Catherine Coulter - The Target

"That's a start," Savich said.

Sherlock patted Molly's shoulder as she said, "Dillon and I took a week's vacation. We're at your command."

"I already told them," Savich said, pulling her down onto his lap. "They haven't applauded just yet, but when they see what we can do, they'll do handsprings. I'll also speak to the police in Denver. We can add stuff from forensics from the explosion. Sherlock can help us by translating what you know into data for MAXINE."

"Then we push a button and MAXINE becomes the brightest Cuisinart on the planet," Sherlock said.

"While Dillon talks to the cops, why don't we make a list of all the things you guys can remember.

"Where," Sherlock began, "do you think Louey Santera planned to go if he did manage to get the Mercedes off the estate?"

"Nowhere," Molly said. "He hadn't thought that far ahead. He was scared and he lost it. He did that sometimes."

"This time it was fatal," Ramsey said. "Poor bastard."

"Not a poor bastard if he was the one who staged Emma's kidnapping," Molly said, her voice hard.

"How will we prove it if he was behind it?"

"Follow the money," Savich said. "I'll get a warrant to search through all Santera's financial records.

There's always something there, always."

"You don't need a warrant. I'll get the records." Mason Lord stood in the kitchen doorway, Gunther standing right behind his right shoulder.

"I'd just as soon you didn't do anything, Mr. Lord," Savich said. "It's our job. Let us do it on the up and up. Admittedly it takes a bit longer. On the other hand, it's legal. There are advantages to being really legal in this situation."

Mason said, "I know Louey's accountant. I will speak personally with him. Warren will plead to tell me everything he knows, to show me every record he's ever entered. Warren has always been useful and informative."

"You know," Sherlock said slowly, eyeing Mason Lord, wondering how he could be so utterly different from her own father yet look so remarkably like him. Both men had power, but they were on opposite sides of the law. "Just maybe since Mr. Lord and Mr. Santera's accountant are such good acquaintances, it wouldn't be a bad thing. What do you think, Judge Hunt? Does that sound kosher enough to you?

Would evidence from such a source give the defense a shot at an appeal?"

"Not that I can see. Hey, why not? We're on Mason Lord's turf. Let him glean information for the case."

He grinned at Lord. "I would discourage breaking and entering, though."

In that instant Molly realized her father had been standing there stiff as a poker. Now she saw him ease up, saw those aristocratic hands unclench, the long lean fingers uncurl. The cops were admitting him.

They wanted to involve him. He didn't smile, no, he'd never go that far, but there was something in his expression that held at least some degree more warmth than usual.

WARREN O'Dell was completely bald-probably through shaving-and looked like a longshoreman, exactly the opposite from what you'd expect of an accountant. He did wear wire-rimmed glasses, though.

He had something of the look of Michael Jordan.

When he spoke, you saw he had yellow teeth from too much smoking. He had calluses on the pads of his fingers and his palms. He spared one glance for Ramsey, his full attention on Mason Lord. Then he did a double take. "I know you," he said, staring hard.

Ramsey smiled and said, "I'm Ramsey Hunt."

"You're that federal judge in California who jumped over the railing and chopped up a group of terrorists in your courtroom."

"That's the way things worked out. It was just a little group."

Mason Lord cleared his throat, and suddenly Warren O'Dell turned pale. "Uh, sir," he said, nodding his head and making a sweeping gesture with his hand toward an expensive white leather sofa. "Please, sit down. I was devastated at the news of Louey's death. I was going to call you."

"Were you now, Warren?" Mason said. "Why?"

It was obvious that Warren O'Dell was scared spitless. He was standing in the middle of his beautifully furnished office on the nineteenth floor of the McCord Building on Michigan Avenue looking as if he wanted to jump out a window.

"Yes, sir," he said finally. "I would have called you as soon as it happened, but it was such a shock, you know. I couldn't pull myself together until just this morning. Louey's dead, blown up by a car bomb. I can't believe it. It doesn't seem possible. I heard you allowed the cops to investigate?"

Ramsey felt a small ripple of surprise in his gut. Did O'Dell consider Mason Lord to be some sort of god with total immunity?

"It was murder, Warren. I'm a law-abiding citizen," Mason said, his voice austere, as if he'd been the one to insist on the cops coming in. He looked toward Ramsey. "Judge Hunt is the man who saved Molly's daughter."

"Oh, yes, now I see. I couldn't imagine why he was here, with you, seeing me. It's the shock of Louey's death. It's shaken me badly. I gave my girl the day off I was so upset."

"I see you have some boxes shoved behind your desk, Warren. I don't suppose you were planning to destroy some documents? Perhaps in preparation for a nice long vacation?"

"Oh no, sir. I was just cleaning house. Nothing more."

"I'll see that you get any assistance you require," Mason said.

"No, sir, I'm just fine, really."

Mason Lord barely raised his voice. "Gunther."

The huge man was there in the doorway, looking dead on at Warren O'Dell. As if O'Dell were a bug, Ramsey thought.

"Yes, Mr. Lord?"

"We need to assist Mr. O'Dell. See those boxes shoved behind that impressive mahogany desk of his?

We'll take those and have a look at them. Ramsey, maybe you would be so kind as to look through Mr.

O'Dell's file cabinets."

"I have some questions first," Ramsey said.

"Please, Mr. Lord, there's really nothing-"

Mason Lord raised his hand. O'Dell was instantly silent. "Judge Hunt wants to ask you some questions, Warren. You will answer them completely and honestly."

Warren O'Dell's bald head glistened with perspiration. He watched Gunther carrying out the boxes. He licked his lips. "Yes, sir."

Ramsey felt exceedingly strange. Here he was with a powerful criminal boss who had a potential witness nearly pissing in his pants, and he, Ramsey, a federal judge, was a co-conspirator in what was probably extortion, at least duress. Who cared? "Mr. O'Dell, tell me about Mr. Santera's finances."

Warren O'Dell swallowed. He looked again toward Gunther, who was coming back into the office, his gun in its shoulder holster clearly visible because his coat was open.

"Louey was broke," he said at last. "Dead broke. He was doing this tour to try to pay off his debts.

There's nothing now that he broke his contract, not even loose change."

"Louey was broke?" Ramsey repeated. "Did he owe a lot of money?"

"Louey wasn't ever big on denying himself. Then he got butt-deep in debt. There's this small consortium in Las Vegas. I think they arranged for Louey to lose heavily at the craps table, which he did. He was a lousy gambler, but he wouldn't admit it. He thought he was the greatest in just about everything. No, in everything. He was into them for nearly a million dollars. They kept him gambling and he couldn't begin to pay them off. They just kept adding on interest. They made threats. On him, on your daughter, sir, and on your granddaughter."

"Names, please, O'Dell," Ramsey said. "Give me names and then give me records."

Mason rose and walked to the small bar, a chrome-and-glass affair on wheels with three gold leaf-framed glass levels. He picked up the brandy decanter and poured an inch into a snifter. He never turned, just stood there, looking out the wide windows, sipping on the brandy. He said quietly, "I know who it is."