Backfire

She checked her watch. “I’d be a moron to drink coffee this late. You have nonfat milk? Splenda?”

He had both.

Eve watched him grind coffee beans, then measure the ground coffee into the filter and dump water in from the sink tap.

Harry said, “Funny what Savich said about Billy Hammond, his friend at the CIA in Langley. He wouldn’t verify anything at all about the information Xu obtained or was after, even though he’s known Savich for a hundred years, give or take. That kind of secrecy, it’s enough to make you gag in your soup.”

“At least he apologized,” Eve said. “It must be incredibly sensitive stuff if they’re putting tape over his mouth. I’ll bet they already know exactly what was accessed, since it would be recorded on their servers. They just don’t want anyone else to know, though, even us.”

“According to Savich,” Harry said, “they weren’t much interested in interviewing the Cahills. They probably know the Cahills didn’t know about the information Xu accessed, or how valuable it is. But maybe they know enough to help us find Xu.”

“That’s all we want from them, really,” Eve said.

Suddenly he was staring at her as they stood in his kitchen, listening to the coffee perk, shaking his head.

“What? Do I have rain still dripping off my nose?”

He said, “The first time I saw you I thought you looked like a homecoming queen from somewhere in the Midwest, someone who should be frosting cupcakes for her kid’s birthday party. I wondered, how can she possibly be a deputy U.S. marshal?” He shook his head again. “You’re so damned pretty.” Then he waved his hands, as if he were trying to wave away his words.

Since it was obvious to her that Harry wished he’d kept his mouth shut, Eve waved her own hands at his kitchen cabinets. “You said you liked my kitchen. I had it remodeled last year, you know. I found a really good contractor who came in on budget and on time. You want her name?”

“Nah, everything works fine. Once in a while the sink clogs, but that’s no big deal.”

She grinned. “You’re right. Nothing wrong with cooking in the 1940s. Now that I think about it, if you wait another couple of years, all your kitchen appliances will be back in style as retro, except maybe for those green-tinted cabinets.”

He handed her a mug of coffee, gave her nonfat milk from the refrigerator, and dug out a couple of packets of Splenda from his stuff drawer. As she stirred her coffee, she said, “What you said, Harry—do you know my brothers are always saying the same thing? They still call me Miss Suzie-Q.

“When I told my dad I wanted to be a U.S. marshal like he is, though, he looked at me up and down and said, ‘That would make me very proud, Eve. It’s a great career choice for you. You’ll be one of the best.’” She paused for a moment, looked down into her coffee mug. “Yes, that’s exactly what he said, straight up. I’ve never forgotten.” She cleared her throat and drank some coffee. “This is very good, Harry. Do you cook?”

“When the need arises. What did your mom say?”

Eve took another sip of her coffee, enjoyed the zing of caffeine, though she knew she’d be cursing herself at two a.m. “When my dad told her what I wanted to do, she laughed. And laughed. She was happy. I saw her kiss my dad and shake her head and say something about the apple not falling far from the tree.

“I look just like my mom, you know. It’s funny what you said, Harry, because my mom was a college cheerleader. And I can still see her cutting our birthday cakes at our big kid parties, hear her singing at the top of her lungs, leading all the kids in a sing-along. I might add that everyone adored her. She was so beautiful, so bouncy and fun. She still is.”

Harry said, “So you fell pretty close to both trees. And your dad’s the U.S. marshal in Chicago?”

“Yep. Like I told you, he’s an anomaly. He’s served under two different presidents now, unlike most of the ninety-four marshals countrywide. Tell me about your folks, Harry.”

He shrugged. “They live in London—well, they do for most of the year. They love to travel, always have, and they took me with them. I guess they gave me the travel bug.”

She could only gape at him. Parents lived in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, for heaven’s sake, or Minneola, Florida, not London, England. “Why do they live in London?”

He looked like he wanted to tell her to leave it alone, but he said finally, “My dad’s a financier. It sounds old-fashioned, I know, but that’s what he says he is.”