“What time is it?”
“Nearly eight o’clock.”
"Oh dear. I don’t think I’m going to be able to make dinner with Wallace.”
June said, “What does she mean, she’s Julia? You’re sopping wet, Cheney. Who is this woman, what—”
Manny said, “Cheney, you want me to call 911?”
“Nah, you go back in and entertain everyone. I’ll do it. Sorry, June. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Cheney hoped the now quiescent woman in his arms wasn’t going to freeze to death on him, particularly not after all his hard work, not after he’d bundled her in his wool sports coat.
Manny said, “We’ve just seen our tax dollars at work. Come on, June. Cheney, thanks for the excitement. Call me tomorrow, let me know what happens.”
Cheney nodded to Manny as he pulled out his cell phone and punched in 911. “I need an ambulance at Pier 39—”
His words made sudden sense to her. With all her remaining strength, Julia grabbed his wet collar. “Please, please, not the hospital, please not the paramedics, no doctors, oh God, please, Cheney—”
“Look, Julia, you’re—”
“I’ll die if you take me to a hospital.”
It was the utter certainty in her voice that stopped him cold. He flipped off his cell. “All right, no hospital. What, then? Where do you live?”
He realized she was afraid to tell him.
He saw some tourists standing a few feet away, looking toward them, speaking among themselves. “This is just great. I save your butt and you’re scared to tell me where you live. Will you at least tell me your last name, Julia?”
She started to shake her head but it was simply too much trouble. She whispered, “Julia . . . Jones.”
“Oh yeah, like I’m going to believe that one. Give me your address or I’m driving you right over to San Francisco General.”
She gave him her address. Deadening fear settled inside her, jagged and hard. Her jaw throbbed, and sharp licks of pain suddenly leaped to life in every part of her body. But there was his coat—“I hope I don’t ruin your lovely jacket. This is very fine wool.”
“Like your leather jacket, it’s been through the wars.”
Cheney began the long trek back to the entrance of Pier 39, her wet leather jacket over the top of his coat. He shook her every once in a while and said each time, “Don’t go to sleep. I mean it.”
He thought she said she wasn’t stupid, but couldn’t be sure.
CHAPTER 3
Most stores on the pier were closed and dark, and tourists were thin on the ground. A woman with two children in tow asked if he needed assistance.
"No, I’ve got things under control. Thank you.”
“That’s nice of her,” Julia said, nodding at the woman, who was staring after them. Cheney grunted. He was wet and cold, his feet squishing in his nicely polished leather boots. Her head lolled on his shoulder.
“Wake up!”
“Yeah, okay,” but her voice was slurred. “Why isn’t your coat wet?”
“I was bright enough to toss it, my gun, my wallet, and my cell on the pier before I jumped in after you.”
After ten minutes of hassle with the parking garage attendant, which included trying to get Cheney to go back to Pier 39 to get his ticket validated so he wouldn’t have to pay the huge parking fee himself, he navigated over to Lombard, left up Fillmore, then right on Broadway until she said, “It’s that one, there, on the left, no lights on.” He pulled into the driveway of a mansion—no other way to refer to the incredibly beautiful three-story brick house with tall thick bushes enclosing it on both sides. He could make out ivy climbing the pale brick walls. He parked in the empty triple driveway, a marvel in San Francisco, where trying to find a parking place to pick up your dry cleaning could make a saint go postal. Cheney was sure the views from all the windows were to die for.
“Nice digs,” he said.
He’d been talking nonstop to her, no, more at her, really, but she’d occasionally murmur an answer so he knew she was hanging on. His car heater had been blasting full force and he wondered why his wet clothes weren’t steaming by now. He knew his bringing her home was absurd. Well, if she needed medical help, he knew a doctor who owed him a favor. He’d never forget Dillon Savich telling him at Quantico that it was always smart to have a physician in your debt because you simply never knew when you’d need to call in the marker. Now was probably the time. She was shivering violently, despite his coat, despite the incredible heat from the heater.
“Your purse,” he said. “You don’t have it.”
