Double Take
Page 48
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He thought of his condo, how it would fit into a third of her downstairs, thought of that big cat hissing, and smiled.
There was a lot of traffic that morning under a steel-gray April sky, and the wind blew sharp and chill. An hour of sun would have been nice, Cheney thought. At that moment, the thick clouds parted and a wide shaft of sun speared through in front of the Audi. A good sign, he hoped.
As Cheney’s Audi muscled its way smoothly up the thirty-degree-angled street, he said, “I’ll never forget the first time I drove up one of these steep hills—I thought I was going to sail right off the top of the earth. It still gives my old heart a leap.”
“Just try it driving a stick.”
Cheney said, “A friend of mine, another agent who’d transferred in from Utah, drove a stick, bragged he was the only real man in the office, that it took real skill to do it right, until one day his clutch gave out and he went hurtling backward down into an intersection filled with cars. Thankfully, no one was hurt. No one in our office drives a stick anymore, him included. Do you know your hair looks like my desk?”
She whipped her head around. “What? I look like your desk?”
“Your hair—it’s the same mahogany color.”
“I see. So, do you like your desk? Admire the finish? Polish it every day? Maybe you even like it so much you don’t put your feet on it?”
He laughed, felt every care roll off his shoulders for a moment. He hadn’t laughed much in too long a time, too much crap at work, too many crooks they couldn’t catch up with, too much frustration. But he felt good right then, really good. He said, “Nah, I never put my feet on my desk unless I’m barefoot. I worship my desk, I even have papers under my computer so it won’t scratch the finish. I plan to be buried with my desk.”
She laughed, lightly touched her fingertips to his hair. “The color of your hair reminds me of a tan-colored Subaru I once owned. Soft and creamy, sort of like a caramel.”
He turned onto Filbert Street. “Pay attention. I ain’t no caramel. My hair’s plain old brown.”
He turned right from Filbert, and in the next minute he turned his Audi onto Wallace Tammerlane’s wide driveway. “Dear God in heaven, a double garage in San Francisco,” Cheney said. “That alone has got to make this place worth big bucks.”
“Probably.”
“Julia, I know he’s your friend, that you care about him, but be watchful—you know his body language, his expressions, okay?”
She gave him a look, then nodded.
As he walked her to the front door of the flamboyant three-story Victorian, he said, “Just jump in when and if you think it’s appropriate.”
He was including her, really including her. She gave him a blazing smile.
CHAPTER 26
A man dressed entirely in starched black answered the buzzer. He stood squarely in the middle of the doorway. Good grief, a butler? “Yes? May I help you?”
“I’m Agent Cheney Stone, FBI, and this is Mrs. Julia Ransom. We have an appointment to speak with Mr. Tammerlane.”
“I know who Mrs. Ransom is. You’re looking well, Mrs. Ransom. Let me say I am relieved that you’re looking well. A pleasure to see you. Come in.”
“Nice to see you, Ogden.”
“I’m very sorry to hear about all this misery, Mrs. Ransom.” They were shown into a Victorian living room, stuffed with hundred-year-old dark Victorian furniture, down to elaborately crocheted antimacassars spread over the backs of the twin sofas and chairs. The walls were covered in dark red silk flocked wallpaper. Doodads, the term Cheney’s father used for all the knick-knacks his mother displayed in their living room at home, were everywhere—dozens of little carved wooden animals that looked vaguely African, and scores of tiny teacups and saucers, doubtless at least as old as or older than the furniture, covering the shelves of glass cabinets. Cheney didn’t see a speck of dust.
Old portraits marched up and down one entire wall, all of them showing nurses and soldiers from what looked to be the Crimean War. There didn’t seem to be any family photos or portraits. “Good morning, Julia, Agent Stone.”
Julia turned, let him hug her. “Hello, Wallace. Thank you for seeing us.”
Wallace Tammerlane smiled at her. “It’s good to see you, Julia. I couldn’t very well say no, now could I? I’m worried about you, about this maniac trying to kill you. You do know, don’t you, that I had nothing at all to do with these attempts on your life—that I know nothing about them?”
