Backfire (14 page)

Hyde Street, Russian Hill

Sunday

After four long knocks, Eve opened her door to Harry Christoff.

“I had this feeling it was you, but I was sort of hoping I was wrong.”

“Why? You wanted maybe the postman? It’s Sunday, no delivery on Sunday.”

A laugh spurted out of her. “No, I’m not really up to acting all social and civilized. I’m sorry I missed the meeting this morning; you’ll tell me everything?”

“I will, but you have to invite me in first. I figured you’d be in pretty bad shape, so I came bearing gifts.” He held out a bakery bag and a covered go-cup that sent the aroma of dark roast coffee wafting to her nose.

Eve took the bag first, looked upward, and said “Thank you,” then, “You’re amazing, Harry, and you even brought coffee. No, you’re more than amazing, you’re a prince, Agent Christoff. Are there any glazed?”

He looked down at her scrubbed face, her hair hanging loose around her shoulders over a faded red robe, her bare feet. “You look like the homecoming queen on a reality show. I’m glad you slept in this morning. How’s your back?”

She forced herself to stand up straight. “I’ll be good to go after three donuts and this wonderful coffee. Come in, let’s go to the kitchen. Are there maybe more than one glazed?”

“There are three, but I was hoping for one myself,” he said, as he followed her into her kitchen. He still couldn’t get over how streamlined and cool it looked, with pale green granite counters shot with black, and hanging copper pots over a small center island. He said, “My kitchen’s right out of the forties.”

“As long as everything’s clean and works, who cares what decade it comes from? It’s all about the food and the person making it, right? You want milk in your coffee? You don’t want a glazed donut, do you? You somehow knew it was my favorite?”

“Nah, give me a chocolate with sprinkles. I’m a real man.”

“How many donuts?”

“Six.”

She set everything out on the small kitchen table, and they started in on the donuts and coffee, neither saying much of anything until only one donut, not glazed, was left on the paper plate between them. Eve wiped the sticky glaze off her mouth and her fingers, laughed, and leaned forward to flick a red sprinkle off his chin. She sat back and sighed, contented. “Thank you. Before you came, I’d just gotten out of the shower and wondered what I was going to make for breakfast. Nothing appealed, then you showed up.”

She toasted him with her coffee cup.

He asked, “How’d you sleep last night?”

“In the arms of the angels, with the help of two aspirin and a sleeping-pill chaser. I’m trying to stay away from the codeine.” She stretched, froze, then began, very slowly, to stretch again.

Harry stood up. “Let me see how bad the bruising is today.”

She stared up at him. “You mean you want me to drop my bathrobe?”

“Well, yeah, but don’t feel like you have to put on a show for me, even though I did let you eat all three of the glazed donuts. No, just show me your back. You know, if you can’t think of me as your doctor, you can pretend you’re an artist’s model draped with a towel. Come on, Barbieri, I’m not going to jump you. You’re safe. I’m not desperate enough, and, fact is, you’re too pathetic-looking right now.”

She stood up, turned her back to him, and let her robe drop to her waist. Harry pushed her hair out of the way, even though he didn’t need to, and studied the shades of her green, black, and yellow back. “You got a modern art painter living with you?”

She tried to look back over her shoulder. “That bad?”

He lightly touched his fingertips to one bruise. She didn’t flinch. “Do you have some muscle cream?”

She pulled her robe back up. “Yeah, I do, for all the good it did me. I can’t reach the bad areas.”

“Get it. I’ll do it for you.”

She gave him a look, then left him in the kitchen to finish his coffee and stare out at her small back garden with its six-foot stone walls and single cypress tree. Everything looked dormant now, but he imagined there’d be lots of color in the summer.

He ate the last donut since it was chocolate.

She came back into the kitchen in a minute, handed him a white tube. It was brand-new.

“It’s supposed to be good stuff, not only for muscle soreness but for bruising as well. I bought it yesterday before I realized I couldn’t reach anything.”

She again dropped the robe to her waist. She grinned over her shoulder. “Am I really that pitiful?”

“Not quite; you combed your hair.”

“Well, I looked in the mirror and nearly fainted. I had to do something.”

Harry covered his fingers with the cream, stared at her long stretch of back, closed his eyes for a moment to get a grip on himself, and touched his fingers to her skin.
I’m a solid, consummate professional, doing my job.
He wished she did look pathetic, but the fact was, she didn’t, not at all. He reminded himself he was looking at a deputy marshal’s back splotched blue and green, but, unfortunately, that didn’t help.

“Am I rubbing too hard?”

She said over her shoulder, “No, it feels grand.”

“Would you like to lie on your stomach? Speaking as one solid professional to another?”

She laughed, then groaned. “Not a good idea, even speaking as a professional. You’ve got really good hands, Harry.”

