Backfire by Catherine Coulter Page A

I’ve seen that girl before. Who is she, another FBI agent?”
    “She’s a U.S. marshal, and a friend of the Hunt family.”
    “Yeah, I’ve seen her over at the Hunts’ house. I’m Decker Sproole. You people are here because of Judge Hunt, aren’t you? Was that guy the one who shot him? Why would he come back? I haven’t ever understood that old saw about a criminal returning to the scene of the crime.”
    Harry said, “I don’t know who he is yet. We’ve got to wait until she brings him up.” They heard voices from over the fence, and watched Barbieri heft a young man over it, his hands cuffed behind him. He was skinny as a flagpole, a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, his black clothes bagging off him.
    Harry eyed the guy. He didn’t look much like a professional killer. He said to Eve, “Glad you didn’t break your neck.”
    “No thanks to this pathetic bozo,” she said, and smacked his shoulder.
    Mr. Sproole said, “Is he the man who shot Judge Hunt?”
    “I didn’t shoot anybody! She knows it!”
    “Yeah, I guess I do. After all my running around, it looks like I didn’t haul in our perp. What I landed was a would-be paparazzo. Imagine this fine upstanding young man wanted to take pictures of the grieving family.”
    “I’m not young, I’m older than you are! I’m a professional photographer.”
    “Yeah, and a trespasser who resisted arrest.” She pulled the camera from his hand again. “After I remove the memory card and press delete a few times, you’ll be all set to go sneak around someplace else and cause aggravation.”
    Harry said, “What’s your name?”
    “Robert Bacon. Like I said, I’m a professional, a freelance photographer. These photographs might be worth something, though there aren’t that many, since Emma Hunt saw me and yelled her head off.”
    “Well, Robert Bacon, did you know there are laws against doing that on private property?”
    Bacon stood tall and proud. “I’m a professional. Have you ever heard of freedom of the press?”
    Eve smacked him again on the shoulder. “Quiet, Bobby.” She quirked an eyebrow at Harry. “Bobby Bacon? We got us the real live Bobby Bacon, the photojournalist.”
    “I go by Robert. Hey, if you give me back my memory card and take off these cuffs, I’ll shoot a couple photos of you, you know, doing your job,” and he looked at Eve hopefully.
    “Thanks, Bobby,” Eve said, “but I don’t think I’d take such a good photo right now, since I’m all sweaty and windblown because of you,” and she slapped him on the back of the head with her open palm.
    He staggered, then straightened. “Listen, a photo of Emma Hunt playing the piano, I coulda paid my rent for two months, what with her history.”
    Eve put her hand on Bobby’s shoulder. “Bobby, you don’t want to mess with Emma or her family. Don’t you know who her grandfather is?”
    Bobby Bacon looked blank, then pointed to Mr. Sproole. “This old guy?”
    “Nope. Her grandfather is Mason Lord. Look him up. If you got a photo of Emma published he didn’t like, he’d carve out your pea brain and make you eat it.”
    Bobby swallowed. “But I didn’t think—”
    “Well, now you know. If you’ve got a brain, you’ll stay away from Emma.”
    Harry introduced Eve to Mr. Sproole, who eyed Bobby Bacon. “If I had my daddy’s Remington, I woulda blasted you between the eyes, shooting Ramsey in the back like that.”
    “You crazy old duffer, you know I didn’t shoot anybody. I’m a professional photographer.”
    “Yeah, well, I would have shot you on spec. Maybe you carry that camera around as camouflage. Maybe you got a gun hid in your shorts.”
    “I didn’t wear shorts today. I’m commando.”
    Mr. Sproole said, “I got a feeling I don’t wanna know what that means. You trespassed on my private property, too, and for calling me crazy, I’m going to press charges myself, put your skinny butt in the slammer.”
    “I was only trying to make a