Backfire (18 page)

Eve’s eyebrow shot up. “What did I do to you? I’ve told you the truth, nothing more, nothing less.” Eve sat back, touched her fingers to her ponytail. “Do you hate me because I look healthy and clean, and my breath is fresh and I can drink Starbucks coffee every morning if I want to?

“Get off your high horse, Cindy, I’m not the one here who murdered Mark Lindy. Tell us the truth, and you might survive to see the light of day outside of a prison.”

Savich watched Clive lean again toward his wife, but at the bang on the door window, he pulled back. He licked his lips. They were dry and peeling.
Not that handsome now, are you, Clive?

Cindy Cahill rose to her feet, her chains rattling. “I know twenty-five years is way too long. You bring the prison time down with the possibility of parole and we’ll think about it. Clive, keep your mouth shut.”

He nodded at his wife, but Eve saw him swallow convulsively.
Good.
He was scared, as well he should be.

So was Cindy; she was simply a better actress. Eve wondered if Dillon could get the federal prosecutor down even more. She was of two minds on what should happen to these two violent, greedy people, but protecting Ramsey trumped everything else.

Savich watched the guards walk them out. He doubted either of them would be speaking to Milo Siles about the offer.

Saint Francis Wood

San Francisco

Monday afternoon

Emma hovered around the three big men as they tenderly eased her prized ebony Steinway out of the moving van, positioned it onto the big roller board they used for pianos, and carefully pushed it from the driveway onto the side flagstone walkway.

The drizzling rain had stopped for a while, which was a relief, since Molly knew Emma would have tried to plaster herself on top of the waterproof tarp over her piano to make sure it stayed dry.

As for Molly, she was relieved to see the pinched look gone from Emma’s face. When Emma had come into the principal’s office at her school on Lake Street, her face had been frozen with fear until she’d seen Molly standing there, smiling. Still, Molly had said immediately, “Your dad’s okay, Emma.” She’d pulled her shaking daughter against her and said again, “He’s fine, I promise you. Now, I’ve decided it’s best for us to leave our home for a little while. We’re going to stay in a lovely house in Saint Francis Wood. Remember, we’ve driven through the neighborhood and admired all the older houses, and the big yards, just like ours?”

Emma raised her face. “They’re afraid the man is going to try to kill us, aren’t they?”

So much for sugarcoating the truth. “Everyone wants to make sure we’ll be safe. That’s all there is to it.”

Emma said with great patience, “Mom, I’m nearly twelve. Tell me what’s happened.”

Molly nearly lost it then, but she wasn’t about to tell her daughter about the message the man had left on the machine. “Nothing happened. I only want all of us to be safe.”

“You trust me to take good care of the boys, but you won’t tell me the truth? So I’ll know what’s going on? So if something happens I won’t be surprised?”

Good point.
“It’s possible a man came onto our property last night. Everyone wants us out of there until they catch the man.”

“The marshals didn’t see him?”

“You know how many ways there are to sneak close to our house. He may have climbed up the cliff, and there’d be no one to see him unless he went around to the front of the house. It will be much easier for everyone in the house we’re moving to.”

Emma squeezed her mother tightly to her. “It’s all right, Mom. We’ll get through. The boys will think it’s a cool game. I’ll help.”

Molly had hugged this precious human being tightly in return, whispered against her hair, “We’re bringing your piano.”

Those few words had earned her a quick smile from her daughter.

Molly watched the men maneuver Emma’s piano to the base of the three front steps of the large Mediterranean house.

Savich looked at Harry, and they tried to join them in carrying the piano up the steps, but the foreman held them back. “Thanks, gentlemen, but we can’t have you hurting yourselves. We’ve got this.”

One of his young assistants, who had a tall red Mohawk, said between grunts, “It’s the insurance he’s worried about. You’re right, though, this freakin’ sucker’s heavy.”

Emma hung back, ever watchful. Molly was standing inside the doorway, one eye on the twins, who were examining every inch of the living room, and the other on Emma. The Steinway had never been moved an inch since it was reverently placed in their home in Sea Cliff five years before. This was a huge deal for Emma, and on top of everything else. How could Emma function? How would she react? Could she still see herself playing in front of a huge audience at Davies Hall in nine days? Molly saw her smile at Red Mohawk, who was grunting big-time, just for her, and hoped.

Once they carried the piano into the entrance hall, Red Mohawk grinned down at Emma. “Your mama said you’re a big deal, that you’re so good you even play with the San Francisco Symphony. That true?”

Emma never knew what to say to this sort of question. She was aware her mother was watching her, ready to speak for her, but she knew she was old enough to answer for herself. “I’m not playing with the orchestra this time. I’m playing by myself—George Gershwin’s
Rhapsody in Blue,
a week from Wednesday. I don’t know if there are still tickets left, but you could ask. What’s your name?”

