The Target (19 page)

Mason gave Detective O'Connor an infinitesimal regal nod, rose, and walked to the sideboard to pour himself a brandy.

“Fine,” Ramsey said. “Let's go to Mr. Lord's study. Is that all right, sir?”

Mason didn't look happy. But he had no choice. He nodded. The other two detectives rose to go back out to the burned-out Mercedes, to join the forensics team combing the remains. Ramsey overheard one of them say, “I heard there isn't much left of him, after the blast and fire.”

Detective Martinez said to Sergeant Burnside, “The three of them were lucky beyond belief. This is a weird one, Tommy, really weird. That guy, Gunther, didn't tell us a thing. I've got this feeling that we're not going to find out anything at all from anyone who works here.”

“Yeah, and I wonder what Judge Hunt is doing here, with a guy like Mason Lord? Talk about a straight arrow.”

Ramsey couldn't make out any more words. A straight arrow, was he? He rather liked that.

Beside him, Riley O'Connor laughed. “This is really something for us, Judge Hunt. I'm really sorry, but it's all going to come out now, everything about the kid's kidnapping, you guys being followed all over the West, and now this. Yeah, both fact and supposition. But I guess you know firsthand what the media spotlight can do. You can be a devil or a saint, depending on the reporters' likes and dislikes, and how nice you've been to them. As for the photographers, I'll bet you've wanted to slug some of them.”

“Oh yes,” Ramsey said, remembering the paparazzo
outside hiding in his bushes, the final straw that had sent him to the Rockies where he'd found Emma and discovered that he really hadn't had any problems worth a damn. “On the other hand, this does need to come out. I want the press to have a field day. I'll personally cheer them on.”

“Why?” Detective O'Connor cocked his head, his eyes trained on Ramsey's face.

“One reason: to protect Emma. Maybe the people who are after her will back off once everyone knows there's some sort of conspiracy afoot and that the press is going to plunk themselves in the middle of it.”

“Conspiracy?”

Ramsey just smiled at him. “Just a moment, Detective.”

They went into the study and Ramsey closed the door. His back was beginning to ache. He must have winced because Detective Riley O'Connor said, “I heard it was a nasty hit you took in the back.”

“Yeah, a slice of burning car upholstery. It's not so bad as the cut Mrs. Santera took on the arm. It landed flat on me, didn't slice the skin. She's with her daughter.” Even as he was saying the words, there was a knock on the door. It opened. Molly appeared, pale, her arm in the sling, her hair a wild nimbus around her thin face. Her eyes were large, calm, and very green, not even a speck of gray. He noticed, for the first time, that she had a faint line of freckles across the bridge of her nose. He liked them.

He realized she was near the edge. He took a step toward her, then stopped. “Molly, what are you doing here? Is Emma all right?”

She raised her hand and lightly touched her fingers to his mouth. “It's all right. Emma's just fine. She's asleep or I wouldn't have left her. Miles is keeping watch over her. I wanted to meet the police, tell them everything I know. There's no reason for them to have to repeat everything separately with me. Besides, I imagine that you and I will be the only forthcoming witnesses in this household. When we tell the detective the whole story, maybe I'll remember
something you forget and vice versa.” She walked forward, her hand out. “I'm Molly Santera.”

Detective O'Connor looked at a loss. “The dead man—Louey Santera, the rock star—he was your husband?”

“Ex-husband. Louey and I had been divorced for two years.”

“Molly, would you like a brandy?”

She started to shake her head, then paused. “You know, that might just work some magic.”

Ramsey poured all three of them a small amount of brandy and handed it around. Detective O'Connor smiled at him, gave a mournful look at the brandy, and set the glass down on an end table. “Thank you,” he said. “Perhaps later.”

“This will take some time, Detective.”

