Backfire (3 page)

Before they left for the coast on the 8:19 a.m. United flight out of Dulles, Sherlock called her parents in San Francisco. “Lacey, you’re flying into a real mess here,” her father, Judge Corman Sherlock, said. “Ramsey’s shooting is all over local TV, and everyone is out for blood. What with his martial arts heroics in his own courtroom five years ago, you’d think most of the media around here would imply he’s unevolved and uncivilized. Go figure.

“There’s lots of speculation, as you’d expect, but no one knows a thing yet, and the FBI hasn’t said a word.

“The police commissioner’s got a press conference scheduled at noon. We’ll see if she’s going to try to squeeze the SFPD into bed with the FBI. It would be a good career move.

“I saw Ramsey yesterday. He was on his way out to meet his family to go listen to Emma practice with the symphony at Davies Hall.” He paused. “I told him I’d heard he’d postponed the murder trial, but he didn’t tell me anything, only shook his head, said it was too sensitive and too soon to talk about.

“We’re looking forward to seeing all of you. Your mother and I will get to take good care of Sean, of course, while the two of you are out finding the people responsible. I know you’ll nail whoever did this.”

From Dad’s mouth to God’s ears,
Sherlock thought.

“This is an awful thing, Lacey, an awful thing. I’m wondering if it has anything to do with the trial he postponed. Do you think that’s possible?”

—

By the end
of the very long flight, Sherlock and Savich agreed they would rather eat week-old frozen artichoke dip than compete against Sean in another computer-based adventure of
Atoc the Incan Wizard
, a young Incan boy who used numbers, magic, and nerve to unravel the knottiest arithmetic problems and bring down an endless number of villains. Sherlock called Atoc the Harry Potter of Machu Picchu. During most of the flight, she played with Sean while Dillon read files on MAX and Skyped Cheney, working out what the Criminal Apprehension Unit could do. Cheney said, “It would help us for MAX to work on trying to locate any 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.

San Francisco

Friday, early afternoon

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
Chronicle
. “Read this.” Savich and Sherlock looked at the big block headline:
JUDGE DREDD SHOT
.

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.”
Please, God, please, God.

“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
The Catch
way back in the old days, right, Papa?”

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.

San Francisco General Hospital

Surgical ICU

Friday afternoon

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 surgical bandages. He was breathing lightly and steadily, a relief, but his eyelids looked bruised, perhaps from when he’d fallen. Savich hated it.

The SFPD guard outside the cubicle had given them the stink eye before Lieutenant Trolley introduced them to Officer Jay Mancusso of the SFPD. Since only two visitors could go into the small cubicle at a time, Savich went in first to stand beside Molly. She didn’t look away from Ramsey, merely took Savich’s hand in hers and squeezed hard. “Thank you for coming so quickly. The Valium Cheney suggested the doctor give me—it’s magic stuff. It’s helped unparalyze my brain. I’m sorry I lost it when I called you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Savich said. “Ramsey’s breathing is solid and easy, Molly; that’s a good sign.”

Ramsey had told him once that Molly’s hair was as vibrant a red as a sunset off the Cliffs of Moher in Ireland, and Ramsey was right. You’d think Ramsey was describing Sherlock’s hair, but it wasn’t the same color at all.

She turned into him, and he closed his arms around her. She felt fragile. It was odd, he thought, but Molly’s hair didn’t feel the same as Sherlock’s hair, and didn’t smell like her hair, either—it was jasmine he was smelling, jasmine mixed with lemon, not the faint rose scent of Sherlock’s. “He’ll make it, Molly,” he said against her hair. “He’ll make it. He’s strong and determined, and he wants to stay here with us.”

She pulled back in his arms and smiled up at him. “I think he will, too. But I’m so scared, Dillon. What if—”

“No what-ifs. Has he been awake at all?”

“In and out, mumbling words I can’t understand for the most part, then saying Emma’s name over and over. I think he’s remembering back to the time he found her unconscious in the forest near his cabin.”

“Has Cheney come in yet?”

“Yes, we spoke briefly. I told him what I could, which wasn’t much of anything at all, and he said he’d see me later today after Ramsey was awake and the doctors were satisfied he was going to be okay. I think he wanted to give me more time to consider who and why, but I can’t think of a single person who would want to kill him. Cheney told me about the Cahills and how Ramsey had postponed the trial and how that federal prosecutor was missing. Ramsey hadn’t said a word to me, but in all honesty, there wasn’t time.” She walked away from him, then turned, her hands fisted at her sides. “No, there was time, but damn him, he’s always trying to protect me. He knew something hinky was going on, and he kept it to himself. I will have to seriously consider hurting him for that.”

She picked up Ramsey’s limp hand. “He’s so strong,” she said, more to herself than to him, “so tough, always a rock, you know?” A beautiful man, she’d always thought, with his dark hair and brilliant dark eyes, and his laugh, his seductive laugh. “Can you believe we’ve been married for five years? Goodness, Emma’s eleven and the boys are three. The boys are scared, Dillon, they don’t understand.” Her voice hitched, then smoothed out again. “Emma’s taking care of them. She’s more their second mother than their older sister. The babysitter, Mrs. Hicks, is with them, too.” She raised wet eyes to Savich’s face. “They won’t let the boys come see him, Dillon, and that only makes them more scared.”

Ramsey moaned deep in his throat.

She leaned over him, lightly kissed his cheek. “Ramsey? You have a visitor. Come, wake up now.”

His eyes opened slowly, blind and empty of knowledge, but they cleared slowly and focused. Savich leaned close. “I’d rather we were fishing in Lake Tahoe and I was catching that four-pound trout and you weren’t.”

An attempt at a smile, but he didn’t quite make it. “I don’t remember it just like that.”

