sheer joy of it, sometimes whistling, saying hi to everyone she met. “I was standing at the railing at the far end of Pier 39, looking toward Alcatraz, watching the fog roll through the Golden Gate. It was getting late. There weren’t that many tourists left. The lights were coming on. I realized I had to get home because I had a dinner engagement.” She paused, drew in a deep breath. “He was tall, black, nice clothes, smart eyes—you know, like he saw everything and knew what it meant. He wore skinny-rimmed glasses, and he was very polite, asked me about Alcatraz, then about a ferry to Sausalito. I remember he had a nice smile, made me smile back. I told him about the ferry, then turned to show him where to walk to see the schedule. He hit me in the jaw, to daze me, I guess, and then he had a knife in his hand—it was silver, and I saw it had a sharp point, but before he could stab me with it, Agent Stone yelled at him to stop, and so the man hefted me over the wooden railing into the bay.” She frowned. “There weren’t any seals down there but I swear I heard one of them honking close by before I went under.”
“The man only asked about Alcatraz, then the ferry schedule to Sausalito?”
“Yes, Inspector Whitten, that’s all. He didn’t seem at all threatening. He was well-spoken, over six foot, I’d say, nice-looking, and again, he was very well dressed.”
Inspector Bigger marveled aloud, “Only you saw this knife, right? Maybe you didn’t really see a knife, Mrs. Ransom, maybe this man was a mugger who nailed you as someone really rich—”
“Rainy—” Inspector Whitten said, warning in his voice. “You said he smiled at you, Mrs. Ransom?”
Cheney saw Julia withdraw, though she hadn’t moved at all. But she was stiff all over now, hating this, hating them. She said, voice steady, “Yes, Inspector Whitten, and I smiled back, as I told you. It was impossible not to. He was wearing a Burberry coat, it had that look. Expensive, I’d say. I’m sorry, but I don’t remember anything else about him. Then I heard Agent Stone shouting at him.”
She watched Frank Paulette write down what she said in a small notebook. He was left-handed, like she was. He said to Cheney, “How well did you see the guy?”
“I saw his face only once, when he turned around to look at me when I yelled at him. Then he heaved her over the railing and took off. Like I told you, I got the impression he was an athlete, fast, supple. As to his age, he moved young, agile. I didn’t even have time to draw my gun. I couldn’t go after him because I had to haul out Mrs. Ransom.”
“Good timing,” Inspector Bigger said.
“Yes, I sure thought so,” Julia said, smiling hard at Bigger. “Hey, you think maybe I set the whole thing up to get Agent Stone on my side? Ah, may I ask why I need him on my side? Actually, I didn’t think I had a side. Am I missing something here?”
Cheney smiled to himself. There was strength there, he thought, and waited.
Inspector Bigger backed off.
Cheney wondered what had happened between the two women during the investigation into her husband’s murder.
Inspector Whitten said to Cheney, to get the attention off his partner, “You got no hint of recognition from this man? Nothing about him was familiar to you?”
Cheney shook his head. “Only that I’d bet the farm the guy’s a pro. He was fast and efficient. He didn’t alarm her. If I hadn’t been outside looking for a friend who was smoking, Mrs. Ransom would be dead. He did exactly what he needed to do to get away, once he realized I was an immediate danger to him. Now the thing is—” He paused a moment. “We know he meant to kill her because he didn’t mind that she got a really good look at him. And he knows he very probably failed to kill her. He’s also got to know we’ll have sketches of him plastered everywhere. He’d be crazy to stay in San Francisco.”
Captain Paulette said, “Do you think you got a good enough look at him to help a police artist make up a sketch of him, Mrs. Ransom?”
CHAPTER 6
Yes,” Julia said. “I’ll never forget his face as long as I live.”
“Good,” Cheney said. “I got something of a look as well. We’ll do it separately, then compare.”
Inspector Bigger started to say something, but her brain caught up with her mouth, and she kept quiet.
Captain Paulette pulled out his cell. “I’ll see if I can’t get Otis over here right now. He lives on Potrero Hill so it shouldn’t take him long this time of night. Hey, if I missed the Warrior-Laker game, so can Otis.”
“The Warriors are down,” Inspector Bigger said. “I was listening to the game on the way over here.”
Cheney realized it was only nine o’clock. He said, “Frank, the FBI has a facial recognition program they’ve modified to allow you to plug in an artist’s sketch. We used it a couple months back and caught the perp. We can do it again.”
Captain Paulette nodded. “That sounds hopeful, if you’re right and this guy is a pro. Yeah, I met the agent who was one of the guiding hands behind it—Dillon Savich. He and his wife, Lacey Sherlock, and another agent, Dane Carver, were here a while ago.”
“Yes,” Cheney said, nodding, “when Dane’s brother was murdered.”
“The Script Murders,” Inspector Whitten said, leaning forward in his chair. “Lieutenant Delion still talks about it.”
Cheney said, “Then you know they aren’t into big-footing locals.”
“Others in that nice big federal zoo of yours are, Cheney.”
“Yeah, well, Frank, what can I tell you. I can speak to Savich personally, see what he can do with the sketch after Mrs. Ransom gives us the guy’s face.”
Julia remembered the Script murderer who had butchered three people in San Francisco, including a priest. She shuddered to think she was part of that world now. She rose. “While we’re waiting for the police artist, I’ll make everyone coffee.”