The young man laughed and touched his bush of hair. “You can call me Mohawk. Let me see the size of your hands.” Emma held up her hands. The young guy studied them, placed them palm to palm. “Unbelievable,” he said.

The foreman said, “Do you know what my name is? I’m Sam Davis, but there’s no relation.”

Emma stared at him. She didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.

“Sammy Davis Jr.; he was one of the Rat Pack,” he said, but Emma was still in the dark.

He grinned at her. “Ask your dad or maybe your granddad; one of them will know.”

Once they lifted the piano back onto the roller board, Emma trailed behind them as they steered the Steinway through the doorway into the long living room.

“Here,” she said, “in this corner, wide part of the case out.”

When the piano was placed exactly, Red Mohawk brought in her piano bench and set it just so in front of the keyboard.

Emma looked at each man in turn. “Thank you for taking such good care of my piano.”

Red Mohawk said, “Play us something if you really want to thank us.”

Gage, whose hand was now being firmly held by his mother, shouted, “Emmie, play them the theme from
Star Wars.
”

Cal shouted louder, “No, the theme from
Jaws
!”

Emma grinned at her little brothers, sat down, and played “Nobody Does It Better.” There were whistles and applause, and a couple of boos from Cal and Gage.

When the movers left, Emma took Gage and Cal upstairs to show them their new bedroom, the twins chattering away in the twin talk they spoke when they didn’t want anyone to know what they were saying.

Molly waved her hand around the living room. “This is very nice. However did you manage to get us this beautiful house on such short notice?”

Savich said, “The house is for sale. When the owner found out Judge Dredd needed it as a safe house for his family, he offered it to us immediately.”

“It has some of the feel of our home,” Molly said. “Built a long time ago and beautifully remodeled.” Her voice hitched, and she added quickly, “Come along, I’ll make us all coffee. Tea, Dillon?” She motioned away Sherlock. “No, let me do this. At least I still have control over making coffee.”

When they were all seated around the authentic-looking fake Chippendale dining room table, Molly said, “The red-and-cream walls blend so well with this rich furniture. It makes this room oddly peaceful. Thank you all so much for coming here with us. It makes this all less difficult.”

Sherlock said, “The backyard is fenced in, so the boys will be fine. The owner is sending over a jungle gym for Cal and Gage, said his granddaughter’s outgrown it.”

Savich’s cell phone rang, and he left the room to answer it.

Sherlock said, “We’re hoping for a phone call from Clive Cahill, telling us he’s ready to deal. It’s been nearly an hour since Dillon and Eve talked to them.”

“Not Cindy?” Molly asked.

Sherlock shook her head. “Dillon thinks Clive’s the weak link in this chain, or maybe he’s the more realistic.”

Harry nodded. “Eve said her money’s on him as well. I know she has all her digits crossed. She wanted to be here, but she’s meeting Marshal Maynard, going over plans for Judge Hunt’s protection. Last time I saw she had her cell phone attached to her ear.”

Molly asked, “Do you think the Cahills will talk?”

Sherlock said, “We’ll know soon. We tried to reach Milo Siles, their lawyer, but his secretary told us Milo was in a divorce mediation session with his wife and her lawyer this morning and hasn’t returned to the office yet. She let drop he was probably in a rage and she’d bet he’d turned off his cell until he calmed down. Still, Dillon tried to call him, but it went right to voice mail.”

Molly said, “What do you think is going on?”

Sherlock said, “Since Siles was angry, it could be as simple as his sitting in some bar somewhere sulking.”

When Savich walked back to the dining room it was to tell them it was Cheney, who’d gotten a call from his buddy, Marin County Sheriff Bud Hibbert.

It wasn’t good.

Bel Marin Keys, California

Late Monday afternoon

A chill, thick mist cloaked the golden Marin hills in gray. They hit heavy rush-hour traffic on the approach to the Golden Gate Bridge. Harry passed Cheney the emergency light bar, and Cheney stuck his arm out of the window and plopped its magnetic base on the roof. Traffic, thankfully, made way for them as best it could. Harry always got a kick out of using a magic blinking light bar, made him feel like Moses parting the Red Sea.

Cheney said, “Let me give you some background on Pixie McCray, some of which I learned from Milo Siles’s secretary. Pixie was divorced, no kids, and she was a legal secretary for Mifflin, LaRochette, and Kent, a firm Milo has litigated against many times over the years. That’s how they met. We don’t yet know how long they’ve been together, but I found out Milo bought Pixie’s house about four and a half years ago. He bought a Sea Ray Sundancer to go with it, a fast luxury yacht that even has a swimming platform. It’s parked right on his own private dock on the lagoon.”

