waist. âHe was heavier, particularly around the waist, but you can tighten the belt.â
Cheney went back into the bathroom, stared down at his own sodden clothes. Well, everything should dry. But there was no hope for the expensive wool pants, the same ones heâd worn at his graduation from the Academy, two funerals, and tonight, his first date in too long a time.
Instead of boxers, he pulled on jockey shorts, a white T-shirt, and a large dark blue cashmere sweater that felt like sin against his skin. The pants were loose, but he simply pulled his own belt tighter like sheâd suggested, and the sweater covered it. The garden-variety dark chinos were long enough. He looked down at his bare feet. A moment later, she called out, âHere are some socks. What size shoe do you wear?â
"Twelve.â
"A bit small, sorry.â
Her hand passed a pair of Italian loafers through the open door. The leather was so soft he bet he could eat it if he got hungry enough.
When he stepped out of the bathroom, she called out from inside the huge walk-in closet, âBe with you in a moment. Listen, Iâm fine, donât worry, all right? I think Iâm nearly ready to sweat Iâm so warm now. Iâm not about to collapse in here.â
âOkay.â He pulled out his cell and began to dial his SAC, Bert Cartwright, a pompous ass much of the time because he was blessed with a photographic memory for faces and liked to flaunt it, but he stopped. No, this was local police business. He found Frank at home watching a basketball game, his son carping in the background because Frank wouldnât let him borrow his car.
âHey, Frank, I got a problem for you.â
CHAPTER 4
Captain Frank Paulette, SFPD, said, âGee, thanks a lot, Cheney. Here I was all bored, watching the Warriors kick the crap out of the Lakers, a miracle in the making.â
"Which quarter?â
âThe second.â
âNo miracleâs going to happen tonight, trust me on this. Listen, Frank, I got a situation here and itâs local, not federal. I got an attempted murder for you.â And Cheney told him what had happened.
Frank listened, not saying a word, sighed, and raised his eyes to the ceiling. âWhy me, Lord? Okay, okay, I know why. Iâm a trouble magnet. Wait, donât tell me. You never saw this guy up close?â
âNope, and there wasnât 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 Iâd shoot, he made no attempt at all to take me on. He threw her over the railing into the bay and ran.â
âMaybe 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.â
âWeâre not talking an attempted mugging here, Frank. This guy was a pro. Everything he did was professional, even his decision to cut and run. Sheâll need protection. Heâs got to assume she survived.â
âOkay, Iâll buy the guyâs a pro. The womanâs all right?â
âYeah. She didnât want to go to the hospital, so I brought her home.â
âThatâs pretty stupid, Cheney. Whatâs her problem?â
âI donât know, but she sounded terrified. She was shivering so badly, I went ahead and brought her home, put her under a hot shower. Sheâs okay.â
Another sigh. âWhatâs her name?â
âAh, well, how about Juliaââ
She said quietly, not two feet from him, âMy name is Julia Ransom.â A slight pause, a deep indrawn breath. âIâm Dr. August Ransomâs widow.â
Cheney stared at her, dumbfounded. Sodden and hacking up water, she hadnât looked remotely familiar. Of course he recognized her now. The media had been merciless. It hadnât mattered that sheâd never been arrested, everyone