black—a gun? He had jumped the fence into the neighbor’s backyard. Harry started to yell for her to wait up, but he didn’t waste his breath. He watched her leap the stone fence smooth and high, like a hurdler. He ran after them.
“Federal agents! Stop!” Eve shouted.
But the man didn’t stop. He ran straight for the fence at the back of the neighbor’s yard, vaulted over it, and disappeared.
Eve didn’t hesitate. She jumped that fence, too, right after him.
A scratchy old voice yelled from the yard, “Be careful or you’re dead!” He turned to see Harry running toward the fence after them. “Hey, fellow, there’s a snaking little trail down to the water, but it isn’t safe. Who’s the guy she’s chasing? You’re all federal agents? Is that the guy who shot Judge Hunt?”
Harry waved off the old man and jumped the fence, stumbled on some loose rocks beyond it, and nearly fell on his face. He windmilled his arms, and managed to gain purchase. He looked down—at least sixty feet to the beach—not a beach, only a thin strip of dirty sand covered with a mess of black rocks and huge boulders.
Below him, Eve was tacking back and forth down the side of the cliff, shortcutting the windy little path. She stumbled once, and Harry’s heart seized. She caught herself, but she had to drop her Glock to do it and stopped to pick it up before she started down again. Harry saw the man had reached the beach and looked up to see Eve coming toward him. He scooped up a rock to hurl at her, thought better of it, and ran. Eve yelled back at Harry, “Call it in! I’m going to get him!”
She would catch him, Harry didn’t have a single doubt, even though she was a good twenty yards behind him. Harry dialed 911. The SFPD would get here faster than the FBI.
He watched Eve jump onto the strip of dirty sand and rocks and sprint after the man. Was that a gun in his hand? Then why hadn’t he shot her instead of picking up a rock? Surely the guy could tell, even from this distance, that she was moving way faster, gaining on him quickly. The putz looked like he was going to drop, he was breathing so hard. In that moment, Harry felt kind of sorry for the guy. He had no clue what was in store for him in about twenty seconds.
Eve felt the wind sharp and cold off the water, and was happy to see the guy in front of her was flagging big-time. She shouted, “Stop it right now, or I’ll shoot you in the leg. Do you hear me?”
The guy looked back at her, faltered, slowed, and finally stopped. He bent over, trying to catch his breath.
“Well, now, isn’t this easier?”
“I didn’t do anything!” he managed to say between breaths.
Eve jogged up to him, her Glock pointed at his chest, and threw him to the ground. She went down on her haunches beside him and ripped a camera from his hand. “That was for making me chase you, you brainless moron. Do you realize it looked like you had a gun? And, oh, my, would you look at this—it’s a really expensive camera you’re carrying.”
Harry was grinning when he climbed back over the fence and saw the old man again, a golfer’s cap on his head, a newspaper spread open on his lap, stretched out on a red-and-green striped chaise longue.
Harry said, “She’s trying to prove she’s tougher than I am.”
“I gotta say she proved it, since you’re not screaming she’s dead. That fence is there to keep idiots from flying off the edge, but that first idiot headed to it like a homing pigeon. Didn’t even see me, he was moving so fast. You said you’re federal agents?”
Harry pulled out his creds, introduced himself.
The old man said, “FBI Special Agent Harry Christoff. I think I’ve seen that girl before. Who is she, another FBI agent?”
“She’s a U.S. marshal, and a friend of the Hunt family.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen her over at the Hunts’ house. I’m Decker Sproole. You people are here because of Judge Hunt, aren’t you? Was that guy the one who shot him? Why would he come back? I haven’t ever understood that old saw about a criminal returning to the scene of the crime.”
Harry said, “I don’t know who he is yet. We’ve got to wait until she brings him up.” They heard voices from over the fence, and watched Barbieri heft a young man over it, his hands cuffed behind him. He was skinny as a flagpole, a baseball cap pulled
low over his forehead, his black clothes bagging off him.
Harry eyed the guy. He didn’t look much like a professional killer. He said to Eve, “Glad you didn’t break your neck.”
“No thanks to this pathetic bozo,” she said, and smacked his shoulder.
Mr. Sproole said, “Is he the man who shot Judge Hunt?”
“I didn’t shoot anybody! She knows it!”
“Yeah, I guess I do. After all my running around, it looks like I didn’t haul in our perp. What I landed was a would-be paparazzo. Imagine this fine upstanding young man wanted to take pictures of the grieving family.”
