Backfire

Molly called out, “Cal, Gage, would the two of you stop trying to break each other’s heads? Are you ready to go, Em?”

But Emma wasn’t looking at her mother, she was staring out the window.

Harry smoothly turned his beloved dark blue Shelby Mustang onto Geary Street.

“Why don’t you tell me about the old newspaper photo of Judge Dredd with an X through his face you found at the scene?” Eve said.

He whipped around and looked at her. “How’d you know—well, yeah, I’m surprised that bit got out. Yeah, that’s what we found. Sitting under the big hydrangea bush in the backyard.”

Eve wasn’t about to tell him she knew because she’d overheard him and Cheney talking about it. “The shooter rubbing our noses in it?”

“That’s what I think.” He gave her another surprised look.

Eve said, “So we’re going to meet the two FBI hotshots at Ramsey’s house in Sea Cliff, check out how the photo got in the hydrangea? Check out the beach for signs of the Zodiac?”

“The forensic team couldn’t find anything on the beach, so no need to traipse down there,” Harry said. “You ever hear of Savich and Sherlock before?”

“Who hasn’t? Only two weeks ago they were front and center on the Kirsten Bolger case, and can you believe it, Bolger grew up right here in San Francisco?” She’d savored the colorful reporting, even felt a good dollop of envy, although she’d never admit it, at least to an FBI agent, particularly this FBI agent.

Harry said, “At least the local coverage has finally run out of juice on Kirsten Bolger’s family. They’ll be taking a rest until the trial begins next year, when they’ll light up their torches again.”

Eve marveled at the two agents—married. What could two people in such stress-filled, dangerous jobs possibly have to say to each other after, say, a violent shoot-out, like the one with Bolger in a North Carolina tobacco field? Hey, sweetie, you want to go get a beer to celebrate we’re still alive? She wondered if Sherlock painted her toenails, and imagined a nice French. And Savich was big, tough, hard as nails, good-looking. “Is Savich as fast as he looks?”

Harry nodded as he braked for a red light. “He is. He’s a fourth-degree black belt. Sherlock is a first-degree, a shodan—”

“Yeah, yeah, I also know when you’re a sixth dan, you wear a red-and-white belt. I mean, come on, why care so much about the color of your freaking belt? One big show, a business, that’s all it is. The bottom line in the real world is to beat the crap out of your opponent, however you can.”

“How do you know about a sixth dan?”

“From a book I saw at my boss’s house.”

“At Maynard’s?”

“Yep. He hosts these big barbecues, feeds all hundred of the deputy marshals regularly.”

“That’s a lot of spareribs.” Harry shot a look at her. “Cheney is new at his job, but I wouldn’t mind if he picked up on the barbecue ribs idea from Maynard. So that’s what marshals do? What about fighting?”

She gave him a fast smile, gone in the next instant. “We’ve got martial arts experts of our own, with all sorts of belts and colors. Lots of our deputy marshals are scrappers who like to show off their ripped-up knuckles and bruised kidneys.”

“And you’re not into martial arts?”

“Don’t know about that. I fight dirty, real dirty. Like I said, you want to put your opponent on the ground, his knees around his neck, as fast as possible.” She started to ask him if he’d like to visit her in the marshals’ gym, wear a couple of his prized belts, then remembered her boss telling her, Play nice, Barbieri, play nice. She cleared her throat. “So Savich is a computer expert, right?”

She fought dirty? He thought of her toilet adventure in the Macy’s women’s room in Omaha and smiled. “Give Savich a motherboard and he can make bread with it in no time at all.”

“Hey, that was sort of sweet.”

“Sweet? Hey, I tell you what. Let’s mix it up one of these days, Barbieri. I’ll get you feeling a little respect for the discipline. Because you’re so cute with that blond cheerleader ponytail swinging around, I’ll go easy on you.”

She batted her eyelashes at him, very effective, since she was so damned pretty. “Your best shot is I’ll be dazzled by your multicolored karate belt. Turn right here, we’re nearly there.”

When Harry pulled his Shelby into the Hunt driveway a few minutes later, he couldn’t help it, he gawked. “Some digs.”

“It’s got about the best views in Sea Cliff—the ocean, Marin Headlands, and the Golden Gate Bridge. Looks like all the news people have left. So has the SFPD. I don’t like this; someone should be here.” She pulled out her cell, punched in Carney Maynard’s number, and then she dropped her cell and pointed. “Hey, that’s Emma—she screamed!”

Eve was out of the car before Harry could turn off the motor, her Glock 22 in her hand, her long strides eating up ground.

Molly jerked open the front door, saw them, and thought she’d collapse in relief. “A man, he was staring in the window at us! He ran over toward Mr. Sproole’s backyard!”

Eve shouted, “I’ll take care of it. Get back inside, Molly!”

Eve saw a man running, a blur of black. And he was carrying something black—a gun? He had jumped the fence into the neighbor’s backyard. Harry started to yell for her to wait up, but he didn’t waste his breath. He watched her leap the stone fence smooth and high, like a hurdler. He ran after them.

“Federal agents! Stop!” Eve shouted.

But the man didn’t stop. He ran straight for the fence at the back of the neighbor’s yard, vaulted over it, and disappeared.

Eve didn’t hesitate. She jumped that fence, too, right after him.

A scratchy old voice yelled from the yard, “Be careful or you’re dead!” He turned to see Harry running toward the fence after them. “Hey, fellow, there’s a snaking little trail down to the water, but it isn’t safe. Who’s the guy she’s chasing? You’re all federal agents? Is that the guy who shot Judge Hunt?”

Harry waved off the old man and jumped the fence, stumbled on some loose rocks beyond it, and nearly fell on his face. He windmilled his arms, and managed to gain purchase. He looked down—at least sixty feet to the beach—not a beach, only a thin strip of dirty sand covered with a mess of black rocks and huge boulders.

Below him, Eve was tacking back and forth down the side of the cliff, shortcutting the windy little path. She stumbled once, and Harry’s heart seized. She caught herself, but she had to drop her Glock to do it and stopped to pick it up before she started down again. Harry saw the man had reached the beach and looked up to see Eve coming toward him. He scooped up a rock to hurl at her, thought better of it, and ran. Eve yelled back at Harry, “Call it in! I’m going to get him!”

She would catch him, Harry didn’t have a single doubt, even though she was a good twenty yards behind him. Harry dialed 911. The SFPD would get here faster than the FBI.

He watched Eve jump onto the strip of dirty sand and rocks and sprint after the man. Was that a gun in his hand? Then why hadn’t he shot her instead of picking up a rock? Surely the guy could tell, even from this distance, that she was moving way faster, gaining on him quickly. The putz looked like he was going to drop, he was breathing so hard. In that moment, Harry felt kind of sorry for the guy. He had no clue what was in store for him in