Double Take - Catherine Coulter [7]
“Hey, Frank, I got a problem for you.”
CHAPTER 4
Captain Frank Paulette, SFPD, said, “Gee, thanks a lot, Cheney. Here I was all bored, watching the Warriors kick the crap out of the Lakers, a miracle in the making.”
"Which quarter?”
“The second.”
“No miracle’s going to happen tonight, trust me on this. Listen, Frank, I got a situation here and it’s local, not federal. I got an attempted murder for you.” And Cheney told him what had happened.
Frank listened, not saying a word, sighed, and raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Why me, Lord? Okay, okay, I know why. I’m a trouble magnet. Wait, don’t tell me. You never saw this guy up close?”
“Nope, and there wasn’t anything distinctive about him, either. Tall, black, moved fast and smooth, like an athlete. He knew what he was doing, no panic, no hesitation. When I yelled at him that I was FBI and I’d shoot, he made no attempt at all to take me on. He threw her over the railing into the bay and ran.”
“Maybe all he had was that knife, no gun. Maybe he was just a mugger, not about to take on a fed, or draw an audience.”
“We’re not talking an attempted mugging here, Frank. This guy was a pro. Everything he did was professional, even his decision to cut and run. She’ll need protection. He’s got to assume she survived.”
“Okay, I’ll buy the guy’s a pro. The woman’s all right?”
“Yeah. She didn’t want to go to the hospital, so I brought her home.”
“That’s pretty stupid, Cheney. What’s her problem?”
“I don’t know, but she sounded terrified. She was shivering so badly, I went ahead and brought her home, put her under a hot shower. She’s okay.”
Another sigh. “What’s her name?”
“Ah, well, how about Julia—”
She said quietly, not two feet from him, “My name is Julia Ransom.” A slight pause, a deep indrawn breath. “I’m Dr. August Ransom’s widow.”
Cheney stared at her, dumbfounded. Sodden and hacking up water, she hadn’t looked remotely familiar. Of course he recognized her now. The media had been merciless. It hadn’t mattered that she’d never been arrested, everyone assumed she was guilty. There were insinuations of police incompetence and collusion, of her sleeping with the chief of police, a happily married Irish-man with six children.
“I heard her, Cheney,” Frank Paulette said, but he repeated her name aloud, as if he really didn’t believe it. “Julia Ransom,” he said again. “Well, my boy, you never do things halfway, do you?” Frank fell silent. Cheney heard Frank’s wife shouting at him in the background to take out the garbage, heard his son laughing now and the crowd screaming because Kobe Bryant had just scored a three-pointer—no more miracle in the making, at least in this game.
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 cleaners 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,