O'Connor took a small tape recorder out of his coat pocket. “May I record our conversation? That'll be best.” They listened to him identify himself, them, the date, the place. Then he said clearly, “What I was saying about the media, Judge Hunt, is that with Mr. Santera's death, there'll be almost as many TV vans here as there were in L.A. covering the O.J. trial. When all the stuff about your daughter's kidnapping gets out, the good Lord only knows what will happen.”

“It can't be helped,” Ramsey said. “Now, I think we should all start with you, Molly. Detective O'Connor needs the whole story. Whoever blew up Louey Santera meant to kill the three of us.”

“Yes,” she said, her voice just a whisper of sound. She drank some more brandy, and set the nearly empty snifter on a side table. She cleared her throat. “It started with Emma's kidnapping. Goodness, Ramsey, that was only about three and a half weeks ago.”

“Emma was taken from your house, Mrs. Santera?”

“No, from the small park just behind our house. I was photographing there.” She stopped, just stopped cold. Her hands were clasped in her lap, her knuckles white.

Ramsey said, his voice sharp, “It wasn't your fault, Molly. Just tell Detective O'Connor exactly what happened.”

Just then the door opened again.

Special Agent Dillon Savich and Special Agent Lacey Sherlock Savich, both of the FBI, walked into the room.

Savich said, “Hi, Ramsey. I'm real happy to see you in one piece. Things have really turned ugly. We heard about the explosion on the ride in. You remember Sherlock, don't you? Everyone remembers Sherlock.”

Dillon Savich looked over at Riley O'Connor, smiled, and stuck out his hand. “We're with the FBI. Don't worry. We're not here to bigfoot you. We're friends of Judge Hunt's. We just want to help.”

 

D
R
. Loo looked at Emma's new piano, fresh out of its box. She plunked a couple of keys. She smiled. “Do you know how to play ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star'?”

“Yes, Dr. Loo. But it's been a long time.”

Ramsey grinned at Emma. “Why don't you give her the theme and some variations, Emma?”

Emma gave him a small smile before she looked down at her new piano. The finish was so glossy she could see her face in it. She swallowed hard. She laid one finger gently over F. She didn't press the key down. Slowly, she turned to Dr. Loo. “I'm sorry, but I can't play right now. It doesn't feel right. My old piano just died.”

Ramsey thought he'd cry. Oh, shit. He beat Molly to it. He picked Emma up, leaving the piano on the small table, and gathered her to his chest. “You're right, sweetheart. You need to mourn your old piano for a while. Dr. Loo can hear you play on your next visit.”

Dr. Loo, who'd heard from Molly exactly what had happened, didn't mention the violent death of Emma's father. Rather, she said, “Mason Lord sent an artist over, Emma. We would like you to describe that man who kidnapped you, that same man you saw look in your bedroom window at your grandfather's house. Can you do that?”

Emma looked worried, then, slowly, she nodded. “I can try, Dr. Loo.”

An elderly bald man was shown into Dr. Loo's office by the receptionist. His name was Raymond Block and he'd been a police artist for twenty-seven years. “Don't worry,” he said to all of them. “I've worked with children all my career.” Then he sat down beside Emma and opened his drawing pad.

“Are you ready, Emma? No, wait a moment, Mr. Block. I need to scratch inside my cast.”

Dr. Loo didn't leave them until it was done. It took Mr. Block forty-five minutes of drawing, erasing, widening, elongating, more drawing, more erasing. Finally, Emma said, “That's him.”

Mr. Block turned the drawing so that Dr. Loo, Ramsey, and Molly could see it.

“Oh, dear,” Molly said, staring at the excellent drawing. “Are you sure that's the man you saw at the window, Emma? The man who kidnapped you?”

“Yes, he was the man who stole me. And then he came back and he smiled at me through the window.”

Ramsey just shook his head back and forth, quelling a weird desire to laugh and cry at the same time. “Well, this fellow isn't any pool man who works down the street from your house in Denver, Molly. No, I think he resembles someone who lives in a much more prestigious place.”

