offshore stash the Cahills might have, and what talent they could have called in on short notice. We’ve had no luck as of yet.”
“Eggs all in the Cahill basket, Cheney?”
“No, but it makes more sense than some sort of foreign government conspiracy to shoot Ramsey. I mean, if a foreign government was paying the Cahills for Mark Lindy’s top-secret materials, and they threatened to talk if they weren’t somehow found innocent, said government would more likely have them eliminated, not a federal judge or a federal prosecutor. There could be too much hell to pay for that.”
Savich said, “The Cahills are the obvious suspects, but what would it gain them to kill Judge Hunt?”
“Maybe they were afraid O’Rourke had already told Ramsey too much,” Cheney said. “But you’re right. We’re being thorough. We’re looking at mail threats to Judge Hunt, letters and emails going back three years, and we’ve started a review of his cases going back even further. I’m making sure the SFPD is in the loop, passing along some assignments to them. We can use the manpower.” He sighed, then added, “There are already endless complications, since Ramsey isn’t an anonymous federal judge like most of his confederates. Nope, he’s Judge Dredd, superhero. The mayor, the police commissioner, the major news outlets, even the conductor for the San Francisco Symphony have called me, wanting to know what progress we’ve made. The police commissioner is pushing for a task force, composed of the SFPD, the FBI, and the federal marshals, with the commissioner herself in charge. As if that’s going to happen. I’m already getting an ulcer.”
Savich asked, “Any progress on the missing federal prosecutor yet? Mickey O’Rourke?”
The answer was no.
When Savich ended the call, Sherlock said, “A federal prosecutor missing—it sounds like a spy novel. I’m very grateful my father wasn’t the one judging the Cahill case.”
“Mama, you weren’t paying attention. I got you!”
Savich smiled, listening to Sherlock wail. “Oh, dear, Sean, how am I going to save myself this time? Atoc’s shoved me in a pit of purple-headed Amazonian hippo snakes. Ah, here’s what I’ll do,” and Sherlock walloped one of the writhing hippo snakes with a canoe paddle. Since she was the master Incan mathematician, Professor Pahuac, and rotten to the bone, she knew her end probably wouldn’t be a good one.
Lieutenant Vincent Delion of the SFPD, and a longtime friend, met them at airport baggage claim. He told them he’d talked Cheney into letting him come get them. He told them the San Francisco Feds didn’t know squat yet, and neither did the SFPD, and he told them about the task force Police Commissioner Montoya announced she’d like to form, just a couple of hours ago—with the FBI’s assistance, of course. He tossed Savich a copy of the
Delion soon pulled his Crown Vic into the heavy 101 traffic north to the city. “At least Ramsey is holding on. None of us wanted a murder case, particularly not his. I can’t imagine what would happen to Emma, Molly, and the twins if he died.” There was a punch of hard silence, then, “No, they won’t lose him, they can’t.”
Delion shook his head, lightly stroked big fingers over his pride and joy. He smiled, remembering Sean Savich telling him in grave confidence at the baggage carousel, “I think your mustache is shinier than Hercule Poirot’s.”
Delion told Sean he was a fine judge of mustachios and that his was particularly shiny this morning in honor of meeting the bigwigs from Washington, D.C., their kiddo included.
Delion plowed his hand through his hair. “I’m hoping Ramsey will be ready to speak to us soon at the hospital.”
Sherlock said, “How’s Molly?”
“She’s trying to show she’s solid for the kids’ sake.” He paused for a moment, then added, “After what happened to Emma years ago, they all try to watch out for each other.”
“Is Uncle Ramsey all right, Mama?”
They’d told Sean they were coming to San Francisco because Ramsey had been hurt, nothing more. “He will be all right, Sean. He’s injured, but he’s going to start getting better now.”
“Is Emma okay?”
“She’s fine, Sean. She’s watching Cal and Gage.”
“No wonder,” her five-year-old said. “Cal and Gage are babies. They need all the watching they can get. I’ll help her.”
Sherlock said to Delion, “When we flew out here for Memorial Day weekend six months ago, Sean spent three hours with Emma and the boys, and announced to us he was going to marry Emma and help her teach Cal and Gage about life. I asked him about Marty Perry, his girlfriend next door, and the love of his life. I also asked him about Bowie Richards’s daughter, Georgie, also the love of his life, up in Connecticut. Sean just smiled, didn’t you, kiddo?”
Delion said to Sean, “I agree with you, Sean, Emma’s a champ. As for Marty and Georgie, they sound pretty cool, too. Hey, kid, the older you get the more you look like your old man.”
Sean considered that. “Mama says I’m more handsome than Papa, since I have her smile. She says that makes all the difference.”
Delion laughed.
“Handsome is as handsome does,” Savich said, and Sherlock saw Sean repeating his father’s words to himself. She rolled her eyes. She leaned over and ruffled Sean’s thick black hair.
Sean said, sounding a bit worried, “I hope Emma didn’t forget she’s engaged to me.”
“Not a chance,” Savich said. “Do you think your mama could have ever forgotten she was engaged to me?”
“Not a chance,” Sean said.
When they passed by Candlestick Park, Sean said, “That’s where Dwight Clark made
Savich grinned. “It sure is.”
Sherlock said to Delion, “Can you believe he remembers that?”
Delion said, “Yeah, well, his hard drive works better because it isn’t as full as ours.”
All the adults realized any more discussion about Ramsey’s shooting had to wait. Delion was talking about the upcoming 49ers-Seahawks game when Sean said, “Marty asked me when I was going to have a sister because she’s going to have a new brother in March.”
Now, that was a conversation starter.
Savich didn’t want to count all the lines that tethered Ramsey Hunt to life. There were IV lines in his neck, and an oxygen mask on his face. Savich recognized a kind of suction device connected to the end of the tube coming from Ramsey’s chest, a Pleurovac, they called it. Ramsey lay on his back, still and pale, his immense life force badly faded. At least it wasn’t extinguished. A light sheet was pulled to his chest, not quite covering his wide white
