Backfire

39

Harry Christoff’s house

Maple Street

San Francisco

Monday night

Harry pulled his Shelby into the driveway, cut the engine, and turned to face Eve. She had asked him about every detail of the crime scene in Bel Marin Keys. They had fallen back on talking about the brutal murders as dispassionately and professionally as they could, but it was difficult.

Eve said, “At least Savich should have a real shot with the Cahills tomorrow morning. We’ve got them isolated in the marshal holding cells, out of contact. They shouldn’t find out about Milo’s murder until Savich springs it on them. There’s a good chance one of them will talk, since Xu killed their lawyer this time, their only contact with Xu and the person they’ve been pinning their hopes on to get them out. What’s left for them to try?”

Eve opened both her car door and her umbrella, and ducked under it. She stepped onto the driveway and took her first good look at Harry’s house. Even in the dark with the rain pouring down, she could see enough to be surprised at how big it was, probably worth a bundle even in this depressed market. She liked the shake roof and the big windows that gave it a colonial sort of feel even without the columns. She ran through the rain from Harry’s Shelby to the front door. A bright porch light was a welcoming beacon. There were even ferns hanging from under the porch ceiling, still looking perky, though it was nearly Thanksgiving. She imagined the tree-filled yard would be spectacular in the spring and summer.

“I like your house; it’s the showcase of the neighborhood, isn’t it? You’ll have to tell me how you snagged it.”

He gave her only a curt nod. It was odd, Eve thought, but Harry had seemed a bit unwilling to bring her here, but, as she reminded him, he’d been to her condo, and now it was time for her to see his digs.

His wife’s digs, he’d said, not looking at her.

Since she’d left the Suburban at the marshals’ pool at the Federal Building, he’d offered to take her home. She knew he hadn’t realized he would be making a stop first.

“Everything is beautiful. You have a gardener, don’t you?”

He nodded. “His name is Mr. Sanchez. He’s been with me six years, comes once a week. His son helps him now.” He paused for a moment as he stuck his key in the front door, looked over his shoulder at her. “I just realized I don’t know his first name. He’s always been Mr. Sanchez to me. His son goes by Junior Sanchez.” He smiled. “Not Sanchez Junior.”

He pushed open the door, turned off the alarm, and stepped back for her. “Come on in.”

Eve shook out her umbrella and slipped it inside a copper umbrella pot. She stood in a small square entryway with a mirror on the wall above a curvy modern table for mail and flowers, but the beautiful Italian cachepot was empty. The gardeners didn’t work inside. He pointed her to the living room, where a big easy chair, an ottoman, and a big-screen TV were displayed front and center, and a pile of newspapers had been tossed in a haphazard stack on the floor beside the chair. Sure, there was a sofa, chairs, and a coffee table, all with an Italian country flavor, but it was obvious he never sat there. Other than the pile of newspapers, nothing else was out of place. No beer cans, no running shoes. Two Sports Illustrated magazines sat on the coffee table. She gave him points when she saw that neither one was the swimsuit issue.

Still, everything was so “guy,” she had to smile. She looked at the walls, saw they were covered with framed travel posters-of Lake Como, the Alps, Parliament on the Thames-all in full color, inviting you to step right in. She waved toward the posters. “Do you like to travel, Harry?”

“Yes.”

She turned to him. “Only a simple yes? No explanation, like whether you’ve been to all these places and which one is your very favorite in the whole world?”

“That would be Lake Como, I guess. The hiking is great around there. I like Inverness for hiking, too.”

She said, “I’ve never been to Inverness.”

“It’s stark, usually cloudy, often raining, and almost, well, painfully real. Would you like some coffee?”

She checked her watch. “I’d be a moron to drink coffee this late. You have nonfat milk? Splenda?”

He had both.

Eve watched him grind coffee beans, then measure the ground coffee into the filter and dump water in from the sink tap.

Harry said, “Funny what Savich said about Billy Hammond, his friend at the CIA in Langley. He wouldn’t verify anything at all about the information Xu obtained or was after, even though he’s known Savich for a hundred years, give or take. That kind of secrecy, it’s enough to make you gag in your soup.”

“At least he apologized,” Eve said. “It must be incredibly sensitive stuff if they’re putting tape over his mouth. I’ll bet they already know exactly what was accessed, since it would be recorded on their servers. They just don’t want anyone else to know, though, even us.”

“According to Savich,” Harry said, “they weren’t much interested in interviewing the Cahills. They probably know the Cahills didn’t know about the information Xu accessed, or how valuable it is. But maybe they know enough to help us find Xu.”

“That’s all we want from them, really,” Eve said.

Suddenly he was staring at her as they stood in his kitchen, listening to the coffee perk, shaking his head.

