Backfire (4 page)

San Francisco General Hospital

Friday afternoon

U.S. Federal Deputy Marshal Eve Barbieri leaned against the hallway wall, outside the SICU, her knee bent and her arms crossed over her chest, waiting for her turn to see Judge Hunt. His surgeon, Dr. Kardak, had told everyone Judge Hunt was doing fine, but she still wasn’t over the soul-wrenching fear she’d felt when she’d been called at four a.m. to be told Judge Hunt had been shot.
Would he live?
Her boss, Carney Maynard, didn’t know, but Hunt had survived surgery and he had a chance, he told her matter-of-factly, because Judge Hunt was made of pure titanium.
Thank all the powers that be, and thank Dr. Kardak’s team.

Maynard had told her the SFPD would be part of the protection detail along with the U.S. Marshals Service while Judge Hunt was in the hospital, but she was to stay close, as any questions about coverage or assignments would be directed to her. When Judge Hunt was discharged, she would be officially responsible for his and his family’s protection. She looked through the windowed door of the SICU at Officer Jay Mancusso of the SFPD, seated by Judge Hunt’s cubicle, and watched him study every face that came near. He looked angry, like most other cops she’d met since Judge Hunt had been shot. She wondered if every single law enforcement agency in the city would try to be involved in hunting down the man—or woman—who’d tried to kill him. Judge Hunt was a big deal, an American hero. She closed her eyes for a moment, thankful Ramsey would live and thankful for how well she had gotten to know him and his family over the years. When he was shot, she’d promised a real biggie if he would live—to be pleasant to her ex-mother-in-law if ever she saw her again, something she hoped would never happen. Eve and her ex-mother-in-law’s son, Ryan, had been married for about half an hour before Eve booted him out. She could still hear the woman’s outraged voice:
A good woman would forgive her husband his small transgressions.

As she waited, she asked herself again for at least the twelfth time—had the Cahills hired the shooter? If so, it meant their defense attorney, Milo Siles, had to be in on it. How else could the Cahills have gotten hold of the talent and money so fast? She’d met the prosecutor, Mickey O’Rourke, several times, on the volleyball court. She remembered his laugh when his team had won—a really big laugh. He didn’t laugh in the courtroom, though, he was all business, a veteran who wielded a bullwhip. He had a good conviction rate. But none of that mattered now. He was missing, simply gone, no word, no emails, no nothing. She sighed, wishing just this once she was FBI and had the assignment to lead this case.

She pushed off the wall and began to pace, aware that Mancusso was watching her through the window. She wanted to see Ramsey, see for herself he was breathing, that his excellent brain was working behind his smart dark eyes, but it was one cop after the other trooping in. Lieutenant Virginia Trolley, SFPD, was in and out because she was also a trusted family friend. Eve knew it made Molly feel better to have Virginia close, another trained body to protect Ramsey. And those two FBI agents from Washington had been in, Savich and Sherlock were their names, a husband and wife, and wasn’t that a kick?

Eve looked up to see two men approaching—yeah, they were definitely Feds; you couldn’t mistake their private club dress code—dark suits, white shirts, usually dark ties. They were striding toward her, self-assured and arrogant as toreadors entering the ring. She recognized both, of course; she’d been introduced to the new SAC, Cheney Stone, but not the other agent. She’d seen the other one driving out of the parking garage a couple of times, but that was it.

She moved to stand against the wall again, waiting, all indolent and loose-limbed. Let them come to her. She whistled between her teeth. She wondered who’d cornered the market on the federal wingtips.

She heard the agent walking beside Cheney Stone say, “That picture we found in the bushes, the newspaper clipping of Judge Dredd with an X through his face—it’s like he’s sticking it in our faces and laughing.”

