Backfire fst-16

by Catherine Coulter

  Harry said, “So you fell pretty close to both trees. And your dad’s the U.S. marshal in Chicago?”

  “Yep. Like I told you, he’s an anomaly. He’s served under two different presidents now, unlike most of the ninety-four marshals countrywide. Tell me about your folks, Harry.”

  He shrugged. “They live in London—well, they do for most of the year. They love to travel, always have, and they took me with them. I guess they gave me the travel bug.”

  She could only gape at him. Parents lived in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, for heaven’s sake, or Minneola, Florida, not London, England. “Why do they live in London?”

  He looked like he wanted to tell her to leave it alone, but he said finally, “My dad’s a financier. It sounds old-fashioned, I know, but that’s what he says he is.”

  “What does he finance?”

  “Well, he runs Willet, Haversham, and Bayle.”

  She let out a whistle. “They’re so big even I’ve heard of them. They’re worldwide. And they survived the bankers’ rape of the world with fairly clean hands, from all I’ve read. Your dad’s CEO?”

  “Well, not really. He’s the chairman of the board. Actually, he pretty much is Willet, Haversham, and Bayle.”

  “But your name’s Christoff.”

  “Willet and Haversham are his first and middle names, the middle name from his own father, and Bayle is his best friend. They picked the name because Dad liked the sound of it, all snooty and English, like one of their ancient law firms.”

  “So your dad is Willet Haversham Christoff? And what’s your full name?”

  “I’ll tell you on my deathbed.”

  “That bad? Does your name sound like an English duke? All right, I’ll wait. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “I’m an only child.”

  “All right, I’ll keep pulling hen’s teeth. Your mom?”

  “Sylvia is my mom. She’s a fashion consultant.”

  She stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

  He shrugged. “She’d take one look at you and want to haul you off to be photographed for Vogue. And she’d be right. The camera would love you, she’d say. You’ve got great bones.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “She took me with her on photo shoots, showed me all the subtle clues in a person’s face, actually. I’ve found it all very useful to a cop.”

  “With that background, why’d you want to be a cop?”

  Harry said, without hesitation, “My uncle Roy, my mom’s brother, is FBI. When I was six years old he told me I had the heart of a cop. He was right.”

  Harry’s cell rang. “Yeah?”

  His face remained impassive, but his eyes hardened. “We’ll be there in twelve minutes.”

  “What?”

  “You put the Cahills in a holding cell in the Federal Building, right? Someone evidently cleared the Cahills to go back to the San Francisco jail. Cheney called, found out they were transferred at eight-forty-five tonight.”

  “No, that’s not possible. I mean—what happened?”

  Hall of Justice

  Women’s jail

  Monday night

  Cindy Cahill shook her hands to regain some circulation as plump mean-as-a-snake Annette in her too-tight uniform trousers unlocked her wrist chains. “Welcome home,” Annette said. “Hey, you weren’t over in the Federal Building for very long. What was that all about?”

  Cindy shook her head. “No one said a word, dragged me and Clive over there, then brought us back.”

  “Your hubby okay?”

  “Clive would be thriving if it was World War Three.” She and Clive had been taken to the holding cells on the twentieth floor because Savich had wanted to scare them, and not about the CIA, either, but about Xu, as if he’d have a chance of getting into the jail and killing them. Of course, no one had said that, but she’d known it to her toes. Why hadn’t that bitch marshal Barbieri told her what this was all about? Because Barbieri was only a drone, and drones kept their mouths shut, if they even knew the answers.

  As she knelt down to unfasten the ankle chains, Annette said, “Maybe this moving you around has to do with your lawyer being murdered up in Bel Marin Keys this afternoon. Both him and his girlfriend.”

  Cindy’s heart stopped, her breath caught in her throat. She put her hand out to the wall so she wouldn’t fall over. Milo was dead? Murdered? Of course Xu had killed him, she knew it, and that meant he was cleaning house: O’Rourke, Judge Hunt, Milo—she and Clive were the last ones left. Well, Judge Hunt was alive, but why Xu gave a crap about the judge was a huge question in her mind, since he had nothing to do with anything. Had Milo tried to blackmail Xu into giving him more money? Could he have been that stupid? Or was Xu ready to leave the country? He didn’t want to take the chance of anyone finding out his name or anything about him?