Really good
professional
hands
.
He started whistling as he continued rubbing the cream on her back in steady smooth strokes, deepening when he realized he wasn’t hurting her, and if his hands went a bit lower than the bruises, surely there were sore muscles at her waist, and the massage couldn’t but help.

“You can’t see the bruises now,” he said. “You’re all white since I’ve used half the tube on you.”

“Feels like it, nice and hot.”

He didn’t want to stop, but he did. He stepped back. Slowly, she shrugged back into her robe. She turned. “Thank you. Look at me, I think I can straighten without groaning.”

He went to the sink to wash his hands. He could feel the heat deep and knew it must feel good on her back.

“Tell me more about your meeting this morning with Cheney, Savich, and Sherlock.”

So he told her, answering her questions until she had no more. His cell phone chimed.

“Yeah?”

“Cheney here, Harry. They found Mickey O’Rourke. Two kids in Nicasio saw a man bury him. Thank God they had the sense to keep quiet so he never saw them. The Marin County sheriff, Bud Hibbert, had a photo of Mickey on his desk, recognized him, and called me. I called Savich and Sherlock. They’ve finished interviewing Boozer Gordon. I don’t want to call Barbieri; she’s probably still flat on her stomach, high on codeine.”

“Actually,” Harry said, “I’m with her now, and she’s doing okay. She’s got to get dressed, but we’ll be there as soon as we can.”

“Good. Ask Eve to requisition a Chevy Suburban out of the marshals’ pool, that way the five of us can ride up together.”

Harry punched off his cell. He looked up to see Eve standing in the doorway to the kitchen, unmoving, her face set.

“You heard what Cheney said?”

She nodded. “I didn’t want to believe Mickey could be dead, it hurt too much, so I tried not to think about it.” She swallowed. “But I knew he had to be. Harry, he’s dead, just—dead. That monster murdered him.”

Harry said, “Yes, the monster murdered him. But we’ve got two kids who saw him. We’ve got witnesses, Eve. Cheney wants us to go up there. We’ll catch him; you know we will.”

She turned to go into her bedroom, saying over her shoulder, “I can’t stand this, Harry, just can’t stand it.”

Harry thought of Mrs. O’Rourke, thought of Mickey O’Rourke’s teenage daughters, thought of the uncertainty they’d been living with for the past four days, the soul-eating fear, and now they had to face the death of a husband, a father.

When Eve came out, she was dressed in her black and red, her hair in a ponytail, no makeup on her face. Her eyes were puffy from crying.

He walked to her and lightly rubbed his fingertip over her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Eve. Believe me, I know how you feel.”

Near Nicasio, California

Forty-five minutes northwest of San Francisco

Sunday afternoon

Harry turned the U.S. Marshals’ Chevy Suburban west off Highway 101 on Lucas Valley Road, drove about ten miles, then turned right on Nicasio.

Sherlock looked out over the rolling hills of cattle and horse country. “The hills are still all gold and brown, even with the rain.”

Cheney said, “The rain was a little late this year. By March, the hills will be as green as Ireland.” He saw Harry turn the windshield wipers on intermittent, and said, “I hope we stay with this light mist. A full-on downpour would really make things difficult.” He waved a hand as Harry curved left. “There’s Nicasio, one square block, really. Its claim to fame is the 1871 red schoolhouse. It’s a historical landmark.”

Harry said, “The Nicasio Reservoir is up ahead. You’ll see this area is a real mix, with a few exclusive, expensive homes sitting next to farm country and to old hippie hangouts.”

Eve said, “Hard to believe we’re so close to the gazillion people living in San Francisco.”

They were all thinking,
We’re talking about the ridiculous weather and the scenery because Mickey O’Rourke is dead.

Harry pulled in to what looked like a makeshift parking lot, climbed out of the Chevy, and opened a gate. “Here it is. Ranch Road.” And he got back into the SUV and drove through the gate. He followed the narrow, dirty road through trees and fancy horse pastures and hills dotted with cows. They came across a white Crown Vic with a green sheriff’s ID on the side, parked at the edge of the road.

Bud Hibbert, the Marin County sheriff, was tall and runner-lean, with a full head of iron-gray hair that glistened with a light film of rain. He had a craggy, weathered face that announced he sat squarely in his fifties, and dark, smart eyes that looked like they’d seen about everything.

“How’d the FBI get hold of a U.S. Marshals’ SUV?” he asked, nodding toward the big black Suburban.

“I’m Deputy Marshal Eve Barbieri,” Eve said, and shook his hand. “I’m their procurer.” She introduced everyone, and Sheriff Hibbert introduced his three deputies, all from Civic Center Main Station.

Hibbert said to Cheney, “I got the particulars you sent out on Federal Prosecutor Mickey O’Rourke Friday afternoon. When we realized the body was O’Rourke, I pulled our guys back immediately to preserve the crime scene for you. You’ve got a forensic team coming?”

