Backfire

She didn’t think such an animal existed in the Big Machine.

So the new SAC was trying to herd Christoff—good luck. She’d heard of him before, most had. He was known as a loose cannon, and that sparked her interest. He looked as mean as any of the other pit bulls, like he could kick the crap out of you while chowing a pepperoni pizza and washing it down with a Bud. But he had to have something going for him in the brain department, since SAC Cheney Stone had assigned him to this case.

“I know you by rep,” Eve said. “They say you’re a wild hair.”

“Good to know,” Harry said, and stuck out his hand. Eve shook his hand, strong, with tanned, long fingers.

Cheney continued to Eve, “You guys are fast. We’ve already started looking at those boxes of threatening letters to Judge Hunt you sent over.”

She nodded, but she was still distracted studying Christoff, still evaluating—was he smart? Intuitive? Did this particular pit bull have any common sense? Did he have nerve?

She realized, of course, that Agent Harry Christoff was looking her over as well. “Ever have any problems before?” Christoff asked her.

Eve shook her head.

“Looks like the first time a problem cropped up, none of you were around.”

Nice shot. She said on a yawn, “Guess I was out drinking grappa in North Beach, not camping out in Judge Hunt’s backyard, stroking my Glock.”

Not bad. Harry eyed her. She hadn’t taken the bait, hadn’t tried to belt him. He liked attitude, wanted to grin at her amused in-your-face, “you’re not worth my time, Agent Moron” look. He’d seen Barbieri before and thought she was a real looker, but he’d never seen her up close. The close-up reality surprised him. With her long legs in black pants and her black boots that put her close to six feet tall, she nearly reached his eyebrows. They were really shiny black boots, too, maybe shinier than his. Nah, probably not. She wore a raw-looking red leather jacket over a black turtleneck, topping off the tough U.S. marshal look.

But her face spoiled the effect. Despite the outfit, she looked like she should be serving ice cream and cake to kids at a birthday party, smiling and tending them, her blond ponytail bouncing. She was real pretty and sweet-looking and—wholesome was the word, like some former Ohio State cheerleader, like the girl next door voted beauty queen at the state fair. Until you looked at her eyes, dark blue stormy eyes that weren’t at all trusting, and the U.S. marshal showed through again. They were eyes that had seen a lot, though the good Lord knew she couldn’t have seen more than he had in his eight years with the Bureau.

Harry stuck out his hand, wondering if she’d bite it, but she shook his hand, hers cool and dry, all business.

“Why are you grinning?”

“I was wondering if you would bite my hand.”

She arched a dark blond eyebrow. “Only if you try to feed me.”

Harry said, “So you think I’m a wild hair, do you? There’s a story around about you, too, Barbieri. Something about a fugitive in a shopping mall in Omaha last year who tried to take a hostage in a Macy’s women’s room? And you ended up sticking the woman’s head in the john and not letting her up until she dropped her gun?” He grinned at the visual. “Talk about the pot and the kettle.”

Cheney laughed, couldn’t help it, watching the two of them. If they could manage to avoid bloodshed, they might work well together. Barbieri could stand up to anybody, and as for Harry, well, despite his reputation, he had gotten some remarkable results, and that’s why Cheney wanted him on Judge Hunt’s shooting.

Cheney said to Eve, “Your boss told me you’ll be heading up Judge Hunt’s protection team.”

Eve nodded.

“Good. The media is gathered in the lobby. I don’t doubt they’ll try to sneak up.”

“We’ve got that covered,” Eve said. “Just look at Mancusso’s face—show him a lurking reporter and he’ll stuff him into one of the laundry carts.”

“We’ve also had Agent Dillon Savich, chief of the CAU back at the Hoover Building—that’s the Criminal Apprehension Unit—and his wife, Agent Sherlock, fly out to help us with the case. You’ll be working with them as well.”

“Yes, I know,” she said. “I saw you with them earlier.” Eve had watched Cheney hug the woman with the rioting red hair and shake the big man’s hand, all chatty and full of bonhomie, best buds.

Great, Harry thought, he’d be working with Savich and Sherlock from Disneyland East, too, as if there weren’t already enough noses eager to poke under the tent.

Cheney said, “Harry, do you think you can manage to work with Barbieri? Work with her, not make her want to knock your teeth down your throat? Given it’s Barbieri we’re talking about here, she probably wouldn’t hesitate.”

“You’re recommending caution around Suzie Cheerleader? Not a problem. She’s only heading up the protection detail, so that’s not a lot of work we’ll need to do together.”

Suzie Cheerleader? Eve gave him the fish eye. “I’ll get the job done, whether you work with me or not,” and she shrugged as an eyebrow went up. “The question is, will you, Christoff?”

“In the FBI, we have cases, not jobs.” He held up his hand and said to Cheney, “Like I said, there’s no problem here. I can work with anybody, even cute little cheerleader types.”

Cheney eyed them both, wondering if he was making a mistake. No, but he’d talk to Harry again privately, and ask Marshal Carney Maynard to make sure Eve Barbieri would work with Harry, not go haring off on her own. He had to admit there’d been a time or two when he’d wanted to rip Harry’s face off himself. He said, “Deputy Barbieri, Harry will be point man on this. Your boss has asked that you assist him, as time allows. No hotdogging from either of you, especially you, Christoff, all right?”

Harry said, “Me, hotdog? Not a single lick of yellow mustard on me.”

Eve took one last look at Harry, gave a little finger wave to Cheney, and turned away down the hall.

Cheney said, “I’m serious about this, Harry. Not only does she know Judge Hunt, she knows about most everything that goes on inside and outside the courtroom. You want to use her.”

Harry nodded. “Sure, but bottom line, she’s just the protection.” He gave his boss a maniacal grin and strode off. “Hey, Barbieri, wait up! You and I got stuff to work out here.”

San Francisco General Hospital

Friday afternoon

The first thing Eve heard when she slipped into Ramsey’s cubicle was the sound of machines, some beeping, some humming. Then she saw all the lines running into and out of his body. She couldn’t imagine trying to rest like that. She saw Molly standing over Ramsey, her head lowered, speaking to him quietly. She looked up when Eve came in.

“Eve, it’s good to see you. Do come in. Ramsey, it’s Eve.”

Thank the good Lord he was awake. Eve nodded to Molly, leaned over Ramsey, and felt her throat clog. Not a single word could get through without risking tears. She stared down at him, taking everything in.

Ramsey saw her fear, and he wanted to reassure her, at least smile at her, but it was hard to make his mouth muscles work. He felt oddly detached from his own body. He thought it was all the drugs that were making it hard to focus his mind on anything. But there was no pain, and that was a profound blessing, thanks to the magic morphine pump. He felt her clasp his hand and squeeze, felt her warm breath, like lemons, he thought, when she leaned close. “You’re looking good, Ramsey. I gotta say I’m really happy about that.”

For a moment, he couldn’t find words. Where were the words? “So are you, Eve. Don’t worry, I’m going to pull through, Molly told me so. And don’t cry. I don’t want to walk into the men’s room and read ‘Barbieri’s a weeping wuss’ scratched on the wall. What would that do to your reputation?”

She started to say she never cried, but that lie would perch right on the end of her nose. His voice was thin,