by Неизвестный
She got another long-suffering look. She didn't get back to her feet until Miles had taken Emma's hand in his and they were walking toward the kitchen, Emma holding her piano close against her chest. She rose and sighed. "Do come into the living room, Detective."
"It was verified," Detective O'Connor said. "The bullet was a 7.62 mm sniping round." He turned toward Ramsey. "You probably know that this bullet is heavier, to give it more energy and a flatter trajectory. That's particularly important over a long distance." "Any sign of the shooter?"
"We went to the Ames Building, to the roof, which is the top of the fourth floor. We found a couple of cigarette butts, a to-go coffee container, and, wonder of wonders, there was this small wet spot."
Molly blinked at the detective. "Wet spot? Why is that a wonder?"
"He spit, Mrs. Santera. The shooter spit. That means DNA, if we're lucky. That means if and when we catch the guy, we'll have indisputable proof that he's guilty. The forensics folks think he's a smoker with a bad hacking cough. His vices might end up bringing him down.
"Since Mason Lord is a very powerful man, despite his more questionable associations and business practices, this case is very high profile. The press is starting to understand there isn't much to see around here. But they'll start showing up again at dawn, you can count on it. I'm glad you made it back so early. They'll find out soon enough that you're back, Judge Hunt."
"What do the doctors say about Mason's condition?"
Detective O'Connor checked his watch. "It's nearly midnight. I told his surgeon that you'd be arriving about now. He said you could call and he'd give you the latest word."
Detective O'Connor pulled out his cell phone and dialed. After five minutes of being sent from one person to the next, he handed the phone to Molly.
Ramsey watched her face as she took in what was being said to her. Her expression didn't change. That was odd. He watched her press the C^button, then hand the phone back to Detective O'Connor.
"He's alive. The surgeon, Dr. Bigliotti, says he's got a fifty-fifty chance-if, that is, he manages to survive the night. He already woke up." She looked at Detective O'Connor. "He whispered to the officer sitting next to his bed that Louey Santera shot him."
"You're kidding," Detective O'Connor said. "He must have been out of his head, what with the drugs."
"Yes, that's what Dr. Bigliotti said. My father hasn't said anything more. Dr. Bigliotti also said the media was all over him personally and the hospital in general. One of the night nurses nabbed a reporter who was carrying around a mop- as a disguise, I suppose-trying to find Mason Lord's room. Do you guys have any ideas? Any guesses that might help?"
Molly and Ramsey just looked at him. He knew defeat when he saw it.
THE hiss of the regulator was obscenely loud in the momentary quiet of the ICU at Chicago Memorial on Jefferson, the closest trauma center available when her father had been shot down in the street. Molly looked down at her father's white face, the tubes in his mouth and nose, the lines running into both arms, the bag emptying his bladder hanging from the side of the hospital bed. One officer sat not six inches away from him, a recorder on his lap, holding a police procedural mystery novel in his right hand. He nodded to them, then did a double take when he saw Ram-sey. He nodded again, this time, his head going lower, a sign of excessive respect, Molly thought, to Ramsey.
The ICU was huge, impersonal, filled with high-tech equipment. There were six other patients, with just curtains around their beds, and they weren't quiet. Moans of pain mixed with that damnable hissing sound, low voices of relatives speaking to patients, curses from the bed in the far corner, a nurse's hurrying footsteps.
Her father was as still as death. If it weren't for the machine, he would be dead. She lightly touched her palm to his cheek. His skin felt slack and clammy.
She realized in that moment that she wanted him to live. No matter what was true, he was her father. She wanted him to live. The nurse motioned them to leave after five minutes.
In the corridor, Molly said to Detective O'Connor, "Has anyone called my mother? She lives in Italy."
He looked at her blankly, scratched his ear, and shook his head. "Can't say anyone has, Mrs. Santera."
"I'll do it then when we get back home." It was nearly two o'clock in the morning. Molly had wanted to come, to see his face, just to see for herself that he was alive. Life was there, huddling deep inside her father, barely.
There was no traffic on the drive back to Oak Park. Ramsey kept a hard focus on the road in front of him. He was nearly cross-eyed with fatigue.
Even if they'd managed to get married, he was so tired right now, he doubted he could even stay awake long enough to kiss Molly's ear, even if she offered her ear to him to kiss. She was in pretty bad shape herself.
When they finally drove to the gates of the Lord mansion, they saw a man jump from a dark car just up the road. A reporter.
"Just what we needed," Ramsey said, and quickly called out to the guard in the security box at the gate. "It's Judge Hunt, open the gates, quickly. A reporter is coming."
"Putrid little maggots," the guard snarled, and got the gate open just before the reporter got to the rear end of the car.
"Wait!" the reporter yelled, but Ramsey just roared through the open gate. The reporter started through, then saw the wild maniacal grin on the security guard's face in the lighted booth as the huge gates began to swing shut.
He stepped back, cursing. "Hey, haven't you heard of the First Amendment? You jerk!"
The security guard, still grinning like a mad scientist, said over the loudspeaker, "Sure, you little shit, and Prince Charles is a Tampax."
