“I don’t know, but she sounded terrified. She was shivering so badly, I went ahead and brought her home, put her under a hot shower. She’s okay.”
Another sigh. “What’s her name?”
“Ah, well, how about Julia—”
She said quietly, not two feet from him, “My name is Julia Ransom.” A slight pause, a deep indrawn breath. “I’m Dr. August Ransom’s widow.”
Cheney stared at her, dumbfounded. Sodden and hacking up water, she hadn’t looked remotely familiar. Of course he recognized her now. The media had been merciless. It hadn’t mattered that she’d never been arrested, everyone assumed she was guilty. There were insinuations of police incompetence and collusion, of her sleeping with the chief of police, a happily married Irishman with six children.
“I heard her, Cheney,” Frank Paulette said, but he repeated her name aloud, as if he really didn’t believe it. “Julia Ransom,” he said again. “Well, my boy, you never do things halfway, do you?” Frank fell silent. Cheney heard Frank’s wife shouting at him in the background to take out the garbage, heard his son laughing now and the crowd screaming because Kobe Bryant had just scored a three-pointer—no more miracle in the making, at least in this game.
Cheney gave Frank the address, to which Frank said, “I know the damned address. I’ll be there in twenty, Cheney. Keep our lady safe. You sure this wasn’t a mugger?”
Cheney nearly smiled at the hopefulness in Frank’s voice. “Sorry, Frank. He was out to kill her.”
“I’ll get a couple of cars over there to keep an eye on her.”
“Yeah, okay.” Cheney punched off his cell, slipped it into August Ransom’s pants pocket. “The police are coming?”
“Yes. Captain Frank Paulette.”
“I thought just about all of them had questioned me, but I don’t know him.”
“Look, I had no choice. Someone tried to kill you. Frank’s a good guy, I’ve known him for nearly four years, almost as long as I’ve lived in San Francisco. He won’t badger you or treat you like—”
He stalled. She said nothing at all.
He saw she’d spread her leather jacket over the back of an antique chair older than Waterloo, his sports coat on a matching chair beside it.
He said, “I spread out the rest of my wet clothes in the bathroom.”
“I’ll take care of them. I have a special dry cleaner who’ll fix up your sports coat and your slacks. Here’s a jacket for you in the meantime.”
“Thank you.”
She nodded and strode firmly out of the bedroom, wearing old baggy jeans, a red 49ers sweatshirt, and blue Nike running shoes. She’d pulled her damp hair into a ponytail, hair the color of his ancient mahogany desk, dark and rich. She wasn’t wearing any makeup. She looked very young.
Cheney walked down the long hallway after her, wearing the dark blue cashmere jacket she’d handed him. She paused a moment after he’d shrugged into it, then slowly nodded. He saw she was tall, with long legs that ate up that endless carpet. He bet she could move in those running shoes of hers.
He could have been enjoying the cioppino with some nice crunchy French bread, but no, Frank was right. Cheney never managed to do anything halfway.
She turned at the bottom of the stairs to look up at him. “You look fine in August’s clothes. Again, no matter what you think of me—now that you know who I am—thank you for saving me. I’ll have your clothes cleaned and sent to you. How do you know a local police officer?”
“I’m a cop too, just not local.”
“So you’re a tourist cop?”
“Actually, no.”
A dark eyebrow remained raised.
She didn’t remember? Understandable, he thought, and shrugged. “I’m federal. I’m Special Agent Cheney Stone, FBI, with the San Francisco Field Office.”
She stared at him a moment, then threw back her head and laughed until she almost choked. She knuckled her eyes with her fists, like his teenaged niece.
She said, once she’d caught her breath, “I remember now, you yelled that to the guy who was going to kill me. Oh dear, I’ve got to call Wallace Tammerlane and tell him I won’t make it for our dinner.”
He watched her dash to a lovely table set against the corridor wall that held a telephone and a vase of fresh azaleas. He himself called his longtime friend Manny Dolan, told him what was happening, but he didn’t tell him Julia’s name.
“Damn, Cheney, I think June wanted to jump your bones. She’s not a happy camper.”
“Keep repeating what a hero I am, okay?”
“Yeah, sure. Have fun with the widow.”
When Julia joined him again, she said only, “Wallace wanted to come over, but I told him no. Believe me, you don’t want a flamboyant psychic medium interacting with cops. Not a good mix.”
“No,” Cheney said slowly, “I don’t suppose it would be.”