“Pixie—a charming name,” Sherlock said. “And now she’s dead, along with Milo Siles, just because he was visiting her.”

Savich said, “I wonder if Milo’s wife knew about Pixie.”

Cheney said, “Even though his wife was using photos to get more leverage in the divorce settlement, according to Siles’s lawyer, my guess is neither of them cared much about what the other was doing for the past five years or so. That’s from Siles’s divorce lawyer. He said Milo left really mad about his wife’s demands at the mediation session, and that’s the last anyone saw him.”

Sherlock asked, “How did Xu find out about Pixie McCray?”

Cheney cut his eyes to her. “Funny thing is, it wasn’t a big buried secret. The house in Bel Marin Keys is in Milo’s name, and so is the Sea Ray Sundancer, both easy to find out.”

Sherlock said, “I gather this house and boat weren’t part of her demands?”

Harry said matter-of-factly, “Milo Siles’s wife is obviously having an affair, too, maybe even a long-term affair, like her husband, so they seemed to treat it as no harm, no foul.”

Sherlock closed her eyes for a moment. How could anyone live like that? Were Milo Siles and his mistress, Pixie McCray, dead because the Cahills had told him too much about Xu? Had Milo tried to blackmail Xu? Or was it simply because he’d known who Xu was and what he’d done that had signed his death warrant?

She said, “We need to keep checking on whether Siles had any hidden accounts, see if he got himself killed because Xu paid him to keep his mouth shut.”

Savich nodded. “If Milo hid any money in his own name, he was pretty sophisticated about it. It could take some time, but MAX will find it eventually.”

Sherlock said, “I’m hoping we don’t find any accounts. That would mean Milo wasn’t so stupid as to imagine he’d come out of this whole-hide if he was dealing with Xu.”

And Pixie McCray, who probably hadn’t known anything, hadn’t done anything to anyone at all, was dead, too.

Cheney kept the lights flashing until they turned east off 101 on the Bel Marin Keys exit. They drove through an industrial area, then wetlands, and finally past some palm trees lining the road on both sides. The closer they moved toward San Pablo Bay and its myriad waterways, the heavier the fog became. The roadways crisscrossed around the lagoons, the fog blending with the water like a surrealist painting. The rain picked up and the gloom deepened. It was nearly dark now.

Cheney said, “On a sunny day, this is a beautiful area, fairly affluent, with hundreds of homes sitting either on a lagoon or on Novato Creek. All the lagoons have access to San Pablo and San Francisco bays, as you can see from all the boats. I have a friend who lives not far from Pixie’s house, on her same street. I wonder if he knew Pixie McCray. Maybe he’s even seen Milo Siles at her house.”

Cheney turned left off Bel Marin Keys Boulevard onto Calypso Shores. The houses were set close together, the landscaping mature and well maintained, a great place for both families with kids and retirees. Cheney pulled Eve’s Suburban up to the curb about a half-block from Pixie’s house, the closest available spot. The houses blocked the view of the lagoons and the boat docks, but they could see the water at the end of the street, and the lock where boats came through. They huddled under umbrellas and walked quickly to the house. There were half a dozen Crown Vics, a couple of them haphazardly parked in the driveway, others against the curb, one up on the lawn. The county coroner’s van and the county’s Crime Analysis Unit van were parked in the middle of the street, blocking traffic.

Neighbors were standing around, staring and talking, looking generally horrified, huddled beneath umbrellas and awnings as the rain beat down.

The white wooden house was a single story with a big solar panel on the roof, built some thirty years ago. It still managed to look stylish, its three palm trees in the front yard adding a bit of tropical charm.

Sheriff Bud Hibbert met them at the front door. “I’d just as soon not have seen you guys until the Christmas party. What this guy did, how fast he moved—it’s frightening. They’re in the bedroom.”

They left their umbrellas on the front porch and walked around two forensic techs and a sheriff’s deputy through the country feminine living room and a small country kitchen with a connected eating area, and down the carpeted hall to the end of the corridor.

Sheriff Hibbert asked for the photographer to stand back for a moment and motioned them around the big king-size bed. It was a god-awful scene, Sherlock thought, so much blood. There was always so much blood. She sometimes wondered how a human body could hold that much blood.

The sheriff said, “I haven’t let them touch the bodies. The crime scene’s just as it was when a deputy arrived after we got a call from a neighbor who heard Pixie’s dog carrying on and came to see what was happening.”

None of them really wanted to, but they looked closely at what had once been two living, breathing people until Xu had slit their throats.

The sheriff said, “All their clothes are in place, so no sexual activity had begun even though they were lying on the bed. Look at the blood splatter, the way their bodies ended up when they died. Siles’s head has nearly fallen off the near side of the bed, and she’s fallen nearly off the other side of the bed. I’ve been trying to figure out exactly what happened.”

