She moved to stand against the wall again, waiting, all indolent and loose-limbed. Let them come to her. She whistled between her teeth. She wondered who’d cornered the market on the federal wingtips.
She heard the agent walking beside Cheney Stone say, “That picture we found in the bushes, the newspaper clipping of Judge Dredd with an X through his face—it’s like he’s sticking it in our faces and laughing.”
Hmmm, there was a clipping of Ramsey left at the crime scene? It was the first she’d heard of it. Not that she expected to know much about what the FBI had found, since she’d never even been inside the locked door on the thirteenth floor in the Federal Building. No, that space was inhabited only by the San Francisco FBI tribe. The U.S. Marshals Service occupied the twentieth floor, their digs only one floor above the senior federal judges’ offices and courtrooms. She didn’t care much for that FBI attitude, one of the reasons she hadn’t considered signing on with them six years before. She’d heard too many stories about some of the special agents—and wasn’t that a self-important title? For the most part, the FBI got results, but too often, it was their way or why don’t you take a leap from the Golden Gate Bridge? Were they prepared to deal with her, or would they try to plant their big Fed feet on some part of her anatomy? She’d see. She’d go around them, or through them, if necessary.
Cheney Stone stopped. “And here’s Deputy Marshal Eve Barbieri.”
He remembered her name, and that was a surprise. Eve shook hands with Stone. “Congratulations on becoming special agent in charge, Agent Stone.”
Cheney gave her a grin. “Thanks. It’s already been two months and I’m still alive and breathing, for the most part. But my once predictable life now consists of herding pit bulls.”
Eve could only agree, her opinion clear on her face even though she kept her mouth shut.
“Since we’ll be working together on Judge Hunt’s shooting, call me Cheney.”
First name? Nice smile, white teeth, seeming sincerity, but with a new SAC, it was wise to be cautious. She nodded, too soon to offer up her own first name.
Cheney said, “Eve Barbieri, this is Agent Harry Christoff. Harry, this is Deputy Marshal Eve Barbieri. She’s worked with Judge Hunt for three years and is a friend of the family.”
Eve took a good look at Special Agent Harry Christoff. He was in his early thirties, tall and lean, with dark brown hair and bright green eyes. He kept himself in very fine shape indeed. Although he was dressed in the obligatory dark suit and white shirt, he wasn’t wearing wingtips. Instead he wore black boots that looked as old as he did, but the ancient boots sported a high shine. As for his tie, it was bright yellow with black squiggles. A rebel? 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.