The FBI Thrillers Collection Books 1-5 - Catherine Coulter [404]
Ramsey sat down in the big leather chair behind his desk. He leaned back, cradling his head on his arms. “I’m hoping it is Shaker because it means the three of us are probably out of danger. Anyway, it’s what the Feds think, it’s what the Denver cops think. They’re all still looking for the creep who took Emma.
“I’m praying we’re out of here before the media discover we’re back. I think all of us being out of the country for a while would be a healthy thing. Have you got anything new?”
Virginia turned from the French doors, letting the drapes drop back into place. “You’re probably right. No leads as to who trashed your house. The neighbors saw nothing. There weren’t any prints.” She paused, looking around the man’s study—dark wainscotting, rich leather furniture, and highly polished oak floor. “The cleaning service took real pride in fixing Judge Ramsey Hunt’s house all right and tight. The Chronicle even wanted a photo of this room after your people refurbished it. It do sparkle, don’t it?”
“Yeah, it do.”
“Any problems?”
“No, everything is fine, at least for the moment. But I’m thinking it might be smart to have some protection.”
“Agreed. I’ll schedule a patrol to come by every half hour or so. Oh yes, I need to show you this, though we don’t think it’s much of anything. Anonymous, of course. It was shoved under your office door.” She pulled it out of her purse and handed it to him.
It was short and to the point.
YOU ARE A MURDERER. YOU WILL DIE.
It was printed carefully with a thick-tip black pen. Ramsey handed it back to her, “No verbosity—it can’t be a lawyer. Any reason to think it’s more than the usual crank stuff?”
“Not much different from what you got right after you destroyed the scum in your courtroom. You haven’t gotten anything else recently, have you?”
“No, not that anyone has told me about.”
“All right, it’s probably nothing. But be careful, Judge Dredd. One of the undercover cops was telling his buddies he’d pulled a Hunt maneuver. In other words, he kicked some butt. He said he’d just wished he’d been wearing a black robe, that would have made him the ultimate cool. Sorry, Ramsey, you’re in the cop lexicon now.” Virginia Trolley looked up to see a little girl standing in the doorway, holding a large portable piano against her chest. The thing came down to her knees. She was clutching it really tightly. She had beautiful thick mahogany-colored hair that was straggling out of a fat French braid.
“Hi,” Ginny said easily. “Are you Emma Santera?”
“Yes, ma’am. Ramsey, Mama’s throwing up again. She told me not to tell you, but I’m worried. Would you make it stop again?”
“Yes, Emma, I’ll take care of it right now.” He turned to Ginny. “I’m going to call Jim Haversham. He owes me. I’ll never forget Savich telling me that it’s always a good thing to have a physician on your debt list.”
“He’s your FBI friend?”
“Yeah. Listen, Ginny, I’ll keep in touch. If anything comes up, you can fax me in Ireland. We’ll be staying at Dromoland Castle just north of Shannon Airport for a couple of days. I don’t remember the county name. I’ll let you know after that.”
“Okay. You keep yourself safe, Ramsey. Good-bye, Emma. Take care of your mama and Ramsey, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Emma slipped into the room and stood by Ramsey while Ginny went out. As soon as she’d left the study, Ramsey picked up the phone.
When he hung up, he swung Emma and her piano up in his arms. “Let’s go tell your mom that she’s lucky. No going to any hospital. Nope, she’s going to have a real live doctor make a house call to see her.”
DR. James Haversham was forty-two, divorced twice, a man who sailed every free minute. He straightened and rubbed his jaw, a habit of long standing. He said finally, still looking down at Molly, still