Backfire fst-16

by Catherine Coulter

  He thought about that for a moment. “If you guys leave any blanks, I’ll try to fill them in.”

  They were greeted on the eighteenth floor by a stylish young woman with dark hair, the only receptionist manning the large, curving mahogany counter on this fine Saturday.

  Savich looked at her name badge, smiled, and showed her his creds. “Alicia, we’d like to see Mr. Siles.”

  Alicia drew back, alarmed. “Do you have an appointment, Agent? Ah, Special Agent?”

  Savich said, his smile warm, “We don’t need one. Isn’t that handy?”

  She looked at Harry, then at Eve. “Who are you?”

  Eve and Harry showed her their creds.

  “But—”

  “Point us to his office, Alicia.”

  They followed her along a wide hallway with polished wooden floors to the end office, both Savich and Harry admiring her red power suit, her stiletto heels, and her walk. Eve poked Harry in the ribs.

  Before Alicia could precede them into Siles’s office, Savich gently pushed her to the side and opened the door himself. “Thank you, Alicia. Please hold his calls and any clients that show up.”

  Milo Siles shot to his feet when the three of them walked into his bragging-rights corner office with its magnificent San Francisco Bay view. The fog had burned off earlier, and it was a postcard day, warm by San Francisco late-fall standards, in the upper sixties.

  Milo liked hypermodern, Harry saw, like his own ex-wife. Show Nessa any piece of furniture that combined glass and chrome in a weird shape, and she’d embrace it, while Harry hunched over with a belly cramp.

  Savich introduced the three of them to Siles.

  Siles said, “I recognize Deputy Barbieri. She sat at the back of the courtroom during our very short trial. I didn’t know you were a marshal. I pegged you as a TV reporter.

  “Of course I also know Special Agent Christoff. I believe I’ve seen him perhaps too many times.” He looked hard at Savich. “You, however, I’ve never seen before. You’re not with the local FBI, are you?”

  Savich shook his head. “I’m from Washington.”

  “What may I do for the three of you?”

  Somehow, Eve thought, Savich knew it should be she who answered, and he gave her a small nod. She said, smiling at Siles, who, even in his lifts, was a good three inches shorter than she was, “Cindy told us about Sue, but she forgot to give us a last name. Could you please provide that, sir?”

  Savich wouldn’t have seen the flash of horrified recognition in Siles’s eyes if he hadn’t been watching him closely.

  Gotcha.

  Siles paled a bit, too, if Savich wasn’t mistaken, but for only an instant. Then Siles turned his back on them, got himself together, and said over his shoulder, “Would any of you like a glass of water?”

  They all declined.

  Milo Siles drank, or pretended to, then sat behind his impressive glass desk framed with a beautiful dark wood that looked like it should be on the endangered list. Black paraphernalia was set precisely on the top of the desk—a computer, a phone, a fancy black desk set that looked like an expensive Christmas present from someone who didn’t know what else to buy for him but didn’t want to cheap out.

  Siles waved them to chairs. There were only two. Without hesitation, Eve fetched another chair. She noticed that all the chairs were lower than Siles’s, so he could, quite literally, look down on them. She remembered clearly her father telling her once, “You don’t have to hunt for red buttons to push with short guys. And short guys wearing lifts are the easiest of all.”

  Eve glanced at Siles and saw from his look that he seemed to have downgraded her to gofer, a pretty girl with no particular importance, even though she was a deputy marshal. And so she said to him, her voice deferential, “I have to tell you, sir, I admired watching you sparring with the prosecutor. O’Rourke didn’t have a chance against you even though he’s probably a good eight inches taller than you and doesn’t have to sit on a stack of books.”

  Bravo, Savich thought.

  Whatever Siles would have said stuck in his throat. He turned red, then yelled, “I do not sit on a pile of books!”

  Harry said, his voice lazy, “Come on, now, Deputy Barbieri, no reason to insult him. I’ll bet his dad was short, so what could he expect? It’s not very nice to rub his nose in it. Look at his office. He’s a very successful man. He could probably convince the devil to buy charcoal for a barbecue.”