Hmmm,
there was a clipping of Ramsey left at the crime scene? It was the first she’d heard of it. Not that she expected to know much about what the FBI had found, since she’d never even been inside the locked door on the thirteenth floor in the Federal Building. No, that space was inhabited only by the San Francisco FBI tribe. The U.S. Marshals Service occupied the twentieth floor, their digs only one floor above the senior federal judges’ offices and courtrooms. She didn’t care much for that FBI attitude, one of the reasons she hadn’t considered signing on with them six years before. She’d heard too many stories about some of the special agents—and wasn’t that a self-important title? For the most part, the FBI got results, but too often, it was their way or why don’t you take a leap from the Golden Gate Bridge? Were they prepared to deal with her, or would they try to plant their big Fed feet on some part of her anatomy? She’d see. She’d go around them, or through them, if necessary.

Cheney Stone stopped. “And here’s Deputy Marshal Eve Barbieri.”

He remembered her name, and that was a surprise. Eve shook hands with Stone. “Congratulations on becoming special agent in charge, Agent Stone.”

Cheney gave her a grin. “Thanks. It’s already been two months and I’m still alive and breathing, for the most part. But my once predictable life now consists of herding pit bulls.”

Eve could only agree, her opinion clear on her face even though she kept her mouth shut.

“Since we’ll be working together on Judge Hunt’s shooting, call me Cheney.”

First name? Nice smile, white teeth, seeming sincerity, but with a new SAC, it was wise to be cautious. She nodded, too soon to offer up her own first name.

Cheney said, “Eve Barbieri, this is Agent Harry Christoff. Harry, this is Deputy Marshal Eve Barbieri. She’s worked with Judge Hunt for three years and is a friend of the family.”

Eve took a good look at Special Agent Harry Christoff. He was in his early thirties, tall and lean, with dark brown hair and bright green eyes. He kept himself in very fine shape indeed. Although he was dressed in the obligatory dark suit and white shirt, he wasn’t wearing wingtips. Instead he wore black boots that looked as old as he did, but the ancient boots sported a high shine. As for his tie, it was bright yellow with black squiggles. A rebel? She didn’t think such an animal existed in the Big Machine.

So the new SAC was trying to herd Christoff—good luck. She’d heard of him before, most had. He was known as a loose cannon, and that sparked her interest. He looked as mean as any of the other pit bulls, like he could kick the crap out of you while chowing a pepperoni pizza and washing it down with a Bud. But he had to have something going for him in the brain department, since SAC Cheney Stone had assigned him to this case.

“I know you by rep,” Eve said. “They say you’re a wild hair.”

“Good to know,” Harry said, and stuck out his hand. Eve shook his hand, strong, with tanned, long fingers.

Cheney continued to Eve, “You guys are fast. We’ve already started looking at those boxes of threatening letters to Judge Hunt you sent over.”

She nodded, but she was still distracted studying Christoff, still evaluating—was he smart? Intuitive? Did this particular pit bull have any common sense? Did he have nerve?

She realized, of course, that Agent Harry Christoff was looking her over as well. “Ever have any problems before?” Christoff asked her.

Eve shook her head.

“Looks like the first time a problem cropped up, none of you were around.”

Nice shot.
She said on a yawn, “Guess I was out drinking grappa in North Beach, not camping out in Judge Hunt’s backyard, stroking my Glock.”

Not bad.
Harry eyed her. She hadn’t taken the bait, hadn’t tried to belt him. He liked attitude, wanted to grin at her amused in-your-face, “you’re not worth my time
,
Agent Moron”
look. He’d seen Barbieri before and thought she was a real looker, but he’d never seen her up close. The close-up reality surprised him. With her long legs in black pants and her black boots that put her close to six feet tall, she nearly reached his eyebrows. They were really shiny black boots, too, maybe shinier than his. Nah, probably not. She wore a raw-looking red leather jacket over a black turtleneck, topping off the tough U.S. marshal look.

