Blowout
by Catherine Coulter
CHAPTER
1
POCONO MOUNTAINS
NEAR BLESSED CREEK, PENNSYLVANIA
FRIDAY EVENING
IT WAS DARKER than Savich was used to, what
with no city lights within fifty miles. The
moon was a sharp sickle, cutting in and out
of bloated black clouds. He rolled down the
window and sniffed the air. Snow was coming,
he thought, lots of it, more than enough to
build a snowman with Sherlock and Sean in
the morning; then the three of them could
tramp through the beautiful woods filled with
spruce and pine to Lake Klister.
Savich started singing one of his favorite
country-western songs, written by his friend
James Quinlan, as he drove the straight road
with snowcapped boulders and stands of thick
trees on his left and a guardrail on his right.
вЂњA blameless life ainвЂ™t no fun
at all. I robbed that bank, laughinвЂ™
till my belly hurt, till IвЂ”вЂќ
When there was a sudden pop, loud as a shotgun
blast, he flung himself to the side in automatic
reaction. The pop was followed by the hard
slap of rubber against the asphalt. A blowout,
a damned blowout. The SubaruвЂ™s steering
wheel jerked in his hands as the carвЂ™s
back end lurched wildly to his left. He gently
eased the car into the skid and let up on
the accelerator, but the SubaruвЂ™s momentum
lunged it into a snowbank. Despite his seatbelt,
his head slammed against the steering wheel,
stunning him for a moment. Then everything
was quiet. Savich raised his head, shook it,
hoped he hadnвЂ™t hurt himself, and slowly
climbed out of the car. The back driverвЂ™s-side
tire had blown.
All in all, he preferred the snowbank to going
through the guardrail. He buttoned up his
coat, wrapped his scarf tight about his neck,
and cleared snow from beneath the left front
wheel. Satisfied, he climbed back in and put
the gear in reverse. The Subaru hardly hesitated,
just backed right out, leaning heavily to
the left. Savich climbed out again and collected
the spare tire and jack. He called Sherlock,
told her what had happened, told her heвЂ™d
be about twenty minutes late.
The grocery bag from LewвЂ™s Friendly
Staples, in the small town of Blessed Creek,
had spilled over. LewвЂ™s Staples, he
thought, was really for tourists; Lew was
expensive, but his little store was open nearly
24/7 and that was what counted for everyone
from out of town, that and the fact that the
cabin where he, Sherlock, and Sean were staying
for a long weekend was only ten miles away.
He picked up a bunch of wizened carrots off
the passenger-side floor, for the snowmanвЂ™s
nose. The quart of two-percent milk for Sean
hadnвЂ™t burst open, unlike the lovely
big watermelon, an unexpected find in the
middle of January, in a nearly empty produce
bin in a grocery store the size of his dining
room. It had splatted open, drenching the
microwave-popcorn box.
He wasnвЂ™t about to clean it up now,
but it didnвЂ™t look too bad, maybe even
most of it salvageable. As he jacked up the
rear end of the car, he thought the watermelon
looked rather like the cabin they had borrowed
from SavichвЂ™s boss, Jimmy Maitland,
who regularly loaned it out to his friends
and his college sonsвЂ”it had taken them
two hours of scrubbing before the cabin was
habitable again.
It didnвЂ™t take him long to change the
tire. He was fastening down the last lug nut
when he heard something. He turned to see
a woman burst out of the trees twenty feet
ahead of him, running directly at him, waving
her arms wildly, screaming something he couldnвЂ™t
understand. Her hair was long, dark, and straight,
flying back as she ran. Her face was stark
white beneath the pale sickle of moon that
suddenly shone down through the dark heavy
clouds.
She was still screaming when she reached him,
her breath hitching. Words he couldnвЂ™t
understand bulleted out of her mouth.
He was on his feet in an instant. вЂњItвЂ™s
all right. ItвЂ™s okay, youвЂ™ve found
me. IвЂ™m an FBI agent. It will be all
right.вЂќ He left his SIG in his belt harness
for now. She was so terrified she was heaving,
speaking fast and high, hysteria smearing
her words like thick grease. вЂњThe man,
heвЂ™s in the house! HeвЂ™s trying
to kill me. Oh God, help me!вЂќ
She threw herself against him. Savich was
startled for just a moment, then he took her
arms and gently drew her close, patting her
back. She wasnвЂ™t wearing a coat, not
even a sweater, only what appeared to be a
light summer dress, with thin straps. вЂњItвЂ™s
all right,вЂќ he said against her hair.
A young woman, not more than thirty, he thought,
but so frightened she would collapse if she
didnвЂ™t calm down. He tried to soothe
her, but it wasnвЂ™t working. She kept
saying over and over again, her voice breaking,
her terror slamming him in the face, вЂњThe
man, heвЂ™s in the house, heвЂ™s trying
to kill me. YouвЂ™ve got to help me!вЂќ
The same words, over and over, nothing specific,
no names, nothing more than what sheвЂ™d
said since sheвЂ™d run out of the woods.
Her voice was hoarse now, but her hysteria
kept building. Her eyes were dark, wild and
terrified.
He clasped her face between his hands and
looked right in her face. вЂњListen to
me. IвЂ™m a cop. YouвЂ™re going to
be all right. IвЂ™ll protect you. Just
tell me, where do you live?вЂќ
вЂњOver there.вЂќ She threw a wild hand
in the direction off to their left.
вЂњAll right, is the man still there?вЂќ
вЂњYes, yes, heвЂ™s there, he wants
to kill me.вЂќ
вЂњItвЂ™s okay, just hold yourself
together. IвЂ™m going to call the sheriff.вЂќ
вЂњNo, please, please, help me now, youвЂ™ve
got to, take me back to the house, the manвЂ™s
there, please! Help me!вЂќ
вЂњWhy do you want to go back there if
someone is trying to kill you?вЂќ
вЂњPlease, youвЂ™ve got to take me
back. YouвЂ™ve got to get him, stop him.
Please!вЂќ
Savich drew back, held her arms in his hands
and stared down into her white face. Her eyes
were very dark, and her face was so white
he thought she was going into shock. вЂњThe
sheriff,вЂќ he said, but she jerked away
from him and began running away, off the main
road.
He caught her in an instant. She fought, sobbing,
the wild frenzy bubbling out of her, until
he said, вЂњAll right. IвЂ™ll take
you back home. You can trust me. No, donвЂ™t
try to move. But it would be stupid for me
to go there with you alone. IвЂ™m calling
for help.вЂќ
He held her by one arm, pulled out his cell
and punched in 911. She made no move to get
away. She stood docile and quiet beside him,
saying nothing. The phone didnвЂ™t work.
But that made no sense. HeвЂ™d spoken
to Sherlock just a half hour before, calling
from the very same spot. He tried again. The
cell was dead as those shriveled carrots heвЂ™d
just bought. It made no sense. He tried one
final time. Nothing. What was he to do? вЂњMy
cell doesnвЂ™t work. It doesnвЂ™t
make sense.вЂќ
вЂњYouвЂ™ve got to help me.вЂќ He
looked down into her white face. There was
no choice. He could haul her into the car
and drive to the sheriff вЂ™s office,
but he knew in his gut that sheвЂ™d fight
him like a madwoman. He saw her urgency, her
fear, pumping off her in vicious waves. вЂњListen
to me. IвЂ™ll take you back to the house.
It will be all right. Come back to the car
with me.вЂќ
He put the groceries back in the bag and moved
the bag to the backseat. He picked up the
watermelon and heaved it into the trees, then
helped her into the car and fastened her seatbelt.
She whispered thank you a dozen times, maybe
more, over and over. In that moment, there
was no doubt in his mind that someone was
trying to hurt her. He shook his head at the
vagaries of fate. All heвЂ™d wanted was
a nice long weekend where he could go for
walks in the woods with his wife and his son,
teaching him how to tell a spruce from a pine,
and now he was back on the job. He turned
the heater on high, but she didnвЂ™t seem
to notice. She didnвЂ™t even seem to be
cold.
вЂњWhere do you live?вЂќ
She pointed to a side road, up off the main
road, to the right. вЂњUp there, please
hurry. HeвЂ™s going to kill me, heвЂ™s
waiting, heвЂ™llвЂ”вЂќ
Savich turned onto Clayton Road, narrow, but
nicely paved. вЂњThis is the way?вЂќ
She nodded. вЂњPlease, hurry, hurryвЂ”вЂќ
She was heaving for breath, gasping. He drove
in the middle of the road. Snow was piled
up around them.
He drove around a corner to see a large house
on a gentle rise to the left, lights shining
from the windows on the first floor.
вЂњThatвЂ™s it, yes, thatвЂ™s my
house, please hurry, please God, you have
to hurryвЂ”вЂќ
вЂњYes, weвЂ™re here. I want you to
stay hereвЂ”вЂќ
But she was out the door, running to the front
door, shouting over her shoulder, вЂњHurry,
hurry, hurry! YouвЂ™ve got to stop him!вЂќ
Savich pulled out his SIG, caught up with
her, and grabbed her arm. вЂњSlow down.
This manвЂ”do you know him?вЂќ
She said nothing, wildly shook her head, sending
her hair flying, and kept repeating, вЂњHurry,
hurry!вЂќ
The front door was unlocked. Savich held her
behind him as he opened the door, swinging
his gun from side to side. He saw nothing,
heard nothing.
He nearly lost her as she tried to jerk free,
but he held her, saying, вЂњWhereвЂ™s
the living room?вЂќ
She seemed more terrified now than before,
her pupils wildly dilated, and she was sobbing,
incapable of speech. She pointed to the right.
вЂњAll right, itвЂ™s okay, weвЂ™re
going in the living room.вЂќ He moved slowly,
carefully, fanning his SIG in every direction.
There was no sign of anyone. Nothing. It seemed
to be an empty house except for the two of
them.
There was a lovely fire burning in the fireplace,
so she couldnвЂ™t have been gone long.
It was warm in the large room, even cozy,
with all the lamps lit against the blackness
and the bitter cold outside.
вЂњListen to me,вЂќ he said, easing
her down onto the sofa. вЂњNo, donвЂ™t
say anything, just listen. I want you to stay
right here, do you understand?вЂќ
Her mouth was working, and he was afraid she
was going to fold in on herself, but she slowly
nodded.
вЂњDonвЂ™t move. I mean it. I want
you safe, so donвЂ™t move from this sofa.
IвЂ™m going to search the house. If you
see anyone or hear anyone, yell as loudly
as you can, all right?вЂќ
Again, she nodded.
Savich looked back at her once again before
he left the living room. She was sitting frozen,
her hands on her knees, looking straight ahead
at nothing in particular. One of the thin
straps of her summer dress had fallen off
her shoulder. Summer dress?
The house was large, one room opening into
the next. Every single light was on, and why
was that? Who would want to hide in a lighted
room? He walked through the dining room and
into the large kitchen, then into a mudroom.
From the right side of the wide hallway, he
looked through a library, a study, a half
bath, and a small sitting room that looked
like an old-fashioned womanвЂ™s space,
with a small writing desk, a plush love seat,
and a lovely Persian carpet on the wood floor.
There were lots of file cabinets in the room,
and an old typewriter.
There was no one lurking anywhere. He checked
every inch of the first floor.
The man, the killer, whoever he was, was gone,
and that made sense, of course. SheвЂ™d
escaped him to find help. The man knew that
and had run himself. Savich walked quickly
back to the living room. She was sitting right
where heвЂ™d left her, her hands still
on her knees, still staring, this time into
the fireplace.
вЂњThereвЂ™s no one here, at least
on the first floor. The man probably ran away
when you escaped. Now, youвЂ™ve got to
tell me more. Who is this man? Do you know
him? Why is he trying to kill you? Are you
certain itвЂ™s not a burglar, and you
surprised him? He tried to kill you and you
ran? Was he chasing you?вЂќ
She didnвЂ™t make a sound. Slowly, she
turned to look up at him. Then she looked
up at the ceiling.
It was then he saw the wedding ring on her
finger. Where was her husband? вЂњYouвЂ™ve
got to talk to me, Mrs.вЂ”?вЂќ
She kept looking upward. Savich frowned as
he looked up at the ceiling as well. It was
a good nine, ten feet up, with handsome old-fashioned
dark molding.
Suddenly, a noise sounded overhead, a thump
of sorts, solid, loud, like a manвЂ™s
heavy footsteps, or perhaps a piece of furniture
someone had knocked over. But how had she
known even before heвЂ™d heard anything?
Savich felt a spurt of fear so strong his
breath caught in his throat. He brought up
the SIG and stared upward at that ceiling.
There was nothing more, of course, no sound
of anything. He was disgusted with himself.
What had he been expecting?
He was getting himself steady again, drawing
deep breaths, when there was another noise,
but not a thump this time, he didnвЂ™t
know what it was.
All he knew was that someone was right above
their heads.
His mouth was bone dry when he said, вЂњIs
the man up there?вЂќ
Her lips worked, but nothing came out but
gasping breaths, full of fear too deep to
understand.
вЂњYou stay here,вЂќ he said. вЂњDo
you understand me? ThatвЂ™s right, donвЂ™t
move. IвЂ™m going to take a look up there.вЂќ
Savich walked to the wide staircase. Why were
there no lights on upstairs? He climbed the
stairs, his SIG held firm and steady, pausing
every couple of steps to listen.
