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 said, “I spread out the rest of my wet clothes in the bathroom.”
“I’ll take care of them. I have a special dry cleaner 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.
“Damn, Cheney, I think June wanted to jump your bones. She’s not a happy camper.”
“Keep repeating what a hero I am, okay?”
“Yeah, sure. Have fun with the widow.”
When Julia joined him again, she said only, “Wallace wanted to come over, but I told him no. Believe me, you don’t want a flamboyant psychic medium interacting with cops. Not a good mix.”
“No,” Cheney said slowly, “I don’t suppose it would be.”
CHAPTER 5
Captain Frank Paulette arrived with the two inspectors who’d been the leads on the Dr. August Ransom murder case the previous fall and into the winter—Inspector Rainy Bigger and Inspector Allen Whitten. The two inspectors nodded at Julia Ransom, saying nothing at all. Cheney saw a flash of contempt on Inspector Rainy Bigger’s face, which made him frown, but there was only professional indifference on Inspector Allen Whitten’s face. Frank stepped forward and introduced himself to Julia, shook her thin white hand.
Cheney noticed there was no wedding ring on her finger, no jewelry of any kind.
“You’re sure you don’t want to see a doctor, Mrs. Ransom? That bruise on your jaw looks pretty bad.”
She lightly touched her fingertips to her jaw, opened and closed her mouth a couple of times. “It’s not broken, only looks bad. Thank you for your concern, Captain Paulette.” She looked at Inspectors Whitten and Bigger, weary resignation on her face. “Please come in. This is Agent Cheney Stone.”
Both Bigger and Whitten shook his hand. A fed, Cheney knew they were thinking, and that meant they wondered whether he enjoyed kicking local cops before breakfast.
Inspector Rainy Bigger gave Julia the once-over, not bothering to mask her dislike. “You’re looking particularly well, considering someone smacked you in the face and dumped you into the bay, Mrs. Ransom.”
Julia knew Bigger believed she’d killed August and had gotten away with it. She hated how the inspector’s hostility made her feel defensive, reduced her to feeling unworthy to be alive. She said, voice clipped, “Thank you. Good genes.”
“Or something else altogether,” said Inspector Bigger.
Julia said, “Agent Stone, do you think I smacked myself in the jaw, then happily hopped over the railing into the bay for a nice evening swim?”
“No, of course not,” Cheney said, and sent Inspector Bigger a back-off look.
“No, that isn’t what yon mean, is it, Inspector Bigger?” Julia said slowly. “You’re thinking a falling out among villains, perhaps?”
Inspector Bigger kept her mouth shut, but gave an elaborate shrug.
Cheney was relieved the inspector did have some minimal sense of professionalism.
Inspector Whitten said, “It would appear someone is out to hurt you, Mrs. Ransom.”
“I’m thinking the knife put it beyond the ‘hurt me’ stage, Inspector Whitten,” Julia said.
He nodded toward a beautiful Impressionist painting hanging over the Carrara marble fireplace. “That new?”
“You mean did I purchase it with my ill-gotten gains?”
That’s exactly what he meant, Cheney realized, but he didn’t say anything. He wanted to hear what Julia would say.
Julia said, “August wasn’t fond of the Impressionists. I am. I brought it down from my study. It’s a Sisley. My husband bought it for me as a wedding present. Do you like it, Inspector Whitten?”
“Well, yes, I do. Bet it cost Dr. Ransom a bundle. So who do you think is after you, ma’am?”
“The man wasn’t a mugger or some crazy drug addict. Given how he behaved, what he did—it occurred to me he could be the person who murdered my husband. He would have killed me if it hadn’t been for Agent Stone.”
“Yeah, Cheney is a hero,” Inspector Bigger said.
Frank frowned at both inspectors. Maybe it hadn’t been smart to bring them, particularly Inspector Bigger. She was a tangled mess of anger. Why? He’d need to speak to Lieutenant Vincent Delion, who’d be back from vacation in a couple of days, or hell, maybe it was a week before Vincent was back. He said, “It’s been six months since your husband was murdered, Mrs. Ransom. Why would your husband’s murderer want you dead now? Perhaps you remembered something about him or her? Perhaps you found something that could implicate someone and this person
found out?”
“I don’t think so, Captain Paulette.” But Julia frowned. “I’ll have to give that a lot of thought.”