Catherine Coulter - Backfire

“When the need arises. What did your mom say?”

Eve took another sip of her coffee, enjoyed the zing of caffeine, though she knew she’d be cursing herself at two a.m. “When my dad told her what I wanted to do, she laughed. And laughed. She was happy. I saw her kiss my dad and shake her head and say something about the apple not falling far from the tree.

“I look just like my mom, you know. It’s funny what you said, Harry, because my mom was a college cheerleader. And I can still see her cutting our birthday cakes at our big kid parties, hear her singing at the top of her lungs, leading all the kids in a sing-along. I might add that everyone adored her. She was so beautiful, so bouncy and fun. She still is.”

Harry said, “So you fell pretty close to both trees. And your dad’s the U.S. marshal in Chicago?”

“Yep. Like I told you, he’s an anomaly. He’s served under two different presidents now, unlike most of the ninety-four marshals countrywide. Tell me about your folks, Harry.”

He shrugged. “They live in London-well, they do for most of the year. They love to travel, always have, and they took me with them. I guess they gave me the travel bug.”

She could only gape at him. Parents lived in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, for heaven’s sake, or Minneola, Florida, not London, England. “Why do they live in London?”

He looked like he wanted to tell her to leave it alone, but he said finally, “My dad’s a financier. It sounds old-fashioned, I know, but that’s what he says he is.”

“What does he finance?”

“Well, he runs Willet, Haversham, and Bayle.”

She let out a whistle. “They’re so big even I’ve heard of them. They’re worldwide. And they survived the bankers’ rape of the world with fairly clean hands, from all I’ve read. Your dad’s CEO?”

“Well, not really. He’s the chairman of the board. Actually, he pretty much is Willet, Haversham, and Bayle.”

“But your name’s Christoff.”

“Willet and Haversham are his first and middle names, the middle name from his own father, and Bayle is his best friend. They picked the name because Dad liked the sound of it, all snooty and English, like one of their ancient law firms.”

“So your dad is Willet Haversham Christoff? And what’s your full name?”

“I’ll tell you on my deathbed.”

“That bad? Does your name sound like an English duke? All right, I’ll wait. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“I’m an only child.”

“All right, I’ll keep pulling hen’s teeth. Your mom?”

“Sylvia is my mom. She’s a fashion consultant.”

She stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

He shrugged. “She’d take one look at you and want to haul you off to be photographed for Vogue. And she’d be right. The camera would love you, she’d say. You’ve got great bones.”

“How would you know that?”

“She took me with her on photo shoots, showed me all the subtle clues in a person’s face, actually. I’ve found it all very useful to a cop.”

“With that background, why’d you want to be a cop?”

Harry said, without hesitation, “My uncle Roy, my mom’s brother, is FBI. When I was six years old he told me I had the heart of a cop. He was right.”

Harry’s cell rang. “Yeah?”

His face remained impassive, but his eyes hardened. “We’ll be there in twelve minutes.”

“What?”

“You put the Cahills in a holding cell in the Federal Building, right? Someone evidently cleared the Cahills to go back to the San Francisco jail. Cheney called, found out they were transferred at eight-forty-five tonight.”

“No, that’s not possible. I mean-what happened?”

Hall of Justice

Women’s jail

Monday night

Cindy Cahill shook her hands to regain some circulation as plump mean-as-a-snake Annette in her too-tight uniform trousers unlocked her wrist chains. “Welcome home,” Annette said. “Hey, you weren’t over in the Federal Building for very long. What was that all about?”

Cindy shook her head. “No one said a word, dragged me and Clive over there, then brought us back.”

“Your hubby okay?”

“Clive would be thriving if it was World War Three.” She and Clive had been taken to the holding cells on the twentieth floor because Savich had wanted to scare them, and not about the CIA, either, but about Xu, as if he’d have a chance of getting into the jail and killing them. Of course, no one had said that, but she’d known it to her toes. Why hadn’t that bitch marshal Barbieri told her what this was all about? Because Barbieri was only a drone, and drones kept their mouths shut, if they even knew the answers.

As she knelt down to unfasten the ankle chains, Annette said, “Maybe this moving you around has to do with your lawyer being murdered up in Bel Marin Keys this afternoon. Both him and his girlfriend.”

Cindy’s heart stopped, her breath caught in her throat. She put her hand out to the wall so she wouldn’t fall over. Milo was dead? Murdered? Of course Xu had killed him, she knew it, and that meant he was cleaning house: O’Rourke, Judge Hunt, Milo-she and Clive were the last ones left. Well, Judge Hunt was alive, but why Xu gave a crap about the judge was a huge question in her mind, since he had nothing to do with anything. Had Milo tried to blackmail Xu into giving him more money? Could he have been that stupid? Or was Xu ready to leave the country? He didn’t want to take the chance of anyone finding out his name or anything about him?

And now she and Clive were the only ones left who could tie him to anything at all. It was bad enough Xu had murdered O’Rourke, but she’d believed he’d had to, since O’Rourke had screwed everything up and alerted the judge. It even made sense to her. Both she and Clive had believed Xu would find some other way to get them out. But to murder Milo? Even though in the last couple of days both she and Clive had begun to have doubts about Milo, he’d always calmed her, always made her feel like she was in charge. And he always reminded her that Xu was backing them, the man who had all the money and would spend as much as it took. Xu wasn’t bad in the sack, either.

Now he’d murdered Milo.

“Hey, you hadn’t heard? That’s amazing. The lieutenant burps and everyone in this place knows a meatball sub was delivered before he’s finished it off.”

“No, I hadn’t heard,” Cindy said, and she thought, Screw the twenty-five years. She suddenly didn’t care how old she’d be when she got out of prison. At least she’d have a chance of getting out. Were she and Clive really safe here? If Xu really wanted them dead, could he somehow make it happen? She felt fear so corrosive it was like her stomach was turning in on itself.

“I need to use the phone. I need to call Agent Savich at the FBI.”

Annette gave Cindy her patented “I can do whatever I want with you since I’m the boss” look and shook her head. “Nope, sweetheart, you can make your call to Agent Savich during business hours tomorrow. This isn’t a hotel. Come on, time for you to shower and get your butt to bed.”

“But it’s urgent; it’s a matter of life and death-”

Annette simply sneered at her. “Like I said, Cindy, this isn’t a hotel. Let’s go.”

Cindy knew Annette wouldn’t budge, and so she bowed her head and followed her to the showers. She’d call Savich first thing in the morning.

She didn’t pay attention any longer to the guards seeing her naked; it hardly even registered. There were several other women in the showers before lights-out, some of them sullen and quiet, others usually loud and foulmouthed. She’d learned to avoid the two or three bullies, to stick with those who stayed quiet and left her alone.