“I’m not young, I’m older than you are! I’m a professional photographer.”
“Yeah, and a trespasser who resisted arrest.” She pulled the camera from his hand again. “After I remove the memory card and press delete a few times, you’ll be all set to go sneak around someplace else and cause aggravation.”
Harry said, “What’s your name?”
“Robert Bacon. Like I said, I’m a professional, a freelance photographer. These photographs might be worth something, though there aren’t that many, since Emma Hunt saw me and yelled her head off.”
“Well, Robert Bacon, did you know there are laws against doing that on private property?”
Bacon stood tall and proud. “I’m a professional. Have you ever heard of freedom of the press?”
Eve smacked him again on the shoulder. “Quiet, Bobby.” She quirked an eyebrow at Harry. “Bobby Bacon? We got us the real live Bobby Bacon, the photojournalist.”
“I go by Robert. Hey, if you give me back my memory card and take off these cuffs, I’ll shoot a couple photos of you, you know, doing your job,” and he looked at Eve hopefully.
“Thanks, Bobby,” Eve said, “but I don’t think I’d take such a good photo right now, since I’m all sweaty and windblown because of you,” and she slapped him on the back of the head with her open palm.
He staggered, then straightened. “Listen, a photo of Emma Hunt playing the piano, I coulda paid my rent for two months, what with her history.”
Eve put her hand on Bobby’s shoulder. “Bobby, you don’t want to mess with Emma or her family. Don’t you know who her grandfather is?”
Bobby Bacon looked blank, then pointed to Mr. Sproole. “This old guy?”
“Nope. Her grandfather is Mason Lord. Look him up. If you got a photo of Emma published he didn’t like, he’d carve out your pea brain and make you eat it.”
Bobby swallowed. “But I didn’t think—”
“Well, now you know. If you’ve got a brain, you’ll stay away from Emma.”
Harry introduced Eve to Mr. Sproole, who eyed Bobby Bacon. “If I had my daddy’s Remington, I woulda blasted you between the eyes, shooting Ramsey in the back like that.”
“You crazy old duffer, you know I didn’t shoot anybody. I’m a professional photographer.”
“Yeah, well, I would have shot you on spec. Maybe you carry that camera around as camouflage. Maybe you got a gun hid in your shorts.”
“I didn’t wear shorts today. I’m commando.”
Mr. Sproole said, “I got a feeling I don’t wanna know what that means. You trespassed on my private property, too, and for calling me crazy, I’m going to press charges myself, put your skinny butt in the slammer.”
“I was only trying to make a living. I’m sorry I called you crazy. She’s the one who’s crazy. I mean, who would come rocketing down that path like that over some photographs? I practiced climbing that trail twice in case I had to use it.”
“And where did you think you were going to go from there, Bobby? Swim to Marin?” Eve said.
“You’re a wuss, Bobby,” Mr. Sproole said. “This little cutie brought you back, all trussed up.” He eyed Eve. “And look at you, Deputy Barbieri. I’ve got to say, you’re prettier than any of my four granddaughters ever were.”
Harry wrote down Mr. Sproole’s number and address, gave him a salute. They walked through the garden gate and back to the sidewalk with Bobby Bacon, his wrists now uncuffed, clutching his camera, minus the memory card, walking between them.
Harry said, “Prettier than any of his four granddaughters? He must like cheerleader types.”
“Shut up,” Eve said.
“All of them?” and Harry laughed.
“Hey, he’s right,” Bobby said. “You are pretty. Your hair is a nice natural blond. So how come you’re such a bitch?”
“That’s Deputy Marshal Bitch to you, Bobby.”
They kept him on the sidewalk until three squad cars, sirens blasting, rolled into the driveway. Six cops jumped out, guns drawn.
“That was fast,” Harry said, his creds raised high over his head.
Molly said, “It’s because everyone knows it’s Ramsey’s address.”
There was pandemonium before everything got sorted out. They watched two officers drag Bobby Bacon to a squad car, Bobby yelling about police brutality and freedom of the press. He was still yelling as one of the officers shoved his head down to get him into the backseat. “I want my memory card back.”
Eve grinned, tossed it to one of the officers.
When Eve and Harry walked to the Hunt home, Molly was standing in the doorway. Behind her stood Mrs. Hicks, the babysitter. She looked ready to kiss them. They heard Gage and Cal talking up a storm, and Emma’s voice over theirs, telling them to be quiet, but they didn’t.
