"It can't be helped," Ramsey said. "Now, I think we should all start with you, Molly. Detective O'Connor needs the whole story. Whoever blew up Louey Santera meant to kill the three of us."
"Yes," she said, her voice just a whisper of sound. She drank some more brandy, and set the nearly empty snifter on a side table. She cleared her throat. "It started with Emma's kidnapping. Goodness, Ramsey, that was only about three and a half weeks ago."
"Emma was taken from your house, Mrs. Santera?"
"No, from the small park just behind our house. I was photographing there." She stopped, just stopped cold. Her hands were clasped in her lap, her knuckles white.
Ramsey said, his voice sharp, "It wasn't your fault, Molly. Just tell Detective O'Connor exactly what happened."
Just then the door opened again.
Special Agent Dillon Savich and Special Agent Lacey Sherlock Savich, both of the FBI, walked into the room.
Savich said, "Hi, Ramsey. I'm real happy to see you in one piece. Things have really turned ugly. We heard about the explosion on the ride in. You remember Sherlock, don't you? Everyone remembers Sherlock."
Dillon Savich looked over at Riley O'Connor, smiled, and stuck out his hand. "We're with the FBI. Don't worry. We're not here to bigfoot you. We're friends of Judge Hunt's. We just want to help."
DR. Loo looked at Emma's new piano, fresh out of its box. She plunked a couple of keys. She smiled. "Do you know how to play 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star'?"
"Yes, Dr. Loo. But it's been a long time."
Ramsey grinned at Emma. "Why don't you give her the theme and some variations, Emma?"
Emma gave him a small smile before she looked down at her new piano. The finish was so glossy she could see her face in it. She swallowed hard. She laid one finger gently over F. She didn't press the key down. Slowly, she turned to Dr. Loo. "I'm sorry, but I can't play right now. It doesn't feel right. My old piano just died."
Ramsey thought he'd cry. Oh, shit. He beat Molly to it. He picked Emma up, leaving the piano on the small table, and gathered her to his chest. "You're right, sweetheart. You need to mourn your old piano for a while. Dr. Loo can hear you play on your next visit."
Dr. Loo, who'd heard from Molly exactly what had happened, didn't mention the violent death of Emma's father. Rather, she said, "Mason Lord sent an artist over, Emma. We would like you to describe that man who kidnapped you, that same man you saw look in your bedroom window at your grandfather's house. Can you do that?"
Emma looked worried, then, slowly, she nodded. "I can try, Dr. Loo."
An elderly bald man was shown into Dr. Loo's office by the receptionist. His name was Raymond Block and he'd been a police artist for twenty-seven years. "Don't worry," he said to all of them. "I've worked with children all my career." Then he sat down beside Emma and opened his drawing pad.
"Are you ready, Emma? No, wait a moment, Mr. Block. I need to scratch inside my cast."
Dr. Loo didn't leave them until it was done. It took Mr. Block forty-five minutes of drawing, erasing, widening, elongating, more drawing, more erasing. Finally, Emma said, "That's him."
Mr. Block turned the drawing so that Dr. Loo, Ramsey, and Molly could see it.
"Oh, dear," Molly said, staring at the excellent drawing. "Are you sure that's the man you saw at the window, Emma? The man who kidnapped you?"
"Yes, he was the man who stole me. And then he came back and he smiled at me through the window."
Ramsey just shook his head back and forth, quelling a weird desire to laugh and cry at the same time. "Well, this fellow isn't any pool man who works down the street from your house in Denver, Molly. No, I think he resembles someone who lives in a much more prestigious place."
It was an excellent rendering of President Clinton, only he had very bad teeth.
19
Two HOURS LATER, Ramsey and Molly sat opposite Dillon Savich and Sherlock in the small breakfast room off the kitchen. Miles had served coffee and some special nut bread he said he'd baked just that morning. He said Emma had told him she liked nut bread, but only with walnuts. Miles and Gunther stood in the shadows back by the outside door.
"Yeah," said Ramsey. "It was an excellent likeness of President Clinton."
Sherlock, who was drinking some of Miles's rich Jamaican coffee, choked.
Savich slapped her on the back. "Get a hold, Sherlock. It may not have been a coincidence. It may have been a mask. But he wore a mask the whole time? That would get real uncomfortable."