Double Take
Page 6
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“Thank you. Nice smile.” She was there behind her eyes, and he smiled as he added, “You’re welcome.”
“I’ll get some dry clothes for you.” She tossed him an oversized towel, took one for herself, and left him in the bathroom.
When he came into her bedroom a few minutes later, she was wearing a thick bathrobe and socks, her head wrapped turban-style in a towel. She held a pile of men’s clothing in her hands.
“August was nearly as tall as you,” she said as she gave him a clinical look. He was wearing only the big towel, wrapped and knotted around his waist. “He was heavier, particularly around the waist, but you can tighten the belt.”
Cheney went back into the bathroom, stared down at his own sodden clothes. Well, everything should dry. But there was no hope for the expensive wool pants, the same ones he’d worn at his graduation from the Academy, two funerals, and tonight, his first date in too long a time.
Instead of boxers, he pulled on jockey shorts, a white T-shirt, and a large dark blue cashmere sweater that felt like sin against his skin. The pants were loose, but he simply pulled his own belt tighter like she’d suggested, and the sweater covered it. The garden-variety dark chinos were long enough. He looked down at his bare feet. A moment later, she called out, “Here are some socks. What size shoe do you wear?”
“Twelve.”
“A bit small, sorry.”
Her hand passed a pair of Italian loafers through the open door. The leather was so soft he bet he could eat it if he got hungry enough.
When he stepped out of the bathroom, she called out from inside the huge walk-in closet, “Be with you in a moment. Listen, I’m fine, don’t worry, all right? I think I’m nearly ready to sweat I’m so warm now. I’m not about to collapse in here.”
“Okay.” He pulled out his cell and began to dial his SAC, Bert Cartwright, a pompous ass much of the time because he was blessed with a photographic memory for faces and liked to flaunt it, but he stopped. No, this was local police business. He found Frank at home watching a basketball game, his son carping in the background because Frank wouldn’t let him borrow his car.
“Hey, Frank, I got a problem for you.”
CHAPTER 4
Captain Frank Paulette, SFPD, said, “Gee, thanks a lot, Cheney. Here I was all bored, watching the Warriors kick the crap out of the Lakers, a miracle in the making.”
“Which quarter?”
“The second.”
“No miracle’s going to happen tonight, trust me on this. Listen, Frank, I got a situation here and it’s local, not federal. I got an attempted murder for you.” And Cheney told him what had happened.
Frank listened, not saying a word, sighed, and raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Why me, Lord? Okay, okay, I know why. I’m a trouble magnet. Wait, don’t tell me. You never saw this guy up close?”
“Nope, and there wasn’t anything distinctive about him, either. Tall, black, moved fast and smooth, like an athlete. He knew what he was doing, no panic, no hesitation. When I yelled at him that I was FBI and I’d shoot, he made no attempt at all to take me on. He threw her over the railing into the bay and ran.”
“Maybe all he had was that knife, no gun. Maybe he was just a mugger, not about to take on a fed, or draw an audience.”
“We’re not talking an attempted mugging here, Frank. This guy was a pro. Everything he did was professional, even his decision to cut and run. She’ll need protection. He’s got to assume she survived.”
“Okay, I’ll buy the guy’s a pro. The woman’s all right?”
“Yeah. She didn’t want to go to the hospital, so I brought her home.”
“That’s pretty stupid, Cheney. What’s her problem?”
“I don’t know, but she sounded terrified. She was shivering so badly, I went ahead and brought her home, put her under a hot shower. She’s okay.”
Another sigh. “What’s her name?”
“Ah, well, how about Julia—”
She said quietly, not two feet from him, “My name is Julia Ransom.” A slight pause, a deep indrawn breath. “I’m Dr. August Ransom’s widow.”
Cheney stared at her, dumbfounded. Sodden and hacking up water, she hadn’t looked remotely familiar. Of course he recognized her now. The media had been merciless. It hadn’t mattered that she’d never been arrested, everyone assumed she was guilty. There were insinuations of police incompetence and collusion, of her sleeping with the chief of police, a happily married Irishman with six children.
