The Target

on."

    "Why?" Detective O'Connor cocked his head, his eyes trained on Ramsey's face.

    "One reason: to protect Emma. Maybe the people who are after her will back off once everyone knows there's some sort of conspiracy afoot and that the press is going to plunk themselves in the middle of it."

    "Conspiracy?"

    Ramsey just smiled at him. "Just a moment, Detective."

    They went into the study and Ramsey closed the door. His back was beginning to ache. He must have winced because Detective Riley O'Connor said, "I heard it was a nasty hit you took in the back."

    "Yeah, a slice of burning car upholstery. It's not so bad as the cut Mrs. Santera took on the arm. It landed flat on me, didn't slice the skin. She's with her daughter." Even as he was saying the words, there was a knock on the door. It opened. Molly appeared, pale, her arm in the sling, her hair a wild nimbus around her thin face. Her eyes were large, calm, and very green, not even a speck of gray. He noticed, for the first time, that she had a faint line of freckles across the bridge of her nose. He liked them.

    He realized she was near the edge. He took a step toward her, then stopped. "Molly, what are you doing here? Is Emma all right?"

    She raised her hand and lightly touched her fingers to his mouth. "It's all right. Emma's just fine. She's asleep or I wouldn't have left her. Miles is keeping watch over her. I wanted to meet the police, tell them everything I know. There's no reason for them to have to repeat everything separately with me. Besides, I imagine that you and I will be the only forthcoming witnesses in this household. When we tell the detective the whole story, maybe I'll remember something you forget and vice versa." She walked forward, her hand out. "I'm Molly Santera."

    Detective O'Connor looked at a loss. "The dead man- Louey Santera, the rock star-he was your husband?"

    "Ex-husband. Louey and I had been divorced for two years."

    "Molly, would you like a brandy?"

    She started to shake her head, then paused. "You know, that might just work some magic."

    Ramsey poured all three of them a small amount of brandy and handed it around. Detective O'Connor smiled at him, gave a mournful look at the brandy, and set the glass down on an end table. "Thank you," he said. "Perhaps later."

    "This will take some time, Detective."

    O'Connor took a small tape recorder out of his coat pocket. "May I record our conversation? That'll be best." They listened to him identify himself, them, the date, the place. Then he said clearly, "What I was saying about the media, Judge Hunt, is that with Mr. Santera's death, there'll be almost as many TV vans here as there were in L.A. covering the O.J. trial. When all the stuff about your daughter's kidnapping gets out, the good Lord only knows what will happen."

    "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