“You bitch! I’m not a whore. Sue thinks I’m perfect!”
Sue? Who is Sue? What is this?
Savich broke in, hard and fast. “And Sue is walking around outside in the sunshine while you two are on the road to a lethal injection. Was it Sue who tried to kill Judge Hunt?”
Cindy and Clive Cahill looked at each other again and pulled it together. Cindy studied her fingernails and sounded bored. “There is no Sue, it’s a name I made up. As for Judge Hunt getting shot, I don’t know any more than anyone else who saw the news on TV. I have no idea who shot him.”
Eve said, “Come on, game’s up, Cindy. Did Sue shoot Judge Hunt?”
“I’ll tell you again—there is no Sue,” Cindy said. “There wasn’t even a reason for us to shoot the judge, was there?”
Savich said, “Are you so unimportant, Cindy, that Sue didn’t even tell you why she wanted Judge Hunt dead?”
“There is no Sue,” Cindy said yet again, calm as a stone now. “Like I already told you morons, why would we want the frigging judge dead? There’s no payoff for us, you said so yourself. Me, I was sort of sorry to hear it. Judge Hunt was hot, the way he looked at me—” Her husband didn’t say a word, only stared at the wall behind Savich’s head. “I bet he doesn’t look so hot now, does he?”
Eve wanted to leap over the table and punch her out. She forced herself to draw a deep breath instead.
Savich said, “Did Sue kill the prosecutor like you did Mark Lindy?”
Clive shrugged. “We don’t know anything about the judge, and we don’t know anything about the prosecutor. How could we? We’re in jail, Agent Savich, not out drinking beer and dancing at clubs.” He sat back in his chair and smirked. “That prosecutor, what a schmuck. O’Rourke would never have proven a case against us.”
But Cindy was still enraged. “All the accusations—it’s entrapment, nothing more. We didn’t kill anyone—if that ridiculous judge hadn’t stopped the trial, we would have been acquitted! Somebody else shot him—probably someone he put away.” She turned to Clive. “You know what, darling? This has been fun, but we got to put an end to it. Agent Savich, we want our lawyer.”
Eve wanted to kick herself. She’d been the one to screw it up, to push it too far.
Savich said as he rose, “I was hoping you two were behind the attempt on Judge Hunt’s life, that you’d hired an assassin to kill him, with the help of your lawyer paying him from some offshore account we haven’t found yet. Now I see that’s impossible.” He flattened his palms on the scarred table. “After spending some time with the two of you, the fact is I don’t think either of you has the brains to pull it off by yourselves.”
“We could do anything we wanted to,” Clive shouted. “And what we want now is our lawyer!”
Eve rose and stared down at him, then at Cindy. “Why don’t you tell us about Sue? You really don’t have to take the fall for her, not if she approached you, not if she’s the go-between to sell the material you stole off Mark Lindy’s computer.”
Neither of them said a word.
Savich said, “Do you know Mark Lindy always liked to say he wasn’t a wackadoodle, like Sheldon on The Big Bang Theory. He was more like Leonard, funny and kind?”
They looked at Savich blankly.
Savich shrugged. “Mark’s sister Elaine said he readily admitted he was a nerd, and he’d laugh, say he loved Spock as much as the next nerd, but she said Mark knew he saw people more clearly, interacted with them more easily, than most nerds did. But he didn’t see you clearly, did he, Cindy? And it cost him his life.”
Still no word from either of them.
How had Savich known that? From the murder file, of course. Eve said, “Did this Sue tell you to poison him, Cindy? Clive? Did she watch you do it?”
Cindy said, her voice vicious, “There is no Sue, you little dyke.”
Eve smiled at Cindy, turned to the door, and said over her shoulder, “You could be a model, Cindy, but not for much longer. Not if you stay in here.”
“I wouldn’t want to be a model. What idiot would want to live on yogurt and look like a refugee camp survivor?”
Federal Building
450 Golden Gate Avenue
San Francisco
Saturday
Savich and Eve walked into the FBI conference room on the thirteenth floor of the Federal Building a half-hour later, straight-up noon. Half a dozen FBI agents were seated around the long conference table along with Lieutenant Virginia Trolley and Lieutenant Delion of the SFPD, and the U.S. Marshal Carney Maynard. Savich gave a little finger wave to Sherlock and Harry, who were eating pizza out of the same box. Pepperoni, Savich knew; it was Sherlock’s favorite.