Savich pointed at Sherlock. She was standing quietly at the foot of the bed, and he knew she was putting it all together in her mind, using her special gift to picture what few people could see at a crime scene.

“Sherlock?”

She said, “He came in quietly, saw them. He was fast, silent, and smart—even managed to lock Pixie’s terrier outside without alerting them. Milo was first. He grabbed him by his hair, jerked his head back, sliced his throat—again, right to left. Not even a second, that’s all the time it took. He let Milo fall, reached over him, grabbed Pixie by her hair, jerked her head toward him, then back so violently it snapped her neck. When he sliced her throat he must have been staring down at her, watching her eyes as she realized she was dying. The coroner might be able to determine which of those things killed her, not that it makes any difference.

“You can see the dried tears on Milo’s cheeks. He was crying, his head probably against Pixie’s shoulder. She was—comforting him.”

Sheriff Hibbert stared at Sherlock for a moment. He said slowly, “Yes, I can see that now. Thank you.”

Cheney said, “Milo came to her for comfort. And he got her killed.”

Sheriff Hibbert said, “Let’s back out now, let the coroner and the CAU people do their jobs.”

Sherlock paused. “The CAU?”

“Yeah, the Crime Analysis Unit; that’s what we call our forensic section.”

Sherlock said, “Of course. We’re from the CAU in Washington, the Criminal Apprehension Unit.”

Sheriff Hibbert said as he walked them to the back of the house that gave onto the waterway and the boat dock, “The neighbor—Mrs. Dee Kotter—saw Pixie’s terrier, Bob. He was locked out of the house, and that surprised her, since it was raining. She knocked on the door, found it wasn’t locked, and found them. She told us Milo was a twice-a-week fixture at Pixie’s house, her longtime boyfriend. He was always polite, spoke to the neighbors who spoke to him, and made Pixie happy. She said it was sort of a joke with Pixie, always saying why marry a man and put up with the toilet lid being up all the time? Better to have him visit, orderly and planned, and that was the way she liked it. The neighbor didn’t know Milo was married.

“Mrs. Kotter took Bob. Last time I saw her, she was petting him, kissing him over and over, and crying.

“It’s nearly dark, so canvassing the neighborhood is tough. And the damned rain doesn’t help. We don’t believe it was raining when the killer got here, so hopefully someone saw a stranger, a car, something.

“We also have men over on Caribe Isle—that’s the spit of land across the water—interviewing everyone along the street. There’s a small park at the end of the spit, and a narrow beach with a nice view of the back of all the houses along this street, including Pixie’s house.

“Even though there was a break in the rain, I don’t know if anyone was in the park or on that skinny beach. So far, we don’t have anything.”

Savich cursed. Sherlock was so surprised she nearly tripped over a Christmas cactus on the wide back porch.

Savich said, “I just realized, Xu’s got two major loose ends left—the Cahills. You know he’s going after the Cahills. Ramsey, at least, is safe from him for the moment.”

He got Eve on the first ring.

“Barbieri.”

“He’s going after the Cahills next. I know in my gut he’s got a pipeline into the jail. Xu has to know they’re going to flip on him now he’s killed Siles. Eve, get over to the jail, get them to safety.”

When Savich punched off, he said, “She’s going to bring the Cahills to the twentieth floor, put them in one of the pre-court holding cells.”

They stood under the wide porch and looked out over the water to Caribe Isle, listened to the waves bumping against the dock. It was dark and miserable, the rain coming down in torrents. A deputy sheriff strode through the rain from the neighbor’s yard, a black umbrella over his head.

He shouted, “Sheriff, we got a winner!”

They’d found an old gentleman on Caribe Isle who’d been walking on the narrow beach beyond the small park. He had a straight view to the back of Pixie McCray’s house and her dock. He was chewing on his pipe since he didn’t smoke anymore, he told the deputy, hurrying because he knew the rain was going to start up again, and that wasn’t good because Purlie, his bulldog, hated to do her business in the rain. He said it was nearly four o’clock when he saw a small outboard motorboat come through the lock, turn left, and motor to Pixie’s dock. He saw a man climb onto the dock and go into the house.

Did he see the man leave?

Nope. Purlie was through doing her business, and it started drizzling again, so he took her home.

Xu had come by boat, just as he’d done the night he’d motored the Zodiac to Sea Cliff and shot Ramsey.

They went to speak to Mrs. Dee Kotter, Pixie’s neighbor, but she was in shock, numb. She was crying again, holding Bob close, both of them shivering in disbelief and horror at what had happened, here, in Bel Marin Keys, and nothing ever happened here.