He stripped down to his boxers and undershirt, set his SIG, his cell, and his wallet on the counter, looked at his once-beautiful sports coat in a heap with the old leather jacket and the rest of her clothes on the floor. As he stepped with her into the large shower, Cheney wondered if showering with a just-rescued stranger was in the Quantico manual. He pulled the glass door shut and set her directly under the spray of hot water.
She yelled and tried to pull away from him.
Actually, he felt like yelling right along with her when sharp needles of hot water struck his flesh.
He held her tight until she stopped struggling, then rubbed his hands up and down her arms and her back. She was thin, too thin, but she wasn’t small-boned, she wasn’t fragile. Was she naturally thin or was it because of something else?
Julia slowly felt herself getting warm, this time from the outside in, and she was getting stronger too. She said against his neck, “I can stand up by myself now, thank you.”
He let her go. “How much longer will the hot water last?”
“It’s probably getting near the end of its run.” She pushed open the door and stepped out, knowing his hand was there to catch her.
He turned off the water and followed her. He looked at her closely and was reassured. She was with him, strong again, and alert. A large bruise was blooming on her jaw, along with many other smaller bruises and abrasions on her arms, ribs, and legs from hitting the rocks in the bay on her way down.
She looked him up and down and smiled. “Thank you for saving me. Nice boxers.”
“Thank you. Nice smile.” She was there behind her eyes, and he smiled as he added, “You’re welcome.”
“I’ll get some dry clothes for you.” She tossed him an oversized towel, took one for herself, and left him in the bathroom.
When he came into her bedroom a few minutes later, she was wearing a thick bathrobe and socks, her head wrapped turban-style in a towel. She held a pile of men’s clothing in her hands.
“August was nearly as tall as you,” she said as she gave him a clinical look. He was wearing only the big towel, wrapped and knotted around his waist. “He was heavier, particularly around the waist, but you can tighten the belt.”
Cheney went back into the bathroom, stared down at his own sodden clothes. Well, everything should dry. But there was no hope for the expensive wool pants, the same ones he’d worn at his graduation from the Academy, two funerals, and tonight, his first date in too long a time.
Instead of boxers, he pulled on jockey shorts, a white T-shirt, and a large dark blue cashmere sweater that felt like sin against his skin. The pants were loose, but he simply pulled his own belt tighter like she’d suggested, and the sweater covered it. The garden-variety dark chinos were long enough. He looked down at his bare feet. A moment later, she called out, “Here are some socks. What size shoe do you wear?”
“Twelve.”
“A bit small, sorry.”
Her hand passed a pair of Italian loafers through the open door. The leather was so soft he bet he could eat it if he got hungry enough.
When he stepped out of the bathroom, she called out from inside the huge walk-in closet, “Be with you in a moment. Listen, I’m fine, don’t worry, all right? I think I’m nearly ready to sweat I’m so warm now. I’m not about to collapse in here.”
“Okay.” He pulled out his cell and began to dial his SAC, Bert Cartwright, a pompous ass much of the time because he was blessed with a photographic memory for faces and liked to flaunt it, but he stopped. No, this was local police business. He found Frank at home watching a basketball game, his son carping in the background because Frank wouldn’t let him borrow his car.
“Hey, Frank, I got a problem for you.”
CHAPTER 4
Captain Frank Paulette, SFPD, said, “Gee, thanks a lot, Cheney. Here I was all bored, watching the Warriors kick the crap out of the Lakers, a miracle in the making.”
“Which quarter?”
“The second.”
“No miracle’s going to happen tonight, trust me on this. Listen, Frank, I got a situation here and it’s local, not federal. I got an attempted murder for you.” And Cheney told him what had happened.
Frank listened, not saying a word, sighed, and raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Why me, Lord? Okay, okay, I know why. I’m a trouble magnet. Wait, don’t tell me. You never saw this guy up close?”
“Nope, and there wasn’t anything distinctive about him, either. Tall, black, moved fast and smooth, like an athlete. He knew what he was doing, no panic, no hesitation. When I yelled at him that I was FBI and I’d shoot, he made no attempt at all to take me on. He threw her over the railing into the bay and ran.”
“Maybe all he had was that knife, no gun. Maybe he was just a mugger, not about to take on a fed, or draw an audience.”
“We’re not talking an attempted mugging here, Frank. This guy was a pro. Everything he did was professional, even his decision to cut and run. She’ll need protection. He’s got to assume she survived.”
“Okay, I’ll buy the guy’s a pro. The woman’s all right?”
“Yeah. She didn’t want to go to the hospital, so I brought her home.”
“That’s pretty stupid, Cheney. What’s her problem?”
