She checked her watch. “I’d be a moron to drink coffee this late. You have nonfat milk? Splenda?”
He had both.
Eve watched him grind coffee beans, then measure the ground coffee into the filter and dump water in from the sink tap.
Harry said, “Funny what Savich said about Billy Hammond, his friend at the CIA in Langley. He wouldn’t verify anything at all about the information Xu obtained or was after, even though he’s known Savich for a hundred years, give or take. That kind of secrecy, it’s enough to make you gag in your soup.”
“At least he apologized,” Eve said. “It must be incredibly sensitive stuff if they’re putting tape over his mouth. I’ll bet they already know exactly what was accessed, since it would be recorded on their servers. They just don’t want anyone else to know, though, even us.”
“According to Savich,” Harry said, “they weren’t much interested in interviewing the Cahills. They probably know the Cahills didn’t know about the information Xu accessed, or how valuable it is. But maybe they know enough to help us find Xu.”
“That’s all we want from them, really,” Eve said.
Suddenly he was staring at her as they stood in his kitchen, listening to the coffee perk, shaking his head.
“What? Do I have rain still dripping off my nose?”
He said, “The first time I saw you I thought you looked like a homecoming queen from somewhere in the Midwest, someone who should be frosting cupcakes for her kid’s birthday party. I wondered, how can she possibly be a deputy U.S. marshal?” He shook his head again. “You’re so damned pretty.” Then he waved his hands, as if he were trying to wave away his words.
Since it was obvious to her that Harry wished he’d kept his mouth shut, Eve waved her own hands at his kitchen cabinets. “You said you liked my kitchen. I had it remodeled last year, you know. I found a really good contractor who came in on budget and on time. You want her name?”
“Nah, everything works fine. Once in a while the sink clogs, but that’s no big deal.”
She grinned. “You’re right. Nothing wrong with cooking in the 1940s. Now that I think about it, if you wait another couple of years, all your kitchen appliances will be back in style as retro, except maybe for those green- tinted cabinets.”
He handed her a mug of coffee, gave her nonfat milk from the refrigerator, and dug out a couple of packets of Splenda from his stuff drawer. As she stirred her coffee, she said, “What you said, Harry—do you know my brothers are always saying the same thing? They still call me Miss Suzie-Q.
“When I told my dad I wanted to be a U.S. marshal like he is, though, he looked at me up and down and said, ‘That would make me very proud, Eve. It’s a great career choice for you. You’ll be one of the best.’” She paused for a moment, looked down into her coffee mug. “Yes, that’s exactly what he said, straight up. I’ve never forgotten.” She cleared her throat and drank some coffee. “This is very good, Harry. Do you cook?”
“When the need arises. What did your mom say?”
Eve took another sip of her coffee, enjoyed the zing of caffeine, though she knew she’d be cursing herself at two a.m. “When my dad told her what I wanted to do, she laughed. And laughed. She was happy. I saw her kiss my dad and shake her head and say something about the apple not falling far from the tree.
“I look just like my mom, you know. It’s funny what you said, Harry, because my mom was a college cheerleader. And I can still see her cutting our birthday cakes at our big kid parties, hear her singing at the top of her lungs, leading all the kids in a sing-along. I might add that everyone adored her. She was so beautiful, so bouncy and fun. She still is.”
Harry said, “So you fell pretty close to both trees. And your dad’s the U.S. marshal in Chicago?”
“Yep. Like I told you, he’s an anomaly. He’s served under two different presidents now, unlike most of the ninety-four marshals countrywide. Tell me about your folks, Harry.”
He shrugged. “They live in London—well, they do for most of the year. They love to travel, always have, and they took me with them. I guess they gave me the travel bug.”
She could only gape at him. Parents lived in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, for heaven’s sake, or Minneola, Florida, not London, England. “Why do they live in London?”
He looked like he wanted to tell her to leave it alone, but he said finally, “My dad’s a financier. It sounds old- fashioned, I know, but that’s what he says he is.”
“What does he finance?”
“Well, he runs Willet, Haversham, and Bayle.”
She let out a whistle. “They’re so big even I’ve heard of them. They’re worldwide. And they survived the bankers’ rape of the world with fairly clean hands, from all I’ve read. Your dad’s CEO?”
“Well, not really. He’s the chairman of the board. Actually, he pretty much is Willet, Haversham, and Bayle.”
“But your name’s Christoff.”
“Willet and Haversham are his first and middle names, the middle name from his own father, and Bayle is his best friend. They picked the name because Dad liked the sound of it, all snooty and English, like one of their ancient law firms.”
“So your dad is Willet Haversham Christoff? And what’s your full name?”
“I’ll tell you on my deathbed.”
“That bad? Does your name sound like an English duke? All right, I’ll wait. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“I’m an only child.”
“All right, I’ll keep pulling hen’s teeth. Your mom?”
“Sylvia is my mom. She’s a fashion consultant.”
She stared at him. “You’re kidding.”
He shrugged. “She’d take one look at you and want to haul you off to be photographed for
“How would you know that?”
“She took me with her on photo shoots, showed me all the subtle clues in a person’s face, actually. I’ve found it all very useful to a cop.”
“With that background, why’d you want to be a cop?”
Harry said, without hesitation, “My uncle Roy, my mom’s brother, is FBI. When I was six years old he told me I had the heart of a cop. He was right.”
Harry’s cell rang. “Yeah?”
His face remained impassive, but his eyes hardened. “We’ll be there in twelve minutes.”
“What?”
“You put the Cahills in a holding cell in the Federal Building, right? Someone evidently cleared the Cahills to go back to the San Francisco jail. Cheney called, found out they were transferred at eight-forty-five tonight.”
“No, that’s not possible. I mean—what happened?”
Cindy Cahill shook her hands to regain some circulation as plump mean-as-a-snake Annette in her too-tight uniform trousers unlocked her wrist chains. “Welcome home,” Annette said. “Hey, you weren’t over in the Federal Building for very long. What was that all about?”
Cindy shook her head. “No one said a word, dragged me and Clive over there, then brought us back.”
“Your hubby okay?”
