Backfire

They left Martinez singing a happier tune about what the DNA might show, and all returned to Ramsey’s room. They passed a deputy marshal and an SFPD officer sitting on each side of the door, talking about Deputy Marshal Allen Milton’s head wound. “The bullet slicked along the side of his head. Allen’s blaming his head, said if it wasn’t so big he could have tucked it inside his vest where it belonged.”

The big corner room—the Taj—looked north toward the city. It was blessedly quiet now, with only six people and Ramsey. Molly and Emma were standing on either side of Ramsey’s bed, not speaking, merely holding his hands, staring down at him. Two deputy marshals had positions by the windows, and Dr. Kardak and a nurse were speaking in low voices, reviewing Ramsey’s chart.

Ramsey’s eyes were closed. He knew his wife and his daughter were standing next to him, but his brain seemed to be operating on a twenty-watt. He decided that was okay for the moment, a fair trade-off for the pain in his chest being magically gone, thanks to a shot of morphine. He opened his eyes as they approached and said in a slurred voice, “Eve?”

Eve, still hurting despite the pain pill, made herself walk upright and not hobble to his bed. He looked shell-shocked, she thought, as if the wild shoot-out in the elevator couldn’t really have happened. She understood completely. She placed her fingers on his forearm and smiled down at him. “I’m here, Ramsey. No need to worry about me. I might look on the scruffy side, but all my working parts are operating fine. Looks like you’re okay, too.

“We have some news for you, if you haven’t already heard. We shot him, Ramsey, and we found his blood in the elevator shaft, and that means we’ll have his DNA. There’s a really good chance we’ll identify him.” Eve looked over at Dr. Kardak, and raised a questioning eyebrow. The doctor nodded his consent for her to keep talking to Ramsey.

“Was it this Sue person?”

“We don’t know yet, but it’s possible. On the security video, he looks like maybe an older guy, but that could have been a disguise. I’m just glad we were all so lucky.”

Molly touched Eve’s arm. “I will owe you forever.”

“Me too, Aunt Eve,” Emma said, swallowing down tears.

Marshal Carney Maynard came running through the door, Virginia Trolley on his heels. Maynard studied Ramsey, then, satisfied, said, “There’s a media frenzy downstairs. My guys and hospital security have cordoned off the elevators, and we’re putting security stations around the floor. We’ll hope it works to keep them out. And I called Cheney Stone. He’ll be here any minute. Maybe we can talk him into making a statement.”

Better him than me, Savich thought.

Virginia Trolley said, shaking her head, “Our police commissioner will probably beat him to it. She’s always eager to be the face of law enforcement in the city.”

Savich said, “Ramsey.”

When Ramsey focused on Savich’s face, Savich continued, “I know you’re close to floating up on the ceiling, but you’re the one who had the unusual visual perspective, looking up. Can you tell us what you saw?”

Ramsey wondered for a moment—had someone said something to him? He looked at all of them, then focused again on Savich. Yes, Savich had asked him to speak. He had to think about that. He willed away some of the mental confusion, and everything became clear, too clear, really. “Eve had her hand on my arm, Eddie was talking about the Forty-niners, and then I saw the roof hatch lift and I caught a glimpse of a face staring down at me, but only for a split second, right before all the smoke and gunfire—” He lost himself in the words, but that was all right, because in the next second the rest of him was lost as well.

Marshal Maynard said, “Your forensic team has five slugs from the Kevlar vests, all of them from a Kel Tec PF-9, chambered for the nine-millimeter Luger cartridge. As you know, it’s the lightest and flattest nine-millimeter ever made and has a single stack holding seven rounds. That means he had three or four magazines with him and he was fast changing them out.”

Eve looked at her boss. “If you hadn’t insisted on Kevlar vests for everyone—” She stopped, which was okay, because everyone in the room knew what she meant.

SAC Cheney Stone’s office

Federal Building

Thirteenth floor

San Francisco

Sunday morning

Five-foot-nothing veteran forensic blood expert Mimi Cutler rushed into the room, her wrinkled lab coat flapping, her short spiked dark hair sticking up at odd angles where she’d run her fingers through it countless times throughout more hours than she wanted to count. But she was smiling, and that made Sherlock’s heart leap. She looked ready to make everyone’s day.