The Target

it?"

    "The insurance will cover most of it."

    "Good. Now that everything's brand-new, do you think we could get married, then we could get divorced and I'd get the house?"

    "No way you'd get the house unless you bribed a judge," Ramsey said, and poured her a cup of coffee from the Thermos on a side table.

    She sighed. "My husband might not understand, either. Would you consider adopting me?"

    "You're older than I am."

    "Ah, so have you heard of age discrimination?"

    "Not me. Thanks for coming by, Ginny. What's going on downtown?"

    "You know everyone still calls you Judge Dredd. It really fits now, what with all your flirting with the underworld. The media has been going nuts about all of it. I'm surprised they haven't found out you're home. Be thankful for small favors. It won't last."

    He brought her up-to-date, finishing with, "Molly, Emma, and I are all going to Ireland day after tomorrow. We were going to leave first thing tomorrow, but Molly was throwing up her toenails all afternoon. She seems better now, but it doesn't seem too bright to fly right now. I think it was the linguine she ate on the plane. I'm praying it's not gastritis or an ulcer, though an ulcer wouldn't surprise me what with all she's been through."

    Virginia Trolley rose from her chair, walked to the wide French doors, and pulled back the drapes. The clouds were hanging black and low. There was no sign of a moon or any stars. She sighed deeply. "We've all been talking about what's happened. This Shaker guy is bad stuff, Ramsey. If he is behind all of it, the chances of getting enough for an indictment are about the same as the Raiders winning another Super Bowl anytime soon. The odds are astronomical." She grinned. "Actually, it's looking like the Forty-niners aren't going to come up smelling like roses either this fall. Who knows?"

    Ramsey sat down in the big leather chair behind his desk. He leaned back, cradling his head on his arms. "I'm hoping it is Shaker because it means the three of us are probably out of danger. Anyway, it's what the Feds think, it's what the Denver cops think. They're all still looking for the creep who took Emma.

    "I'm praying we're out of here before the media discover we're back. I think all of us being out of the country for a while would be a healthy thing. Have you got anything new?"

    Virginia turned from the French doors, letting the drapes drop back into place. "You're probably right. No leads as to who trashed your house. The neighbors saw nothing. There weren't any prints." She paused, looking around the man's study-dark wainscoting, rich leather furniture, and highly polished oak floor. "The cleaning service took real pride in fixing Judge Ramsey Hunt's house all right and tight. The Chronicle even wanted a photo of this room after your people refurbished it. It do sparkle, don't it?"

    "Yeah, it do."

    "Any problems?"

    "No, everything is fine, at least for the moment. But I'm thinking it might be smart to have some protection."

    "Agreed. I'll schedule a patrol to come by every half-hour or so. Oh yes, I need to show you this, though we don't think it's much of anything. Anonymous, of course. It was shoved under your office door." She pulled it out of her purse and handed it to him.

    It was short and to the point.

    YOU ARE A MURDERER. YOU WILL DIE.

    It was printed carefully with a thick-tip black pen. Ramsey handed it back to her, "No verbosity-it can't be a lawyer. Any reason to think it's more than the usual crank stuff?"

    "Not much different from what you got right after you destroyed the scum in your courtroom. You haven't gotten anything else recently, have you?"

    "No, not that anyone has told me about."

    "All right, it's probably nothing. But be careful, Judge Dredd. One of the undercover cops was telling his buddies he'd pulled a Hunt maneuver. In other words, he kicked some butt. He said he'd just wished he'd been wearing a black robe, that would have made him the ultimate cool. Sorry, Ramsey, you're in the cop lexicon now." Virginia Trolley looked up to see a little girl standing in the doorway, holding a large portable piano against her chest. The thing came down to her knees. She was clutching it really tightly. She had beautiful thick mahogany-colored hair that was straggling out of a fat French braid.

    "Hi," Ginny said easily. "Are you Emma Santera?"

    "Yes, ma'am. Ramsey, Mama's throwing up again. She told me not to tell you, but I'm worried. Would you make it stop