There it was, another sound. He was pissed
now. Someone was playing games, the sorts
of games that reminded him a bit of the most
horrific criminal heвЂ™d ever run into,
Tammy Tuttle, a nightmare that still haunted
him when his brain shut off enough to let
it in. But it wasnвЂ™t Tammy up here.
Thank the good Lord she was long dead.
The steps werenвЂ™t carpeted, just bare
solid oak, beautifully finished, and his footsteps
echoed loud in the silent air. He felt the
weight of each step, sure his feet were sinking
just a bit into the heavy planks.
He reached the top of the stairs and paused
a moment to listen. He didnвЂ™t hear anything.
He felt along the wall until he found a light
switch. He flicked it on and the long corridor
lit up. Here the floor was carpeted with thick
old broadloom. He went into room after room,
all bedrooms, most looking long empty, except
for a well-used boyвЂ™s room with posters
of old rock groups on every wall, all sorts
of toys and games covering the surfaces. There
werenвЂ™t any clothes strewn about and
the bed was made. There was an old signed
football from the undefeated 1972 Dolphins
sitting in the middle of it. At the end of
the corridor there was a huge master suite,
the bed made, the whole space neat as a pin.
He opened a closet to find a pair of jeans
and a sweatshirt lying on the floor, and a
pair of womenвЂ™s boots, one lying atop
the other. He went into each of the five old-fashioned
bathrooms, searched more closets than he cared
to count, and finally he eased into a den
of sorts, the walls covered with prints of
London and Paris. There was no big media center,
just a TV on a stand in the corner and what
looked like a TV Guide lying precariously
on top, a pool table, several easy chairs,
and one ratty leather sofa that looked like
it had been used for at least two generations.
There was only silence, thick and dead.
Whatever they had heard, no, whomever they
had heard, was gone. Savich felt helpless,
something he hated. He wondered if the man
whoвЂ™d made these noises had simply slipped
out of one of the upstairs windows. Savich
walked slowly back along the corridor, alert,
his SIG steady in his hand. Suddenly he felt
something, something that was close, something
right behind him. Savich froze for an instant,
then quickly, crouching low, he whirled around,
his SIG up. No one was there, not even a dust
mote, but the odd thing was that there was
a heaviness in the air itself, as if something
should be there, as if perhaps it was, just
invisible to him. He shook his head at himself.
He had no idea what was really going on. The
only one who could clear things up was the
woman downstairs, seated on that flowered
sofa, staring into the fireplace, wearing
a dress more suited to summer than this bone-cold
winter night. He could give her tea, calm
her down, get her talking, convince her to
let him take her to the sheriff.
HeвЂ™d nearly reached the stairs when
he heard another noise. It was above him.
CHAPTER
2
AN ATTIC. He’d heard the creak of footsteps
overhead, as if someone were walking from
one board to the next, carefully, slowly,
so as not to fall, trying to move as quietly
as he could. Savich got his brain focused
and calm. So some fool was in the attic, trying
to scare the bejesus out of him. The same
fool he and the woman had heard before. He
hadn’t gone out a window after all.
Angry now, Savich forced himself to stillness.
He kept staring upward, waiting for another
footstep to pinpoint where the man was, but
there was nothing, only the quiet of an empty
house.
He saw the attic pull cord nicely camouflaged
against a window, down at the end of the long
hallway. He trotted to it, unlooped it, and
pulled it down. The stairs slipped smoothly
down from the ceiling, their lowest rung touching
the hallway carpet.
Darkness poured down. He pulled out his Swiss
Army knife with its penlight and switched
it on. It was better than nothing, though
not much.
He climbed the stairs, every sense heightened.
He kept his feet firmly planted on the wooden
ladder when his head and chest cleared the
attic opening and looked around him as far
as the meager light from the penlight would
penetrate. It was black as Sean’s pirate
eye patch, with no windows to let in the moonlight.
He remained on the ladder, unwilling to climb
all the way into the attic. It was too dark
and he knew himself vulnerable, even with
his SIG. He continued to flash the penlight
around him, but its range was so limited,
he couldn’t make out anything more than
ten feet away.
Finally, he spoke. “Is anyone up here?”
There was no sound, not a whisper of a sound.
The air itself seemed old and dead, like breathing
inside a mausoleum. He circled the penlight
again.
He stopped once again, listened. “Is anyone
up here?”
There was nothing, not even the scurrying
of a mouse to disturb the thick layer of dust
that was part of the air itself.
Suddenly, there was a loud whooshing sound,
like something was sucking up all the air
in its path. It seemed to come from all around
him. It was something large, something black,
moving like a dozen flapping wings, and it
slammed hard into him, hurtling him backward.
He lost his balance and fell back down through
the opening, his feet not finding purchase
on the ladder. He landed on his back on the
carpet. He lay there just a moment, his brain
stunned into inaction, wondering what damage
he’d done to his body.
He had to get it together. Whoever had struck
him could strike him again in the next instant.
He aimed his SIG upward and listened, but
he heard nothing at all from the black hole
above his head. Slowly, still listening, he
rolled to a sitting position and queried his
body. He was aware of the lights around him,
steady and bright. He seemed to be all right.
He slowly rose, stretched, and stared up again
into that black hole, wondering what had hit
him. If not a person, and he was pretty sure
it hadn’t been a man, then there were few
logical choices. Bats, he thought, he’d
probably disturbed a whole lot of bats. What
would bats be doing in a beautiful house like
this one? For the life of him he couldn’t
think of anything else it could have been.
And maybe the bats had made the noise. Perhaps
bats were common up in the Poconos, particularly
in the winter, when the cold drove them inside,
to places where it was dark and warm.
Enough was enough. He strode to the top of
the stairs, paused one final time, listening,
fingers tightly wrapped around his SIG.
He had to get her to talk to him, had to calm
her, it was the only thing left to do. He
took the stairs two at a time and rushed into
the living room, his mouth opening to tell
her he hadn’t found anything.
The living room was empty.
He pulled out his cell phone, dialed Sherlock
before he realized it hadn’t worked the
last time he’d used it. But she answered
immediately.
“Dillon? What’s up? You having problems
with the car?”
“Sherlock, I’m glad I reached you. The
last time I tried to use the cell, it was
dead. Something’s happened.”
A brief pause, a touch of panic in her voice,
then, “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I promise, but something’s happened.”
“Tell me.” As quickly as he could, he
took her through it. When he told her about
something knocking him out of the attic, he
kept his voice as calm as he could.
“She’s gone. I imagine she’s run away
again. She was so terrified, so hysterical,
that I couldn’t get anything out of her.
We’ve got to find her. I don’t know if
she’s still in danger, but she believes
she is. It’s cold outside and she didn’t
have on a coat, she wasn’t even wearing
a sweater. She could freeze to death.”
“Dillon, I think you should go to the sheriff’s
office in Blessed Creek. I remember passing
it, right there in the middle of Main Street.
I’ll be there with Sean as soon as I can.
I’m going to call the sheriff, ask him to
meet us at his office. You be careful, Dillon,
drive slow and careful, keep your eyes open
for that woman. Don’t worry. We’ll get
this all figured out. I love you.” He could
hear Sean singing away in the background.
Now, that sounded normal. He smiled.
Ten minutes later, Sherlock climbed out of
Jimmy Maitland’s old jeep, which he left
at the cabin for his boys’ use. She was
worried about Dillon, feeling more scared
than usual, perhaps because they were on vacation
and this was so unexpected. With Sean asleep
in the backseat, snoring little puffs of cold
air, she could let the worry show on her face.
She stood a moment, looking into the sheriff’s
small office, with its single light shining
in the wide front windows. She saw an older
man with a thick shock of white hair, fiddling
with a coffeemaker. Good, he had to be the
sheriff. He’d taken her seriously.
Sheriff Doozer Harms stood in the middle of
his office, his back to his coffeepot, his
arms crossed over his beefy chest as he watched
a man pull up behind the woman’s jeep. The
man opened the jeep’s passenger side, unfastened
the child’s car seat strap, and lifted out
a sleeping boy. They all huddled close, then
turned, as one, toward his office.
The man pulled his I.D. out even as he stepped
into the office. “Sheriff Harms? I’m Agent
Dillon Savich, FBI, and this is my wife, Agent
Lacey Sherlock. We have a problem and we need
to move quickly. My wife is the one who called
you.”
“Yes, she did,” said Sheriff Harms as
he looked them over. Well, well, two FBI agents,
and they were husband and wife, even had a
little kid. What was this all about? Agent
Sherlock had told him only that her husband
had something important to tell him. Doozer
wished he was finishing the Bud Light he’d
left on top of the TV, and began tapping his
foot.
He’d been the sheriff of Blessed Creek for
nearly thirty-two years. He figured he’d
heard every tourist problem anyone could think
of, even if the tourists were FBI agents.
But he knew the importance of being polite,
knew how to listen even if he was thinking
about how much he’d like to be home watching
the 76ers.
He shook hands all around, patted the little
boy’s head, and pulled out two chairs. “What
seems to be the problem, Agent Savich? Your
wife said it was urgent that you see me.”
“It’s a woman, Sheriff, she ran out in
front of my car, waving her arms, hysterical,
yelling that a man was trying to kill her.”
Sheriff Harms didn’t say a word, just leaned
a bit closer, his eyes on Savich’s face.
He hadn’t heard anything like this before.
“Where is she, Agent Savich? This woman?”
Savich told him what had happened, including
the bats that had knocked him off the attic
ladder and onto the second-floor corridor.
“Bats,” the sheriff said, then nodded
for him to continue.
“It’s the only logical explanation I can
come up with. We’ve got to hurry, Sheriff.
You need to get your deputies together so
we can search around the house. She ran away
again, and I’m very worried for her safety.
She believes a man is trying to kill her,
and whatever’s going on, something’s just
not right.”
“I can see that you’re worried, Agent
Savich. You spoke of driving her back to her
home. Where was her home?”
Savich was ready to throw Sheriff Harms through
the front window. Time was not on their side.
She was out there on this dark night, it was
cold, and she had been so disturbed he knew
she’d do something stupid. He could see
her huddling in the thick trees, shuddering
with cold, crying, her hysteria building until
maybe the man would find her. Or maybe she’d
just die of fright without his help.
“She lives in a big house on Clayton Road.
We have to hurry, Sheriff,” Savich said,
rising. “It’s about a fifteen-minute drive.”
“Just a moment, Agent Savich. You said she
was gone when you came back downstairs?”
“Yes, I’d left her in the living room,
told her not to move an inch. I was coming
back down to give her some hot tea, hoping
to calm her down, to get some sense out of
her.”
“She didn’t tell you who this man was
who was trying to kill her?”
Savich shook his head. Sherlock said, “If
my husband says this woman is in danger, Sheriff,
she’s in danger. Do you think we can get
out to that house, begin a search for her?”
“You said it’s a big house on Clayton
Road?”
Savich wanted to coldcock the old guy, but
since this was a local situation, no matter
he was at the center of it, he held to his
patience. “Yes, on top of a small rise on
the left side of Clayton Road; it’s a narrow
road off Route 85. All the downstairs lights
are on, so it’s like a beacon.”
Sheriff Harms began fiddling with a tooth-chewed
pencil on top of his desk. “Would you say
it’s no more than a half mile off Route
85 on Clayton Road?”
“That’s right. Maybe twelve, fifteen minutes
from Blessed Creek. Look, Sheriff, time is
running down. If I have to call in the Philadelphia
Field Office to get some action, I will, but
it will take time. I don’t think this woman
has much of that left. We’ve got to get
out to that house and find her.”
Sheriff Harms slowly rose, leaned forward,
his palms flat on the desktop. “You’re
talking about the Barrister place, Agent Savich.
Biggest house around these parts, you’re
right about that. You said the woman lived
there?”
“Yes, of course, she lived there. It’s
a lovely house, really big, but nice and warm,
cozy. There was a fire burning in the living
room fireplace. No one was there, no husband,
no help, no one. I searched the place top
to bottom.”
“After the bats knocked you out of the attic,
you came back downstairs? And she was gone?”
“Yes. Maybe she heard me crashing out of
the attic and it terrified her. She must have
run outside to hide in the woods.”
“What did the woman look like, Agent Savich?”
Sheriff Harms spoke slowly, his faded blue
eyes intent on Savich’s face.
“She was about thirty, thin. Her hair was
long, straight, dark, parted in the middle.
I don’t remember her eye color, but her
face was very pale. She wasn’t dressed for
winter, I can tell you that, which is part
of why I’m concerned.”
Sheriff Harms said, “That was an excellent
description, Agent Savich. Now, we can go
out to the Barrister place and look around.
We can shine big lights all through the woods,
make a lot of racket—but the thing is, that’d
be a waste of time.”
“I don’t see how, Sheriff.”
“Well, the fact is, Agent Savich, the Barrister
house has been abandoned for well nigh thirty
years now. There’s no one there, hasn’t
been for half my lifetime.”
Sherlock said, frowning, “Thirty years?
You’re saying that no one’s lived there
for that long a time?”
