Catherine Coulter: Backfire

Friday afternoon

U.S. Federal Deputy Marshal Eve Barbieri leaned against the hallway wall, outside the SICU, her knee bent and her arms crossed over her chest, waiting for her turn to see Judge Hunt. His surgeon, Dr. Kardak, had told everyone Judge Hunt was doing fine, but she still wasn’t over the soul-wrenching fear she’d felt when she’d been called at four a.m. to be told Judge Hunt had been shot. Would he live? Her boss, Carney Maynard, didn’t know, but Hunt had survived surgery and he had a chance, he told her matter-of-factly, because Judge Hunt was made of pure titanium. Thank all the powers that be, and thank Dr. Kardak’s team.

Maynard had told her the SFPD would be part of the protection detail along with the U.S. Marshals Service while Judge Hunt was in the hospital, but she was to stay close, as any questions about coverage or assignments would be directed to her. When Judge Hunt was discharged, she would be officially responsible for his and his family’s protection. She looked through the windowed door of the SICU at Officer Jay Mancusso of the SFPD, seated by Judge Hunt’s cubicle, and watched him study every face that came near. He looked angry, like most other cops she’d met since Judge Hunt had been shot. She wondered if every single law enforcement agency in the city would try to be involved in hunting down the man-or woman-who’d tried to kill him. Judge Hunt was a big deal, an American hero. She closed her eyes for a moment, thankful Ramsey would live and thankful for how well she had gotten to know him and his family over the years. When he was shot, she’d promised a real biggie if he would live-to be pleasant to her ex-mother-in-law if ever she saw her again, something she hoped would never happen. Eve and her ex-mother-in-law’s son, Ryan, had been married for about half an hour before Eve booted him out. She could still hear the woman’s outraged voice: A good woman would forgive her husband his small transgressions.

As she waited, she asked herself again for at least the twelfth time-had the Cahills hired the shooter? If so, it meant their defense attorney, Milo Siles, had to be in on it. How else could the Cahills have gotten hold of the talent and money so fast? She’d met the prosecutor, Mickey O’Rourke, several times, on the volleyball court. She remembered his laugh when his team had won-a really big laugh. He didn’t laugh in the courtroom, though, he was all business, a veteran who wielded a bullwhip. He had a good conviction rate. But none of that mattered now. He was missing, simply gone, no word, no emails, no nothing. She sighed, wishing just this once she was FBI and had the assignment to lead this case.

She pushed off the wall and began to pace, aware that Mancusso was watching her through the window. She wanted to see Ramsey, see for herself he was breathing, that his excellent brain was working behind his smart dark eyes, but it was one cop after the other trooping in. Lieutenant Virginia Trolley, SFPD, was in and out because she was also a trusted family friend. Eve knew it made Molly feel better to have Virginia close, another trained body to protect Ramsey. And those two FBI agents from Washington had been in, Savich and Sherlock were their names, a husband and wife, and wasn’t that a kick?

Eve looked up to see two men approaching-yeah, they were definitely Feds; you couldn’t mistake their private club dress code-dark suits, white shirts, usually dark ties. They were striding toward her, self-assured and arrogant as toreadors entering the ring. She recognized both, of course; she’d been introduced to the new SAC, Cheney Stone, but not the other agent. She’d seen the other one driving out of the parking garage a couple of times, but that was it.

She moved to stand against the wall again, waiting, all indolent and loose-limbed. Let them come to her. She whistled between her teeth. She wondered who’d cornered the market on the federal wingtips.

She heard the agent walking beside Cheney Stone say, “That picture we found in the bushes, the newspaper clipping of Judge Dredd with an X through his face-it’s like he’s sticking it in our faces and laughing.”

Hmmm, there was a clipping of Ramsey left at the crime scene? It was the first she’d heard of it. Not that she expected to know much about what the FBI had found, since she’d never even been inside the locked door on the thirteenth floor in the Federal Building. No, that space was inhabited only by the San Francisco FBI tribe. The U.S. Marshals Service occupied the twentieth floor, their digs only one floor above the senior federal judges’ offices and courtrooms. She didn’t care much for that FBI attitude, one of the reasons she hadn’t considered signing on with them six years before. She’d heard too many stories about some of the special agents-and wasn’t that a self-important title? For the most part, the FBI got results, but too often, it was their way or why don’t you take a leap from the Golden Gate Bridge? Were they prepared to deal with her, or would they try to plant their big Fed feet on some part of her anatomy? She’d see. She’d go around them, or through them, if necessary.

Cheney Stone stopped. “And here’s Deputy Marshal Eve Barbieri.”

He remembered her name, and that was a surprise. Eve shook hands with Stone. “Congratulations on becoming special agent in charge, Agent Stone.”

Cheney gave her a grin. “Thanks. It’s already been two months and I’m still alive and breathing, for the most part. But my once predictable life now consists of herding pit bulls.”

Eve could only agree, her opinion clear on her face even though she kept her mouth shut.

“Since we’ll be working together on Judge Hunt’s shooting, call me Cheney.”

First name? Nice smile, white teeth, seeming sincerity, but with a new SAC, it was wise to be cautious. She nodded, too soon to offer up her own first name.

Cheney said, “Eve Barbieri, this is Agent Harry Christoff. Harry, this is Deputy Marshal Eve Barbieri. She’s worked with Judge Hunt for three years and is a friend of the family.”

Eve took a good look at Special Agent Harry Christoff. He was in his early thirties, tall and lean, with dark brown hair and bright green eyes. He kept himself in very fine shape indeed. Although he was dressed in the obligatory dark suit and white shirt, he wasn’t wearing wingtips. Instead he wore black boots that looked as old as he did, but the ancient boots sported a high shine. As for his tie, it was bright yellow with black squiggles. A rebel? She didn’t think such an animal existed in the Big Machine.

So the new SAC was trying to herd Christoff-good luck. She’d heard of him before, most had. He was known as a loose cannon, and that sparked her interest. He looked as mean as any of the other pit bulls, like he could kick the crap out of you while chowing a pepperoni pizza and washing it down with a Bud. But he had to have something going for him in the brain department, since SAC Cheney Stone had assigned him to this case.

“I know you by rep,” Eve said. “They say you’re a wild hair.”

“Good to know,” Harry said, and stuck out his hand. Eve shook his hand, strong, with tanned, long fingers.

Cheney continued to Eve, “You guys are fast. We’ve already started looking at those boxes of threatening letters to Judge Hunt you sent over.”

She nodded, but she was still distracted studying Christoff, still evaluating-was he smart? Intuitive? Did this particular pit bull have any common sense? Did he have nerve?

She realized, of course, that Agent Harry Christoff was looking her over as well. “Ever have any problems before?” Christoff asked her.