It was an excellent rendering of President Clinton, only he had very bad teeth.

T
WO HOURS LATER
, Ramsey and Molly sat opposite Dillon Savich and Sherlock in the small breakfast room off the kitchen. Miles had served coffee and some special nut bread he said he'd baked just that morning. He said Emma had told him she liked nut bread, but only with walnuts. Miles and Gunther stood in the shadows back by the outside door.

“Yeah,” said Ramsey. “It was an excellent likeness of President Clinton.”

Sherlock, who was drinking some of Miles's rich Jamaican coffee, choked.

Savich slapped her on the back. “Get a hold, Sherlock. It may not have been a coincidence. It may have been a mask. But he wore a mask the whole time? That would get real uncomfortable.”

“Yes,” Molly said, handing Sherlock a glass of water, “but it also means that they—whoever they are—wanted Emma alive, and they continued the disguise so she wouldn't be able to identify that man later.”

“It still doesn't make sense,” Ramsey said, picking a big chunk of walnut out of the bread. “Then why the attempts
on our lives? Believe me, Savich, someone wanted Emma, alive? Dead? I'm not sure which.”

Sherlock took another sip of her coffee, then shuddered. She said, “This coffee is delicious but I think it's trying to kill me.”

“You shouldn't drink it in any case. You're pregnant. It's not good for you.”

“Thanks for announcing it,” Sherlock said, grabbed her stomach, and flew through the door Miles quickly opened for her. “Just down the hall on the left,” he shouted.

Savich shook his head. “I forgot. You won't believe this, but usually she's just fine. But when I mention the word
pregnant
in front of her, she has to heave.”

Ramsey started to say something, then shook his head, smiling. “I'm not going to go there, Savich.” He stuck out his hand. “Congratulations.”

“Me too,” Molly said.

“She'll be just fine when she gets back, and I'll try harder to watch my mouth. Poor Sherlock. She hates it when she loses control.”

“She married you,” Ramsey said. “She can't hate losing control all that much.”

Savich laughed. “Point that out to her and see what she has to say.”

Molly said, “You're both FBI agents, you're married, and she's pregnant. You have a transgender laptop and you took a week off to come and help us. Why?”

Suddenly serious, Savich leaned forward, resting his chin on his clasped hands, his elbows on the table. “I've known Ramsey for a while now. We were both in law enforcement, Ramsey with the U.S. Attorney's office in San Francisco, and I with the FBI. We found we had a lot in common.

“We've kept in touch. I admire him, Mrs. Santera. I don't like what's happening. As for Sherlock, she's been a special agent less than a year now, but she's tough and bright, and although she's pregnant, she wouldn't have dreamed of not
coming. Uh, if you could not mention the word
pregnant
in front of her, both of us would appreciate it.”

“So it's anyone who says the word
pregnant?”

Savich grinned at Ramsey. “As in she blames any messenger or just the guy who got her in this condition?”

“That's it.”

“I don't know. I thought it was just me. Maybe you could drop the word by accident and we'll run a small scientific experiment.”

“I wouldn't do that to another woman,” Molly said. “Thank you both for coming.”

“No problem. This is a royal mess. Sherlock doesn't like what's happening to you guys, either. So, this guy was either wearing a Clinton mask or he was a master at makeup and disguises. But it'd have to be a really good mask for Emma not to have realized it was a mask. I vote for a guy who's really good at disguises.”

“Yes, that sounds more reasonable,” Molly said. “Emma even put bad teeth in Clinton's mouth. Emma's bright.”

Ramsey said, “I'm not her mother, but she's right. Emma's three dozen points sharper than Molly's razor.”

“I told you not to use it.”

“I was lucky not to cut my throat.” He turned to Savich. “Did you mean it? You're not here to take over the case from the locals?”

