Sherlock smiled. “There’s a freshly broken branch inside that bush, and I doubt it was one of our forensic team who broke it. Something heavy broke it from behind, from the rear, and it’s maybe two feet directly up from where the flag on the ground marks where they found the rock. That means the rock wasn’t just laid on the ground under the bush, it hit the bush hard.”
Savich said, “So it came from a distance.” He looked down over the wall again. “It’s too far down to throw it up and hit the bush with much force. But a small rock could easily be shot up here with a slingshot, say. One of those leather Trumark models they use to hunt jackrabbits and such. It would reach up here easily, aimed at the hydrangea, a nice big target. Good going, Sherlock.”
Eve stared at her. “How’d you think to even look for that?”
Sherlock said matter-of-factly, “There had to be a solution to Harry’s conundrum, and this was the only one I could think of. The shooter was careful, he studied Ramsey and picked his spot carefully, so it didn’t make sense he’d give up that advantage by climbing up the trail to drop a message.”
“Amazing,” Eve said. “So much for our second perp.” But Harry wasn’t convinced.
Sherlock said, “Answer me this, Agent Christoff. If there was a second man, why didn’t he come out from his hidey-hole to make sure Ramsey was dead? No, what the shooter wanted was to kill Ramsey, and didn’t care too much if he missed with that rock. In the grand scheme of things, that attempt to sneer at us, to misdirect us, or whatever, wouldn’t have worked if we didn’t find the rock. So what?”
Everyone chewed on that. Harry said, “Okay, one shooter, then. I can’t get over the timing—Ramsey postponed the trial and he gets shot. It’s got to be the Cahills behind this, or someone they’re involved with. The timing makes it too coincidental, and I, for one, don’t believe in coincidences.”
“I don’t, either,” Savich said. “But as Sherlock pointed out, a stranger couldn’t predict Ramsey would be standing out here exactly when he needed him to, and so someone’s been studying him for at least a week, I’d say.”
Eve rubbed her hands over her arms. “Someone who followed him around for a week? That’s hard to take in.”
Harry said, “Okay, say it isn’t the Cahills. But the timing is still what it is—even if it was planned for some time, someone may be cashing in on a wonderful opportunity, since the Cahills are hanging over the crime scene like a black cloud.”
“Judge Hunt closing down the trial was mentioned on the local news at noon yesterday,” Eve said. “If someone had already planned to kill him, they moved very fast.”
“There’s another big question with the Cahills,” Savich said. “The way it looks now, there’ll be a mistrial because the federal prosecutor may have been compromised, and now he’s missing. Ramsey’s being shot doesn’t change that. It will all begin again for them, with a different set of players.”
Eve said, “Molly said that was one of the first things out of Ramsey’s mouth when he woke up. Why shoot him? A judge’s job is to be impartial, unlike the prosecutor who’d spent months preparing for the trial. What difference did it make to the Cahills who was sitting up there in the black robe?”
Eve looked over at the crime scene tape that marked where Ramsey had fallen. “Whoever it was made one big fat mistake.”
Everyone looked at her.
“The shooter didn’t manage to kill Ramsey. He failed. Now what’s he going to do? Try again? If it was the Cahills who targeted Ramsey, for whatever reason, they’ve already won, because he’s out of the picture for the near future. What if it was someone else?”
“That’s why we’ve got to protect him, Eve,” Harry said.
“No one will hurt Judge Ramsey Hunt on my watch,” Eve said. “No one.”
Sherlock said, “I’ll be checking on the Zodiac, and Cheney has feelers out for any word about a shooter for hire.”
“We need to talk to the Cahills,” Eve said. “Regardless, they’re certainly people of interest. It’s a place to start.”
Sherlock’s eyes were closed as she listened to Emma play George Gershwin’s
“It’s been too long since I’ve listened to you play,” Judge Corman Sherlock said. “Thank you, Emma.”
Harry couldn’t believe what he had just heard. An eleven-year-old kid, her thick dark brown hair veiling her face, had knocked his socks off. How could those small hands play with such passion and purity, even reach all those racing chords, those endless runs and trills?
Evelyn Sherlock was still smiling. “That was grand, Emma. Thank you for the preview. We’ll be there to hear you at the symphony, of course.”
Emma gave them a small smile, but it soon fell away. “I don’t know how well I’ll play with Daddy in the hospital.” She looked down at her clasped hands. “He smiled at me this afternoon, but it was so hard for him, and I knew it hurt him.”
Eve said, “Say your dad can’t be with you at Davies Hall. We’ll fix it so he can be listening to you on a live feed.”
“But what if something happens? What if he’s still in the hospital? How could I play then?”
Eve said, “If he isn’t home—and believe me, that’s unlikely, since your daddy’s such a tough dude—we’ll take the live feed to the hospital and hook it up there. Can’t you see all the nurses and doctors, all the other patients cramming into his room to see you play? Believe me on this. Wherever your daddy happens to be in a week and a half, you know he’ll be right onstage with you.”
What a perfect thing to say, Savich thought. Eve didn’t even hint that Ramsey could possibly be well enough to actually attend her performance, and that was smart. He squeezed Sherlock’s hand.
Emma tried to smile at Eve. “That means I can’t make a single mistake.”
“You never do,” Eve said.
Sherlock said, “Do you like the Bosendorfer, Emma? My parents got it for me a very long time ago.”
“It’s too bad you aren’t here very often to play it,” Emma said. “Mrs. Mayhew—she’s my teacher—she says a piano has to be played or it goes stale.”
“Do you think the Gershwin sounded stale?”
Emma shook her head. “No, it sounded perfect. I’m used to my Steinway, but I like this piano, too. I wish Mama were here.”
Eve said, “Look at the big picture, Emma. Your daddy needs her attention right now more than we do.”
Emma thought about that and nodded. She touched middle C. “The action’s perfect.”
Evelyn Sherlock said, “Emma, would you like to have Lacey play for you?”
Emma’s eyes shone. “Oh, yes. Do you know Bach’s
Sherlock rolled her eyes. “I haven’t played that killer in a long time. I can feel my fingers yelling at me not to try it.”
Harry said, “Tell your fingers to man up. I’d sure like to hear you play, Sherlock.”
Sherlock took Emma’s place at the black piano bench. She played some scales, ran some chords, and realized the feel of the keys on this magnificent instrument was a deeply embedded memory that came back quickly. Still, she wasn’t about to try the first movement, far too wild and hairy without practice. She played the second movement, slow, evocative, and sorrowful. As she played, she felt the power of the music burrow into her. When she finished, Sherlock slowly lifted her hands from the keyboard, letting herself settle for a moment, another