“Yep. I know the Barristers still own the
place, since the taxes are paid on it every
year, but they all left.”
“No,” Savich said, rising, leaning over
the sheriff’s desk. “No. You’re thinking
of a different house. Look, Sheriff, I didn’t
dream this. The woman was as real as you are.
I’ve described her to you. We’ve got to
go out there; we’ve got to find her and
help her.” He turned on his heel, said over
his shoulder, “Sherlock, I want you to take
Sean back to the cabin and wait for me. I
don’t know how long I’ll be.”
“You want me to come with you, Agent Savich?”
“That would be up to you, now wouldn’t
it, Sheriff?”
Sherlock stood by the front door of the sheriff’s
office, rocking Sean, who was bundled up in
his winter jacket and gloves. “Why don’t
we all go?”
All of them piled into the sheriff’s big
black SUV. Ten minutes later, without Savich
saying anything, the sheriff pulled off of
Route 85 onto Clayton Road. It was dark and
cold, the black clouds thick overhead. There
was the smell of snow in the air, not rain.
Savich supposed he expected the woman to come
running out on the road again, waving her
arms madly—wearing that skimpy dress. She
could freeze to death. She could be dead already.
The man could have been hiding outside, at
a safe distance, watching to see what would
happen. If so, he could have seen her run
outside, and followed her.
He didn’t believe for a minute that the
Barrister house, the one Sheriff Harms said
was deserted and abandoned, was the house
he’d been inside.
“We should see the house any minute now,”
the sheriff said. It seemed to Savich that
there were more ruts in the road than he remembered,
the asphalt crumbling in many places, as if
it hadn’t been tended in a very long time.
No, he was wrong, he was mis-remembering.
That beautiful big lighted house would come
into view at any moment. Yes, there, another
hundred feet and the small rise appeared,
on the left, and on top of the rise was the
house, trees closing in around it from all
sides. He didn’t remember the trees being
so close.
There were no lights shining out of the first
floor of the house now, none at all. It looked
like a huge black hulk, crouched atop that
rise. Someone had come back and turned the
lights off, or the power. A small voice in
the back of his brain asked why.
“This is the Barrister house,” Sheriff
Harms said, as he pulled to a stop in front
of the big, dark house. “Is this the place
where you brought the young woman, Agent Savich?”
Savich didn’t say anything. He pulled on
his leather gloves as he slowly got out of
the SUV and walked to the front of the house.
He paused a moment, unwilling to accept what
he was seeing. He walked up the wide wooden
stairs that led to the covered porch which
extended the full width of the front of the
house.
Suddenly the moon came out from behind the
black clouds, and he saw the house clearly
for the first time.
It was the same house he’d been inside an
hour before, but it wasn’t, not really.
This house looked deserted, dilapidated, as
if it had been neglected for many years. Trees
pressed in toward the house, some of their
branches whipping against upstairs windows.
There were boards nailed over downstairs windows,
broken glass scattered on the porch. There
was even graffiti on the wall next to the
front door.
The house was dead, had been dead for a very
long time. His heart pounded as he looked
at the front door that was barely hanging
onto its hinges, studied it, and accepted
what he saw because there was simply no choice.
He closed his eyes a moment, seeing the woman
clearly in his mind’s eye, realizing how
very pretty she’d been, not having noticed
it at first because she’d been so frightened.
He turned and walked back to the car.
Sheriff Harms said as he turned on the engine,
“Her name was Samantha Barrister. She was
murdered here back in August of 1973.”
“I want to see a photo of her,” Savich
said.
Sherlock took his hand, held it tight.
TWO HOURS LATER, Sherlock awoke to find Dillon
standing by the bedroom window, staring out
at the falling snow.
She got up and walked to him, and wrapped
her arms around his back.
“Did I wake you?”
“No. You’re thinking about her, aren’t
you, still trying to find logical reasons
for what happened.”
“There aren’t any. It’s driving me nuts.
Even though I’ve been over and over it,
I guess I can’t get around the fact that
I’ve experienced something, well, I guess
you’d have to call it otherworldly.”
She kissed his shoulder. “Then perhaps it’s
time to simply accept it.”
“But the reasonable part of my brain doesn’t
want to.” He turned and pulled her into
his arms, buried his face in her hair.
“There’s another thing, Sherlock, something
I just remembered. I called you when I had
the blowout. It wasn’t ten minutes later
that she came running out of the woods. I
insisted on calling for help, but I couldn’t
get through on the cell phone. But then later,
at the house, after she was gone, I called
you and it worked just fine again.”
She held him more tightly. “It’s possible
the signal was better there.” She paused
a moment, touched her fingertips to his jaw.
“I just remembered something else, Dillon.”
He wasn’t going to like this, he knew he
wasn’t.
“You called me at about eight o’clock.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“The second time you called me, it was only
about a quarter after eight.”
He sucked in his breath. “No,” he said,
“no, that’s just not possible. That would
mean that all of what happened—no, that’s
ridiculous. I spent a lot of time with her,
even more time just searching that house.
No, I can’t accept that all that happened
in fifteen minutes.”
“Maybe we’re both wrong about the time.
That’s the most reasonable explanation.”
She hugged him again, touched her fingertips
to his cheek. “It’s very late. It’s
snowing. Sean will be up and raring to go
in less than four hours. We’ll have time
to discuss this tomorrow; you can decide what
to do then.
“There’s a reason she came to you, Dillon.
You’ll have to act. But sleep is the best
thing for you now.”
He came back to bed, held her close against
him, and prepared to stew about it until morning.
He knew he would have to investigate what
happened to this woman, even if he never convinced
himself that what had happened was real. But
he didn’t lie there staring at the dark
ceiling as he fully expected. He fell into
a dreamless sleep in three minutes.
AT SIX-THIRTYSaturday morning, Savich’s
cell phone played the opening of Chariots
of Fire. His first thoughts were of Samantha
Barrister and the strange events she’d put
him through.
“Savich.” He listened a moment, then looked
over at Sherlock, who whispered urgently,
“What’s wrong? What’s happened?”
Savich flipped off his cell phone, then turned
on the bedside lamp. “Mr. Maitland is sending
a helicopter to take us back to Washington.”
Sherlock said, “Goodness, it’s something
that big? Something so big we can’t even
build one snowman with Sean?”
“Yeah. You’re not going to believe this.”
CHAPTER
3
SUPREME COURT BUILDING
FIRST STREET N.E. AND EAST CAPITOL STREET
WASHINGTON, D.C.
LATE FRIDAY NIGHT
ASSOCIATEJUSTICEStewart Quinn Califano stepped
out of the underground garage, bent his head
against the cold wind blowing in his face,
and walked around to the front of the Supreme
Court Building. He paused to look up at the
sixteen marble columns at the west entrance
that supported the famous pediment and the
words incised on the architrave above: Equal
Justice Under Law. He loved the neoclassical
style of this magnificent building, one that
would be his home until he shucked off his
mortal coil, or retired, something he couldnвЂ™t
begin to imagine. Every time he entered, it
was like walking into a Greek temple. Once
inside, he greeted the three guards at the
west entrance security checkpoint, making
a point to ask about their wives, Amanda,
Georgia, and Tommie, passed through the airport-like
security gate, and stepped into the main corridor
of the Great Hall. He paused a moment to give
a little salute to the closed-circuit TV camera,
not three feet above his head, and made his
way through the Hall, his footsteps echoing
loudly on the marble floors. He was well aware
that every guard on duty tonight already knew
he was here, alerted since he entered the
garage. Not a single one would be surprised
at his presence close on to midnight, even
on a bone-cold Friday night in January. It
was his habit to come here at all hours.
He paused a moment, as he always did, to admire
the monolithic marble columns that rose to
a coffered ceiling. The first time heвЂ™d
visited the Supreme Court Building heвЂ™d
been twenty-two years old, in his first year
at Harvard Law School, and heвЂ™d stood
there staring at the Great HallвЂ™s incredible
beauty and opulent detail, its acres of creamy
Alabama marble.
The guards never dared ask him why he came
long after closing hours. Truth be told, this
was his refuge, a place he found utterly and
completely private in the hours when most
everyone was safely home. He could come here
and be certain no one was listening or looking,
the one place where he was safe from prying
eyes, endless conversations, endless wrangling,
and Eliza, he thought, smiling.
He quickened his pace, giving the Court Chamber
at the end of the Great Hall only a cursory
look. He walked to the right and paused in
front of his chambers, his footsteps echoing
loudly. He looked back at the romantic gloom
and saw the shifting movements of the guards
in their rubber-soled shoes. His hand was
already on the doorknob, his eyes on the personalized
placard that had been placed there seventeen
years before, when he realized he would prefer
to be in the library tonight. His inner office
would feel too close, too full of recent conversations
with Eliza, Fleurette, and Danny, his law
clerks, and the tears of one of his secretaries,
Mary, who was retiring come March.
Justice Califano turned and walked quickly
to the elevators that took him to the third
floor and the 500,000-volume library. He heaved
a deep satisfied breath as he entered the
main reading room. He loved this place, with
its hand-carved oak-paneled walls, its soul-deep
warmth that came not from the oak and mahogany
but from all the books that surrounded him.
Here there were no cameras, no electronic
eyes to monitor his activities. He took off
his coat, his cashmere scarf, and his leather
gloves and laid them on a chair at his favorite
study table. He took his time adjusting the
old-fashioned lighting fixture. He paused
a moment and looked toward the beautiful arches.
He sat down, leaned back in his chair, and
thought about Jackson v. Texas, a death penalty
case the four liberal justices had voted to
hear that was coming up on Tuesday. They wanted
to revisit the Stanford v. Kentucky case of
1989 that allowed by a five-to-four decision
the execution of juvenile offenders age sixteen
and over. They were hoping to swing him and
Justice Elizabeth Xavier-Foxx over to their
side to gain a plurality and do away with
the death penalty for all minors. It probably
wasnвЂ™t the best case to push into the
court, Stewart thought, since the sixteen-year-old
boy had committed three particularly heinous
murders. He was, according to his father during
his original trial, a psychopath, exhibiting
all the classic symptoms from the time he
was eight years old. The father had tried
to have him committed, but the boy was charming
and intelligent, and the psychiatrists and
social workers had failed to see through it.
Then came the murders. Now he faced a death
sentence in Bluff, Texas.
Stewart was interested in hearing the lawyersвЂ™
arguments about what had changed since 1989,
both for and against. He hoped they would
cover new ground, but chances werenвЂ™t
good. Though he wasnвЂ™t certain which
way heвЂ™d vote, he knew he was leaning
toward the exclusion of all juveniles from
death penalty eligibility, although by the
time a juvenile offender actually faced the
lethal injection, heвЂ™d be at least forty
years old.
He stroked the soft leather arms of his chair,
the one heвЂ™d first sat in when heвЂ™d
walked into the library right after his confirmation.
It was, he thought, rather cool to be one
of the Supremes, so charmingly misleading,
since all of them were grandparents. It was
time, he thought, time to make decisions,
time to stop thinking about upcoming cases.
His hand shook slightly as he pulled the sheaf
of papers from his breast pocket and smoothed
them out on the shiny table. He began to read.
He paused a moment, looked up. He thought
heвЂ™d heard footsteps. It was the guards,
making their rounds, he thought, and went
back to his reading. Since 9/11, the number
of guards protecting both the building and
the personnel had been tripled, and more sophisticated
equipment had been installed, but not in the
library, thank God.
He read what heвЂ™d written earlier in
the day, felt a shot of renewed anger, then
paused yet again. More footsteps, soft, but
closer. And moving slowly, very slowly. He
didnвЂ™t know any of the guards to tiptoe
around. It was probably someone new come up
here to check on him, to make sure everything
was all right.
He swiveled in his chair and looked toward
the darkness. Then he looked through the row
of arches. Finally, he turned to look toward
the open library doorway. In all directions
he saw only midnight shadows surrounding the
small circle of light heвЂ™d provided
for himself. Suddenly, he felt afraid.
He heard a voice, a deep voice, close yet
somehow muffled, whispering something. To
him? He half rose in his chair, his hands
on the arms.
вЂњWhoвЂ™s there?вЂќ
Was that his voice, that thin whisper layered
with fear?
There was dead silence, but it was no longer
comforting. He called out louder, вЂњWhoвЂ™s
there? Say something or IвЂ™ll call the
guard.вЂќ
Califano stood, reached for his coat, only
to remember he didnвЂ™t have his cell
phone. He looked toward the internal call
phone on the wall not ten feet away from him.
Guards could be here in a matter of seconds.
He wasnвЂ™t a coward, but it didnвЂ™t
matter. Fear had him by the throat, hurling
him into a race toward that phone, his hand
outstretched when something thin and sharp
went around his neck. вЂњNow, isnвЂ™t
this nice?вЂќ a voice whispered against
his ear.
Califano pulled at the wire. Tight, so tight.
He couldnвЂ™t breathe, even though his
shirt collar was between the wire and his
skin.
The low quiet voice said near his left ear,
вЂњNow, this wonвЂ™t get it done, will
it?вЂќ Something struck him on the head.
Pain and white lights fired through his brain,
and he felt himself falling. His hands fell
away and his shirt collar was ripped downward,
exposing his bare skin.