  And now she and Clive were the only ones left who could tie him to anything at all. It was bad enough Xu had murdered O’Rourke, but she’d believed he’d had to, since O’Rourke had screwed everything up and alerted the judge. It even made sense to her. Both she and Clive had believed Xu would find some other way to get them out. But to murder Milo? Even though in the last couple of days both she and Clive had begun to have doubts about Milo, he’d always calmed her, always made her feel like she was in charge. And he always reminded her that Xu was backing them, the man who had all the money and would spend as much as it took. Xu wasn’t bad in the sack, either.

  Now he’d murdered Milo.

  “Hey, you hadn’t heard? That’s amazing. The lieutenant burps and everyone in this place knows a meatball sub was delivered before he’s finished it off.”

  “No, I hadn’t heard,” Cindy said, and she thought, Screw the twenty-five years. She suddenly didn’t care how old she’d be when she got out of prison. At least she’d have a chance of getting out. Were she and Clive really safe here? If Xu really wanted them dead, could he somehow make it happen? She felt fear so corrosive it was like her stomach was turning in on itself.

  “I need to use the phone. I need to call Agent Savich at the FBI.”

  Annette gave Cindy her patented “I can do whatever I want with you since I’m the boss” look and shook her head. “Nope, sweetheart, you can make your call to Agent Savich during business hours tomorrow. This isn’t a hotel. Come on, time for you to shower and get your butt to bed.”

  “But it’s urgent; it’s a matter of life and death—”

  Annette simply sneered at her. “Like I said, Cindy, this isn’t a hotel. Let’s go.”

  Cindy knew Annette wouldn’t budge, and so she bowed her head and followed her to the showers. She’d call Savich first thing in the morning.

  She didn’t pay attention any longer to the guards seeing her naked; it hardly even registered. There were several other women in the showers before lights-out, some of them sullen and quiet, others usually loud and foulmouthed. She’d learned to avoid the two or three bullies, to stick with those who stayed quiet and left her alone.

  How could she get Savich to agree to fifteen years now he knew she was terrified of Xu?

  She managed a bit of lather out of the crappy soap bar as she considered what she’d say to Savich. Better to leave Clive out of it, let him deal on his own. She’d known yesterday Clive wanted to tell Savich and Barbieri everything he knew, down to Xu’s sock size. And she’d stopped him. Had that been a mistake? No, no, tomorrow morning it would be fine. She knew Savich would interview Clive separately soon enough after her to make sure she’d told him the truth.

  She’d still try to bargain for fifteen years. No more, fifteen years. It wasn’t a lifetime of years. She could get through it, she would get through it. If only Mark Lindy hadn’t found out what was happening and freaked out—

  Cindy put the bar of soap back on the shelf and turned to see a tiny Asian woman she’d noticed hovering in the background since yesterday, always deferential and polite to her, trying to get Cindy into a conversation. What w
as her name? She couldn’t remember. The woman was standing naked in front of her, something in her hand. In a blur Cindy saw it was a blade. She jumped back, but she wasn’t fast enough. The blade sank into her chest even as she slipped and fell on her back onto the wet tiles. She stared at the woman, whispered, “Why did you do that?”

  The woman said, “For my son. I’m sorry.”

  Xu, she thought. Xu had done this. Her last thought was of Clive. Was he dying, too?

  San Francisco General

  Monday night

  Clive Cahill was dead, and Cindy Cahill was fighting for her life in surgery because of a stupid mistake, and it was all her fault, no one else’s.

  Eve sat in the waiting room with Harry, playing the “if only” game—if only she’d stayed longer with the Cahills at the holding cells on the twentieth floor of the Federal Building, if only she’d thought to read the Cahills’ transfer papers from San Francisco jail carefully enough, Xu would never have found them.

  No, Miss Brilliance had looked with only one eye and half a brain at the transfer papers, never seen the error that had to be there that returned the Cahills to the San Francisco jail instead of leaving them right here. She had only glanced at the paperwork, really, then trotted out with Harry, excited to think she’d finally see his house. She hadn’t even thought to double-check; no, she’d happily hopped into Harry’s Shelby and gone with him without another thought about the Cahills’ safety. Her fault. She’d fire herself if she were her own boss.