“Nope. Sherlock and I are off for a week. But I've got MAXINE—”

“MAX experienced another sex change just three days ago,” Sherlock said from the doorway, a wet washcloth in her hand. She daubed at her forehead, but she was smiling. “It's happened twice since I've known Dillon.”

“I might have thought it meant MAX didn't know how to relate to her,” Savich said. “That he was trying to make an accommodation since he knew she was here to stay. But the fact is he's gone back and forth now for about four years.”

Ramsey said simply, “Molly and I both appreciate your help.”

“We know that, Ramsey.” He smiled up at his wife. “You okay, Sherlock?”

She nodded. “Just a brief brush with the devil.” She turned to Molly. “That's what Dillon calls it every time I'm sick. Now, we'll put every scrap of information we can get our hands on into MAXINE and see what she comes up with.” She saw that Molly didn't understand. “Dillon is the chief of the Criminal Apprehension Unit or CAU at the FBI. We don't do profiling, but we work with the profilers and with local law enforcement to catch serial killers. We use a number of programs that Dillon's developed. We plug in all the information we can get our hands on, including everything from the local police, the forensic reports, the autopsy reports, witness statements, you name it. MAXINE isn't better at figuring things out than real people, but he or she, depending on the month, is faster and looks at the data in many different ways. In just the first year, we solved six cases along with the local cops. We think we can apply that experience to help us catch this monster.”

Savich said, “Ramsey, I'll speak to Agent Anchor and get all the reports on the cabin where Emma was kept. There's bound to be some physical evidence left. I'll get MAXINE to work on child molesters who have an M.O. using disguises.”

Ramsey said, “Emma said he smoked, had bad teeth, and drank. Once when she was coming out of a nightmare, she remembered he'd said that he needed her more than God needed him.”

Molly said, “He also used twine to tie her up.” She swallowed and looked down. “He used twine because she was just a little girl.”

“That's a start,” Savich said.

Sherlock patted Molly's shoulder as she said, “Dillon and I took a week's vacation. We're at your command.”

“I already told them,” Savich said, pulling her down onto his lap. “They haven't applauded just yet, but when they see what we can do, they'll do handsprings. I'll also speak to
the police in Denver. We can add stuff from forensics from the explosion. Sherlock can help us by translating what you know into data for MAXINE.”

“Then we push a button and MAXINE becomes the brightest Cuisinart on the planet,” Sherlock said. “While Dillon talks to the cops, why don't we make a list of all the things you guys can remember.

“Where,” Sherlock began, “do you think Louey Santera planned to go if he did manage to get the Mercedes off the estate?”

“Nowhere,” Molly said. “He hadn't thought that far ahead. He was scared and he lost it. He did that sometimes.”

“This time it was fatal,” Ramsey said. “Poor bastard.”

“Not a poor bastard if he was the one who staged Emma's kidnapping,” Molly said, her voice hard. “How will we prove it if he was behind it?”

“Follow the money,” Savich said. “I'll get a warrant to search through all Santera's financial records. There's always something there, always.”

“You don't need a warrant. I'll get the records.” Mason Lord stood in the kitchen doorway, Gunther standing right behind his right shoulder.

“I'd just as soon you didn't do anything, Mr. Lord,” Savich said. “It's our job. Let us do it on the up and up. Admittedly it takes a bit longer. On the other hand, it's legal. There are advantages to being really legal in this situation.”

Mason said, “I know Louey's accountant. I will speak personally with him. Warren will plead to tell me everything he knows, to show me every record he's ever entered. Warren has always been useful and informative.”

“You know,” Sherlock said slowly, eyeing Mason Lord, wondering how he could be so utterly different from her own father yet look so remarkably like him. Both men had power, but they were on opposite sides of the law. “Just maybe since Mr. Lord and Mr. Santera's accountant are such good acquaintances, it wouldn't be a bad thing. What
do you think, Judge Hunt? Does that sound kosher enough to you? Would evidence from such a source give the defense a shot at an appeal?”

