Catherine Coulter - Backfire

“And here I thought we’ve only just started,” Eve said.

Milo Siles looked amused. He studied Eve Barbieri’s very pretty face, her blond hair whipped back into a ponytail, showing off her well-shaped ears that sported small gold studs. Her red leather jacket was open, showing her black turtleneck. “When I first noticed you in the courtroom, Deputy, I thought you were real cute, all bouncy and clean like some of the female TV anchors, all tits and no brains, a girl next door every guy dreams about marrying. But let me be honest here. You’re not in Cindy Cahill’s league. She makes men forget their names from twenty feet away. She’d have no reason to be disturbed by your looks, such as they are. And you’re what, five, six years older than she is?”

She’s got him taking shots at her, Harry thought . Good work.

Eve smiled at him. “I guess that’d place me closer to Clive’s age, like I could hook up with him and it wouldn’t look quite so obscene. Is that what you were thinking, sir?”

She watched him quickly rethink his approach. She saw when he’d decided how to deal with her, all in about two seconds. Siles had defended some of the smarmiest, most dangerous people on the planet, drug dealers, extortionists, and murderers. Few people could shake him.

Savich could, maybe, but she? To him she was nothing more than a fly buzzing around him.

Siles said, “Who cares about ages, Deputy? They’re a loving couple. Wouldn’t you say you’re being rather sexist?”

Eve shook her head. “Not me. You want to know what I think? I think Cindy drives the bus and Clive has been expendable for a while now. I looked at him and wondered how long it would take before she dumps him. Not that she’ll get the chance now. I mean, she’s never getting out of prison unless she talks to us, right?”

“I have a client waiting outside-” He looked down at his Piaget watch. “Do either of you gentlemen have anything to say, because I’m finished talking with Ms. Ponytail here-Deputy Marshal, ah, what did you say your name was?”

Savich said smoothly, “Mr. Siles, why don’t you tell us what you think about Federal Prosecutor Mickey O’Rourke’s disappearance.”

“I don’t know anything about it, Agent Savich. How could I? Mickey has never shared his emotional sensitivities with me. I did hear through the grapevine that he was having an affair with a law clerk last year, though I don’t know if that has anything to do with this. Look. I know people are starting to get alarmed, since Mickey hasn’t showed up anywhere. I’m as concerned as anyone else.” He paused for a minute. “We all noticed he was behaving pretty strangely in the pretrial hearings, like ignoring Judge Hunt’s direct orders to hand over needful documents so I could give my clients the best defense. I chalked all his balking up to the intense cutthroat competition in the federal prosecutor’s office finally getting to him. They have about a hundred federal prosecutors, and they’re always jockeying for position. Did you know the prosecutors themselves keep actual records of their wins, who gets the toughest prison sentences in the least amount of time for the least cost? This is a death penalty case, and Mickey was going to have to convince a jury without using any of that classified information, information I’ll bet he couldn’t even access himself, information he either couldn’t or wouldn’t turn over to me. Can you imagine the stress?

“I think when Judge Hunt finally called him on the carpet, O’Rourke panicked. Once he failed to show up in chambers without a good reason, his career was over. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mickey took off, and kept going.”

Siles smiled and sat back in his chair, his fingers laced over his Italian vest, obviously pleased with himself.

Eve said, “You said your wife’s name was Sue. It isn’t, sir. It’s Marjorie. Her middle name isn’t Sue, either, it’s Ann. And she’s divorcing you, sir, not the other way around. I understand finances are the big bone of contention between you. Seems you have reasons to feel stressed yourself.”

Siles looked momentarily poleaxed, then wiped the look off his face. “Didn’t think you’d know that,” he said slowly.

“Yes, sir, I do. Why did you make that up?”

“A joke, Deputy, only a small joke.” Siles looked at his Piaget again, and rose.

Savich said, “It’s not a joke that Mrs. Siles’s divorce attorney plans to strip you down to your boxers. With those very embarrassing photos they say they have, I’m wagering you know you’re going to need a lot of money soon.”

Harry picked it up. “And what better way to get it than to join in a little conspiracy and earn a couple of million getting the Cahills off?”

“I’d like all of you to leave now,” Siles said.

Savich paused in the doorway. “I’m sure if we find your offshore accounts, Marjorie will be very interested. She’ll probably help us any way she can when we tell her you’re colluding in selling information to a foreign government.”

Before he closed the door, Eve said over her shoulder, “So many bad things can happen in federal prisons, Mr. Siles, you know that. And a lawyer who defends traitors, who’s maybe a traitor himself? Can you begin to imagine what would happen to you? I can’t see you defending yourself that well in prison.” She paused, turned back to him, and gave him her card. “Think about it. Call me.”

Siles found himself taking her card. He said nothing, watched her blond ponytail swing as she walked out his office door in those kick-ass boots. He walked to his desk and picked up his phone to dial his divorce lawyer. He’d have had his bigmouthed wife, Marjorie, killed months ago, easy enough back then, before the spotlight. It was only his two sons, both of them now taller than he was, who had kept her alive. He’d waited too long for that now.

San Francisco General Hospital

Saturday, late afternoon

Morphine-induced euphoria was a fine thing indeed, but Ramsey didn’t want to cruise around in oblivion anymore. It left his brain fuzzed and stupid, not at all what he wanted now that Molly and Emma were coming to see him. Without drugs he was better able to cast about his brain to figure out who had shot him. Had someone picked out a judge with a certain reputation, or was it something about him, specifically?

And then there was the other big question: What had happened to Mickey O’Rourke?

Ramsey felt an ache building behind his left eye, and he gritted his teeth against the pain. He looked up to see Emma and Molly standing at the entrance to his cubicle. He felt a leap of pleasure and set himself to forget about his chest and his headache.

He called to them, “No need to tiptoe, I’m not zombied out on drugs. In fact, I’m doing so well the SICU nurses and doctors don’t want me around any longer. They need my bed for someone who really needs to be here, not a slacker like me. They’re going to move me very soon now to the biggest private room in the hospital. They call it the Taj-can you imagine? They’re gathering the troops right now.” He didn’t mention the long conference at his bedside that morning with Dr. Kardak and Marshal Maynard, debating the pros and cons of moving him. There was too much traffic through the ICU to suit the security team, and too many interruptions by law enforcement to suit the nurses and the medical staff. They had compromised by agreeing he would leave the ICU a bit early, for a secure room on one of the inpatient floors, with an extra staff nurse assigned to him.