Cheney nodded.

Sheriff Hibbert said, “The two kids who saw the killer—we knew they weren’t blowing smoke because Rufino Ramirez’s dad is a deputy sheriff in our Point Reyes Substation.

“We haven’t seen this kind of thing around here, Agents, since the trailside murders. It’s already all over town.”

Hibbert raised his face. “It’s been raining on and off all morning. I’m afraid I can feel more coming. No choice, let’s do this,” he said, and turned toward his cruiser and said over his shoulder, “Deputy Sheriff Ramirez took his boy, Rufino, and his friend, Eleanor, back to his house; then he called the other parents over, so they’re all together, waiting for you. How far behind you is the forensic team?”

Cheney said, “They’re only a few minutes out. I called Joe Elder, the forensic team leader, told him you’d have a deputy waiting here for them at the same place where you met us.”

Sheriff Hibbert nodded, climbed into his Crown Vic, and led them slowly past a few more dirt tracks before turning left at the fourth, which threw them into a mess of thick oak and bay trees. Soon they saw half a dozen more cars pulled onto the grass along the dirt tracks, their passenger sides pressed up against the trees. The tracks narrowed to a dirt path.

The sheriff pulled over, got out of his Crown Vic, and waved them forward. He said, “We figure the killer parked some twenty feet down this trail; that’s where we found tire tracks, nice and clear before the rain picked up. Our guys are taking the tire casts now. He carried O’Rourke’s body about a hundred feet farther into the woods. This is private land, but you can’t see the house from here.”

They followed him along a narrow trail, the trees so thick overhead it looked like twilight in the woods. There was no wind to speak of, but the air was pregnant with rain, and a light drizzle continued to fall. When they reached a small clearing, Sherlock looked up, hoping to see a bit of sun, but she knew that wasn’t going to happen. She hoped heavy rain would hold off for a while longer to give the forensic team time enough to set up some cover.

Marin County officers circled Mickey O’Rourke’s grave, talking, drinking coffee. Savich saw the hole was maybe three feet deep, deep enough to keep Mickey O’Rourke hidden in this desolate spot for decades, if it hadn’t been for those two kids. He wanted to meet them. He nodded to the deputy, then leaned down and pulled back a white tarp. They stared down into Mickey O’Rourke’s bone-white face and the obscene red slash across his neck. The deputies around the grave looked on with them.

Eve couldn’t bear it, just couldn’t. She swallowed, turned away. She said, “Ramsey is going to hate this. Why did he have to die?”

There was no answer to that.

They all turned around at the sound of footsteps coming up the trail.

“That’ll be our forensic team,” Cheney said, and waved when he saw Joe Elder.

“What are you standing in our way for!” Joe yelled, still from a distance. “Move your carcasses, let us through.”

Joe was nearing retirement now. He was impatient with fools, impatient with everyone, as a matter of fact, and would generally snort at anyone in his vicinity.

They listened to him bark out orders to his team of two men and two women, snarl at the deputies who happened to get into his space, and shout for some coffee for him and his people.

There was silence when they at last lifted Mickey O’Rourke out of his grave. Eve crossed herself, a habit ingrained from her childhood, and said a prayer. She looked over at Harry, whose face seemed to be carved from stone. His hands, though, were clenched at his sides.

Since there wasn’t anything more for them to do, Sheriff Hibbert led them to the Ramirez house. It was a mile away off another dirt road, a small clapboard house set pressed against a knot of bay trees.

They heard the two kids’ high, excited voices before they got through the front door. After introductions and their assurances no one would browbeat the kids, Julio Ramirez led them in from the kitchen.

They were eleven years old. Emma’s age, Sherlock thought, and skinny as skateboards. They looked both scared and excited, just like their parents. Eleanor looked a great deal like her mother, small and fine-boned, quite unlike her father, lucky for her.

Rufino was a good-looking kid, the image of his deputy father. A future heartbreaker, Eve thought.

It took about ten minutes before Deputy Ramirez convinced the other parents to adjourn back to the kitchen and wait. Finally they got the kids settled at the ancient mahogany dining room table, each with a soft drink and within easy reach of a plate of chocolate-chip cookies provided by Eleanor’s mother.

In another few minutes, they gently got Eleanor and Rufino to the point in their story where their explorations took them near the clearing.

Keep it light,
Sherlock thought. “You two were smart not to call out to him.”

Rufino said, “We almost did, then Ellie grabbed my arm and pointed. We both saw the shovel and the big mound of earth. Ellie nearly peed her pants, she was so scared.”

Ellie punched him in the arm. “Yeah? Well you did, too, Ruf.”

Sherlock grinned at both of them. “I can sure understand that. Can you tell us what the man was wearing?”

