Free Backfire by Catherine Coulter Page B

okay, that’s only because you aren’t FBI. What are you doing?”
    She stared at him.
    “What? Oh, I’m picturing you lying flat on your back, out like a light, me standing over you rubbing my bruised knuckles.”
    “That’s a pretty solid fantasy scenario. What are you doing really?”
    She punched in numbers she’d looked up on her cell. “Calling the Port Authority to see if there were any cargo ships coming through the Golden Gate about midnight last night.”
    He hadn’t thought of that. He guessed he was an idiot, too.
    “Here we go.” She dialed, got a message, punched off her cell. “It’s late, no one there. I’ll call in the morning.”
    She laid her cell phone on the counter. “Where do you live, Harry?”
    “Over in Laurel Heights.”
    She knew it was a lovely area near the Presidio, with streets named after trees. “You have a house?”
    He nodded. “After my wife left—” He cut off like a spigot run dry, nodded at the coffeepot.
    As Eve filled two large mugs, a hank of her blond hair fell along the side of her face. He watched her tuck it behind her ear. “This is decaf, so we’ll both have a shot at some sleep tonight. What do you take in your coffee?”
    “Black is good.”
    When they were seated across from each other at the kitchen table, Harry waved his hand toward the window. “What have you got planted in that first pot?”
    “Thyme.”
    “Yeah? You put that in birthday cakes?” Again, he saw her in a pretty swingy summer dress, long legs in open-toed sandals, serving cake up to a noisy herd of kids at a party.
    “Not unless my specialty was pasta primavera cake.”
    He laughed. “I called the hospital on the way over. Judge Hunt is sleeping. No setbacks so far. I hope he makes it out of the hospital in time to see Emma play at Davies Hall.”
    “If he can make it without causing a stir and disturbing the audience, he’ll be there,” Eve said. “With the paramedics, if he needs them.”
    “He’s a local hero. The paramedics would be thrilled. Emma blew my mind tonight.”
    “I guess I’ve heard her play so many times I’m used to it. It was Sherlock who blew me away. Made me feel inferior. Judge Sherlock told me she chose being an agent over trying to make it as a concert pianist. When I asked him why, he only smiled and shook his head. I wonder what happened.”
    “Who knows? Maybe in the pursuit of her blood?”
    Eve said, “It’s hard to imagine Savich and Sherlock are actually married.”
    “Cheney told me he’s heard stories about Sherlock going toe-to-toe with Savich when she disagrees with him, that she can be as stubborn as he imagined his mother-in-law would be if he had one. But despite that, he says what impresses him the most about Sherlock is her loyalty.” He studied his coffee, swirled it in his cup. “Imagine that, loyalty in a woman.”
    Whoa.
Best move right along.
    “Tomorrow’s Saturday,” Eve said. “Virginia Trolley has asked to be part of our protection team. She’ll have officers stick close to Ramsey’s house, keep people from sneaking in when no one’s home. Did you know Virginia Trolley is a longtime friend of Ramsey’s? She’s a good cop, too.”
    Harry said, “I met Lieutenant Trolley. She acted suspicious, didn’t much like me.”
    “What did you do?”
    “Nothing at all. I was my charming self.”
    “Yeah, I can only imagine.”
    “She’s like you, wears a uniform.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “Look at you, all in black with that kick-butt red leather jacket. I’ll bet your socks and your underwear are black, too.”
    He’d nailed that one.
    “You didn’t tell me what you did to make Virginia dislike you.”
    “Strange, really. I only happened to mention that the San Francisco cops are really good at writing parking tickets.”
    Eve rolled her eyes, then grinned. “Yeah, no secret there. Got to raise money to support the city budget.”
    “Good coffee, even though it’s decaf. Cheney told me he put