  Cheney walked into the surgical waiting room with Sherlock and Savich behind him. Before Eve or Harry could open their mouths, Cheney said, “We don’t know yet who got to Clive. It was clean and fast, and before anyone knew anything, the guard heard a yell and there was Clive lying dead on the shower floor, a shiv lying beside him in bloody water.

  “They found an Asian woman by the name of Lin Mei standing over Cindy, crying, still holding a bloody homemade blade. Lucky for Cindy she stuck her in the chest just once with it, then jerked the blade right out.”

  Eve said, “Did she say why she did it?”

  Savich said, “Lieutenant Clark in the San Francisco Sheriff’s Custody Division spoke to her while the EMTs were transporting Cindy Cahill to the hospital. He said her voice sounded like she was drugged or in shock, that she couldn’t seem to speak above a whisper. She told Clark a man who looked American told her in fluent Mandarin in the calmest voice she’d ever heard that he would slit her son’s throat if she didn’t stab Cindy Cahill to death. He handed her a photo of her son shooting baskets in a friend’s driveway. He even told her where she would find a blade to stab her with tonight—in a drain next to the women’s shower. She said she didn’t have a doubt he’d do exactly what he said if she didn’t kill Cindy.”

  Sherlock said, “It seems so unlikely, but we know now that Xu looks American. No one who’s seen him thought he looked Asian, but he was always wearing glasses before. So it means he’s Chinese American, with Causasian features.”

  Eve said, “So Xu visited this woman in prison?”

  Savich shook his head. “Clark told me that Lin Mei had been out on bail until yesterday. Then she showed up after missing her court date, on purpose, it looks like, told by her court-appointed lawyer, who told her she’d see a judge in the next couple of days and be rebonded. Xu approached her while she was working at her job at the bakery at Whole Foods. He waited patiently until she was on break and stepped in front of her.”

  Savich shook his head. “Do you know she was arrested for kiting a check for her brother to get him out of trouble with a Chinese gang because she didn’t have any money? Now she’ll be up for murder.”

  Eve said, “Hopefully attempted murder with mitigating circumstances. Didn’t she think about what would happen to her and her son if she got caught?”

  Cheney said, “Caught? She never tried to hide that she’d stabbed Cindy. She was paralyzed by what she’d done, that she’d just tried to kill another human being. Lieutenant Clark said after she described what she’d done and why, her eyes rolled back in her head and she fainted. When she woke up she didn’t say another word. He said he asked her over and over why she hadn’t come and spoken to one of the guards, but she only looked at him with great sadness. He had her brought here to the emergency room.”

  Eve looked up to see her boss, Marshal Carney Maynard, standing in the doorway. He looked tired, she thought, and unhappy, and she couldn’t blame him at all. Maynard said, “There aren’t any nurses around who know anything about Cindy Cahill. Is she still alive?”

  “She’s still in surgery and hanging in,” Eve said. “That was all the OR nurse could tell us. She said when the surgery’s done, the surgeon will come out and speak to us. It’s nearly one a.m., sir, you didn’t have to come.” Of course he had to come, you idiot. He’s here because of you.

  Maynard said, “I did have to come, Eve. Cindy Cahill is here because my people screwed up.”

  Nice way of putting it. “No, sir, your people didn’t screw up. I screwed up, and I’m singular,” Eve said, and looked him straight in the eye. “Let’s do this in front of everyone, I deserve it.”

  Marshal Carney Maynard eyed her back and frowned. “How do you figure you suddenly rule the world, Deputy Barbieri?”

  “Sir, the truth is I only glanced at the transfer papers. I should have studied them as carefully as I would if they had been papers bringing Qaddafi’s body to the U.S., but I didn’t.”

  Maynard waved a hand to cut her off. He was more frazzled than tired, and here was Barbieri desperately trying to shoulder all the blame. It’d be easier if he could heap it all on her head, but he couldn’t. He said, “Since the proverbial buck stops with me, Deputy Barbieri, I’m the one responsible. I knew the importance of this transfer, but I was watching the Monday-night football game. This was the classic definition of a snafu. I’d hoped never to have one with such disastrous results under my watch, but it’s happened, and now we all have to deal with it.