Ramsey heard that. It made no sense at all. It all of a sudden seemed hilarious. He began to laugh. Molly joined him. They walked into the house, holding hands, laughing their heads off.
"Oh, dear," Miles said.
BOTH Miles and Gunther had alibis. Warren O'Dell also had an alibi. So did Eve Lord. Of all things, three of her friends had come over for a visit. They'd been drinking iced tea by the swimming pool at the time of Mason Lord's shooting.
The media had exploded. Since Eve was young, beautiful, extravagantly rich, she garnered immense sympathy and support, bolstered by the media, who always wallowed in beauty and money, particularly if it was possibly tragic beauty.
Molly's mother had expressed sympathy, but wasn't about to fly back to the U.S. "Why ever should I, my dear? I have no desire to hold his limp hand or let the paparazzi leap out of bushes at me. Just keep me informed, Molly."
Not unexpected, Molly thought, given that the new Mrs. Lord was young enough to be her daughter, and that her ex-husband hadn't been in her life for a good number of years.
Mason Lord, who lay unconscious, his life in the balance, was nearly forgotten. The attention was on the beautiful young wife, who just might at any moment become a widow. But then again, to be fair, what reporter wanted to risk his own neck questioning the background of Mason Lord?
He survived that night. They'd nearly lost him once, but they'd been able to control his blood pressure with a medication dripping into his IV, and he seemed stable. Molly and Ramsey hadn't gone back that morning, staying with Emma and watching as Eve Lord negotiated her way through the press when she visited her husband, all in glorious color on a special news bulletin on all three major local stations.
"I wish I had a clue as to what she was thinking," Molly said.
"So does Detective O'Connor," Ramsey said. He turned to see Emma walking slowly into the living room. "Hi, Em," Molly said. "Come on in and tell us what Miles is making for lunch."
Emma just stood there, holding her piano against her, looking bewildered. "Mama, when can we go home?"
Home, Molly thought. Which home?
"Where would you like to go?" Ramsey asked. He patted his knee. Emma went to him instantly. She carefully set her piano down on the floor beside the sofa and let him lift her onto his legs.
"Where?" he asked a
gain.
"Home," Emma said. "To San Francisco."
"Ah," Ramsey said. "You got it right. What would you say, Em, if your mom and I were to get married?"
She turned to look up at him. She slowly raised her hand to lightly stroke his cheek. She said with all a child's appalling candor, "My daddy just died, Ramsey. He wasn't with us much, but he was my daddy."
"Yes, he was. He'll always be your daddy."
"I don't think so," Emma said then. She leaned against his chest, her cheek against his shoulder. "I can't take the chance, Ramsey, I just can't."
"What chance, sweetheart?"
"If you married Mama, someone might blow you up too."
"Oh, Emma," he said, and hugged her tightly against him. "No one's going to hurt me, no one."
"They already did. You got shot in the leg at the cabin and when my daddy blew up your back got hurt, too."
"Just minor stuff. A big guy like me can take lots of minor stuff. Don't worry, Em. Please." She leaned down to pick up her piano. Her security blanket, he thought, wondering what the hell to do. "You know something, Emma?"
She lightly stroked her finger on middle C, not looking at him. Afraid to look at him, he thought.
"I think when we're all a family and everything's okay again, we're going back to Ireland. Shall we all spend our honeymoon at Bunratty Castle?"
She gave him a small smile. She turned away from her piano and pressed herself against his chest. "I don't know, Ramsey. Will Mama be happy?"
"I can make her delirious, just ask her."
Emma raised her head and stared at her mother. "Mama, do you think we can keep Ramsey safe?"
This was a wallop in the gut, Molly thought, smiling at her daughter, whose piano was slipping off Ramsey's lap. She nodded. "Yes, I think we can keep him safe. You see, Em, he's right. He's big and strong. We're not as strong as he is, so we'll be thinking more. We'll be the brains of the operation. Yes, we'll keep him safe."
Emma nodded slowly. "Who shot Grandfather?"
"We don't know yet," Molly said. "But he's alive, Em, and they're taking care of him at the hospital."
"Look at the time," Ramsey said. "We've got to get going or we'll miss your appointment with Dr. Loo."
"I hope we can avoid the media," Molly said, worry lacing her voice as she looked down at Emma.
They did manage to lose the press, and in Dr. Eleanor Loo's office thirty minutes later, Emma said, "Dr. Loo, Ramsey and my mom are going to get married. What do you think?"
"I think," Eleanor Loo said, fascinated, "that I need to have my secretary go buy us a bottle of champagne. You, Emma, can have a Sprite, is that all right?"
"I'd rather have a Dr. Pepper, Dr. Loo."
"That's great." Dr. Loo got on her phone for a moment, then turned back. "In half an hour, we'll have a toast. Congratulations to both of you. Now, Emma, tell me why you're worried."
"Because Ramsey could get killed like my daddy."
'That's true," Dr. Loo said slowly. "But you see, Emma, anything can happen to anybody in the world at any time. I'll never forget when Princess Diana died so tragically. I'll never forget the shock of it, the realization that none of us has any guarantees on anything. Life is one day at a time and trying to enjoy each day we're given. You've got to discover the knack for doing that. Do you understand?"