“Okay, I’ll give you the trout since you were the one who fried the sucker. It’s nice to have you here with us, either way.”

Ramsey whispered, “Molly?”

“I’m here,” she said, squeezing his hand.

Ramsey looked back at Dillon, and now his voice was stronger, some of the familiar steel sounding through. “I remember now, someone shot me.”

Molly said, “You were turning when I called out to you and someone shot you in the back.”

“I went down like a rock, lights out,” he said. He looked thoughtful. “I was shot once before in the leg—and, you know, wherever you’re shot, it doesn’t feel too good.” He closed his eyes against a vicious lick of pain. “My chest feels like it’s been flattened by an eighteen-wheeler.”

Savich put the morphine plunger in his hand. “Squeeze this, it’s your PLA, and it’ll cut the pain.”

Ramsey had never seen one before. He closed his eyes in gratitude and pressed the button. They both waited silently until he said, “That’s better already. I can control this if I don’t move too much.”

Savich said, “I’m glad you turned when you did. Do you know what direction the shot came from?”

Ramsey looked blank. “The direction? I suppose it had to be from the ocean. Someone in a boat? It’s hard to imagine someone firing at me from a boat, what with all the motion from the waves. That would take a professional, and still I can’t imagine it’d be a sure thing.”

Savich said, “Did you see a boat?”

Ramsey looked perfectly blank, not totally with them, and then pain hit him again, and he went stone silent.

Savich said, “You feel a little muddled, Ramsey, don’t worry about it. The important thing is you’re alive, and you’re going to get better every day.”

“The Cahills?”

“It’s possible. We’re checking.”

“I don’t know why, Savich. Do you?”

“We don’t know yet, either.”

“Have they found the prosecutor, Mickey O’Rourke?”

“Not yet.”

Molly lightly shoved Savich away when Ramsey’s eyes closed. She whispered next to his cheek, “I want you to think about healing yourself, Ramsey. Think about tossing me and Emma around on the mat—you need to get better to do that. And you need a shave.”

He managed a rictus of a grin.

ICU nurse Janine Holder said from the doorway, “I like the dark whiskers. They make him look tough and dangerous. Dr. Kardak is here to see you, Judge Hunt.”

Savich introduced himself, stepped back to let Dr. Kardak examine Ramsey. He was an older man, tall and thin as a whip handle, and he looked tired, like he’d gone ten rounds with death and just barely won.

When Dr. Kardak noticed Ramsey’s eyes on him, he said, “Ah, Judge Hunt, you’re awake and with us, excellent. My trauma team and I operated on you last night, and I’ve come to check how you’re doing.” Without waiting for an answer, he started to examine the IV lines and the fluid in contraptions Ramsey was tied to. All the while, he kept up a running monologue about what they had found at surgery, the broken ribs, the torn lung, the blood in the chest cavity, as if it were all business as usual and nothing to be worried about. When he at last listened to Ramsey’s chest and examined his dressings, he said, “You sound good, Judge Hunt. I’m hopeful your lung will stay fully expanded and that we can pull out the chest tube this weekend. You need it for now, but I know it can hurt like the dickens.”

When Dr. Kardak straightened, Savich asked him, “How close a thing was it, doctor?”

Dr. Kardak said, “Tough to say, but he got to us—a level-one trauma center—in what we call the golden hour.” He touched long, thin fingers to Ramsey’s pulse. “Your major risk was blood loss, Judge Hunt, and that’s behind you. You’re going to live. That’s not to say you’re going to be happy for a while, but it beats the alternative.”

“Amen,” Ramsey said. “Thank you.”

“Make full use of the morphine. We can give you something else if it doesn’t hold you.”

Ramsey pressed the button again. “Now that I know about this magic button, I’m thinking I’ll empty it pretty fast.”

Dr. Kardak said, “Not a problem. Three of us worked on you in the OR, Judge Hunt. Dr. Janes kept reminding us you were Judge Dredd and we’d be tarred and feathered and ridden out of town if you went down on our watch.” He gave Ramsey a fat smile, then turned to Molly and took her hands in his. “Your husband is strong and healthy, and, trust me, the team here is excellent. Try not to worry. Oh, yes, I forgot to tell you. I heard your daughter play Bach’s
Italian Concerto
at the children’s concert with the symphony two years ago. My wife still remembers how well she played it. In fact, I remember she wept when Emma played the second movement. I read she’ll be playing Gershwin with the symphony in early December. Congratulations. She is incredible. Now, Agent Savich, Judge Hunt should rest.”

Ramsey said, his voice low, a bit slurred, “Special Agent Dillon Savich is a longtime friend of ours. He knows all about gunshot wounds, and he’s here to help.”

“Is that so?” Dr. Kardak shook Savich’s hand again, even though he’d already met him. He said, “I met your wife in the hall. Hard to believe two FBI agents married, as in to each other. How does that work?”

“I’m her boss. It’s up to me to make it work.”

“And how do you do that? Men everywhere would like to know.”

“I tell her to suck it up when she disagrees with me.”

This brought a laugh and a “Good luck with that” from Dr. Kardak. He said, “I’ll be in the hospital all day if you have any questions or concerns.”

Molly grabbed his sleeve. “Why is that? You said Ramsey would be all right.”

“Yes, I did. I mentioned my being here, close by, only to help you feel confident and supported. It will be just me you need to ask for, no residents or medical students. Judge Hunt, if you want to sleep, simply close your eyes and everyone will go away.”

Dr. Kardak was a very nice man, Savich thought. “Molly, do you think you and Sherlock could trade off for a while?”

Molly didn’t want to leave, it was plain to see, but she did after kissing Ramsey and promising to bring him a pint of his favorite pistachio ice cream.