  “So dial it down, Eve.” He laughed. “We’ve given our FBI contingent a fine show. Here’s what happened. Turns out we had a new deputy driving the prisoner van. His partner didn’t look closely at the paperwork, and so they did the run they normally do. They drove Clive and Cindy Cahill straight back from one of our holding cells to the San Francisco jail. That simple. No, Deputy. You did your job. I didn’t do mine.”

  Sherlock said, “No one wins in a blame game, Marshal Maynard. Not even the FBI contingent.”

  Nurse Camp looked in from the doorway. “Dr. Elba is tied up and asked me to speak to you. Cindy Cahill is out of surgery. Dr. Elba thinks she has an even chance, though she’s still oozing blood because of a clotting problem she’s developed from all the bleeding. We moved her to recovery. You won’t be able to speak to her until morning, all right?”

  Harry asked, “Could you please find out about a new patient for us, a Mrs. Lin Mei, probably having a psychiatric evaluation?”

  Nurse Camp said, “Not in my bailiwick, Agent. The people at the reception desk can help you find her.”

  Eve thanked her and watched Savich dial Bill Hammond at the CIA. They could hear a man’s voice loud and clear: “Are you nuts, Savich? It’s four in the damned morning!”

  Harry and Eve looked at each other, knew they didn’t want to hear this conversation, and left the waiting room. They took the elevator to the fourth floor to check on Ramsey before they left the hospital. It wasn’t the same elevator. That one still had crime tape plastered over the doors on every floor. Eve didn’t think she’d ever want to ride that particular elevator again in her life.

  Judge Sherlock’s home

  Pacific Heights

  Tuesday morning

  Judge Corman Sherlock said to his son-in-law the next morning across the breakfast table, “You’re frustrated, Dillon, and no wonder, after last night. How about I give you my membership card for the Pacific Heights Club over on Union Street and you get a good workout? I can call Mr
. Eddie, he’s usually there, and he’s been looking forward to mixing it up with you. He outweighs you by a good twenty pounds, all of it muscle. Even though he’s older than you, he’s one tough bald bugger.”

  Savich hated to say no; he couldn’t think of anything he needed more than a sweaty hard workout. He shook his head. “I’ve got to take a rain check with Mr. Eddie. Lacey and I have to get over to the hospital as soon as we can. Cindy Cahill’s awake, more or less, and this is our first chance to talk to her.”

  Five minutes later, after Sean had demolished a bowl of Cheerios and started to rag on his grandmother about the visit to the zoo she’d promised him, even though the zoo wasn’t open yet, Sherlock started up their rental car for the ride across town to San Francisco General Hospital.

  Savich booted up MAX as they drove toward Market Street. “Cheney is already working on getting a sketch of Xu from Lin Mei. He said he’d have it out to Hammersmith about now, but it doesn’t look like he’s posted it yet. I wonder how Cindy will react to it.”

  “I only hope she’ll be able to talk to us,” Sherlock said. “Cheney said she wasn’t doing well.”

  “If she can, I know in my gut that now she’ll tell us everything she knows about Xu, since he tried to have her killed.”

  He sat back for a moment, closed his eyes. “Until Xu murdered Milo Siles, and his game plan became clear, it was a nightmare trying to predict him. Sometimes he was controlled and logical, sometimes not. What he pulled off last night was an act of desperation, beyond his control. He was lucky it worked out as well as it did.”

  Sherlock turned onto 101 South. “Ripping up an elevator ceiling, throwing down a smoke bomb, and firing down on a bunch of marshals and Ramsey sure wasn’t a logical, controlled act. I still can’t figure that one out.”

  “I can’t, either. It’s so over-the-top and out of character for him. Why was he so desperate to kill Ramsey in such a crazy way? Bottom line, he’s a spy, probably has been for quite a while, and a spy’s first watchword, it would seem to me, is discretion. He buried Mickey O’Rourke in a spot no one would ever find, just bad luck for him that those kids were there.