He was hurled to his knees, his attacker behind
him. He felt the wire digging into his flesh,
felt the welling sticky blood, felt such pain
he wept. The wire loosened a bit and somehow
he managed to get his fingers beneath it,
and that low, intimate voice laughed. вЂњWell
now, a fighter, are you?вЂќ
Slowly, inexorably, the wire tightened, sliced
right through his fingers. His brain was crystal
clear in that instant when he knew he would
die if he didnвЂ™t do something. Now.
The wire cut smoothly into the bones of his
fingers, and his brain exploded with pain.
Still, he managed to push outward enough to
scream. It wasnвЂ™t loud, but surely a
guard would hear him, hear that strange sound
and come running.
вЂњThat was pathetic, Mr. Justice, but
I think thatвЂ™s enough now.вЂќ
Had he heard that voice before, or was it
the intimacy of death making the voice sound
familiar? The wire jerked tighter. The explosion
of agony made tears spurt from his eyes. He
felt the wire cut through the last of his
finger bones. It was inside his throat now,
and soon it would cut all the way through
his neck. He couldnвЂ™t breathe now, couldnвЂ™t
think.
The god-awful pain was easing, his brain was
blurring, his thoughts breaking apart, scattering,
but amazingly, his last thought before death
was, I would vote the death penalty for that
psychopath boy.
When the wire loosened and was pulled back
up over his head, Justice Stewart Quinn Califano
fell over onto the floor of the Supreme Court
library, the quiet air now filled with the
smells of deathвЂ™s final insults.
CHAPTER
4
WASHINGTON, D.C.
SATURDAY MORNING
CALLIEMARKHAM PUTone boot in front of the
other, bent her head into the wind and the
lightly blowing snow, wished she was roasting
herself under an electric blanket, and kept
walking. One foot in front of the other.
Her teeth were ready to chatter, and her toes
were wet despite her expensive leather boots
and the lovely thick wool ski socks Jonah
the jerk had given her for Christmas. Okay,
she’d been stupid to walk the eight blocks,
but she was still so angry that she’d chosen
not to drive or take a cab. She’d intended
to walk off her mad before she sat down at
the breakfast table with her mother and stepfather.
Now she rather thought the mad was the only
thing keeping her going. It was cold and getting
even colder, if that was possible.
It was just after nine o’clock, enough time
for them to catch up on everything. Maybe
she’d even tell them about the jerk Jonah
Blazer, a journalist for The New York Times.
She really didn’t want to admit that she’d
been so wrong about him, but of course if
they asked, she’d have to tell them about
that lying moron.
Everywhere she looked, the feathering snow
was stark white, soft and romantic in spite
of the cold wind. She wondered how long it
would stay so achingly clean. But she didn’t
want to freeze to death in a winter wonderland.
She finally turned the corner onto Beckhurst
Lane, old, rich, and beautiful, its big houses
set way back from the quiet, tree-lined street.
She came to an abrupt halt. There were three
strange cars, mongrels all, at odds with the
Beemers and Benzes and the occasional sexy
Jaguar. These sedans were pedestrian, nondescript,
and they’d been parked here awhile, given
the amount of snow on their hoods. What was
this? She paused a moment, frowning, watching
the silent snow cascade like lace from the
leaden sky.
Oh good heavens, was she ever slow. They were
cop cars, and that meant something was wrong.
She ran to the front door, nearly tripping,
and panting because she was so scared. She
tried to find her keys in her leather bag,
but her hands were cold and shaking and she
couldn’t find them. She pounded on the front
door. “Let me in! Somebody, let me in!”
She heard footsteps coming, not her mother’s
light high-heeled step. The door swung open.
A woman in a black pantsuit stood there. “Yes?
May I help you?”
“I’m Callie Markham, Mrs. Califano’s
daughter. What’s going on here? Who are
you? Oh God, has something happened to my
mother?”
A man’s voice called out, “She’s the
daughter? Bring her in here, Nancy.”
It was then that Callie heard a woman weeping,
quietly, hopelessly. It was her mother.
Callie ran into the living room, only to stop
cold. There were three men there, two in dark
suits, the third in a leather jacket, white
shirt, black tie, and black slacks, black
half boots on his feet. Mr. Leather Jacket
rose from where he’d been sitting close
to her mother, and walked to her. He was a
big guy, tall and tough-looking, out of place
in this soft cream-and-blue room. The two
suits with him didn’t look all that tame
either, but their clothes didn’t fit as
well as his. “Ms. Markham?”
“Yes. What’s going on here? Who are you?”
She tried to get around him, to go to her
mother, but he blocked her path. “Just a
moment, ma’am. You’re Mrs. Califano’s
daughter, the one who is supposed to be in
New York?”
“Yes, yes, I came back early because I found
my boyfriend in bed with another woman, if
you can believe that. Now move, before I deck
you.”
The man smiled down at her, and even though
it was the meanest excuse for a smile she’d
ever seen, there was also a bit of humor in
it.
“Excuse me?”
She shoved hard against his chest. “Move,
dammit!”
Margaret Califano raised her head. Her face
was ravaged, eyes swollen, her mascara smeared
around her eyes.
“Callie? Please, Detective Raven, it’s
my daughter. She’s not here to hurt me.”
“Mama? What’s going on here? Why would
anyone want to hurt you?”
She watched her mother rise and weave a bit
until she steadied herself. Her strong, self-assured
mother looked fragile, terrifyingly fragile.
She held out her hand, her mouth worked, but
nothing came out. She sent a look toward the
man, fanned her hands out in front of her,
and fell back onto the sofa, her face in her
hands.
Detective Raven. Of course the man was a cop.
He said, “I’m very sorry, Ms. Markham,
but it’s your stepfather. He’s dead.”
She slowly turned to face Detective Raven
again. “That is ridiculous. It’s a beautiful
Saturday morning, and here you are saying
things like that? What kind of a sadistic
creep are you?” She tried to shove him away,
but he didn’t move.
He said, “Look, Ms. Markham, I’m sorry
I didn’t ease into it better, but I’m
telling the truth. Someone murdered your stepfather
last night. I’m very sorry.”
Callie was shaking her head, back and forth,
unable to accept what the words meant. “I
want to talk to my mother. Go away, all of
you. Mama? What happened? Was there an accident?”
“No, Callie,” Margaret whispered, her
breath only a whisper against Callie’s cheek
when she held her tight, “no accident. What
Detective Raven said is true. Stewart is dead.
Someone murdered him in the Supreme Court
library last night.”
Callie still couldn’t accept what she was
hearing. “A Supreme Court Justice doesn’t
get killed in the library, for God’s sake.
It can’t happen. All of you must be wrong
about this.”
“I’ll agree it’s a shock, Ms. Markham,”
Detective Raven said, “but we’re not wrong.”
She shook her head as she said, “All right,
all right, who killed him? How? Why? I know
that he enjoyed visiting the Supreme Court
Building after hours, that he liked the solitude
and the privacy, but what was he doing there
last night, for heaven’s sake?”
Detective Raven said, “We don’t know much
of anything yet. An FBI forensic team is at
the Supreme Court Building, along with about
six of our guys and a gazillion or so Feds.
Judge Califano was garroted. We don’t know
who did this as yet, but we will find out,
Ms. Markham.
“The media will have found out about this
by now, even though we laid down a temporary
blackout until we got security under control
and reached your mother. The media have as
many grubs as we do. I expect both the print
media and TV reporters to roll up here any
moment. I’m to get the two of you down to
the Daly Building before the vultures light
and start coming down the chimney.”
“I can handle the media. I don’t think
my mother is up for going anywhere.”
“Ms. Markham, it would be better than being
barricaded in here with the media pounding
on the windows, using bullhorns to ask you
how you feel.”
But Callie, now stroking her weeping mother’s
back, said to him, barely above a whisper,
“He’s dead? Stewart is really dead?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
She stared over at him, through him really,
he thought, trying to make sense of the situation.
She said, “No, don’t say anything more.
All right, tell me this. Where were the guards?
There are a zillion guards in that building.
They’re sharp, they’re smart, and my stepfather
knew most of them. They wouldn’t hesitate
an instant if someone dangerous broke in.
They’d shoot him dead. And the whole building
is monitored.”
“I’ll tell you everything we know, Ms.
Markham, but let’s get out of here first.
Trust me on this, neither the FBI nor the
local cops nor the Justice Department want
you hounded by the press right now. Please
come, we’ve got to go.”
Callie stared up at him. “Who are you, exactly,
besides a big mean guy and a snappy dresser?”
“I’m Detective Ben Raven, Washington Metro.”
He flipped out his badge. She studied it.
“You can check out Officer Kreider and Detectives
Boaz and LeBeau later.” Come on, let’s
get out of here. Captain Halloway said the
FBI is bringing in one of their hotshots.
The guy was out of town, probably off skiing
somewhere. He’ll be meeting us at the Daly
Building. Of course Director Mueller and Deputy
Assistant Director James Maitland will be
in charge of the investigation.” He held
out his hand to her. “This FBI hotshot they’re
bringing in will probably want to lay you
out on a rack, and find out everything you
don’t even realize you know.”
“I see. You’ve already pounded the grieving
widow and now you’re ready to move on to
the daughter.”
“Yes. Actually, you’re his stepdaughter,
aren’t you?”
Callie rose, in his face now. “And your
point would be?”
“Just trying to be accurate, Ms. Markham.
In my line of work, accuracy is important.”
“Accuracy is important in mine too, Detective
Raven, but I try not to be a moron about it.”
He couldn’t find another lick of patience.
“We must leave now.” He knew she was angry,
for her mother, he imagined. He’d seen her
eyes go glassy there for a while, and he’d
worried she’d collapse along with her mother.
But he wasn’t worried now. She was ready
to do battle, ready to chew some nails. He
had a feeling that nails were a staple in
her daily diet.
Margaret Califano was no help at all. It took
both Officer Kreider and Callie to get her
into her lovely dark blue cashmere coat, to
pull boots on her feet, and to work the gloves
onto her hands. She was weeping silently,
not fighting them, but not helping either.
And Callie kept thinking, Stewart is dead.
Someone murdered him. How could this happen?
The three men stood there, of no use at all,
uncomfortable but stoic, until she was ready.
Callie and Officer Kreider half-carried her
mother to the four-door white Crown Victoria,
the last car in line. Detective Raven helped
them into the backseat after sweeping away
a box of Kleenex, an empty pizza box, and
a stuffed dog with a dangling left ear.
He got in next to her, crowding her over,
and closed the door. “Bobby, we’re ready.”
“Was that close or what?” Detective Bobby
LeBeau said. “Here are the vultures now.
Nancy’s going to follow in her car, and
Ray will bring yours in, Ben.”
Bobby pulled out onto the snow-covered road
as the first of the media vans was searching
the street for the right house.
Ben smacked him on the shoulder. “Go, Bobby.”
Callie said quietly to Detective Raven, “How
did the killer manage to get into the building,
much less up to the third-floor library?”
He frowned at her and grabbed the chicken
stick above the passenger window when the
car started sliding on the slick road. “Before
we get to that, do you know, personally, what
Justice Califano was doing at the library
last night, Ms. Markham?” To her surprise,
he pulled his PDA from his pocket and waited,
the small stylus poised.
“I have no idea. I told you he liked to
spend time there, to be alone, I suppose,
study briefs, review opinions, whatever. If
he went for a specific reason last night,
I don’t know what it was. May I ask why
it didn’t occur to any of you to call me?”
“Your mother didn’t know your hotel in
New York. We didn’t try your place because
your mother didn’t think you were there.”
“All right. I answered your question, now
answer mine. How did the killer manage to
get to my stepfather?”
She felt her mother flinch. She was listening.
Callie hoped that Detective Raven—what kind
of name was that?—had something to tell
them. He didn’t answer her immediately because
he was looking out the back window to see
if any of the media were following. He turned
back and said, “All we know so far is that
we have one guard, Henry Biggs, who’s in
the hospital unconscious because someone whacked
him on the head when he went out for a smoke,
took his clothes and waltzed right into the
building. When Officer Biggs regains consciousness,
and the doctors aren’t saying yet if he’ll
make it, then we’ll find out all the details.
The guards didn’t pay much attention, probably
because the killer looked enough like Henry
Biggs in size. So that means the uniform fit
him well enough.
“The FBI forensic teams are superb. You
can bet they will come up with some evidence.
It’s rare that a murderer leaves a pristine
crime scene.”
“The man who killed my stepfather must have
followed him around,” Callie said, “learned
his routine, hung around the Supreme Court
Building, learned the guards’ routines.
Someone had to have seen him, noticed him.
Wait, there’s closed-circuit TV in the building.
The cameras would show him, wouldn’t they?”
“Yeah, we’re already checking the security
tapes to see if the killer shows us any features
we can use to identify him. The guy had to
have visited the building several times, probably
in one of the tours. Maybe we’ll see him.”
Callie was stroking her mother’s gloved
hands, staring through the windshield at the
soft snow. “So that leaves us right now
with no obvious motive, and a guard in the
hospital with a cracked skull, still unconscious
so we can’t talk to him. What does he look
like?”
“The Supreme Court marshal told us that
Biggs is tall, beefy through the chest, a
white guy, around fifty. So our guy can’t
be that far off in appearance. I assume you
got home before midnight last night, Ms. Markham?”