“Not that I can see. Hey, why not? We're on Mason Lord's turf. Let him glean information for the case.” He grinned at Lord. “I would discourage breaking and entering, though.”

In that instant Molly realized her father had been standing there stiff as a poker. Now she saw him ease up, saw those aristocratic hands unclench, the long lean fingers uncurl. The cops were admitting him. They wanted to involve him. He didn't smile, no, he'd never go that far, but there was something in his expression that held at least some degree more warmth than usual.

 

W
ARREN
O'Dell was completely bald—probably through shaving—and looked like a longshoreman, exactly the opposite from what you'd expect of an accountant. He did wear wire-rimmed glasses, though. He had something of the look of Michael Jordan.

When he spoke, you saw he had yellow teeth from too much smoking. He had calluses on the pads of his fingers and his palms. He spared one glance for Ramsey, his full attention on Mason Lord. Then he did a double take. “I know you,” he said, staring hard.

Ramsey smiled and said, “I'm Ramsey Hunt.”

“You're that federal judge in California who jumped over the railing and chopped up a group of terrorists in your courtroom.”

“That's the way things worked out. It was just a little group.”

Mason Lord cleared his throat, and suddenly Warren O'Dell turned pale. “Uh, sir,” he said, nodding his head and making a sweeping gesture with his hand toward an expensive white leather sofa. “Please, sit down. I was devastated at the news of Louey's death. I was going to call you.”

“Were you now, Warren?” Mason said. “Why?”

It was obvious that Warren O'Dell was scared spitless. He was standing in the middle of his beautifully furnished office on the nineteenth floor of the McCord Building on Michigan Avenue looking as if he wanted to jump out a window.

“Yes, sir,” he said finally. “I would have called you as soon as it happened, but it was such a shock, you know. I couldn't pull myself together until just this morning. Louey's dead, blown up by a car bomb. I can't believe it. It doesn't seem possible. I heard you allowed the cops to investigate?”

Ramsey felt a small ripple of surprise in his gut. Did O'Dell consider Mason Lord to be some sort of god with total immunity?

“It was murder, Warren. I'm a law-abiding citizen,” Mason said, his voice austere, as if he'd been the one to insist on the cops coming in. He looked toward Ramsey. “Judge Hunt is the man who saved Molly's daughter.”

“Oh, yes, now I see. I couldn't imagine why he was here, with you, seeing me. It's the shock of Louey's death. It's shaken me badly. I gave my girl the day off I was so upset.”

“I see you have some boxes shoved behind your desk, Warren. I don't suppose you were planning to destroy some documents? Perhaps in preparation for a nice long vacation?”

“Oh no, sir. I was just cleaning house. Nothing more.”

“I'll see that you get any assistance you require,” Mason said.

“No, sir, I'm just fine, really.”

Mason Lord barely raised his voice. “Gunther.”

The huge man was there in the doorway, looking dead on at Warren O'Dell. As if O'Dell were a bug, Ramsey thought.

“Yes, Mr. Lord?”

“We need to assist Mr. O'Dell. See those boxes shoved
behind that impressive mahogany desk of his? We'll take those and have a look at them. Ramsey, maybe you would be so kind as to look through Mr. O'Dell's file cabinets.”

“I have some questions first,” Ramsey said.

“Please, Mr. Lord, there's really nothing—”

Mason Lord raised his hand. O'Dell was instantly silent. “Judge Hunt wants to ask you some questions, Warren. You will answer them completely and honestly.”

Warren O'Dell's bald head glistened with perspiration. He watched Gunther carrying out the boxes. He licked his lips. “Yes, sir.”

Ramsey felt exceedingly strange. Here he was with a powerful criminal boss who had a potential witness nearly pissing in his pants, and he, Ramsey, a federal judge, was a co-conspirator in what was probably extortion, at least duress. Who cared? “Mr. O'Dell, tell me about Mr. Santera's finances.”