Catherine Coulter - Backfire

Eve felt the wind sharp and cold off the water, and was happy to see the guy in front of her was flagging big-time. She shouted, “Stop it right now, or I’ll shoot you in the leg. Do you hear me?”

The guy looked back at her, faltered, slowed, and finally stopped. He bent over, trying to catch his breath.

“Well, now, isn’t this easier?”

“I didn’t do anything!” he managed to say between breaths.

Eve jogged up to him, her Glock pointed at his chest, and threw him to the ground. She went down on her haunches beside him and ripped a camera from his hand. “That was for making me chase you, you brainless moron. Do you realize it looked like you had a gun? And, oh, my, would you look at this-it’s a really expensive camera you’re carrying.”

Harry was grinning when he climbed back over the fence and saw the old man again, a golfer’s cap on his head, a newspaper spread open on his lap, stretched out on a red-and-green striped chaise longue.

Harry said, “She’s trying to prove she’s tougher than I am.”

“I gotta say she proved it, since you’re not screaming she’s dead. That fence is there to keep idiots from flying off the edge, but that first idiot headed to it like a homing pigeon. Didn’t even see me, he was moving so fast. You said you’re federal agents?”

Harry pulled out his creds, introduced himself.

The old man said, “FBI Special Agent Harry Christoff. I think I’ve seen that girl before. Who is she, another FBI agent?”

“She’s a U.S. marshal, and a friend of the Hunt family.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen her over at the Hunts’ house. I’m Decker Sproole. You people are here because of Judge Hunt, aren’t you? Was that guy the one who shot him? Why would he come back? I haven’t ever understood that old saw about a criminal returning to the scene of the crime.”

Harry said, “I don’t know who he is yet. We’ve got to wait until she brings him up.” They heard voices from over the fence, and watched Barbieri heft a young man over it, his hands cuffed behind him. He was skinny as a flagpole, a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, his black clothes bagging off him.

Harry eyed the guy. He didn’t look much like a professional killer. He said to Eve, “Glad you didn’t break your neck.”

“No thanks to this pathetic bozo,” she said, and smacked his shoulder.

Mr. Sproole said, “Is he the man who shot Judge Hunt?”

“I didn’t shoot anybody! She knows it!”

“Yeah, I guess I do. After all my running around, it looks like I didn’t haul in our perp. What I landed was a would-be paparazzo. Imagine this fine upstanding young man wanted to take pictures of the grieving family.”

“I’m not young, I’m older than you are! I’m a professional photographer.”

“Yeah, and a trespasser who resisted arrest.” She pulled the camera from his hand again. “After I remove the memory card and press delete a few times, you’ll be all set to go sneak around someplace else and cause aggravation.”

Harry said, “What’s your name?”

“Robert Bacon. Like I said, I’m a professional, a freelance photographer. These photographs might be worth something, though there aren’t that many, since Emma Hunt saw me and yelled her head off.”

“Well, Robert Bacon, did you know there are laws against doing that on private property?”

Bacon stood tall and proud. “I’m a professional. Have you ever heard of freedom of the press?”

Eve smacked him again on the shoulder. “Quiet, Bobby.” She quirked an eyebrow at Harry. “Bobby Bacon? We got us the real live Bobby Bacon, the photojournalist.”

“I go by Robert. Hey, if you give me back my memory card and take off these cuffs, I’ll shoot a couple photos of you, you know, doing your job,” and he looked at Eve hopefully.

“Thanks, Bobby,” Eve said, “but I don’t think I’d take such a good photo right now, since I’m all sweaty and windblown because of you,” and she slapped him on the back of the head with her open palm.

He staggered, then straightened. “Listen, a photo of Emma Hunt playing the piano, I coulda paid my rent for two months, what with her history.”

Eve put her hand on Bobby’s shoulder. “Bobby, you don’t want to mess with Emma or her family. Don’t you know who her grandfather is?”

Bobby Bacon looked blank, then pointed to Mr. Sproole. “This old guy?”

“Nope. Her grandfather is Mason Lord. Look him up. If you got a photo of Emma published he didn’t like, he’d carve out your pea brain and make you eat it.”

Bobby swallowed. “But I didn’t think-”

“Well, now you know. If you’ve got a brain, you’ll stay away from Emma.”

Harry introduced Eve to Mr. Sproole, who eyed Bobby Bacon. “If I had my daddy’s Remington, I woulda blasted you between the eyes, shooting Ramsey in the back like that.”

“You crazy old duffer, you know I didn’t shoot anybody. I’m a professional photographer.”

“Yeah, well, I would have shot you on spec. Maybe you carry that camera around as camouflage. Maybe you got a gun hid in your shorts.”

“I didn’t wear shorts today. I’m commando.”

Mr. Sproole said, “I got a feeling I don’t wanna know what that means. You trespassed on my private property, too, and for calling me crazy, I’m going to press charges myself, put your skinny butt in the slammer.”

“I was only trying to make a living. I’m sorry I called you crazy. She’s the one who’s crazy. I mean, who would come rocketing down that path like that over some photographs? I practiced climbing that trail twice in case I had to use it.”

“And where did you think you were going to go from there, Bobby? Swim to Marin?” Eve said.

“You’re a wuss, Bobby,” Mr. Sproole said. “This little cutie brought you back, all trussed up.” He eyed Eve. “And look at you, Deputy Barbieri. I’ve got to say, you’re prettier than any of my four granddaughters ever were.”

Harry wrote down Mr. Sproole’s number and address, gave him a salute. They walked through the garden gate and back to the sidewalk with Bobby Bacon, his wrists now uncuffed, clutching his camera, minus the memory card, walking between them.

Harry said, “Prettier than any of his four granddaughters? He must like cheerleader types.”

“Shut up,” Eve said.

“All of them?” and Harry laughed.

“Hey, he’s right,” Bobby said. “You are pretty. Your hair is a nice natural blond. So how come you’re such a bitch?”

“That’s Deputy Marshal Bitch to you, Bobby.”

They kept him on the sidewalk until three squad cars, sirens blasting, rolled into the driveway. Six cops jumped out, guns drawn.

“That was fast,” Harry said, his creds raised high over his head.

Molly said, “It’s because everyone knows it’s Ramsey’s address.”

There was pandemonium before everything got sorted out. They watched two officers drag Bobby Bacon to a squad car, Bobby yelling about police brutality and freedom of the press. He was still yelling as one of the officers shoved his head down to get him into the backseat. “I want my memory card back.”

Eve grinned, tossed it to one of the officers.

When Eve and Harry walked to the Hunt home, Molly was standing in the doorway. Behind her stood Mrs. Hicks, the babysitter. She looked ready to kiss them. They heard Gage and Cal talking up a storm, and Emma’s voice over theirs, telling them to be quiet, but they didn’t.

Eve took Molly’s arms in her hands, steadied her.

“He’s a paparazzo. He didn’t get any photos. The cops have taken Mr. Bacon downtown, where he’ll be booked for trespassing and trying to escape a federal marshal.”

Gage shouted, “Was that bad Bacon man here to shoot us?”