“Why yes I did. And isn’t this just lovely.
I’m a suspect.”
“It’s my job, ma’am. I’m just doing
my job.”
Again, Callie wanted to smile, but didn’t.
“Do you know,” she said slowly, turning
to look out the car window, “I can accept
that he’s dead, intellectually.” But there
was nothing intellectual about how devastated
her mother was. She supposed that it would
hit her soon, but for now, she had to protect
her mother. It gave her mind focus.
Margaret said, not looking up from Callie’s
shoulder, “Callie wasn’t supposed to be
home until tomorrow, Detective. We were having
a surprise birthday party for her.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Califano. How old are you
tomorrow, Ms. Markham?”
“Twenty-eight, Detective Raven. How old
are you on your next birthday?”
“Thirty-two on March twentieth.”
Margaret raised her head. “My daughter wouldn’t
kill anyone, Detective.”
Callie said, “Well, the thing is, Mom, if
I’d had a gun last night, I might have shot
that jerk Jonah. As for the bimbo he was with,
I thought about drop-kicking her out the window.”
Ben grinned, couldn’t help himself. He was
suddenly thrown against the door. Bobby was
slipping and sliding all over the street,
which was, thankfully, empty. Only cops and
idiots would be out in this. It was only another
mile or so to the Daly Building. He watched
a big black SUV slide very gracefully across
the road into a fire hydrant, barely missing
an old Caddy. It was a strange moment, he
thought, sitting next to this woman, her grief
palpable, her life as she’d known it gone
in a flash.
“Yes, Detective Raven, I got home about
eleven o’clock last night. Delta Shuttle
from La Guardia into Reagan. It never even
occurred to me to stay in New York.”
He would check that she’d been on board
that Delta flight from New York City in any
case.
CHAPTER
5
THE HENRY J. DALY BUILDING
METROPOLITAN POLICE HEADQUARTERS
JUDICIARY SQUARE
CAPTAINHALLOWAY METthem inside the imposing
granite entrance of the station house, surrounded
by several of his men. He was very solicitous
with Margaret Califano and Callie, and said
in a low voice to Detective Raven, “Ben,
I just got a call from Deputy Assistant Director
Jimmy Maitland. Those two agents were brought
back from the Pocono Mountains by helicopter.
They’re on their way over here to speak
to Mrs. Califano. And we’ve got a safe house
to take them to for the next couple of days.”
They walked through the security checkpoint
into the station. It was warm inside and thick
with the smells of sweat, wet wool, coffee,
and an occasional whiff of forbidden cigarette
smoke. Ben said to Captain Halloway as he
warmed his hands, “I guess since a Justice
of the Supreme Court is high up in the federal
food chain, we’ll have to get used to the
Feds. I wonder if these FBI hotshots will
be neck stompers.”
“Maitland said these two don’t waste their
time on dickhead power plays.’
“Hello, Detective Raven. Good to see you
again.”
Ben Raven was grinning even before he saw
Dillon Savich, Sherlock at his side, come
through the security checkpoint. “Well,
I know them, sir. Would you believe this?
As I live and breathe, it’s the wild man
and his keeper. He’s a lot like you were,
Captain, in the bad old days.”
“Hi, Ben,” Savich said, and shook his
hand. “Captain Halloway, this is my keeper,
Agent Sherlock.”
Ben became serious after he’d made introductions
to everyone. “And last, this is Callie Markham,
Justice Califano’s stepdaughter.”
Margaret Califano stared at Sherlock. “I’ve
never seen such beautiful hair. How do you
get all those curls?”
Savich laughed, relieved that the widow could
be distracted, if only for a moment. “It
takes her hours, ma’am. I beg her to come
to bed, but she’ll call out that she’s
got one more roller to go.”
Sherlock poked her husband’s arm, then took
Margaret’s hand. “You’re very nice to
notice, Mrs. Califano. We’re sorry about
your loss, ma’am, Ms. Markham. We’re here
to help in any way we can. And we will find
the person responsible, you can take that
to the bank. We know it’s a really bad time
for you, and everyone at the Bureau thinks
it’s best if you guys were protected for
a couple of days. That means keeping you out
of the media feeding frenzy that’s already
started. In a couple of days, we’ll set
up a press conference if you wish and you
can say your piece.”
“Justice,” Callie said. “You’re promising
my mother justice.”
“Yes, it’s not enough, but it’s all
we can offer. Mr. Miles Kettering has loaned
us his lovely house in Colfax, Virginia. You
won’t be disturbed by the media. We will
have agents there, available to you if the
need arises. We’ll have agents screen your
phone calls and forward important ones to
Colfax.” Sherlock didn’t add that both
she and Dillon had buckets full of questions,
and this, along with their safety, was one
of the main reasons everyone at the Bureau
wanted Mrs. Califano isolated for a while.
Having the daughter with Mrs. Califano was
a bonus.
“Why, Agent Savich, would someone kill my
husband?”
He heard the bewilderment in Mrs. Califano’s
voice, saw it in her ravaged face. “We don’t
know yet, but we’ll find out.”
Sherlock said, “I’ll send some agents
to pack clothes for the both of you. Ms. Markham,
it would be best if you remained with your
mother. I imagine the media have found out
about you and are camped out right now at
your apartment.”
“All right.” Callie saw that her mother
was staring at the two FBI agents—no, she
was staring through them, obviously overwhelmed.
Her eyes were vacant. Sherlock realized it
at the same moment. She and Callie each took
one of her arms, and half carried her over
to a bench. “You sit down, Mrs. Califano.
I don’t want you to worry about anything
right now. Your daughter will stay with you.”
Margaret raised her head. “But he’s dead,
my husband is dead. Gone. And there wasn’t
any warning, nothing at all.”
“I know. Put your head down, ma’am, and
breathe nice slow deep breaths. Just like
that.” Sherlock nodded to Callie. “You
try not to worry either. Take care of your
mother. Once you’re moved into the Kettering
house, we’ll come and talk.”
Margaret whispered something to her daughter.
Callie said, “My mother would really like
a cup of tea.”
“No problem,” said Captain Halloway. “If
your mother is up to it, we’ll go upstairs
to my office. It’s nice and quiet and warm.”
He took Margaret Califano’s arm and led
her to the elevator.
“I’ll be up in a moment, Mother.” Callie
turned to Sherlock. “I’ve never seen her
like this before in my life.”
Sherlock said, looking at Margaret Califano
as the elevator doors slid shut, “It’s
tough for a child to see a parent fall apart
like that, I know. And how are you holding
up, Ms. Markham?”
“Call me Callie. I’m not in shock yet,
but my mom’s awfully close. Thank you, Agent
Sherlock, for getting the house for my mother.
But really, I don’t need to go to this house
in Colfax. My mother has four very close women
friends who will stick close to her if you
let them, provide her all the support she’ll
need. They’ll be a real comfort to her.
“I think it would be better that I stay
here, keep busy, work with you to find out
who killed my stepfather. Of course I’ll
stay at a hotel, maybe under a different name,
so the media won’t bother me.”
“No way, Ms. Markham,” Detective Raven
said. He’d been speaking to Savich, and
he spoke without even looking at her.
“My mother needs protection and comfort
and support, I don’t. Actually, I think
I’d like to have the media find me.”
Ben said, “Nobody but an idiot wants to
deal with the media.”
Callie drew a deep breath, fanned her hands
in front of her. “I thought you would have
known. The thing is, I’m one of them.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, Detective Raven, that you know
I was Justice Califano’s stepdaughter, but
you haven’t bothered to check out what I
do for a living. I’m an investigative reporter
for The Washington Post. I’m one of the
vultures.”
“Well, sh—” He wanted to curse big time,
but didn’t.
“So some would say,” she agreed, “what
almost came out of your mouth. Nice save.”
“So you caught a reporter jerk in bed with
another reporter jerk and you’re the third
reporter in this triad?”
“Hey, another good save. You didn’t call
me a jerk.”
“The boot doesn’t fit just yet. Damn,
what are we going to do with you? Why don’t
we go sit down in one our primo interview
rooms?”
Callie looked him up and down. “As long
as it’s warm. My feet are wet. Yes, all
right, let’s go talk. But I want some tea
before you sweat me.”
Savich laughed. Officer Nancy Kreider said,
“Personally, I’d kill for some coffee.”
“That would be okay, too,” Callie said,
then felt a rush of misery. She cleared her
throat, aware that they were all looking at
her. “The thing is my stepfather believed
coffee is the first cousin to evil tobacco
and wouldn’t let it through the front door.
I once brought a thermos of coffee to their
house, had to swig it on the sly.”
Officer Kreider patted her arm. “I’ll
send someone to get us coffee and bring it
to the interview room.”
Sherlock pulled two teabags out of her purse.
“Dillon wouldn’t exactly call coffee a
first cousin to evil tobacco, but close enough.
Could we have some hot water?”
Callie walked down a corridor of dirty linoleum,
the color of lettuce, streaks of muddy water
making puddles here and there where the linoleum
had caved in, thinking that a Justice of the
Supreme Court of the United States of America
had been strangled, and they were talking
about coffee. There weren’t a whole lot
of people around, cops or otherwise. She thought
this was odd until she realized it was Saturday
morning.
The small interview room was warm, if nothing
else. There were half a dozen chairs and a
single scarred table. The walls were painted
the same lettuce color as the linoleum in
the corridor. Callie thought if she were a
criminal, she’d confess, just to get out
of this room.
She shrugged out of her coat, sat down, and
slipped her boots off so her socks could dry
out.
No one said anything until the coffee and
hot water for the tea arrived.
Callie looked from Detective Raven, who’d
taken off his leather jacket, to the special
agents. Officer Kreider sat against the wall,
saying nothing. “I was on the debate team
in high school. I had quite an edge because
my stepfather taught me. My mother wasn’t
married to him then, but they’d been seeing
each other for at least six months as I remember.
He was brilliant, I recognized that even as
a self-absorbed teenager. I told him once
when he demolished me in an argument that
he could probably convince a fencepost to
tango.” The instant the words were out of
her mouth, Callie burst into tears. Sherlock
handed her a Kleenex. She hiccuped, then managed
to get herself under control.
Ben Raven rolled up his shirtsleeves as he
said, “How long was it before your mother
married Judge Califano?”
She took a slow sip of the strong black coffee
until she was sure she wouldn’t lose it
again. “She didn’t marry him until I went
to Bryn Mawr. She took a long time deciding,
I guess, for the simple reason that she was
and is very rich. Even a Justice of the Supreme
Court could have been interested in her money.”
“And the other reason?”
“You’re fast, Agent Sherlock. My aunt
Marie, her sister, married a second time only
to have her new husband sexually abuse her
twelve-year-old daughter, my cousin, Moira.
I’ve never asked her, but I think that was
the other big reason why she waited.”
“So,” Ben said, “she waited until you
were out of the house.”
“She was careful,” Callie said. “My
mom’s always been very careful with me.
So, no matter how much she believed in her
second husband, I guess she wouldn’t take
a chance.”
“Is she that careful about everything?”
“She’s brilliant herself, Agent Savich.
She came from a rich family, it’s true,
but she didn’t sit back and let servants
pop peeled grapes into her mouth. She started
her own business, and now she owns four high-end
boutiques in the metropolitan area, all of
them doing quite well indeed. I think she’s
a little too driven, but that’s just the
way she is. To answer your question, she’s
careful about money. She has hers and, I suppose,
my stepfather kept his own accounts. She earns
the money, and she’s always protected it.
That, and her reputation, it’s very important
to her, and it’s not got anything to do
with her family name. It’s because of her
own pride in what she’s accomplished, in
what she is. I liked to see the two of them
debate something, anything.” A sob caught
in her throat again, and she stared down at
her feet. “Yeah, she’s careful about everything.”
Savich took a sip of tea before saying, “What
did your stepfather think about her financial
attitudes? The separate accounts and all that?
Since he was an older man, wouldn’t he have
expected joint accounts, expect perhaps to
manage his wife’s money?”
Callie shrugged. “I wasn’t at home enough
to form an opinion. When I visited, neither
of them ever raised any contentious subjects.
I remember only one real argument I walked
in on and that was five years ago.”
“Do you remember what the argument was about?”
Sherlock said.
“She was angry about something he’d done,
something she’d found out about. I don’t
know what it was, but my mom was nearly in
orbit. Then they both saw me and clamped a
lid on it. Again, this was five years ago,
hardly relevant to anything.”
Detective Raven said, “Are you aware if
your stepfather was ever involved with anyone
other than your mother? Did he ever make a
pass at you?”
She shook her head at him. “That’s such
a strange question to ask about my stepfather.
He simply wasn’t like that.”
Savich said, “So, from what you heard five
years ago, do you think your mom was winning
the argument?”
“This is quite a round robin you’ve got
going here, and all of you fall into it so
smoothly. My mother could argue with the devil,
Agent Savich. If she and my stepfather ever
got into it other than that one time, my nickel
would be on her, mainly for persistence. She’s
strong, my mother. This horrible murder has
flattened her, but she’ll rebound, you’ll
see.”
Sherlock asked, “Do you think she loved
her husband?”