  Siles tented his fingers, regarded each of them in silence, smoothing himself out. “You’re all quite good. But these insults, they’re rather immature, don’t you think? I’m a busy man. What can I do for you?”

  “Tell us about Sue,” Savich said.

  “I heard about your interview with my clients without my being present,” Siles said. “I don’t care that they told you it was all right, because it’s not. If that happens again, I’ll take it up with the court.”

  Savich said, “It seems to me a big part of the court is missing, and another part has been shot. So I’ll repeat what Deputy Barbieri asked you for, a last name. We know Sue is very likely an agent of a foreign government. Attorney-client privilege won’t protect you for long from Homeland Security and the CIA if you’re abetting espionage against the United States.”

  Siles said easily, “Isn’t there an old song about Sue? I wonder why Cindy mentioned a girl named Sue?” And he laughed.

  Savich said, “Because Sue is involved, a go-between. The Cahills’ handler. She probably hired the Cahills to help her get the classified documents from Mark Lindy’s computer, or maybe the Cahills looked her up when they realized what they had. I’m sure you can tell us how this all worked. You don’t want to be tried for treason, Mr. Siles.”

  Milo Siles sat forward, clasped his hands atop the huge black desk pad. “I have never heard either of the Cahills mention a woman named Sue. I don’t know personally who this Sue might be, well, unless she was referring to my wife. There is no question of treason or of selling any of Mark Lindy’s computer data to anyone. The Cahills were being tried for murder, not treason.” He sat back, grinned at them. “My wife, by the way, is a bitch, and I’m taking steps to see she won’t be my wife for much longer. Trust me, I’d hardly be involved in some conspiracy with her.”

  His desk phone rang, and Siles picked it up, listened, and said, “I’ll be there in a few minutes.” He set the phone gently back into the receiver. “Poor Alicia. I’m a busy man, even on Saturday. She was afraid to put through the call. Are we done here?”

  “And here I thought we’ve only just started,” Eve said.

  Milo Siles looked amused. He studied Eve Barbieri’s very pretty face, her blond hair whipped back into a ponytail, showing off her well-shaped ears that sported small gold studs. Her red leather jacket was open, showing her black turtleneck. “When I first noticed you in the courtroom, Deputy, I thought you were real cute, all bouncy and clean like some of the female TV anchors, all tits and no brains, a girl next door every guy dreams about marrying. But let me be honest here. You’re not in Cindy Cahill’s league. She makes men forget their names from twenty feet away. She’d have no reason to be disturbed by your looks, such as they are. And you’re what, five, six years older than she is?”

  She’s got him taking shots at her, Harry thought. Good work.

  Eve smiled at him. “I guess that’d place me closer to Clive’s age, like I could hook up with him and it wouldn’t look quite so obscene. Is that what you were thinking, sir?”

  She watched him quickly rethink his approach. She saw when he’d decided how to deal with her, all in about two seconds. Siles had defended some of the smarmiest, most dangerous people on the planet, drug dealers, extortionists, and murderers. Few people could shake him.

  Savich could, maybe, but she? To him she was nothing more than a fly buzzing around him.

  Siles said, “Who cares about ages, Deputy? They’re a loving couple. Wouldn’t you say you’re being rather sexist?”

/>   Eve shook her head. “Not me. You want to know what I think? I think Cindy drives the bus and Clive has been expendable for a while now. I looked at him and wondered how long it would take before she dumps him. Not that she’ll get the chance now. I mean, she’s never getting out of prison unless she talks to us, right?”

  “I have a client waiting outside—” He looked down at his Piaget watch. “Do either of you gentlemen have anything to say, because I’m finished talking with Ms. Ponytail here—Deputy Marshal, ah, what did you say your name was?”

  Savich said smoothly, “Mr. Siles, why don’t you tell us what you think about Federal Prosecutor Mickey O’Rourke’s disappearance.”