“What? Do I have rain still dripping off my nose?”

He said, “The first time I saw you I thought you looked like a homecoming queen from somewhere in the Midwest, someone who should be frosting cupcakes for her kid’s birthday party. I wondered, how can she possibly be a deputy U.S. marshal?” He shook his head again. “You’re so damned pretty.” Then he waved his hands, as if he were trying to wave away his words.

Since it was obvious to her that Harry wished he’d kept his mouth shut, Eve waved her own hands at his kitchen cabinets. “You said you liked my kitchen. I had it remodeled last year, you know. I found a really good contractor who came in on budget and on time. You want her name?”

“Nah, everything works fine. Once in a while the sink clogs, but that’s no big deal.”

She grinned. “You’re right. Nothing wrong with cooking in the 1940s. Now that I think about it, if you wait another couple of years, all your kitchen appliances will be back in style as retro, except maybe for those green-tinted cabinets.”

He handed her a mug of coffee, gave her nonfat milk from the refrigerator, and dug out a couple of packets of Splenda from his stuff drawer. As she stirred her coffee, she said, “What you said, Harry-do you know my brothers are always saying the same thing? They still call me Miss Suzie-Q.

“When I told my dad I wanted to be a U.S. marshal like he is, though, he looked at me up and down and said, ‘That would make me very proud, Eve. It’s a great career choice for you. You’ll be one of the best.’” She paused for a moment, looked down into her coffee mug. “Yes, that’s exactly what he said, straight up. I’ve never forgotten.” She cleared her throat and drank some coffee. “This is very good, Harry. Do you cook?”

“When the need arises. What did your mom say?”

Eve took another sip of her coffee, enjoyed the zing of caffeine, though she knew she’d be cursing herself at two a.m. “When my dad told her what I wanted to do, she laughed. And laughed. She was happy. I saw her kiss my dad and shake her head and say something about the apple not falling far from the tree.

“I look just like my mom, you know. It’s funny what you said, Harry, because my mom was a college cheerleader. And I can still see her cutting our birthday cakes at our big kid parties, hear her singing at the top of her lungs, leading all the kids in a sing-along. I might add that everyone adored her. She was so beautiful, so bouncy and fun. She still is.”

Harry said, “So you fell pretty close to both trees. And your dad’s the U.S. marshal in Chicago?”

“Yep. Like I told you, he’s an anomaly. He’s served under two different presidents now, unlike most of the ninety-four marshals countrywide. Tell me about your folks, Harry.”

He shrugged. “They live in London-well, they do for most of the year. They love to travel, always have, and they took me with them. I guess they gave me the travel bug.”

She could only gape at him. Parents lived in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, for heaven’s sake, or Minneola, Florida, not London, England. “Why do they live in London?”

He looked like he wanted to tell her to leave it alone, but he said finally, “My dad’s a financier. It sounds old-fashioned, I know, but that’s what he says he is.”

“What does he finance?”

“Well, he runs Willet, Haversham, and Bayle.”

She let out a whistle. “They’re so big even I’ve heard of them. They’re worldwide. And they survived the bankers’ rape of the world with fairly clean hands, from all I’ve read. Your dad’s CEO?”

“Well, not really. He’s the chairman of the board. Actually, he pretty much is Willet, Haversham, and Bayle.”

“But your name’s Christoff.”

“Willet and Haversham are his first and middle names, the middle name from his own father, and Bayle is his best friend. They picked the name because Dad liked the sound of it, all snooty and English, like one of their ancient law firms.”

“So your dad is Willet Haversham Christoff? And what’s your full name?”

“I’ll tell you on my deathbed.”

“That bad? Does your name sound like an English duke? All right, I’ll wait. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“I’m an only child.”

“All right, I’ll keep pulling hen’s teeth. Your mom?”

“Sylvia is my mom. She’s a fashion consultant.”

She stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

He shrugged. “She’d take one look at you and want to haul you off to be photographed for Vogue. And she’d be right. The camera would love you, she’d say. You’ve got great bones.”

“How would you know that?”

“She took me with her on photo shoots, showed me all the subtle clues in a person’s face, actually. I’ve found it all very useful to a cop.”

“With that background, why’d you want to be a cop?”

Harry said, without hesitation, “My uncle Roy, my mom’s brother, is FBI. When I was six years old he told me I had the heart of a cop. He was right.”

Harry’s cell rang. “Yeah?”

His face remained impassive, but his eyes hardened. “We’ll be there in twelve minutes.”

“What?”

“You put the Cahills in a holding cell in the Federal Building, right? Someone evidently cleared the Cahills to go back to the San Francisco jail. Cheney called, found out they were transferred at eight-forty-five tonight.”

“No, that’s not possible. I mean-what happened?”