“Yes, I believe it. As I said, around me,
they rarely argued, never questioned what
the other chose to do. When they were alone?
Sure, why not? I assume all married folk argue
from time to time. Why all these questions?
Do you think my mother killed him?”
Savich said, “Of course not. All these questions
help us get a handle on how Justice Califano
lived his life, how he dealt with the people
close to him. The more we know, the faster
we’ll find your stepfather’s killer. Do
you know of any possible enemies Justice Califano
had? Anyone he disliked?”
She thought a moment, cupping her hand around
the still-warm coffee cup. “There were a
number of politicians he didn’t care for,
and there were some lawyers he believed were
scum, but who doesn’t? Anyone close to him—sorry,
but I can’t think of anyone right now.”
“How was your relationship with your stepfather
recently?” Detective Raven asked.
“It was fine. The truth is I was well aware
of who my stepfather was—impossible not
to realize that your mother’s husband is
a Justice of the Supreme Court of the United
States. Everyone who knew was completely bowled
over—there are a lot of sycophants out there—but
truth be told, he was just my stepfather,
nothing more, nothing less.”
“You said you admired his brilliance.”
“Detective Raven, he could have chewed you
up for breakfast and still enjoyed his croissant.”
Officer Kreider laughed, then coughed into
her hand. “Sorry, the coffee went down the
wrong way.”
“I did some debating in college myself.”
Was there a bit of a snit in Detective Raven’s
voice?
Sherlock said, “Ms. Markham—”
“Please call me Callie since I have this
feeling we’re going to get quite chummy.”
“That’s fine. Call me Sherlock. My husband
is Dillon.”
“You two are married?”
“Nearly forever,” Savich said. “Ever
since she shot me dead in Hogan’s Alley.
That’s a dummy town down at Quantico that
has the world’s highest crime rate. Agents-in-training
catch bad guys there. She caught me and brought
me down.”
“And my name is Ben,” said Detective Raven.
He eyed Callie a moment, saw that she seemed
to have it together, but that could change.
“Now, Callie, when did you last see Justice
Califano?”
“Last weekend, our usual Saturday-morning
brunch.” Her voice caught and she fell silent.
She swallowed. “I was coming over this morning
for brunch. It was a surprise since they thought
I was in New York.”
“What did he think of this Jonah character
you were hanging out with?”
“The Jonah character happens to be on staff
at The New York Times, Detective Raven. My
stepfather once said he only had to read the
first two lines of Jonah’s supposed hard
news, and the bias smacked him in the face.
But he also said if anyone wanted to have
objective news, he’d have to go to Mars.
There was no such thing here on earth. The
truth was, he thought Jonah Blazer was an
opportunist. I did hear him say that once
when he didn’t know I was listening.”
Savich said, “And what did your stepfather
think of your reporting, Callie?”
“As I said, my stepfather was a very smart
man. When one of my investigative pieces impressed
him, and it did happen twice, he told me.
Otherwise, he stayed out of it. We made a
deal after I started with The Washington Post—get
that look off your face, Detective Raven,
he didn’t help me get the job at the Post.
I got it on my own merits.” She paused,
drew in a deep breath. “Okay, they probably
hoped I’d dish up insider news to them on
the Supreme Court, but I never did. I never
would. It worked well.”
“I thought it was going to be ‘Ben.’ ”
“Not when you’re obnoxious. Just get that
look off your face, he did not get me my job.”
Sherlock raised a hand. “All right, children,
enough insults. Now, Callie, what did your
mom think of this reporter in New York?”
“She despised him, although she tried hard
not to show it.”
Ben said, “So your mom and your stepfather
couldn’t stand this guy and yet you still
had him on your A list?”
“I’m young. I’m stupid. I thought Jonah
was a deep thinker.”
“You’re not that young,” Ben said.
“Thank you for the diplomatic correction.”
“Hey, it’s why I’ll never be the police
commissioner. And about your reporter—after
all this deep thinking, it turns out he was
just horny like most of the guys on the planet.”
“That’s exactly right, Detective Raven.”
Sherlock said, “Why the strong emotion on
their parts? Did they think you were going
to marry the guy?”
Callie frowned down at the dregs in the bottom
of her coffee cup, then leaned down to pull
her boots back on. When she sat up again,
she said, “You know, I really don’t know
why she couldn’t stand him. I asked her
once, but she slicked right out of answering.
As for my stepfather, he never really said
anything about Jonah other than that one comment
I overheard.”
Savich said, “All right. If everyone is
done for now, I think it’s a good idea for
Captain Halloway to get you and your mom to
Colfax.”
Sherlock nodded. “Thank you very much, Callie,
for your assistance. If you think of anything
that might help, call us immediately. I know
this is very difficult for you, but I have
a favor to ask. Please don’t report this
to your newspaper or give anyone an exclusive.
We really need to get a handle on all of this,
and it would be helpful if you could hang
back, help us keep the lid on things.”
“I would never do that.” Callie thought
for a minute. “I’ll bet my editor, Jed
Coombes, is jumping up and down with excitement.
But I’ll deal with him. I’ll drop out
of sight for a while. I just hope he won’t
fire me.”
“Nah, he’ll keep thinking he can talk
you around,” Ben said.
“At least until the funeral,” Sherlock
said. “That’ll be toward the end of next
week.”
Callie stared at her. “The funeral. I hadn’t
thought about that. I need to take care of
things. My mother’s friends can help me.”
She wrapped her scarf around her neck and
headed for the door.
“Your coat, Callie,” Ben said. “You
forgot your coat.”
CHAPTER
6
THE FLAMBOYANT WHITEmarble columns of the
Supreme Court Building were festooned with
both yellow police tape and blue FBI tape.
Savich thought it looked rather like a madly
decorated Greek mausoleum. The first of the
forensic teams had already come and gone.
Marshal Alice Halpern, flanked by two Supreme
Court police officers, was first to greet
them. She seemed alternatively reserved, shocked,
and defensive. Savich wondered if Marshal
Halpern would be forced to resign. Already
she was being beaten up by politicians and
the media for allowing a Supreme Court Justice
to be killed on their turf. Given the large
security budget, the criticism was fierce
and continuous.
The snow was still coming down, thin and floaty
as a bride’s veil. The wind was quiet, but
as the afternoon wore on, Savich knew the
temperature would drop. He stood with Sherlock
and Detective Ben Raven in the third-floor
library, their voices lowered out of some
strange sense of reverence.
Savich slipped his cell back into his jacket
pocket and looked at the two of them. “The
President, the FBI director, and the Attorney
General announced the death of Justice Stewart
Quinn Califano to the world a few minutes
ago. As you can imagine, the media are in
full twenty-four-hour-coverage mode. We got
Mrs. Califano out just in time. This is going
to be a huge investigation, bigger than anything
we’ve been involved with, coordinated by
the FBI, under the control of the FBI, but
with the help of Washington Metro. I’ve
been assigned to report directly to my boss,
DAD Maitland, and you’ll be the point person
at Metro, Ben. It’ll be your job to keep
all the Metro brass in the loop, all the way
up to Police Commissioner Holt. Metro will
have its own group interfacing with ours.
You need any assistance at all, you let me
know. Our first big meeting is this afternoon
at FBI headquarters. Sherlock, you’ve been
studying the room. What do you think?”
Sherlock pointed to the chair at the end of
the beautifully carved table. “He took off
his coat, pulled off his gloves, unwound his
cashmere scarf, and neatly laid the lot on
the back of this chair. He’s sitting in
the next chair, at ease since he’s comfortable
here. He’s alone, but protected. What are
there—a dozen guards patrolling the building
on a Friday night? And a sophisticated communication
system connecting everything in the building.”
“So he’s not at all worried about being
alone,” Ben said.
“Right. Okay. It seems strange to me that
a Justice would spend his whole week here
and then come in on a Friday night for the
fun of it. So he’s obviously here for a
reason. Maybe he’s got some papers to review,
something he doesn’t want to commit to his
computer or share with his wife, and we know
he was a computer buff. What he wants is privacy.
So what are these papers? He pulls them out
of his coat since he didn’t bring his briefcase—”
“Unless the killer took the briefcase,”
Ben said.
“The guards said he didn’t have one,”
Savich said. “Said he pulled out a sheaf
of papers along with other stuff to go through
security. He didn’t have to do this, naturally,
but it was one of his habits. So he’s sitting
here reading, relaxed, and then he hears something.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said. “He hears something,
and it pulls him out of his reading. He looks
up, maybe he calls out, then maybe he’s
suddenly scared, wants to call for help. He
gets out of the chair to use the wall phone.”
Savich picked it up. “Since there was no
warning, no fight, it was probably at that
moment that his killer came up behind him
and looped the garrote around his neck.”
Sherlock said, “And it was a man. The M.E.
says there’s no way a woman could have gotten
the leverage to do the job. Remember, he had
to loosen the loop at some point to get the
shirt collar out of the way, and he had to
be strong.”
Savich said, “There were two cuts on the
Justice’s neck, which means the killer started
pulling it tight but Califano’s shirt was
in the way. And so he loosened it, gave the
Justice a chance to slip his fingers underneath
it, and then he finished it off.”
Sherlock said, “The pressure was so great,
the wire so sharp, that it cut right through
the bones of his fingers. The killer must
have worn gloves. This was brutal, almost
gleefully brutal.”
Ben said, “Why do you say that?”
Sherlock shook her head. “I don’t know,
really, it just feels that way to me.”
Ben said, “I wonder if Justice Califano
knew who the man was. I wonder if the man
said anything to him before he choked him
to death, or did he come up behind him and
do the job without a word.”
Sherlock said, her head cocked to one side,
“I think this guy talked to Justice Califano,
taunted him after he had that wire around
his neck, after he was sure he had control.
We’ve got a good-sized ego here. This is
a guy who’s full of himself, strong enough
to take down a man like Califano, a good-sized,
fit man for his age.
“The guy took huge risks here, knocking
out that guard, coming back into the building
wearing the guard’s clothes, assuming he’d
blend in so he could roam free in the building.
Since it was late at night, there was a good
chance he could slip up to the third-floor
library unnoticed, unless one of the other
guards spoke directly to him.”
Ben stared at the two of them. “You know
what, guys? There were far easier ways to
do this if all he wanted was to kill Justice
Califano. Why would he choose to kill him
right here in the Supreme Court Building,
ostensibly terrorist-proof, heavily guarded?
Was he making a point? Is he just crazy? Sherlock
said the murderer was gleefully brutal. This
guy sounds like a professional, but he didn’t
behave like one.”
“If he is a professional,” Sherlock said,
“there must be a huge paycheck at the end
of it.”
Savich said quietly. “And if he is a professional,
he enjoys his work. Could be the money’s
secondary.”
“Again,” Sherlock said, “we get back
to Ben’s point. Why take all those unnecessary
risks to murder Justice Califano?”
“If we find that out, we’ve got him,”
Savich said.
Ben looked from one to the other and back
again, his eyes finally resting on Savich’s
face. “Maybe it was some sort of test, some
sort of a challenge.”
“Maybe,” Savich said. “But it could
also have been someone who hated Justice Califano’s
guts to such an extent that he wanted not
only to hurt him badly before he killed him,
he also wanted to humiliate him, and maybe
the Supreme Court itself, and that’s why
he chose to do it here.”
Sherlock lightly touched her fingers to the
glossy library table, the rich wood glowing
in the dim early afternoon light. “I think
the killer had to be a professional. Otherwise,
if it was someone who knew him, someone who
hated him deeply, then I’ll bet he would
have been smart and gotten him someplace private
and killed him with as little risk as possible.”
“So this was for enjoyment because it’s
the way the guy gets his jollies,” Ben said.
“For Feds,” he continued after a moment,
looking back and forth between them as they
both nodded, “you guys are making some sense.
So you’re thinking professional regardless
of the risks he took?”
Sherlock nodded. “We’ll check on the whereabouts
of all the professional assassins with anything
like this M.O.—using a garrote, liking big
risks. Think that might track?”
“Yeah, I do,” said Ben. “No terrorists
at all in this scenario then.”
Savich said, “We’ll cover all the bases.
The CIA is already deep into it. So far, there’s
nothing, and no one has claimed any responsibility.
Revenge sounds good to me, something up close
and personal.”
“Not a random madman or an extremist of
some persuasion?”
“Could be, but it doesn’t feel right.”
As they walked from the Supreme Court Building
on East Capitol Street, Ben said, “You want
to know the truth about something? If someone
wants you dead, you’re dead. You can have
the Praetorian Guard, motion sensors, a gazillion
alarm systems, it wouldn’t matter.”
Savich said, “You’re right, of course,
but no one is willing to accept that. Now,
we’ve got a murdered Supreme Court Justice,
so that means endless and exhaustive media
attention from every talking head who’s
ever been a cop, or just thinks he’s smart,
and the President will likely get twice-a-day
briefings on our progress. Everyone will focus
on the murder for maybe a day and a half,
then turn their attention to who the President
will nominate to take Justice Califano’s
place on the Court.
“In the meantime, we’ll have unlimited
resources, both federal and local, and huge
expectations to live up to.”
Sherlock said, “It all comes down to the
fact that our Justice Califano made a big-time
enemy, so this gives us another starting place,
the money behind the murder.”
