Catherine Coulter: Backfire

Sherlock read the note again. “ For what you did you deserve this. Something you did specifically, Dillon, so it’s got to be a case you were personally involved with. There’s Lissy Smiley, for example-that was up close and personal. But it could take weeks to make sure there’s no one, absolutely no one, who would care enough about any of the dozens of perps we’ve brought down to do something this nuts.”

Dane Carver said, “I wonder what the threat is, exactly? For what you did you deserve this. What is this ? Is he targeting someone specific?”

All eyes turned to Sherlock.

Sherlock splayed her hands in front of her. “It doesn’t have to be me. All right, all right, I’ll be really careful. We’ve got the guy on camera, we’ll get a good facial reconstruction. It’s our best lead.”

Savich saw everyone was looking at him now. He tried to keep his face blank, but it was hard. He realized he was clutching his pen too tightly. It was Sherlock, he simply knew the threat was directed at Sherlock. Who else? He wanted to say something, but nothing came out. He couldn’t stand himself. Get it together. He said, his voice sounding calm and in control, “If any of you come up with anything we haven’t mentioned, let me know. I’m going down to the security section, speak to Briggs and Brady. Sherlock, you and Dane start work on this.”

On the elevator ride to the mezzanine, Savich remembered the shoot-out in Mr. Patil’s Shop ’n Go in Georgetown. Was it only three weeks ago? The woman he’d had to shoot, her name was Elsa Heinz. Who else knew Savich had shot her? Everyone, of course. It was in the papers, his name included. Was someone who knew her out for revenge against him? A loved one for a loved one?

He put her out of his head. Threats were part of the job. Both he and Sherlock knew that. They and the CAU would deal with it.

Georgetown

Washington, D.C.

Friday morning

Five a.m.

Sean leapt impossibly high, caught the football from his mother, and took off toward the end of a park that was really a baseball field, with Savich on his heels. Savich couldn’t catch him because Sean’s legs were stilt-long, eating up huge swathes of ground, and he was rounding bases for some reason, clutching the football tight to his chest, heading for home, and John Lennon was suddenly singing into Savich’s left ear in his flat whiny-smooth voice about imagining people getting along, like that would ever happen.

Savich reared up in bed and automatically looked at the clock. Five a.m. Not good. No telephone call was ever good at five a.m.

He picked up his cell. “Savich.”

“Dillon, you’ve got to come, quickly, it’s bad, it’s really bad, I’m afraid-” Molly Hunt’s voice, choking and thick with tears and fear. Dillon thought, Not little Emma, who’d survived so much-

“I’m putting you on speakerphone so Sherlock can hear you. Tell us what’s happened, Molly.”

Sherlock was leaning up beside him, her face pale in the predawn, her hair tangled wildly around her face.

“Someone shot Ramsey in the back. I don’t know if he’s going to make it; he’s in surgery. Everyone’s here, but I need you and Sherlock. You’ve got to come and find out who did this to him. Please, please, come quickly.”

Ramsey shot? Savich couldn’t get his brain around it. He hadn’t seen Ramsey for six months, since he, Sherlock, and Sean last visited San Francisco. It had been more than five years, he realized now, since Ramsey had saved six-year-old Emma’s life and hooked up with her mother, Molly.

Ramsey shot?

“Molly, take a deep breath. That’s right. Now slow down and tell us exactly what happened.” But he was thinking, Why Ramsey? He’s a federal judge, removed from that sort of violence-but a man who judged others was a man who gathered enemies.

“He’s in surgery,” Molly said again. “The nurses say they don’t know anything yet, but I know it can’t be good. He was shot in the back-” she said, and broke off. He heard her breathing, harsh and fast, and then her voice, choked, frantic: “Please, Dillon, you and Sherlock, you’ve got to come.”

Savich and Sherlock both asked questions and let her ramble, knowing she was trying to get it together. She told them Lieutenant Virginia Trolley was there with her, and they realized she was probably listening to their questions and Molly’s answers. They’d met Virginia and her husband a couple of times when they’d visited San Francisco over the past five years.

“Molly, let me speak to Virginia.” Virginia came on the line. “Dillon, the SFPD responded and arrived at Ramsey’s house right after midnight. I arrived ten minutes later. Since it was dark, we didn’t bother to look for footprints while I was there. No one wanted to mess up the crime scene bumbling around with flashlights.”

“Have you spoken to Cheney?”

Virginia said, “Cheney arrived at Ramsey’s house when I was leaving. He called me a couple minutes ago, told me he’s assigned Special Agent Harry Christoff to lead the case, but he, Cheney, will be monitoring every detail. He wondered if shooting Ramsey was a revenge deal. It’s too soon to know, but I’ll tell you, it sure feels like it.” Virginia’s voice dropped lower. “Molly needs you guys. Can you come out here?”

“We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

When he punched off, he took Sherlock in his arms and held her close, stroking his hand up and down her back.

“He’ll make it,” Sherlock said against his neck. “Ramsey’s got to make it. He’s one of the good guys, Dillon. He will make it. How could this happen, and right on top of this threat to you?”

No, the threat’s not aimed at me, it’s aimed at you. Or Sean.

Cheney Stone called back as Savich was stepping out of the shower. He’d made it back to the hospital and learned that Ramsey had survived surgery and was in the surgical ICU. Molly, though, was a mess. “I asked the doc to give her Valium to calm her. You know what? He did. It seems to have helped her.

“Ah, here’s Virginia. Let’s go to speakerphone.”

“Is Emma all right?” Savich asked.

Virginia said, “She was bordering on shock at first, with everything that was happening, but Emma’s a tough little nut, she’ll hold it together. When I was at the house I heard her tell her brother Cal she’d play him the theme from Harry Potter on the piano this morning-with variations-if he stopped shining a flashlight into Gage’s eyes. Cal said he wanted to see if it would cause seizures.” Virginia’s voice hitched. “Where’d a three-year-old kid hear about lights and seizures?”

Savich said, “Don’t ask. Our flight gets in this afternoon. You playing nice with Cheney? And Harry Christoff?”

“Oh, yeah, Cheney’s a nice guy”-pause-“he’ll throw us some crumbs, even though you FBI guys are going to have jurisdiction. All I hear about Christoff is that he came off an ugly divorce a year and a half ago, and he’s been a nasty git ever since.”

Savich heard Cheney say in the background, “Crumbs? You know what we know. Hey, and Harry’s not a nasty git any longer, he’s just nasty.”

Virginia said, “And you, Mr. SAC? You’re newly married. That means you’re stupid happy all the time. Wait till you’re married a few years, then I’ll check back in with you. My guess is you’ll still be stupid, but the happy part isn’t a given.”