“I didn’t have a purse. My house keys were in my pocket wrapped in a twenty-dollar bill.”
He felt inside both pockets of her wet leather jacket and pulled out a crumpled wet Kleenex. “No keys. How am I going to get you inside your house?”
He saw she was trying to figure this out. He waited, then asked her again. “I’m thinking,” she said, and she sounded unsure. That worried him and he wondered what Dr. Ben Vrees was doing this fine Thursday evening on his houseboat in Sausalito.
He took her shoulders in his hands and shook her, hard.
“How do I get in, Julia?”
She said, without pause, “There’s a key beneath the pansies at the bottom of the second pot by the front door.”
“Oh, wow, what a great hiding place,” and he rolled his eyes.
“Let’s just see you find it,” she said, her voice sharp and nasty.
He smiled. She was back with him.
It took him at least three minutes to dig all the way to the bottom of the six-inch pot filled with bright purple pansies to find that damned key, which he then had to wipe on his once-very-nice black wool slacks. He’d pulled them out of the back of his closet for his first date in a good two months. June Canning, a very nice woman, a stockbroker for the Pacific Stock Exchange. He sighed. Oh well, who wanted to spend time between dinner courses outside with a woman who still smoked? And in California?
No alarm sounded when he unlocked the door. Big mistake, he thought. He went back to his Audi, a car that was a bit on the small side for a man his size, sure, but he could park it just about anywhere in the city, even in the narrow alley beside his cleaners. He hauled her out and held her against his side.
Once inside, he found the hall light and flipped it on. He gawked, couldn’t help it. He’d never been in such a spectacular house in his life. Truth be told, he’d visited quite a few beautifully restored homes in Pacific Heights over his last four years in San Francisco, but none of them had been on this magnificent scale. But he didn’t pause, he simply guided her straight up the wide maple staircase with ornately carved pineapples atop the two newel posts. It wound to a wide landing on the second floor and looked back down into the large entry hall. The ceiling over the entry hall was three stories high, cathedral tall, with an antique gold and crystal chandelier hanging down at least eighteen feet. He wondered how much that sucker weighed, and what you had to do to clean it.
“Which way?”
“To the left.”
“Which bedroom is yours? Oh, isn’t this a lovely thought—is there a husband lurking around?”
“Not anymore,” she said, her voice as flat as the wet hair on her head. “All the way to the end of the hall.”
The hallway was wide, its lovely polished maple planks gleaming alongside an antique carpet that ran the hall’s full length. He supposed he should have been prepared when he turned on the bedroom light, but he wasn’t. He stopped in his tracks for a full second. It was big, bigger than his living room, with impossibly high ceilings and intricately carved hundred-year-old moldings. He saw another door: it wasn’t the bathroom, but an immense walk-in closet. The next door did lead into a mammoth bathroom laid with creamy yellow tile with an assortment of colorful Italian country-scene squares set at random on the floor and up the walls. He set her on the closed toilet seat and turned on the shower. Tested it. When it was nice and hot, he turned to see her slumpin
g forward again. He stripped her to her underwear, sensible stuff, no fluff and lace, opened the shower stall door, stopped, and eyed her. If he put her in the shower, she might fall on her face and drown. The fact was, he was cold, too.
He set her down again. “Don’t fall over, you got me?”
“No, I won’t,” and he watched her list to the left until her cheek rested against the toilet paper roll fastened to the side of the long marble counter.
He stripped down to his boxers and undershirt, set his SIG, his cell, and his wallet on the counter, looked at his once-beautiful sports coat in a heap with the old leather jacket and the rest of her clothes on the floor. As he stepped with her into the large shower, Cheney wondered if showering with a just-rescued stranger was in the Quantico manual. He pulled the glass door shut and set her directly under the spray of hot water.
She yelled and tried to pull away from him.
Actually, he felt like yelling right along with her when sharp needles of hot water struck his flesh.
He held her tight until she stopped struggling, then rubbed his hands up and down her arms and her back. She was thin, too thin, but she wasn’t small-boned, she wasn’t fragile. Was she naturally thin or was it because of something else?
