The Target

by Catherine Coulter

  “No, certainly not,” Molly said, all cool and calm and together. “Men rarely do.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. I’m sorry. It’s been a long day. It was a lot of years with Louey. We’re coming, Emma.”

  Emma stood patiently in front of the door while Molly pulled out her key. She slipped it into the lock and turned it easily. “Things look so beautiful because I’ve had a person coming to garden for me. One of my neighbors waters the indoor flowers and plants. Still, it’s bound to be a bit on the musty side and—”

  Molly got no farther. The stench hit them full in the face the moment they stepped into the small foyer.

  “Mama, this isn’t good,” Emma said, backing up. “It smells like there’s bad food everywhere. It smells like Ramsey’s house did when we went there.”

  Ramsey caught Emma as she raced back out the front door. “Get behind me, Emma. That’s right. Your mother and I will go see what’s going on. You stay right here.”

  * * *

  “OH, no.” Molly’s once-colorful very cozy living room with high ceilings open to the dining room through an arch, filled with fat silk pillows, framed watercolors and photographs, and restored furniture painted in bright colors, all of it was trashed. Even the ivy had been pulled from its pots and dashed to the wooden floor.

  “Let’s see if your clothes and Emma’s are all right. Pack up and get your passports, if they’re still here, then we’re out of here. We’ll call the police from the hotel.”

  “I want to call my neighbors, too, and a cleaning service. Who did this and why? Is it ever going to stop?”

  “It will. It has. This was done days ago.”

  An hour and a half later, the police met them at the hotel, in their two-bedroom suite on the ninth floor of the Brown Palace. The suite was huge, but the rooms were too warm. Ramsey had opened all the windows and complained to the front desk that the air conditioner was on the fritz. It was finally beginning to cool down a bit. Emma was seated on one of the sofas, watching a cartoon on TV. Ramsey, Molly, and Detective Mecklin of the Denver PD were sitting at the circular table at the other end of the living room. A pot of coffee and a plate of cookies were on the table.

  Detective Mecklin was chewing on an oatmeal cookie from the Brown Palace kitchen.

  “As I told you,” Molly said, “I had a neighbor coming in to water my plants. Everything was fine three days ago. One of your people is speaking to her, right?”

  “Yeah, right. But I doubt she saw anything, or we’d have gotten a call by now. Whoever did it, had guts. We didn’t clear out of there until about five days ago.”

  The hotel doorbell rang.

  An officer who’d accompanied Detective Mecklin answered it. He walked into the living room, a stoic look on his young face. Behind him stood FBI Special Agent Anchor, decked out in his dark suit, white shirt, dark thin tie, and wing tips.

  Molly wanted to groan. Mecklin was enough. Now the both of them?

  “Hello, Mrs. Santera. I’m still considering whether or not to arrest you.”

  “That’s nice, Agent Anchor,” Molly said, feeling the tension in her replaced by anger. It felt good, that wave of rage. She sat back in her chair and smiled at him. She realized she’d seen her father do this. She’d wanted to fry this guy since he’d first walked into her house after Emma had been kidnapped. He was arrogant and overbearing. “Hey, have you decided on the charge? Was it saving my daughter from a kidnapper? Was it perhaps escaping to avoid getting murdered? Or maybe it was keeping my child out of your incompetent hands? No, I’ve got it. You’re going to arrest me for doing your job.”

  She’d got him. His face was red and his hands were stiff at his sides. He looked ready to explode. She loved it. “Oh, how about this—you want to arrest me because I trashed my own house?”

  Agent Anchor managed to control himself. He even managed a very stiff smile at Molly. Ramsey was surprised and hopeful that perhaps the man would stop being a jerk. Agent Anchor said finally, “Your attitude isn’t helping your case, Mrs. Santera.” He then looked at Ramsey, a dark eyebrow raised. The raised eyebrow was met with silence.

  Agent Anchor said finally, “You look familiar.”

  “He should,” Detective Mecklin said between chews on another oatmeal cookie. “He’s Judge Ramsey Hunt, you know the guy we’ve been hearing about from San Francisco and Chicago.”

