Catherine Coulter - Backfire

And in everyone’s mind- Could he have gotten to her last night, broken into the house without alerting the marshals outside?

Sherlock said with infinite calm, “He’s not going to try to take you. His whole purpose is to terrify you, to scatter your focus, and our focus. The best thing for your peace of mind, and for ours, would be to take you and the kids to a safe house for the duration.”

Cheney nodded. “I can arrange it.”

Molly said, “That’s like in the movies. I can’t believe any of this, it’s all so surreal, and Ramsey-” She broke off, pulled herself together, cleared her throat. “All right. Good. I’ll try to make the boys think it’s a mini-vacation, maybe down by the zoo? We’ll need to transport Emma’s piano, since she plays at Davies Hall in a week and a half.”

Harry said, “It’d be less risky to rent one, bring it to the safe house.”

“No, that wouldn’t work. Emma’s piano-it’s been her lifeline since Ramsey was shot.”

Cheney said, “Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out.”

“Thank you. I’ll head home, then, and get everything ready. But what if he’s watching the house? What if he sees us leave? And follows us? He’ll know you’re taking us away; he’ll know it.”

Savich said, “No, Molly, he won’t know where you’re going. Listen to me, this guy isn’t some kind of superman who knows all, sees all. He’s only one man, and we’ve done this before. Trust me, this is going to throw him off his game.”

But not for very long, Eve thought. They had no idea whether his game included continuing trying to kill Ramsey, or even what his game was. Not that she would say that to Molly. He knew they would all hear his phone call to Molly. If he thought about the consequences at all, which, of course, he had, she knew they were going to have to be very careful while moving her.

Molly slowly nodded. “I don’t want to tell Ramsey about this. There’s nothing he can do. I can’t stand worrying him more when he’s helpless. It would destroy him to know he can’t protect us. All right, I’ll get Emma out of school now.”

Crandall Building

California Street

San Francisco

Late Monday morning

Damn her eyes, I’m one of the most famous defense lawyers in the world. How can she do this to me?

Milo Siles mashed the elevator button once more, then another couple of times for good measure. The elevator doors opened, and he stepped in. Eight other people surrounded him, most taller than he, and he felt the familiar punch of claustrophobia. He closed his eyes and thought about the.38 he’d left in his glove compartment. He’d managed to wheedle a permit for it, not an easy task in San Francisco. It was a good thing he’d left it there or he might have shot the selfish cow and her greedy moron of a lawyer. How demeaning it was to be forced by a lamebrained judge to meet with a lamebrained mediator on the twelfth floor of the Crandall Building, in her lawyer’s conference room, to listen to her lawyer demand half a million dollars from him every single year for the rest of her selfish self-centered life, plus the house in Claremont, plus the shares in the vineyard in Sonoma, plus support for their two boys until they were eighteen.

Half a million dollars. A year.

Milo was so angry at his soon-to-be ex-wife’s outrageous demand, he’d nearly out-shouted his own divorce lawyer. And that officious cow of a mediator had counseled that they all take a deep breath and sit back and close their eyes for a moment. And then what? Sing “Kumbaya”? He wouldn’t be surprised, not in San Francisco.

He’d taken that deep breath and closed his eyes anyway, and that did help him relax, because what he saw was a huge number of zeroes flashing in front of his eyes-the ten million dollars or so he had stashed in his holding company in the Grand Cayman Islands. No way Marjorie or her lawyer would find out about that. He’d been very careful through the years that it couldn’t be traced to him, not by anyone.

He grinned to himself. You never knew, when you went the extra mile to make some real money in this business, if you might have to make a quick exit. This trial with the Cahills was a disaster, but at least it had pushed his nest egg up to that nice round number, more like the nest omelet he’d always wanted. He should never have taken the risk of defending the Cahills’ worthless butts after they screwed up and got themselves indicted for murder. The case was hopeless from the start. He should have known that for all that money there would be risks far beyond keeping the Cahills quiet and cooperative, making his motions, and sitting back to wait. Well, he’d done everything as agreed, and he deserved that money. It was Marjorie’s overspending that had pushed him into it, wasn’t it?

He pictured his wife staring at him across the table, her eyes narrowed beneath her dark brows, which always needed plucking. It made bile rise in his throat. He’d supported her lazy butt for seventeen years, and what had she done to earn it? Be a housewife? As in be the loving wife who tended the house, took care of the children, maybe cooked the occasional dinner? That was a joke. Marjorie had a maid, a cook, and a gardener-and a nanny when the boys were younger. She did nothing at all useful, spent her hours on herself and on her idea of playing, whatever that happened to be. She’d probably had a half-dozen lovers, all of them buff and twenty years younger than she was, he knew it to his gut, and it was he who had paid for them. When he’d stormed out of that ridiculous meditation session with her lawyer, the lead-faced dyke who didn’t make any bones about hating him, Marjorie had come up behind him and whispered in his ear-easy for her to do, since she was two inches taller than he, the cow-“I know more than you think, Milo, about this Cahill trial, about how you’ve cheated your firm. Think about it, dear. Five hundred thousand dollars a year is a lot better than sharing a cell with Clive.”

He’d turned on her, his mouth working with no coherent words at first. “I let you do what you want, what’s in this for you?”

She laughed. “Let me paraphrase Nicole Kidman when they asked her how she felt about splitting up with Tom Cruise-I don’t have to wear flats any longer.”

He’d nearly decked her.

Tom Cruise wasn’t that short, and neither was he.

Milo would have smashed his fists against the elevator doors, but he couldn’t lose it since there were too many people looming over him in the elevator. Marjorie was divorcing him because he wasn’t tall enough for her?

He had to get hold of himself. She’d overheard a conversation with Clive? He couldn’t remember any such conversation, but obviously he hadn’t been careful enough. Well, she’d keep her mouth shut. If she spilled to the cops, then the Feds would seize all his assets under the RICO Act and she wouldn’t see a bloody dime. Maybe sharing a cell with Clive would be worth it, knowing she’d have to get a job, maybe selling bagels in one of those outdoor kiosks at her favorite mall.

Milo walked a block over to the Mason Building, which housed his law firm, and directly into the underground garage to his new Beamer parked next to the express elevator. He admired its sleek lines for a second, still got a kick out of how the door opened for him with his key fob still in his pocket. As he squeezed in, he saw Marjorie’s smiling face again, her smile so big she showed the gold tooth in the back of her mouth she’d never bothered to change out. He smacked his fist on the dashboard. This wasn’t his fault; none of this was his fault. He was a good provider. And he would still send his boys to Princeton, his alma mater.