“I’ll get some dry clothes for you.” She tossed him an oversized towel, took one for herself, and left him in the bathroom.
When he came into her bedroom a few minutes later, she was wearing a thick bathrobe and socks, her head wrapped turban-style in a towel. She held a pile of men’s clothing in her hands.
“August was nearly as tall as you,” she said as she gave him a clinical look. He was wearing only the big towel, wrapped and knotted around his waist. “He was heavier, particularly around the waist, but you can tighten the belt.”
Cheney went back into the bathroom, stared down at his own sodden clothes. Well, everything should dry. But there was no hope for the expensive wool pants, the same ones he’d worn at his graduation from the Academy, two funerals, and tonight, his first date in too long a time.
Instead of boxers, he pulled on jockey shorts, a white T-shirt, and a large dark blue cashmere sweater that felt like sin against his skin. The pants were loose, but he simply pulled his own belt tighter like she’d suggested, and the sweater covered it. The garden-variety dark chinos were long enough. He looked down at his bare feet. A moment later, she called out, “Here are some socks. What size shoe do you wear?”
“Twelve.”
“A bit small, sorry.”
Her hand passed a pair of Italian loafers through the open door. The leather was so soft he bet he could eat it if he got hungry enough.
When he stepped out of the bathroom, she called out from inside the huge walk-in closet, “Be with you in a moment. Listen, I’m fine, don’t worry, all right? I think I’m nearly ready to sweat I’m so warm now. I’m not about to collapse in here.”
“Okay.” He pulled out his cell and began to dial his SAC, Bert Cartwright, a pompous ass much of the time because he was blessed with a photographic memory for faces and liked to flaunt it, but he stopped. No, this was local police business. He found Frank at home watching a basketball game, his son carping in the background because Frank wouldn’t let him borrow his car.
“Hey, Frank, I got a problem for you.”
CHAPTER 4
Captain Frank Paulette, SFPD, said, “Gee, thanks a lot, Cheney. Here I was all bored, watching the Warriors kick the crap out of the Lakers, a miracle in the making.”
“Which quarter?”
“The second.”
“No miracle’s going to happen tonight, trust me on this. Listen, Frank, I got a situation here and it’s local, not federal. I got an attempted murder for you.” And Cheney told him what had happened.
Frank listened, not saying a word, sighed, and raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Why me, Lord? Okay, okay, I know why. I’m a trouble magnet. Wait, don’t tell me. You never saw this guy up close?”
“Nope, and there wasn’t anything distinctive about him, either. Tall, black, moved fast and smooth, like an athlete. He knew what he was doing, no panic, no hesitation. When I yelled at him that I was FBI and I’d shoot, he made no attempt at all to take me on. He threw her over the railing into the bay and ran.”
“Maybe all he had was that knife, no gun. Maybe he was just a mugger, not about to take on a fed, or draw an audience.”
“We’re not talking an attempted mugging here, Frank. This guy was a pro. Everything he did was professional, even his decision to cut and run. She’ll need protection. He’s got to assume she survived.”
“Okay, I’ll buy the guy’s a pro. The woman’s all right?”
“Yeah. She didn’t want to go to the hospital, so I brought her home.”
“That’s pretty stupid, Cheney. What’s her problem?”
“I don’t know, but she sounded terrified. She was shivering so badly, I went ahead and brought her home, put her under a hot shower. She’s okay.”
Another sigh. “What’s her name?”
“Ah, well, how about Julia—”
She said quietly, not two feet from him, “My name is Julia Ransom.” A slight pause, a deep indrawn breath. “I’m Dr. August Ransom’s widow.”
Cheney stared at her, dumbfounded. Sodden and hacking up water, she hadn’t looked remotely familiar. Of course he recognized her now. The media had been merciless. It hadn’t mattered that she’d never been arrested, everyone assumed she was guilty. There were insinuations of police incompetence and collusion, of her sleeping with the chief of police, a happily married Irishman with six children.