  Agent Anchor froze. He was used to being in charge and then Molly Santera and this guy Hunt had treated him like he was a Keystone Kop. “What are you doing here?”

  Ramsey just smiled at him. “Well, you know, my house in San Francisco was trashed just like Mrs. Santera’s. We were thinking that there just might be some parallels. What do you think? Just maybe Mr. Shaker is a very thorough man?”

  “I don’t appreciate your humor,” Agent Anchor said. “I know all this. But she shouldn’t have taken off to look for her daughter. She shouldn’t have refused to return to Denver after she’d found her. She shouldn’t have hindered my investigation.” He stared at Molly, his thin nostrils flared wide with dislike. “And she shouldn’t have insulted me when I walked in just now. Maybe if she’d done what I told her to, she wouldn’t have ended up with a dead husband. But then, you got a live judge, didn’t you?”

  Molly shot a quick look toward Emma, who looked to be glued to the TV cartoon. Then she stood up in one smooth motion and kicked Agent Anchor hard in the shin. He gasped, grabbed his leg, then very slowly, he straightened. “I’m arresting you for assaulting a federal officer,” he said when he could speak again.

  “I don’t think so,” Ramsey said. “Actually, she beat me to it. Stop being an ass, Agent Anchor.” He gracefully slid his hand to the man’s elbow. He said close to his ear, “I think you’re laboring under a severe misapprehension here. Listen up: She’s not her father. You’d best get that right away. Now, why don’t you put on your human clothes, sit down, and we can try to work together. If that isn’t to your liking, then I’ll call up your boss and Agents Savich and Sherlock, who worked the case with us in Chicago, and we’ll all have a talk. Your call, Agent.”

  Agent Anchor wasn’t happy. On top of everything, the case of the murdered farmer in Loveland wouldn’t ever officially get solved now. They hadn’t even found the man who’d abused the little girl, and it had all started when she’d up and left Denver and gone out to hot-dog on her own. Ramsey Hunt was wrong about her. She was just like her father, he’d known it the minute he’d set eyes on her. She’d made the case go sour. And now this damned judge had taken her side. And he knew Savich.

  Detective Mecklin pushed back from the table and rose. There were cookie crumbs on his solid red tie and on the white shirt that gaped over his belly. “Listen, we’re not getting anywhere with all this crap. Agent Anchor, sit down, if Judge Ramsey will let you.”

  Molly said, “There’s also my daughter, Agent Anchor. Children hear most things adults say. I think we’ve said enough.”

  Agent Anchor looked over at Emma, who was chewing gum, too fast. He had two kids. He knew when a kid was hearing things she shouldn’t. And now he had this judge in the mix.

  “Yeah,” Agent Anchor said, and sat down.

  There was dead silence. Detective Mecklin picked up another oatmeal cookie and said as he took a big bite, “If all this is connected, it took power, men, and money, all of which this Mr. Shaker has in abundance.”

  Molly said, “Why do you think they trashed my house? Just for the fun of it?”

  “Say it happened two or three days ago, Mrs. Santera,” Detective Mecklin said. “That was about the same time your ex-husband was getting blown up. Maybe it was all part of the same puzzle. The word is that you and your daughter were the intended victims, to bring Mr. Santera in line. Yeah, it’s gotta all be part of the same effort.”

  “All that,” Molly said. “All that for some money, or to get Louey for his daughter? It sounds crazy.”

  Agent Anchor poured h
imself a cup of coffee. He hadn’t said a word. He drank a bit, then poured in some cream. Finally, he said, “People like Shaker can’t allow anyone to stiff them for a million bucks. He relies too much on people being afraid of him. God knows the money was there to hire the best.”

  Detective Mecklin said, “Shaker did it, all right. Trust me on this. It’s over.”

  “You’re probably right,” Ramsey said. “There is no other answer.” He turned to Agent Anchor. “Unless you can come up with something?”

  Agent Anchor shook his head. “No, it’s just my gut. Did Savich discover anything on that damned laptop?”

  “Nothing solid yet,” Ramsey said.