Julia slowly felt herself getting warm, this time from the outside in, and she was getting stronger too. She said against his neck, “I can stand up by myself now, thank you.”
He let her go. “How much longer will the hot water last?”
“It’s probably getting near the end of its run.” She pushed open the door and stepped out, knowing his hand was there to catch her.
He turned off the water and followed her. He looked at her closely and was reassured. She was with him, strong again, and alert. A large bruise was blooming on her jaw, along with many other smaller bruises and abrasions on her arms, ribs, and legs from hitting the rocks in the bay on her way down.
She looked him up and down and smiled. “Thank you for saving me. Nice boxers.”
“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 Irish-man with six children.
“I heard her, Cheney,” Frank Paulette said, but he repeated her name aloud, as if he really didn’t believe it. “Julia Ransom,” he said again. “Well, my boy, you never do things halfway, do you?” Frank fell silent. Cheney heard Frank’s wife shouting at him in the background to take out the garbage, heard his son laughing now and the crowd screaming because Kobe Bryant had just scored a three-pointer—no more miracle in the making, at least in this game.
Cheney gave Frank the address, to which Frank said, “I know the damned address. I’ll be there in twenty, Cheney. Keep our lady safe. You sure this wasn’t a mugger?”
Cheney nearly smiled at the hopefulness in Frank’s voice.
“Sorry, Frank. He was out to kill her.”
“I’ll get a couple of cars over there to keep an eye on her.”
“Yeah, okay.” Cheney punched off his cell, slipped it into August Ransom’s pants pocket.
“The police are coming?”
“Yes. Captain Frank Paulette.”
“I thought just about all of them had questioned me, but I don’t know him.”
“Look, I had no choice. Someone tried to kill you. Frank’s a good guy, I’ve known him for nearly four years, almost as long as I’ve lived in San Francisco. He won’t badger you or treat you like—”
He stalled. She said nothing at all.
He saw she’d spread her leather jacket over the back of an antique chair older than Waterloo, his sports coat on a matching chair beside it.
He s
aid, “I spread out the rest of my wet clothes in the bathroom.”
“I’ll take care of them. I have a special dry cleaners who’ll fix up your sports coat and your slacks. Here’s a jacket for you in the meantime.”
“Thank you.”
She nodded and strode firmly out of the bedroom, wearing old baggy jeans, a red 49ers sweatshirt, and blue Nike running shoes. She’d pulled her damp hair into a ponytail, hair the color of his ancient mahogany desk, dark and rich. She wasn’t wearing any makeup. She looked very young.
Cheney walked down the long hallway after her, wearing the dark blue cashmere jacket she’d handed him. She paused a moment after he’d shrugged into it, then slowly nodded. He saw she was tall, with long legs that ate up that endless carpet. He bet she could move in those running shoes of hers.
He could have been enjoying the cioppino with some nice crunchy French bread, but no, Frank was right. Cheney never managed to do anything halfway. Julia Ransom, Dr. August Ransom’s widow. Well, it would soon cease to be his problem.
She turned at the bottom of the stairs to look up at him. “You look fine in August’s clothes. Again, no matter what you think of me—now that you know who I am—thank you for saving me. I’ll have your clothes cleaned and sent to you. How do you know a local police officer?”
“I’m a cop too, just not local.”
“So you’re a tourist cop?”
“Actually, no.”
A dark eyebrow remained raised.
She didn’t remember? Understandable, he thought, and shrugged. “I’m federal. I’m Special Agent Cheney Stone, FBI, with the San Francisco Field Office.”
She stared at him a moment, then threw back her head and laughed until she almost choked. She knuckled her eyes with her fists, like his teenaged niece.
She said, once she’d caught her breath, “I remember now, you yelled that to the guy who was going to kill me. Oh dear, I’ve got to call Wallace Tammerlane and tell him I won’t make it for our dinner.”
He watched her dash to a lovely table set against the corridor wall that held a telephone and a vase of fresh azaleas. He himself called his longtime friend Manny Dolan, told him what was happening, but he didn’t tell him Julia’s name.