Eve took Molly’s arms in her hands, steadied her.
“He’s a paparazzo. He didn’t get any photos. The cops have taken Mr. Bacon downtown, where he’ll be booked for trespassing and trying to escape a federal marshal.”
Gage shouted, “Was that bad Bacon man here to shoot us?”
Eve went down on her knees in front of Cal and Gage, gathered them to her. “Listen up. That guy was a rude photographer, nothing more. The policemen hauled him off to jail. He wasn’t here to hurt anyone.”
Cal said, “But why’d he want to take our picture, Aunt Eve? Daddy’s not here, he’s in the hospital.”
For the almighty buck. “You and Cal are so cute, I’ll bet he was going to hawk them in Union Square. I bet he could get a buck each for them, at least. Hey, I’m glad you’re speaking English today.”
They gave her an identical look. Gage said, “We’re not stupid, we have to if we’re talking to you. I think he wanted to see Mama cry, didn’t he, Aunt Eve? He wanted to take a picture of her crying.” Cal shook her sleeve.
“Maybe, but we don’t have to worry about him anymore. Now, this man is Special Agent Harry Christoff. He’s FBI, and he’s going to help me find out who hurt your dad.”
“But he’s a stranger, he could be another Bacon—”
Emma rolled her eyes. “You guys want some ice cream?”
Once Emma herded the twins out of the room, Mrs. Hicks, looking stalwart, following after them, Molly said, “They were terrified the man was here to shoot them.”
“So were we,” Harry said.
Molly blew out a breath. “The jerk. What will happen to him?”
“Probably not much,” Harry said. “A bail hearing. Maybe a plea bargain.”
Eve said, “Now that the excitement’s over, Harry and I can start taking a look around outside. Agents Savich and Sherlock will be here any time now. If you want to go back to the hospital, Molly, go right ahead.”
Harry said, “I think it’d be a good idea for you guys to have some protection right now, not wait until Judge Hunt is home from the hospital. They can keep the Bobby Bacons of the world out of here.”
“The media, too,” Eve said. She’d assumed there’d already be coverage here. She’d been wrong. She pulled out her cell phone.
Sea Cliff
Friday afternoon
It was late afternoon and chilly, with only a few wispy tails of fog coming through the Golden Gate when Savich and Sherlock joined Eve and Harry in the Hunts’ backyard. Sharp gusts of wind blew off the water. It was too cold to think much about the i
ncredible view.
Savich said to Harry, “The SFPD out front aren’t fooling around. They stopped us and looked us over pretty closely since they didn’t know who we were.”
Harry said, “There was a paparazzo here who caused a commotion only a half-hour ago. The police are here to keep everyone else off the property. Deputy Marshal Barbieri here—Eve—will be heading up security.”
Savich said, “Good to know. I can see from that police tape and the height of the stone wall pretty much where Ramsey had to be standing when he was shot. He said he saw a Zodiac anchored off his little slice of beach. He didn’t mention hearing anything, which means the shooter had to have motored in before Ramsey came out, and waited. Ramsey is about my height, and he was shot from the rear under his right shoulder blade, with the exit wound higher.” He looked over the wall and studied the terrain below. “Maybe sixty to seventy feet up from the rocks, with a steep angle down.”
“Have you heard about the rock with a newspaper photo of Judge Hunt tied to it, his face marked through with an X?” Harry said, and pointed.
“We’ve heard,” Savich said, looking over at the bush.
“The conundrum is, do we have two people, the shooter from the beach and someone else who dropped the rock up here? Seems like an awfully risky thing to do just to leave a message. There’s an active neighborhood watch, according to Mrs. Hunt, that she herself helped start five years ago. Even though it was near midnight, there’s a chance one of the neighbors would have seen a second perp.”
Eve said, “You can bet someone in a neighborhood like this one would have gone on alert if they saw a stranger near Ramsey’s property. I’d wager my Sunday hat if the shooter dropped the message, he came up the trail from the beach on Mr. Sproole’s property next door and over his fence into that backyard, since that’s the only trail for a good distance. And if he risked Mr. Sproole seeing him, then why would he bother to shoot him from down below in the first place? Why not right here, then drop the rock and head back down to that Zodiac? It’s a conundrum, like Harry said.”
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