  Agent Anchor shook his head. He had a buzz haircut, which was just as well since he was mostly bald. “I remember once when I was in Washington, I got to be in a meeting with Savich, and the person recording the minutes asked him what sex the laptop was currently enjoying. Nobody laughed.”

  Ramsey didn’t particularly like to have a person start to turn human on him when he’d made the decision that the person was a jerk. Still, maybe the guy would relapse again.

  Ramsey saw that Emma had curled up on the sofa, her piano clutched to her, sound asleep. One leg of her jeans was rucked up and he could see the pink sock over her Nike sneaker. He wasn’t really shocked at the strength of his feelings for her, not anymore. He swallowed. Then he saw that her other sock was white. Well, it had been a hard day for all of them. He rose, still looking at Emma. “I can’t see that this is leading anywhere. Maybe we shouldn’t even have bothered to call you. Waste of time for all of us.”

  “No,” Detective Mecklin said, rising as well. “All of it is part of the investigation. Maybe we’ll turn up something at the house. Sooner or later, we’ll snag that guy who hurt Emma. The Feds want him real bad. Hey, Agent Anchor, maybe you can get him on tax evasion, huh?”

  25

  IT WAS SIXTY-TWO degrees and breezy in San Francisco, with a big unclouded sky overhead. Ramsey breathed in the clean air deeply and smiled. He looked through the half-open window of his study that gave onto a small lawn and the Golden Gate Bridge beyond, off in the distance. He loved Sea Cliff, which was considered by many, himself included, to be the most spectacular area in the city. His house was among the first tier of homes that sat atop the line of the cliffs at the northwestern tip of the city. The ocean rolled in from the left, the Golden Gate stood guardian at the entrance of the bay to the right, connecting the city to the bleak naked Marin Headlands directly across from him. The Headlands stood stark in the afternoon sunlight. There was still some green on the hills. But it wouldn’t be long now, deep into summer, until the Headlands would be unrelieved brown, seemingly barren of life. If the fog rolled in during the late afternoon, it would settle over the Headlands, and look for all the world like the setting for a Gothic movie.

  His house had been photographed, fingerprinted, thoroughly cleaned up, and repaired. He’d spoken to his secretary and both of his externs, the two law clerks assigned to him as a federal district judge. The three of them had volunteered to refurbish his house. He’d given them color schemes, the type of furniture he liked, and a budget. They’d gone over budget, but given the furniture and draperies that had been delivered and lovingly arranged throughout the house, he wasn’t about to bitch. He wondered what else would be arriving. It was interesting to see himself through other people’s eyes. His study was more domineering and masculine now, full of leather and rich earth colors. They’d spent a small fortune on the leather sofa and chairs and the immense mahogany desk, and he’d approved that as well. The walls were still empty. They couldn’t have bought the art he would like.

  Given that less than a month had passed, they’d accomplished miracles.

  “Ramsey?”

  “Yes, Emma?”

  “I like your house. The water makes me feel good.”

  He grinned as he leaned down and picked her up in his arms. He carried her to his huge leather chair and sat down. He put his feet up on the sinfully rich leather hassock, something he’d never had before. “Let’s look at the view together, okay? We can let our souls commune with nature. Hey, where’s your piano?”

  “Upstairs. But my piano’s not important right now.” She sighed, that adult sigh. “I’m worried about Mama. I don’t think she feels good even though she told me she was fine.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “She’s sick. She sent me down here to keep you busy, to keep you away. She doesn’t want you to know, but I’m worried. Can you fix it, Ramsey?”

  “Oh, damn. Sorry, Emma. Will you stay here and commune with nature for me?”

  “Yes, but just for a little while. Mama’s face is kind of green.”

  “I’ll take care of her. You stay put, all right, Emma?”

  “I won’t go outside by myself, Ramsey.”

  “Good girl,” he said, kissed her forehead, and took off upstairs. He heard her retching from the top of the stairs. There were three rooms on the second floor––his master suite, a study, and a guest room, where she and Emma were sleeping. She was in the bathroom attached to the guest room. The door was pulled to, but not closed all the way. He inched it open. Molly was on her knees, her head over the toilet, heaving.