Eleanor said, “A raincoat, it was brown, and he was wearing a Giants ball cap. It was drizzling.”

Rufino said, “We were trying to find a double rainbow, but we didn’t. We never saw his face because he had his back to us. He was pounding down a big pile of earth, then he pulled branches over the—”

“The grave,” Eleanor said, and squeezed Rufino’s fingers. “It was really gross.”

Rufino said, “And we knew right away it was a grave and we knew this man wasn’t good, so we were real quiet.”

Eve thought,
You’re both alive because he never realized you were there.
There was no doubt in Eve’s mind the man would have killed both children and buried them with Mickey O’Rourke. Her ponytail swung forward as she leaned toward the kids. “Did you see any part of his face? Like his profile?”

“No,” Rufino said. “We were always behind him. His boots were real dirty. His feet were small, like my dad’s.”

Harry asked, “Was your impression that he was tall? Short? Fat?”

“He was kinda tall,” Ellie said without hesitation, “and he wasn’t fat, but not as skinny as Ruf’s dad.”

“Was he about your dad’s height, Rufino?” Eve asked.

Rufino wasn’t sure; the guy was pretty far away. He knew the deputy marshal was disappointed, but he didn’t want to make anything up, and she smiled at him when she realized it. He smiled back. Yes, indeed, a girl slayer, Eve thought again.

She said, “Did he seem old to you? Young?”

“Old,” both kids said at once.

“Older than your parents?”

Neither child was sure about that. To these kids anyone over twenty was old.

Cheney said, “Then what happened?”

Rufino drank the last of his soda and wiped his hand across his mouth. “After he put some branches over the grave, he leaned down and picked up the shovel.”

Ellie said, “He said something, then he walked away.”

Harry felt his heart pick up. “Did you hear what he said?”

Ellie said, “Yes, sir, but it didn’t make any sense to Ruf or me. It was something like RIP and then a name—Mickey I think. We were afraid to move, so we sat there for another five minutes.”

Rufino said, “We heard a car motor start, it was a long ways away, but we heard it. We figured he was leaving so it was okay to move.”

Ellie said, her small voice trembling, “It was horrible. We sat there and stared at those branches and all that black earth and knew there was a dead body under the ground.”

Rufino leaned over and patted her back. “It’s okay, Ellie, it’s okay.”

Cheney said, “Let me tell you, kids, you’re both heroes. Without you, the man you saw buried would probably never be found. And you’ve really helped us.”

Rufino patted Ellie’s back again. “Since you’re a girl hero I guess it’s okay for you to be scared.” The little girl stopped shaking.

Another chocolate-chip cookie each, and everyone at the table knew the kids were tapped out. They were still excited but wrung out. They all went out into the kitchen to thank the parents and tell them how incredible and smart their kids were. Sherlock studied Rufino’s dad—maybe five feet ten inches, give or take, one hundred fifty pounds, give or take. Was Sue the taller of the two?

When they returned to the grave site with Sheriff Hibbert, they stared down into the empty hole. The rain had picked up, and the dirt was fast becoming mud and sliding into the hole. “
RIP, Mickey,
that’s what he said over Mickey’s grave.” The sheriff looked at each of them. “I really want you to nail this bastard.”

There was a moment of silence. Sherlock said, “The killer matches the general description of Ramsey’s shooter. More or less.”

Harry said, “If it is the same guy it’s got to tie in to the Cahills. But it could be a woman, this Sue, I suppose.” He pushed one of his fists into his palm.

Savich nodded. “Okay, we don’t know exactly when O’Rourke died yet, but my guess from seeing the body is he was murdered fairly recently. Did the killer head back from the hospital after his attempt to kill Ramsey on the elevator to where he’d stashed Mickey O’Rourke in order to kill him?”

Yes, he had, Harry thought, and nodded.

Eve turned to Sheriff Hibbert. “So he might have stashed Mickey O’Rourke somewhere near here. You have any ideas about that, Sheriff?”

Sheriff Hibbert nodded. “Deputy Ramirez told me there’s an old farm shack in the woods near here, on property that belongs to a new house a developer built some six years ago. As for the shack, it’s been deserted for years. Let’s go see.”

They fell in behind the sheriff’s car and soon turned off another dirt road onto a rutted path. They slowly made their way about fifty feet until they couldn’t go any farther.

Sheriff Hibbert leaned out the window. “We can’t see the new house from here because the dirt road—Mason’s Cross—is set at a ninety-degree angle in the middle of a bunch of oak and bay trees. We’ve got to walk the rest of the way to the shack.”

They climbed out of the Suburban into the drizzling cold rain and mud and trudged after the sheriff for about twenty yards.

Hibbert stopped. “There it is.”

They stared at a dilapidated wooden shack, probably older than Sheriff Hibbert’s parents.