  “I don’t know anything about it, Agent Savich. How could I? Mickey has never shared his emotional sensitivities with me. I did hear through the grapevine that he was having an affair with a law clerk last year, though I don’t know if that has anything to do with this. Look. I know people are starting to get alarmed, since Mickey hasn’t showed up anywhere. I’m as concerned as anyone else.” He paused for a minute. “We all noticed he was behaving pretty strangely in the pretrial hearings, like ignoring Judge Hunt’s direct orders to hand over needful documents so I could give my clients the best defense. I chalked all his balking up to the intense cutthroat competition in the federal prosecutor’s office finally getting to him. They have about a hundred federal prosecutors, and they’re always jockeying for position. Did you know the prosecutors themselves keep actual records of their wins, who gets the toughest prison sentences in the least amount of time for the least cost? This is a death penalty case, and Mickey was going to have to convince a jury without using any of that classified information, information I’ll bet he couldn’t even access himself, information he either couldn’t or wouldn’t turn over to me. Can you imagine the stress?

  “I think when Judge Hunt finally called him on the carpet, O’Rourke panicked. Once he failed to show up in chambers without a good reason, his career was over. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mickey took off, and kept going.”

  Siles smiled and sat back in his chair, his fingers laced over his Italian vest, obviously pleased with himself.

  Eve said, “You said your wife’s name was Sue. It isn’t, sir. It’s Marjorie. Her middle name isn’t Sue, either, it’s Ann. And she’s divorcing you, sir, not the other way around. I understand finances are the big bone of contention between you. Seems you have reasons to feel stressed yourself.”

  Siles looked momentarily poleaxed, then wiped the look off his face. “Didn’t think you’d know that,” he said slowly.

  “Yes, sir, I do. Why did you make that up?”

  “A joke, Deputy, only a small joke.” Siles looked at his Piaget again, and rose.

  Savich said, “It’s not a joke that Mrs. Siles’s divorce attorney plans to strip you down to your boxers. With those very embarrassing photos they say they have, I’m wagering you know you’re going to need a lot of money soon.”

  Harry picked it up. “And what better way to get it than to join in a little conspiracy and earn a couple of million getting the Cahills off?”

  “I’d like all of you to leave now,” Siles said.

  Savich paused in the doorway. “I’m sure if we find your offshore accounts, Marjorie will be very interested. She’ll probably help us any way she can when we tell her you’re colluding in selling information to a foreign government.”

  Before he closed the door, Eve said over her shoulder, “So many bad things can happen in federal prisons, Mr. Siles, you know that. And a lawyer who defends traitors, who’s maybe a traitor himself? Can you begin to imagine what would happen to you? I can’t see you defending yourself that well in prison.” She paused, turned back to him, and gave him her card. “Think about it. Call me.”

  Siles found himself taking her card. He said nothing, watched her blond ponytail swing as she walked out his office door in those kick-ass boots. He walked to his desk and picked up his phone to dial his divorce lawyer. He’d have had his bigmouthed wife, Marjorie, killed months ago, easy enough back then, before the spotlight. It was only his two sons, both of them now taller than he was, who had kept her alive. He’d waited too long for that now.

  San Francisco General Hospital

  Saturday, late afternoon

  Morphine-induced euphoria was a fine thing indeed, but Ramsey didn’t want to cruise around in oblivion anymore. It left his brain fuzzed and stupid, not at all what he wanted now that Molly and Emma were coming to see him. Without drugs he was better able to cast about his brain to figure out who had shot him. Had someone picked out a judge with a certain reputation, or was it something about him, specifically?

  And then there was the other big question: What had happened to Mickey O’Rourke?

  Ramsey felt an ache building behind his left eye, and he gritted his teeth against the pain. He looked up to see Emma and Molly standing at the entrance to his cubicle. He felt a leap of pleasure and set himself to forget about his chest and his headache.

  He called to them, “No need to tiptoe, I’m not zombied out on drugs. In fact, I’m doing so well the SICU nurses and doctors don’t want me around any longer. They need my bed for someone who really needs to be here, not a slacker like me. They’re going to move me very soon now to the biggest private room in the hospital. They call it the Taj—can you imagine? They’re gathering the troops right now.” He didn’t mention the long conference at his bedside that morning with Dr. Kardak and Marshal Maynard, debating the pros and cons of moving him. There was too much traffic through the ICU to suit the security team, and too many interruptions by law enforcement to suit the nurses and the medical staff. They had compromised by agreeing he would leave the ICU a bit early, for a secure room on one of the inpatient floors, with an extra staff nurse assigned to him.