  He didn’t say anything, just gently reached down to rub her shoulders, then hunched down on his knees beside her. He pulled back her hair. She sank back against him. “You okay now?”

  She moaned. “I don’t want to talk. I just want to die.”

  He flushed the toilet. “Hold still, let me get you some water to wash out your mouth.”

  She moaned again. “I wish you hadn’t come up here. I should have known Emma would get you. This is humiliating.”

  He handed her a glass of water. She eyed it, then rose slowly. “Let me brush my teeth.”

  “I’ve got some antacid. You want some? Oh yes, Emma was really worried. I’m glad she had sense enough to fetch me. More sense than her mother.”

  “Go away,” she said, pushing him out the door and closing it. He heard her rinse her mouth out with mouthwash. Five minutes later, he was walking beside her to the bed. There wasn’t a great view in the guest room, but the row of three windows that were there gave a glimpse of the Golden Gate.

  “At least while I’m lying here dying, the last thing I see will be beautiful.”

  “Nah, the last thing you’ll see is my ugly face. That’s enough right there to get you well again.”

  “I must have eaten something bad on the airplane.”

  She’d had the linguine with clam sauce. Both he and Emma had had the chicken. “Could be. That or it’s stress.” He gently cupped her face with his palm. She was sweaty and damp. He frowned. “I’m going to call my doctor, see what he has to say.”

  “I’m not going to any doctor, Ramsey. Forget it. My stomach’s empty now. I’ll be fine.”

  “We’ll see,” he said, in the same adult tone she used naturally with a child when she wanted to clamp down on any further arguments.

  He brought her a couple of pills and a glass of water. “Take these.”

  She didn’t even ask what they were. When she’d swallowed them, she leaned back against the pillows.

  “How’s your arm?”

  “It’s fine. How’s your back?”

  He just smiled at her. “I’m okay. Can you still see the stitches in your arm?”

  “Some of them, but they’re on their way. How’s your leg?”

  “Long healed. I want to see your arm.” She suffered his rolling up the sleeve of her pale cream-colored blouse. He gently pulled back the bandage. The skin was a healthy pink, the stitches obscene in her white arm, but the wound was much better, the remaining stitches disintegrating. He grunted and pressed the bandage down again. “Well, your heaving isn’t from this wound.”

  “Where’s Emma?”

  “She’s in my big leather chair staring out the French doors toward the bridge. But let me go check.” He brought her b
ack up five minutes later.

  “Look who I found with her cute little nose pressed to the window?”

  “My beautiful little princess?”

  “Nah, she’s mine, but I’ll be willing to share her for a couple of minutes. You can see for yourself, Emma. Your mom’s okay.”

  “Can I stay with her, Ramsey? I’ll try to make her laugh. She says laughing always makes anybody feel better.”

  “Okay, but if she gets sick again, you holler and I’ll get somebody over here with some needles to stick in her.”

  “Yuck,” said Emma.

  Three hours later, Molly was chewing on some dry toast and drinking hot plain Earl Grey tea. She still looked pale. At least she hadn’t vomited again. The nausea had been gone for an hour, but his hand still hovered over the phone. He wanted to call Jim Haversham, an internist with privileges at San Francisco General.

  “I don’t think we’re going anywhere tomorrow,” he said at nine o’clock that evening. Both Emma and Molly were lying in the guest-room bed, the brand-new TV on low, providing background noise.

  The doorbell sounded. Ramsey turned to leave. “It’s just a friend of mine from the San Francisco PD. I called her. She’s going to brief me on anything they’ve turned up.”

  “About your house being trashed?” Molly asked, moving the wet washcloth a bit to the left on her forehead.

  “That and other things. You guys just relax. Emma, if your mom needs anything, you come and tell me. Can I count on you to mind me and not her?”

  Emma looked worried. “I don’t know, Ramsey, she’s my mom. She’s been around since I was born.”

  “I know, but right now she’s on the pathetic side. She doesn’t know what’s good for her. Call me, all right?”

  Emma still looked uncertain. She pulled her piano onto her lap. Molly groaned. She groaned again, a big funny groan that made Emma smile.

  Good for you, Molly, he thought, gave them a salute, and took off downstairs.