Backfire
Page 10
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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.
San Francisco General Hospital
Friday afternoon
U.S. Federal Deputy Marshal Eve Barbieri leaned against the hallway wall, outside the SICU, her knee bent and her arms crossed over her chest, waiting for her turn to see Judge Hunt. His surgeon, Dr. Kardak, had told everyone Judge Hunt was doing fine, but she still wasn’t over the soul-wrenching fear she’d felt when she’d been called at four a.m. to be told Judge Hunt had been shot. Would he live? Her boss, Carney Maynard, didn’t know, but Hunt had survived surgery and he had a chance, he told her matter-of-factly, because Judge Hunt was made of pure titanium. Thank all the powers that be, and thank Dr. Kardak’s team.
Maynard had told her the SFPD would be part of the protection detail along with the U.S. Marshals Service while Judge Hunt was in the hospital, but she was to stay close, as any questions about coverage or assignments would be directed to her. When Judge Hunt was discharged, she would be officially responsible for his and his family’s protection. She looked through the windowed door of the SICU at Officer Jay Mancusso of the SFPD, seated by Judge Hunt’s cubicle, and watched him study every face that came near. He looked angry, like most other cops she’d met since Judge Hunt had been shot. She wondered if every single law enforcement agency in the city would try to be involved in hunting down the man—or woman—who’d tried to kill him. Judge Hunt was a big deal, an American hero. She closed her eyes for a moment, thankful Ramsey would live and thankful for how well she had gotten to know him and his family over the years. When he was shot, she’d promised a real biggie if he would live—to be pleasant to her ex-mother-in-law if ever she saw her again, something she hoped would never happen. Eve and her ex-mother-in-law’s son, Ryan, had been married for about half an hour before Eve booted him out. She could still hear the woman’s outraged voice: A good woman would forgive her husband his small transgressions.
As she waited, she asked herself again for at least the twelfth time—had the Cahills hired the shooter? If so, it meant their defense attorney, Milo Siles, had to be in on it. How else could the Cahills have gotten hold of the talent and money so fast? She’d met the prosecutor, Mickey O’Rourke, several times, on the volleyball court. She remembered his laugh when his team had won—a really big laugh. He didn’t laugh in the courtroom, though, he was all business, a veteran who wielded a bullwhip. He had a good conviction rate. But none of that mattered now. He was missing, simply gone, no word, no emails, no nothing. She sighed, wishing just this once she was FBI and had the assignment to lead this case.
She pushed off the wall and began to pace, aware that Mancusso was watching her through the window. She wanted to see Ramsey, see for herself he was breathing, that his excellent brain was working behind his smart dark eyes, but it was one cop after the other trooping in. Lieutenant Virginia Trolley, SFPD, was in and out because she was also a trusted family friend. Eve knew it made Molly feel better to have Virginia close, another trained body to protect Ramsey. And those two FBI agents from Washington had been in, Savich and Sherlock were their names, a husband and wife, and wasn’t that a kick?
Eve looked up to see two men approaching—yeah, they were definitely Feds; you couldn’t mistake their private club dress code—dark suits, white shirts, usually dark ties. They were striding toward her, self-assured and arrogant as toreadors entering the ring. She recognized both, of course; she’d been introduced to the new SAC, Cheney Stone, but not the other agent. She’d seen the other one driving out of the parking garage a couple of times, but that was it.
“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.
San Francisco General Hospital
Friday afternoon
U.S. Federal Deputy Marshal Eve Barbieri leaned against the hallway wall, outside the SICU, her knee bent and her arms crossed over her chest, waiting for her turn to see Judge Hunt. His surgeon, Dr. Kardak, had told everyone Judge Hunt was doing fine, but she still wasn’t over the soul-wrenching fear she’d felt when she’d been called at four a.m. to be told Judge Hunt had been shot. Would he live? Her boss, Carney Maynard, didn’t know, but Hunt had survived surgery and he had a chance, he told her matter-of-factly, because Judge Hunt was made of pure titanium. Thank all the powers that be, and thank Dr. Kardak’s team.
Maynard had told her the SFPD would be part of the protection detail along with the U.S. Marshals Service while Judge Hunt was in the hospital, but she was to stay close, as any questions about coverage or assignments would be directed to her. When Judge Hunt was discharged, she would be officially responsible for his and his family’s protection. She looked through the windowed door of the SICU at Officer Jay Mancusso of the SFPD, seated by Judge Hunt’s cubicle, and watched him study every face that came near. He looked angry, like most other cops she’d met since Judge Hunt had been shot. She wondered if every single law enforcement agency in the city would try to be involved in hunting down the man—or woman—who’d tried to kill him. Judge Hunt was a big deal, an American hero. She closed her eyes for a moment, thankful Ramsey would live and thankful for how well she had gotten to know him and his family over the years. When he was shot, she’d promised a real biggie if he would live—to be pleasant to her ex-mother-in-law if ever she saw her again, something she hoped would never happen. Eve and her ex-mother-in-law’s son, Ryan, had been married for about half an hour before Eve booted him out. She could still hear the woman’s outraged voice: A good woman would forgive her husband his small transgressions.
As she waited, she asked herself again for at least the twelfth time—had the Cahills hired the shooter? If so, it meant their defense attorney, Milo Siles, had to be in on it. How else could the Cahills have gotten hold of the talent and money so fast? She’d met the prosecutor, Mickey O’Rourke, several times, on the volleyball court. She remembered his laugh when his team had won—a really big laugh. He didn’t laugh in the courtroom, though, he was all business, a veteran who wielded a bullwhip. He had a good conviction rate. But none of that mattered now. He was missing, simply gone, no word, no emails, no nothing. She sighed, wishing just this once she was FBI and had the assignment to lead this case.
She pushed off the wall and began to pace, aware that Mancusso was watching her through the window. She wanted to see Ramsey, see for herself he was breathing, that his excellent brain was working behind his smart dark eyes, but it was one cop after the other trooping in. Lieutenant Virginia Trolley, SFPD, was in and out because she was also a trusted family friend. Eve knew it made Molly feel better to have Virginia close, another trained body to protect Ramsey. And those two FBI agents from Washington had been in, Savich and Sherlock were their names, a husband and wife, and wasn’t that a kick?
Eve looked up to see two men approaching—yeah, they were definitely Feds; you couldn’t mistake their private club dress code—dark suits, white shirts, usually dark ties. They were striding toward her, self-assured and arrogant as toreadors entering the ring. She recognized both, of course; she’d been introduced to the new SAC, Cheney Stone, but not the other agent. She’d seen the other one driving out of the parking garage a couple of times, but that was it.
