“The Cahills’ trial is the first time I saw him in federal court. I doubt he’ll recognize me. I always sat in the back of the courtroom.”

“Harry, any advice?”

“He’s fast on his feet, and trying to pin him is like nailing Jell-O to a tree.”

Savich grinned. “We’re here to try anyway. Harry, Cheney says you do contempt and scorn really well. Feel free. A little fear couldn’t hurt, either. Eve, go with your gut, depending on how he reacts to you.”

“And what will you do, Dillon?” Eve asked, as she swung her black bag over her shoulder.

He thought about that for a moment. “If you guys leave any blanks, I’ll try to fill them in.”

They were greeted on the eighteenth floor by a stylish young woman with dark hair, the only receptionist manning the large, curving mahogany counter on this fine Saturday.

Savich looked at her name badge, smiled, and showed her his creds. “Alicia, we’d like to see Mr. Siles.”

Alicia drew back, alarmed. “Do you have an appointment, Agent? Ah, Special Agent?”

Savich said, his smile warm, “We don’t need one. Isn’t that handy?”

She looked at Harry, then at Eve. “Who are you?”

Eve and Harry showed her their creds.

“But—”

“Point us to his office, Alicia.”

They followed her along a wide hallway with polished wooden floors to the end office, both Savich and Harry admiring her red power suit, her stiletto heels, and her walk. Eve poked Harry in the ribs.

Before Alicia could precede them into Siles’s office, Savich gently pushed her to the side and opened the door himself. “Thank you, Alicia. Please hold his calls and any clients that show up.”

Milo Siles shot to his feet when the three of them walked into his bragging-rights corner office with its magnificent San Francisco Bay view. The fog had burned off earlier, and it was a postcard day, warm by San Francisco late-fall standards, in the upper sixties.

Milo liked hypermodern, Harry saw, like his own ex-wife. Show Nessa any piece of furniture that combined glass and chrome in a weird shape, and she’d embrace it, while Harry hunched over with a belly cramp.

Savich introduced the three of them to Siles.

Siles said, “I recognize Deputy Barbieri. She sat at the back of the courtroom during our very short trial. I didn’t know you were a marshal. I pegged you as a TV reporter.

“Of course I also know Special Agent Christoff. I believe I’ve seen him perhaps too many times.” He looked hard at Savich. “You, however, I’ve never seen before. You’re not with the local FBI, are you?”

Savich shook his head. “I’m from Washington.”

“What may I do for the three of you?”

Somehow, Eve thought, Savich knew it should be she who answered, and he gave her a small nod. She said, smiling at Siles, who, even in his lifts, was a good three inches shorter than she was, “Cindy told us about Sue, but she forgot to give us a last name. Could you please provide that, sir?”

Savich wouldn’t have seen the flash of horrified recognition in Siles’s eyes if he hadn’t been watching him closely.

Gotcha.

Siles paled a bit, too, if Savich wasn’t mistaken, but for only an instant. Then Siles turned his back on them, got himself together, and said over his shoulder, “Would any of you like a glass of water?”

They all declined.

Milo Siles drank, or pretended to, then sat behind his impressive glass desk framed with a beautiful dark wood that looked like it should be on the endangered list. Black paraphernalia was set precisely on the top of the desk—a computer, a phone, a fancy black desk set that looked like an expensive Christmas present from someone who didn’t know what else to buy for him but didn’t want to cheap out.

Siles waved them to chairs. There were only two. Without hesitation, Eve fetched another chair. She noticed that all the chairs were lower than Siles’s, so he could, quite literally, look down on them. She remembered clearly her father telling her once, “You don’t have to hunt for red buttons to push with short guys. And short guys wearing lifts are the easiest of all.”

Eve glanced at Siles and saw from his look that he seemed to have downgraded her to gofer, a pretty girl with no particular importance, even though she was a deputy marshal. And so she said to him, her voice deferential, “I have to tell you, sir, I admired watching you sparring with the prosecutor. O’Rourke didn’t have a chance against you even though he’s probably a good eight inches taller than you and doesn’t have to sit on a stack of books.”