  He said, “Come here, Emma, and give me a big hug.”

  She ran to him, drew up short. Was she afraid to touch him? Probably so. She studied his face as she reached out her hand and lightly laid her fingertips on his forearm. When she realized his eyes were clear and focused on her, she seemed to accept that he wasn’t lying to her because she was a kid. “If they’re going to move you away from all these machines, it for sure means you’re getting better.” She moved her fingers to hover over his whiskered cheek.

  “I don’t want to hurt you, Daddy.”

  He grinned up at her. “Nah, no chance of that. Do you remember a long time ago when I told you I was tough and you could always count on me? Forever?”

  She swallowed, nodded.

  “Nothing’s changed, Emma. I’m still the same. There’s nothing here your old man can’t handle.”

  He knew even a small movement might hurl him into a well of pain, but he raised his hand to gently stroke her face. Slowly, Emma leaned down and hugged him. “Doesn’t it hurt to lie on your back?”

  “Not much. They wrapped me up like a mummy. Don’t be afraid, Emma. Everything is all right now.”

  But how could everything be all right? Emma wondered. Whoever had shot her father was still out there, and he might try again. Would there be guards around him forever?

  Emma said, “Officer Hughes told us he heard you laugh this morning. He said it was a good sign.”

  He’d laughed? He couldn’t remember. Ramsey had probably been riding the morphine express to LaLa Land and heard a nurse say something funny, or not funny at all, it wouldn’t matter.

  “There you go,” he said, looking over at Molly, who cocked her head toward Emma and nodded. She was pleased he was finally getting some alone time with his daughter. Emma’s fingers stroked his face, as light as butterfly wings.

  He said, “Your mom told me you’re keeping a close eye on Cal and Gage in case she gets so worried about me she forgets to feed them. I tried to think what Gage would do if food didn’t magically appear whenever he wanted some. It wasn’t a pretty picture.”

  Emma laughed. “They’d both go next door to Mr. Sproole’s house and out-cute
each other so he’d clean out his refrigerator for them.”

  Ramsey laughed along with her and managed to hug her again, though the pain in the back of his chest spiked. Pain tasted foul, he thought, not for the first time, and how odd was it that you could actually taste pain? It wasn’t coppery, like blood. Maybe like rotted asparagus? He said, “I know Mr. Sproole is an ice-cream junkie; he’s always got some in his freezer. Do you think he’d break out his chocolate-chip cookie dough ice cream for Gage and Cal?”

  “No, that’s his favorite. He’d give them an old carton of vanilla. They’d be happy enough with that.” She settled herself on the bed beside him, still clutching his hand like a lifeline. “Sean was over at our house this morning, playing with Gage and Cal while I was practicing. When I finished a piece he tapped me on the shoulder. He was real serious and polite, Dad. He said he wanted to marry me, and even though he would have three wives he could promise me that I’d be his number-one wife, since I was older than his other two. He said if I agreed, I couldn’t date any other boys until he grew up and came to fetch me.” Emma giggled.

  A laugh spurted out of Ramsey’s mouth. He couldn’t help it, though it made him groan. He breathed slowly in and out, and when the pain settled into a steady throb again, he asked, “So what did you say about being Sean’s number-one wife?”

  “Sean wasn’t done. He asked me if I wanted a big wedding. When I told him I probably would, he said he was going to have to get three jobs, since both Marty and Georgie wanted big weddings, too.”

  Emma looked thoughtful. “Maybe two other wives would be good, since they could keep Sean company while I was practicing, or away playing somewhere.”

  His practical girl. And that twinkle in her eyes. It wouldn’t have occurred to her to dismiss a five-year-old boy and make him feel small. Lucky Sean. Ramsey said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if Sean grew up to be as cool as his daddy.”

  “And his mama.”

  “And his mama. Trouble is, your Aunt Sherlock told me she doesn’t want her son to go to jail. Three wives could push him right into the slammer.”