“So alibis don’t mean diddly squat,”
Ben said, “if this big-time enemy didn’t
want to get blood on his own hands.”
“That’s about it.” Savich yawned. He
was tired to his bones what with staying up
half the night thinking about what happened
in that house in the Poconos and getting called
so early on Saturday morning to come back
to Washington. He wondered if his father,
FBI agent Buck Savich, had enjoyed sleeping
in on a Saturday morning sometimes, at least
once a decade.
SATURDAY AFTERNOON
JEDCOOMBES, editor for The Washington Post
and Callie’s boss, could hardly contain
himself. “What the hell do you mean you’re
not coming in? Look here, Callie, I know it’s
Saturday, I know you’re supposed to be in
New York, but you’re back home now. I know
the Justice was related to you, but that’s
exactly why we really need you here—”
Callie held the phone to her ear but tuned
him out. Jed always used six sentences to
say what he could say in one. He was understandably
pissed, since he saw her as his direct pipeline
to the background on the story, and she let
him rant, even toss in condolences when a
tug of his long-forgotten manners kicked in.
She waited for him to run down, like a wind-up
toy. He said the words Pulitzer Prize at least
three times. Finally, he was reduced to panting
a bit because he hadn’t taken a single breath
in his entire rant.
“I understand, Jed,” she said at last,
“but the bottom line is that it was my stepfather,
and my mother needs me. It doesn’t matter
that I’m a reporter, I will not go against
the FBI on this, and I’ve promised them
I’d stay away from work for a while. Surely
you don’t want to see this case compromised
because I shot off my mouth.”
“It’s not my job to care about the FBI’s
case. It’s my job to run a newspaper.”
She smiled into her cell. “I’ll speak
to you again after the funeral, Jed. My mom’s
in pretty bad shape, as you can imagine. I
don’t know when I’ll be back.”
“Callie, why don’t you speak to your mom,
get me some personal stuff here—”
“No, Jed.”
She heard some ripe curses, then a deep sigh.
“You’ll let me know the instant you have
all the funeral details? Regardless of the
specifics, you can be sure there’ll be a
big service, probably with the President and
everyone in line to be President. They’ll
be up there saying how great a man Califano
was even if they might have hated him. Come
on, Callie, there’s a lot going on that
has nothing to do with the investigation.”
“Okay, Jed, you’ve got a point on that
one. The instant things get nailed down, I’ll
call you.”
“But—”
“I don’t even know when the M.E. will
release my stepfather’s body.” She swallowed,
tears pooled in her eyes.
“Callie, you there? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, Jed. Look, I’ve got to go now.
I’ll probably see you at the funeral. Thanks
for authorizing a week’s leave of absence.”
“I don’t know, Callie, you’re a big
part of the team here and you’ve got to
realize that—”
Callie shut off her cell and slipped it back
into her pocket. It began ringing within three
seconds. She turned it off. She wondered what
Jed Coombes would do if someone in his own
family was murdered. He was such a news junkie,
such a hard-ass when it came to getting a
story, he’d probably give himself an exclusive.
CHAPTER
7
THE KETTERING HOME
COLFAX, VIRGINIA
CALLIE WALKED INTOthe living room of the lovely
Colonial house in Colfax where she and her
mother were stashed. One of her mother’s
oldest friends, Anna Clifford, was with her.
Poor Anna had a son in jail for dealing cocaine.
Her other two children, however, were upright
citizens and gainfully employed. Her husband
was a quiet man who owned a large Virginia
construction company. Anna was speaking quietly
to her mother, holding her hand. Callie paused
a moment, then went on upstairs. She’d gotten
her clothes hung in the closet when she heard
the front doorbell, then Anna’s voice, and
her mother’s.
It was agents Savich and Sherlock, and Detective
Raven. She imagined they’d be regulars in
her daily life until this was over.
She pulled on jeans and a fleece sweatshirt
and went down into the kitchen to make coffee
and tea for Agent Savich and her mother. She
found some croissants on the counter, stuck
them in the oven to heat up, and stood there
in the bright kitchen, watching the snow sheet
down outside the window.
When she carried the big silver tray into
the living room, her mother was weeping, Detective
Raven looked acutely uncomfortable, and Agent
Sherlock was gently stroking her mother’s
arm.
Callie had never in her life seen her mother
so wrecked. She looked up then, and gently
pulled away from Anna Clifford and Agent Sherlock.
She tried a smile. It wasn’t much of one,
but it was a start. “Callie, I would love
some tea and then—and then we need to talk.”
Her voice was suddenly calm. Callie smiled
at her mother, served everyone, then sat down
with her own cup of coffee. She realized soon
enough that Agent Savich and Agent Sherlock
were taking time with their coffee and tea,
nibbling on the croissants, giving her mother
time to collect herself. Detective Raven,
however, seemed impatient, prickling with
nervous energy. She watched him pick up his
second croissant. He looked over at her and
grinned. “It’s true, you know, that all
we ever have at the station is jelly donuts,
all sugar and lard, not like the pure butter
that holds these delicious things together.”
Margaret Califano said, “Everyone is acting
normally, and I suppose that’s a relief.
Do you worry about your cholesterol, Detective
Raven?”
“I’m genetically blessed, Mrs. Califano.”
“You’re also very young.”
Callie looked at his long solid athlete’s
body and laughed. “Yeah, I bet you just
gorge yourself on donuts.”
Margaret sipped her oolong tea, shuddering
at the delicious dark flavor.
Savich said, “I’m sorry we have to ask
you questions at a time like this, Mrs. Califano,
but a murder investigation requires it. Do
you feel up to talking to us now?”
“Yes, Agent Savich, of course.”
He said, “Did your husband behave differently
in the days before he was killed? Did he seem
concerned about something or someone?”
“No, he was the same as always, even yesterday.
At least I didn’t notice anything different.
Oh God, maybe there was something that I simply
didn’t see because I was in a rush to get
to one of my stores.”
“No, Mrs. Califano, don’t blame yourself.
I need you here with me, now.”
Margaret drew a deep breath. “Yes, of course
you’re right. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. Now, did your husband
tell you why he was going to the Supreme Court
Building last night?”
“No, he didn’t. And I didn’t ask. Everyone
knew he went there whenever the spirit moved
him. Even Anna knew, didn’t you?”
Anna nodded. “Oh yes. It was Stewart’s
refuge.”
Margaret said, “He told me once that it
was the only place he could hear himself think.”
Her voice quavered. She quickly lowered her
head and sipped more tea. Then she straightened
her shoulders. “If he was studying something
specific, I don’t know what it would have
been. Perhaps in their weekly Friday meeting,
a minority of Justices wanted to grant a cert.
that Stewart didn’t believed warranted a
hearing.”
“A cert.?” Savich’s eyebrow went up.
“I’m sorry. A cert., as it’s called,
stands for certiorari. It’s a formal request
that the Court hear a case. If four Justices
vote to grant the petition, then the case
is scheduled for argument. If the four votes
aren’t there, the cert. is denied.” She
studied the dark stain of tea in the bottom
of her cup. “As I said, it’s possible.
As to anything else on his mind, I couldn’t
say. When he walked through the front door,
he might be brooding, but he wouldn’t speak
of it, if it was work-related.”
“Were you and Justice Califano having any
personal problems, Mrs. Califano?”
Callie hissed quietly through her teeth, but
Margaret merely patted her arm. “No, Agent
Savich, no problems. Yes, we disagreed sometimes
like every married couple does, but in the
nine years we’ve been married, I’ve never
thought about killing him. Surely you don’t
think our personal life had anything to do
with this. Terrorists, or some sort of extremists,
must have killed Stewart.”
Sherlock said, “Did he express any concerns
about terrorists?”
“No, he didn’t. Stewart was quite moderate,
not at all controversial. To the best of my
knowledge he didn’t overly offend either
side. That’s why it would be so strange
if some sort of fringe madman did kill him.
Why, for heaven’s sake? Why not Chief Justice
Abrams? Why not Justice Alto-Thorpe, who’s
far to the left, or Justice Alden Spiros,
who’s far to the right? Both held very strong
opinions on all the hot-button issues, like
abortion, the death penalty, affirmative action,
that sort of thing. That makes more sense,
doesn’t it?”
“Perhaps it does,” Savich said.
Ben Raven said, “Did he ever speak to you
about someone he was having a conflict with?
Someone he didn’t approve of? Someone who
hated him?”
“Detective Raven, Stewart was a very private
man. His best friend was Justice Sumner Wallace.
Perhaps he would know if there was something
troubling Stewart or if he was having a major
problem with someone, particularly someone
out of his past.” She fanned her hands in
front of her. “Everyone pictures the Justices
sitting around a big mahogany table, wearing
their robes, sober and stately, spouting big
words and discussing esoteric legal precedents.
The truth is they spend very little time together.
They usually work alone, reading, or meeting
with their law clerks.
“Their weekly meetings are Wednesday and
Friday, and it always sounded to me like it
was all business. That doesn’t mean, naturally,
that they don’t argue and yell and be furious
with each other when they’re in conference.
No one but the Justices are allowed in that
conference room on Fridays, so they can be
rancorous without fear of anyone gossiping
or leaking information to the media.
“Politics plays a bigger role than Stewart
liked. Every Justice has an agenda very strongly
colored by his or her political beliefs, more
so now than say thirty years ago, before Watergate.
“Stewart would laugh about some of the really
nasty comments everyone knew would not be
written down. There’s still a tinge of sexism
among some of the Justices—remember we’re
talking about nine people who are all from
the older generation—even though the men
try to control their feelings, for example,
if one of the female Justices has disagreed
strongly with them. Also, both Democrat and
Republican Justices have historically selected
men as law clerks. Even today, out of the
thirty-six law clerks, only ten are women.
Stewart had two female law clerks.
“Now, if you want the raw truth about the
Justices, you go to the law clerks. They’re
the ones who really keep the Court running.
They write opinions, lobby the Justices about
cases they care about, and so much more. The
clerks know about most everything going on
in that faux Greek temple—that’s what
I call it.” She paused, looked blindly at
Savich. “I still can’t believe anyone
would want to kill my husband, actually take
the life of a Supreme Court Justice. It simply
makes no sense. It’s got to be a madman,
it’s got to be.”
Savich said, “Perhaps. Mrs. Califano, everyone
who is as successful as your husband makes
enemies along the way. Before President Reagan
appointed him to the Supreme Court in 1987,
Justice Califano was the Deputy Attorney General,
the Attorney General, and an Associate Justice
of the Superior Court, all of New York. He
was a judge of the United States Court of
Appeals for the First Circuit. He was sixty-four
years old, and that means a long professional
life, more than long enough to make enemies.
Please think, Mrs. Califano.”
“He did have a long professional life, Agent
Savich. Do you think an enemy would wait that
long before exacting revenge? I can’t think
that’s very likely.”
Ben said, “When I was a rookie, ma’am,
my trainer was shot by a man he’d put away
twenty years before. There’s no statute
of limitations on revenge.”
“No, I suppose you’re right. But it’s
rather frightening to think that decisions
you made years ago could come back and kill
you. No, I really can’t think of anyone,
at least he never mentioned anyone he was
worried about.”
“What was your husband’s relationship
with his senior law clerk?”
“That would be Eliza Vickers, graduated
the top of her class at Harvard Law School.
I’ve met her, of course, spoken to her at
social functions and occasionally on the phone.
Stewart said she’s an emotional liberal,
from a social welfare point of view, but a
firm legal conservative, is horrified at the
thought of social engineering. He liked that.
She’s smart, well organized, and the other
two law clerks are under her control. He has
three clerks, not four like most of the Justices.
Stewart admired her and trusted her, I believe.
I liked her too. Unlike most law clerks who
spend only a year working for a Justice, she
was in her second year with him.”
Ben said, “I wonder what will happen to
the three of them now?”
Margaret shrugged.
“Three more lawyers will be turned loose
on society a little early,” Sherlock said.
“That’s a thought to curl your toes.”
Margaret smiled, just for a brief moment.
Sherlock said, “With your permission, Mrs.
Califano, we would like to go through your
address book as well as Justice Califano’s
to compile a list of your friends and anyone
with whom your husband had ongoing contact.”
“Certainly.” She looked down at the delicate
Rolex on her right wrist. “Janette, Bitsy,
and Juliette should be here soon. Anna, you
did call them, didn’t you?”
Anna nodded, and went with Margaret to get
her address book.
Thirty minutes later, Callie walked agents
Sherlock and Savich and Detective Raven to
the front door. “Are you going to see the
other Justices now?”
“Yes, they knew Justice Califano best. And
the law clerks, naturally. We need all the
information on him they can provide us. We
need to form a clear picture of your stepfather,
what he was really like—his likes, dislikes,
people who rubbed him the wrong way and vice
versa, and especially, if his behavior was
different in any way on Friday.”
When they reached the door, Callie looked
straight at Ben Raven and said, “You’re
going to split up, right?” At their nods,
Callie said, “I’ve known the Justices
since I was sixteen years old, and I know
more about the law clerks than my mom. For
example, Eliza is a major league ballbuster.
She ruled my stepfather’s chambers with
an iron fist. Why don’t I go with Detective
Raven? I can fill him in, maybe give him an
introduction that will help you guys.”
