This was an entirely different woman in San Francisco, he had no doubt. But he still had to make the trip, had to make sure, for all of them. If he didn’t go he knew Chappy would, and who knew what kind of grief that would cause? And in the back of his mind, a voice softly asked, If she is Christie, what then?
Brewster was gnawing on his trouser leg. Dix leaned down and picked up the well-fed furball whose eyes would melt Scrooge’s heart, straightened his dark blue collar, and hugged him close. “Don’t you get too excited when you see Ruth, okay, Brewster? She doesn’t need you to pee on her again.”
The boys laughed. “Brewster loves her leather jacket,” Rafe said. “She told me Brewster supports her dry cleaners.”
The boys moved on to talking about school. They’d bought his story. Good. The last thing they needed to know was the real reason he was flying to the West Coast.
CHAPTER 9
WASHINGTON, D.C. THE HOOVER BUILDING
Friday morning
When Special Agent Ruth Warnecki bent down to pull the bottom of her slacks out of her boot she heard Dillon Savich say to his boss, Jimmy Maitland, “Take a gander at this. This sketch is excellent.”
“I was thinking maybe it’s too good,” Maitland said. “Is Cheney sure the witness didn’t embellish?”
“Cheney said the reason it’s so detailed is that the guy didn’t mind showing her his face up close and personal, because he planned to kill her. He ended up throwing her into San Francisco Bay, where she would probably have drowned if Cheney hadn’t gotten her out in time.”
“Good for Agent Stone,” Maitland said, “and a remarkable chunk of good luck for the victim. It was a coincidence, right, Savich? He isn’t dating her, is he, or surveilling her, something like that?”
Ruth couldn’t help listening in. She knew Cheney. She leaned closer to the door and heard Dillon say, “Nope, I asked him about that. Cheney said he’d never seen her before in his life. The thing about Cheney Stone is he’s got great instincts and this karma sort of thing that seems to put him in the right places at critical times. Weirdest thing I’ve ever heard of. But even without the woo-woo—as an agent, Cheney’s good, very good. This Julia is lucky he was there.”
Maitland nodded, started pacing in front of Savich’s desk. “I’ve read some of his reports. He’s got good recall. Did you know he’s got a law degree?”
Savich grinned. “I say thank the Lord he crossed over to the side of the angels.”
Maitland grunted, unconsciously flexed an impressive bicep. “Yep, we need him more than the world needs another damned lawyer.”
“He started out as a prosecutor, but couldn’t accept all the plea bargains they have to make to keep the system from imploding—he couldn’t see a whole lot of justice in that, didn’t think he was making much of a difference.”
Maitland nodded. “You know the SAC out in San Francisco— Bert Cartwright? He’s one smart guy, but he bitches about Stone being a hot dog—not covering other people’s butts is how I translate that.”
“You think?” Savich grinned.
“Of course you and Sherlock are the original hot dogs, if I don’t count your dad. Buck Savich drove everyone nuts.” Jimmy Maitland paused a moment and Savich knew he was thinking back.
Savich felt the brief dig of loss. He regretted that his dad had never met Sherlock, and had never known Sean. Then he eased away the memory of his larger-than-life father.
Maitland said, “I assume the SFPD has protection on Julia
Ransom.”
“Yes. When Cheney called he said Captain Frank Paulette was in charge. They’re reopening the investigation into Dr. Ransom’s murder, but still there’s some talk about her being involved since she was their primary suspect six months ago.”
“But nothing came of it,” Maitland said. “She wasn’t arrested.”
“No,” Savich said, “and now there’s an attempt on her life. Interesting, isn’t it?”
Who is Julia Ransom? Ruth wondered. Julia Ransom—her name sounds familiar. But Ruth couldn’t place it. Because she was a cop, and cops were always curious, and, after all, she did know Cheney Stone, Ruth couldn’t walk away. Besides, she didn’t see much point in walking back to her desk to wait to see Dillon, her brain squirreling around in crazy circles. Eavesdropping was a relief, in fact, from the numbing disbelief that had smacked her in the face at seven-thirty that morning. She’d take it, even temporarily, take anything to distract her, even for a minute, from the weight of Dix’s news. No matter what scales you used, the bottom line was that Dix’s three-year-gone wife, Christie, was either dead or she wasn’t. No possible middle ground. Ruth couldn’t help it, she had a horrible premonition about which way the scales were going to tilt.