But her face spoiled the effect. Despite the outfit, she looked like she should be serving ice cream and cake to kids at a birthday party, smiling and tending them, her blond ponytail bouncing. She was real pretty and sweet
-
looking and—wholesome was the word, like some former Ohio State cheerleader, like the girl next door voted beauty queen at the state fair. Until you looked at her eyes, dark blue stormy eyes that weren’t at all trusting, and the U.S. marshal showed through again. They were eyes that had seen a lot, though the good Lord knew she couldn’t have seen more than he had in his eight years with the Bureau.

Harry stuck out his hand, wondering if she’d bite it, but she shook his hand, hers cool and dry, all business.

“Why are you grinning?”

“I was wondering if you would bite my hand.”

She arched a dark blond eyebrow. “Only if you try to feed me.”

Harry said, “So you think I’m a wild hair, do you? There’s a story around about you, too, Barbieri. Something about a fugitive in a shopping mall in Omaha last year who tried to take a hostage in a Macy’s women’s room? And you ended up sticking the woman’s head in the john and not letting her up until she dropped her gun?” He grinned at the visual. “Talk about the pot and the kettle.”

Cheney laughed, couldn’t help it, watching the two of them. If they could manage to avoid bloodshed, they might work well together. Barbieri could stand up to anybody, and as for Harry, well, despite his reputation, he had gotten some remarkable results, and that’s why Cheney wanted him on Judge Hunt’s shooting.

Cheney said to Eve, “Your boss told me you’ll be heading up Judge Hunt’s protection team.”

Eve nodded.

“Good. The media is gathered in the lobby. I don’t doubt they’ll try to sneak up.”

“We’ve got that covered,” Eve said. “Just look at Mancusso’s face—show him a lurking reporter and he’ll stuff him into one of the laundry carts.”

“We’ve also had Agent Dillon Savich, chief of the CAU back at the Hoover Building—that’s the Criminal Apprehension Unit—and his wife, Agent Sherlock, fly out to help us with the case. You’ll be working with them as well.”

“Yes, I know,” she said. “I saw you with them earlier.” Eve had watched Cheney hug the woman with the rioting red hair and shake the big man’s hand, all chatty and full of bonhomie, best buds.

Great,
Harry thought, he’d be working with Savich and Sherlock from Disneyland East, too, as if there weren’t already enough noses eager to poke under the tent.

Cheney said, “Harry, do you think you can manage to work with Barbieri? Work
with
her, not make her want to knock your teeth down your throat? Given it’s Barbieri we’re talking about here, she probably wouldn’t hesitate.”

“You’re recommending caution around Suzie Cheerleader? Not a problem. She’s only heading up the protection detail, so that’s not a lot of work we’ll need to do together.”

Suzie Cheerleader?
Eve gave him the fish eye. “I’ll get the job done, whether you work with me or not,” and she shrugged as an eyebrow went up. “The question is, will you, Christoff?”

“In the FBI, we have cases, not jobs.” He held up his hand and said to Cheney, “Like I said, there’s no problem here. I can work with anybody, even cute little cheerleader types.”

Cheney eyed them both, wondering if he was making a mistake. No, but he’d talk to Harry again privately, and ask Marshal Carney Maynard to make sure Eve Barbieri would work with Harry, not go haring off on her own. He had to admit there’d been a time or two when he’d wanted to rip Harry’s face off himself. He said, “Deputy Barbieri, Harry will be point man on this. Your boss has asked that you assist him, as time allows. No hotdogging from either of you, especially you, Christoff, all right?”

Harry said, “Me, hotdog? Not a single lick of yellow mustard on me.”

Eve took one last look at Harry, gave a little finger wave to Cheney, and turned away down the hall.

Cheney said, “I’m serious about this, Harry. Not only does she know Judge Hunt, she knows about most everything that goes on inside and outside the courtroom. You want to use her.”

Harry nodded. “Sure, but bottom line, she’s just the protection.” He gave his boss a maniacal grin and strode off. “Hey, Barbieri, wait up! You and I got stuff to work out here.”