"That was different," Emma said. "Bad people are after us. It isn't just bad luck."
"You understand all too well," Dr. Loo said. "Okay, let's look at it this way. Ramsey and your mom want to give you a home. They want the three of you to be a family. They love you and want you to know that they'll always be there for you."
Emma sighed. She looked for a very long time at Ramsey, saying nothing, just studying him. Then she looked at her mother. Then, she turned back to Dr. Loo, and smiled. "I think Ramsey will make me a good papa. He already loves me bunches."
"He does, does he?"
"Yes. He went crazy in San Francisco when that bad man grabbed me again."
Molly had told Dr. Loo on the phone what had happened on the beach.
"Were you scared?"
"Yes, but it was over so fast. Ramsey said I saved myself again."
"What did you do?"
"The man hit me real hard, but I stayed awake. I bit him through his shirt, in the side. He's kind of fat around his stomach. I bit him real deep. He jerked and I got unburied by his coat. Ramsey saw me and the man had to drop me." She turned to Ramsey. "I wish you could have caught him."
"Me too, kiddo."
Dr. Loo spoke alone to Emma for a while and then they drank champagne, Emma drank her Dr. Pepper, and they all accepted congratulations from the staff there and two waiting patients.
One of the patients, an old man with a severe eye twitch, said, "I saw a blurred photo of you, Judge, in one of the rags. You were hugging a little girl."
"No," Emma said loudly, holding her piano really hard to her chest, "he was hugging me. He was upset."
"No, I didn't see anyone," Mason Lord said to Detective 0'Connor. He paused, sucking in his breath with a sudden twinge of pain. He shot a hit of morphine into his vein by pressing the medication button.
Detective O'Connor waited until he saw the pain clear from Lord's eyes. "No shadows, no warning, nothing?"
"No. Gunther and I were just coming from a friend's office. We'd had a little chat with him. A good fellow, a politician."
"His name, sir?"
"State Senator Quentin Kordie. Don't worry about him, Detective, he wouldn't try to shoot me. We're simply friends, that's all."
"Very well. Now, sir, who knew where you would be?"
It was obvious to Molly that her father had thought about that. She hated the calculation in his eyes, the drawing of pain as he sorted again through the few people he believed had known where he would be at that particular time.
Finally, Mason said, "A number of people knew, but, of course, only people in my organization." He paused, pumped another hit of morphine into his vein, and said, "If I've got a traitor in my midst, I'll deal with it, Detective."
"No, Mr. Lord, this is a police matter. It's called attempted murder."
"Then you know who's behind it, Detective. Rule Shaker." He shook his head in bewilderment. "He's never been frankly stupid before. The moron."
Detective O'Connor rose from his chair. "It seems to me, Mr. Lord, that if indeed Mr. Shaker was a moron and did try to kill you, then you've got a big problem. You seem to be well protected for the moment. Naturally, I assume that Rule Shaker has heard that you're still alive. If you're right, I can imagine what he's saying right now."
RULE Shaker wasn't saying anything. He was standing close to the huge glass window in his office that looked out over an endless stretch of desert. He hadn't ever wanted a view of Las Vegas. He lived in a city of kitsch. He wasn't about to look at it unless he had to.
The desert was clean, the air pure, so hot that all life sheltered during the hottest part of the day. Including people. He couldn't see a single soul in that vast expanse. He turned slowly as Murdock said, "Rudy's still hanging out at that motel in Oak Park, waiting for orders."
"Let him continue to wait. I hear that Lord is getting stronger every day in that hospital. He's going to live."
"That's the word," Murdock said, uncrossing his legs. He'd gained weight since he'd gotten back from Germany. He hadn't liked following Louey Santera around, but that's what Mr. Shaker had ordered him to do and that's what he'd done. Now he was home and could eat all the KFC he'd missed in Germany. He'd put on six pounds since he'd returned.
"Is there anything you'd like me to do, sir?"
"I'm thinking about it, Murdock. For the moment, we'll just let him lie in his bed, feel lots of pain, and think about his transgressions."
"Mason Lord doesn't believe in transgressions," Murdock said. He studied his boss, the man who'd taken him out of the street six years before and trained him to be one of his forward men. Yes, he was one of the FM now, a
group everyone important had heard of. He was respected and admired. He should get the six pounds off.
Mr. Shaker wasn't tall and aristocratic-looking like Mason Lord. Nature had shortchanged him, topping him off at a mere five foot seven inches. But he was a fit little man, hard and lean. He dressed beautifully, mostly in handmade English suits from Savile Row. But he was cursed with a swarthy complexion, flat black glass for eyes, scary eyes that made him look like a Middle Eastern terrorist or a religious fundamentalist, and a five-o'-clock shadow that started at nine o'clock in the morning. Actually, he looked like the Hollywood stereotype of exactly what he was: a crime boss. For all that, the man had more women than he could reasonably keep up with. Murdock suspected it was danger that brought the women. For all his smallness, Shaker looked like danger. He'd heard that Shaker had serviced two women the night before, and he was fifty-eight years old. Amazing.