There was a lot of traffic that morning under a steel-gray April sky, and the wind blew sharp and chill. An hour of sun would have been nice, Cheney thought. At that moment, the thick clouds parted and a wide shaft of sun speared through in front of the Audi. A good sign, he hoped.
As Cheney’s Audi muscled its way smoothly up the thirty-degree-angled street, he said, “I’ll never forget the first time I drove up one of these steep hills—I thought I was going to sail right off the top of the earth. It still gives my old heart a leap.”
“Just try it driving a stick.”
Cheney said, “A friend of mine, another agent who’d transferred in from Utah, drove a stick, bragged he was the only real man in the office, that it took real skill to do it right, until one day his clutch gave out and he went hurtling backward down into an intersection filled with cars. Thankfully, no one was hurt. No one in our office drives a stick anymore, him included. Do you know your hair looks like my desk?”
She whipped her head around. “What? I look like your desk?”
“Your hair—it’s the same mahogany color.”
“I see. So, do you like your desk? Admire the finish? Polish it every day? Maybe you even like it so much you don’t put your feet on it?”
He laughed, felt every care roll off his shoulders for a moment. He hadn’t laughed much in too long a time, too much crap at work, too many crooks they couldn’t catch up with, too much frustration. But he felt good right then, really good. He said, “Nah, I never put my feet on my desk unless I’m barefoot. I worship my desk, I even have papers under my computer so it won’t scratch the finish. I plan to be buried with my desk.”
She laughed, lightly touched her fingertips to his hair. “The color of your hair reminds me of a tan-colored Subaru I once owned. Soft and creamy, sort of like a caramel.”
He turned onto Filbert Street. “Pay attention. I ain’t no caramel. My hair’s plain old brown.”
He turned right from Filbert, and in the next minute he turned his Audi onto Wallace Tammerlane’s wide driveway. “Dear God in heaven, a double garage in San Francisco,” Cheney said. “That alone has got to make this place worth big bucks.”
“Probably.”
“Julia, I know he’s your friend, that you care about him, but be watchful—you know his body language, his expressions, okay?”
She gave him a look, then nodded.
As he walked her to the front door of the flamboyant three-story Victorian, he said, “Just jump in when and if you think it’s appropriate.”
He was including her, really including her. She gave him a blazing smile.
CHAPTER 26
A man dressed entirely in starched black answered the buzzer. He stood squarely in the middle of the doorway. Good grief, a butler? “Yes? May I help you?”
“I’m Agent Cheney Stone, FBI, and this is Mrs. Julia Ransom. We have an appointment to speak with Mr. Tammerlane.”
“I know who Mrs. Ransom is. You’re looking well, Mrs. Ransom. Let me say I am relieved that you’re looking well. A pleasure to see you. Come in.”
“Nice to see you, Ogden.”
“I’m very sorry to hear about all this misery, Mrs. Ransom.” They were shown into a Victorian living room, stuffed with hundred-year-old dark Victorian furniture, down to elaborately crocheted antimacassars spread over the backs of the twin sofas and chairs. The walls were covered in dark red silk flocked wallpaper. Doodads, the term Cheney’s father used for all the knick-knacks his mother displayed in their living room at home, were everywhere—dozens of little carved wooden animals that looked vaguely African, and scores of tiny teacups and saucers, doubtless at least as old as or older than the furniture, covering the shelves of glass cabinets. Cheney didn’t see a speck of dust.
Old portraits marched up and down one entire wall, all of them showing nurses and soldiers from what looked to be the Crimean War. There didn’t seem to be any family photos or portraits. “Good morning, Julia, Agent Stone.”
Julia turned, let him hug her. “Hello, Wallace. Thank you for seeing us.”
Wallace Tammerlane smiled at her. “It’s good to see you, Julia. I couldn’t very well say no, now could I? I’m worried about you, about this maniac trying to kill you. You do know, don’t you, that I had nothing at all to do with these attempts on your life—that I know nothing about them?”
