Backfire
Page 73
It was nine-thirty-five now, and it was over, one way or the other. He looked into the rain-soaked night and imagined fireworks, bursting balls of sparkling red shooting out of the top of the Hall of Justice.
He prayed the whole nightmare was over.
He pulled his collar up on his Burberry rain jacket and walked down Seventh Street toward the Bayshore Freeway, where his Audi was parked in a safe underground garage.
As he cranked the engine he realized he’d forgotten the corned beef on rye. It was a cop deli, too, probably delicious.
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?”
He prayed the whole nightmare was over.
He pulled his collar up on his Burberry rain jacket and walked down Seventh Street toward the Bayshore Freeway, where his Audi was parked in a safe underground garage.
As he cranked the engine he realized he’d forgotten the corned beef on rye. It was a cop deli, too, probably delicious.
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?”