Savich shook his head. “No, Ms. Markham,
that isn’t possible. We would certainly
like to hear everything you know about any
of them, but you cannot be a part of the official
investigation.”
She dug in her heels. “Look, Agent Savich,
I want to help. I’m not about to go running
to the Post with a big inside story. Stewart
was prissy, he was rather rigid, and he could
never tell a joke right, but he was a good
man, and he had a brilliant legal mind. The
thought that someone murdered him enrages
me.”
“Forget it, Ms. Markham,” Ben said. “Go
home and have a cup of tea. Write your gossip
columns.”
“I don’t write gossip columns, you jerk.”
She paused, pointed a teacher’s finger at
him. “Let me put it this way, Detective,
agents, either you let me help or I might
go back to work, all the way back. I already
have lots of good inside information, enough
for the first page, don’t you agree?”
“That’s blackmail,” Sherlock said, eyebrow
arched, and gave Callie a look of respect.
“That’s ugly.”
“I know, Sherlock, but please listen to
me. I’m not stupid, and I know these people,
and I know how to keep my mouth shut. I’m
only pushy when I’m in my reporter mode,
and even that could be useful. I took time
off from the Post, much to my editor’s annoyance.
Please, let me help.”
Ben said, “I could put you in jail for the
attempted blackmail, Ms. Markham. Give it
up. You’re not a cop, you don’t know anything.
We’re the professionals, let us do our job.”
Callie struck a pose, tapped her fingertips
against her chin. “Hmm, you know, I can
see the headline right now in my head. FBI
and Metro Police Flummoxed. If you don’t
let me work with you, I will investigate on
my own. My mother, our friends, the Justices,
the clerks, they will talk to me, more easily
than they’ll talk to you.
“Use some brain cells here, Detective Raven.
Do you think they’re more likely to tell
a cop what’s going on, or me, someone they
know, someone they trust?”
“Has anyone ever decked you, Ms. Markham?”
She gave him a cocky grin. “There have been
those who’ve tried. Don’t you even think
about it, Detective.” She looked him up
and down. “I could take you down without
breaking a sweat.”
“All right, enough,” Savich said. He turned
to Sherlock, who was eyeing Callie with amusement.
Callie, scenting victory, pushed hard. “Actually
I have a black belt in karate. I can take
care of myself. I could probably protect Detective
Raven too, if it came down to it. The only
one I’d be worried about in this group is
Agent Sherlock.”
Savich laughed. “You’re probably right
about that.” He heaved a sigh. “There
are going to be lots and lots of interviews
happening during the next three days. Probably
a good fifty agents and local police working
the case. What’s one reporter added to the
mix? Ben, would you mind keeping Ms. Markham
in tow?”
“Yes, I mind,” Ben Raven said. “I’m
not going to be saddled with a reporter—a
reporter—Savich. For God’s sake, not even
your garden-variety sort of reporter, but
an investigative reporter who thinks she’s
smart and in reality doesn’t know squat.
“As for you, Ms. Markham, and your big mouth,
if you could take me down, I’d hang it up,
leave the force, go find me an isolated cabin
in Montana. Savich, you’re worried about
blackmail, you take her with you. No damned
way is she getting within six feet of me and
any suspect. It ain’t going to happen.”
CHAPTER
8
CALLIEMARKHAM SAIDto Detective Ben Raven as
he drove to Justice Sumner Wallace’s house
in Chevy Chase, “Okay, now I’m going to
come through as promised. Here’s something
I doubt you could have found out. My mother
told you that Stewart’s best friend on the
court was Justice Sumner Wallace. Maybe that
was true at one time, but not recently. This
may shock you, but Justice Wallace has a bit
of a reputation with women. I think he was
inappropriate with my mother and that Stewart
was aware of it. He wasn’t happy with his
old golf buddy.”
Ben was shocked and he tried not to show it,
but Callie laughed. “I know, it just doesn’t
fit the image. Now, I guess Mom didn’t realize
my stepfather knew. She likes to keep the
peace, so she wouldn’t have said anything,
just ignored it, or handled it herself if
it got bad.”
Ben was still trying to come to grips with
something he never would have imagined. “So
this Justice of the Supreme Court of the United
States, this guy who’s older than my dad,
was putting the moves on your mother? Are
you absolutely sure about this?”
“Yes. Listen up. Justice Wallace is about
sixty-five, not yet ready for the grave, Detective
Raven. My mom was talking on the phone about
him once to one of her friends, Bitsy, I think
it was. Mom only smiled, and said now wasn’t
he a frisky one. I think she knew I was listening,
and so she finished her call up fast.”
“You were eavesdropping?”
“Sure. It’s my stock in trade. She never
said a thing to me, but she did acknowledge
me after she hung up the phone, so I’m sure
she knew I was there. Right about that time,
Stewart stopped speaking with Justice Wallace.”
“So, not only is he old, he’s married,
and he was lusting after your mother?”
“My mom is very pretty, Detective Raven.
I’m not surprised that any man would be
interested in her. I’m more shocked that
he would actually act on it.”
“I didn’t mean to insult your mother,
it was the incredulity speaking. When did
this happen?” Before she could answer, Ben’s
cell phone rang. He listened for some time,
frowned, and punched off. “That was Savich.
He spoke to the medical examiner, Dr. Conrad.
He said TV vans are all around the morgue,
but he’s trying to keep a lid on things.
He’s threatened to lock any of the staff
who dares whisper a word to anyone, including
spouses, in the morgue freezer. Also, something
unexpected. Dr. Conrad said Justice Califano
had about six months to live. It appears he
had pancreatic cancer. He doesn’t think
Justice Califano knew it yet, since he’d
probably not had any pain. Said he’d only
lost about six months of life, and even with
that, this cancer can be really bad once it
gets rolling.”
“Oh no,” Callie said. “Oh no. Stewart
was damned either way. I guess I’m glad
he didn’t know. Can you imagine what it
would be like to know you were dying of cancer,
that you’d be gone in six months?”
“Agents will be speaking to his doctors,
see if he did know, but kept it to himself.”
Callie leaned her head against the seat back.
“Poor poor Stewart.” She started crying,
silently, tears rolling down her face. The
dreadful irony of it. It was like losing him
all over again.
BENRAVEN LOOKEDaround at the TV vans in front
of Justice Sumner Wallace’s 1960s single-level
home, and the three cars parked at the curb.
“I wonder where the federal marshals are.
Would you look at all the media.” He pulled
his white Ford Crown Victoria, sedate on the
outside, lots of muscle under the hood, in
front of the house. Reporters jumped out of
the cars and ran toward them.
Ben ignored them, looked over at the sprawling
brick-and-wood house set back in the woods.
“Even if you yelled, the neighbors wouldn’t
hear you. It feels like we’re in the sticks
somewhere, not in a corner of Chevy Chase.”
Ben and Callie climbed out of the car, trudged
through the snow-covered sidewalk toward the
front door, still ignoring the reporters.
By the time they were halfway up the walk,
the reporters had swarmed. Ben didn’t stop
walking, just pulled out his badge, held it
high, waved it in their faces, and shouted,
“We have no comment at this time. We don’t
have any news for you.”
The snow had thickened a bit. Callie kept
her head down, hoping none of the reporters
would recognize her.
It was not to be. “Hey, Markham, what are
you doing here? I know Justice Califano was
your uncle or something, but how come you
get to go in with the cop?”
“Hey, sorry, Markham, but can you tell us—”
“What idiots,” she said under her breath,
but at least two reporters caught her words.
She continued to ignore all of them as best
she could, just as Detective Raven did. The
microphones were no longer in her face for
the simple reason that Ben gave them all a
look that could kill. That backed them up
a foot, but no more.
“Why don’t you threaten them with your
gun?”
“Doesn’t work. I tried it once, but as
I recall, they laughed at me. You don’t
make a threat unless you can back it up. That’s
what my dad always said.”
“Your dad was a cop?”
“Oh yeah. Now he’s private. He’s a riot,
finds humor in every case he takes. Once he
was dealing with a real badass, but he told
me how the guy broke out in hives whenever
he visited his mother. He’s very successful.
My father, not the badass.”
She blinked up at him and smiled, despite
herself. She tuned out the reporters’ yells
behind them. “I remember a lot of laughter,
too, when my dad was alive. You’re lucky,
Ben.”
“That depends. How would you like to have
four siblings, all of them older than you,
all of them obnoxious and nosy, always in
your business, always trying to set you up
with blind dates? I’ve had dreams of being
an only child, like you.”
She laughed. “None of us are ever satisfied
with what we’ve got. Like you’ve got this
slight curl in your hair that’s real sexy,
and you wear it a little on the long side
that makes it even sexier, while I have this
straight-as-a-board hair—”
His hair was sexy? Because he wore it too
long? “I suppose you’re fishing for a
compliment, aren’t you? However, since you’re
perfectly able to see yourself in a mirror
and know—well, never mind that. Nearly there,
just keep walking.”
A TV reporter who’d had to wait for his
cameraman to catch up to him yelled, “Hey,
Callie, how do you feel about your stepfather
being murdered in the Supreme Court?”
Callie stopped in her tracks. “That’s
just too much.” She took a step toward the
reporter, ready to do battle.
Ben grabbed her arm, said close to her ear,
“Just be quiet. You’re already a story
to them by yourself. Ignore them, keep your
head down. In a minute we’ll be inside.”
Ben rang the doorbell and called out, “It’s
Detective Ben Raven of the Metro Police. Please
let us in.”
Ben knew they were being closely observed,
and he held his badge to the peephole. Three
shouted questions later, the door finally
cracked open, and Ben was eyeball to eyeball
with a federal marshal. They exchanged badges
without saying a word.
Callie said, “We wondered where you were.”
She saw another federal marshal standing behind
him, and an older woman with a tired face
peering over his shoulder. “Come in quickly,
Detective Raven, Miss, before those jackasses
try to knock you down to try to get to Justice
Wallace,” said Federal Marshal Ted Ricks.
The federal marshal behind Ricks cracked his
knuckles. “Yeah, hurry it up.”
Ricks said, “They’ve been lurking for
about two hours now. We figured inside was
the most useful place to be.” He grinned.
“And the warmest.”
The older woman stepped up. “Justice Wallace
thought to speak to them, but he decided he
prefers a more dignified setting. We’re
locked up tight in here, prisoners in our
own home. My husband is in his study.”
Ben introduced himself to her when the two
federal marshals stepped out of the way. Naturally
Mrs. Wallace knew Callie. Ben said quickly,
“Ms. Markham isn’t working for the Post
on this, ma’am. She’s along to help.”
“I’m sorry about your stepfather, Callie,”
Mrs. Wallace said. “Very sorry for all of
us really, especially poor Sumner, who’s
naturally devastated.” Callie could only
nod and took her hands. There was strength
and comfort in them. Mrs. Wallace was wearing
old black wool pants, a baggy Redskins sweatshirt,
and house slippers. Whenever Callie had seen
her before, she’d been dressed to the teeth,
an elegant, well-coiffed woman who knew her
own worth. But now all she looked was exhausted.
Callie knew that Beth Wallace and her mother
got along well, although Callie didn’t know
how close they were. It was Callie who remembered
to take off her coat and wipe her boots on
the small rug inside the front door. Ben followed
her lead. Callie hung up their coats in the
front closet. Mrs. Wallace gestured down the
hallway. “Both of you, come along now.”
The federal marshals remained by the front
door, Ricks looking out the peephole at the
reporters milling around.
Mrs. Wallace led them down a long hallway.
Every wall, every surface, was covered with
Art Deco art and artifacts from the 1930s.
Their footsteps sounded loud on the oak floors,
echoing up to the twelve-foot ceiling.
“Sumner is devastated by this,” Mrs. Wallace
said again, as if there were simply no other
words available to her, “as you can well
imagine.” She paused a moment, drew herself
up, knocked on a door at the end of the hall,
and immediately opened it.
The room was dark. Mrs. Wallace sighed, walked
into the gloom, and turned on a lamp. It sent
out a circle of stark light, and in the center
of that circle sat an older man on a small
sofa, perfectly upright, his hands clasped
between his legs, eyes staring straight ahead.
“Justice Wallace,” Ben said as he walked
to the man, his badge out. “I’m Detective
Ben Raven from the Metro Police. I’d like
to speak to you, sir.”
Justice Wallace slowly turned his head to
look up at Ben. Then he looked beyond him
to Callie. “Callie? What are you doing here?
Why are you with this police officer?”
“I’m not here as a reporter, sir. I’m
here as part of my stepfather’s family.”
Slowly, Justice Wallace rose, walked to Callie,
and took her in his arms. She was nearly as
tall as he was. He felt strong as an ox, she
thought as she hugged him tightly. “Stewart
was a fine man, a fine Justice,” he said,
his voice choking. “Dear God, I will miss
him.” He hugged her more tightly.
Callie wanted to cry; it was odd, but what
held her back was the thought that this man
had actually made a pass at her mother, the
wife of another Justice who was supposed to
be his best friend. So she merely comforted
him as best she could, wondering if he was
bitterly sorry now for what he’d done.
After a few more moments, Justice Wallace
straightened. His shoulders went back. His
bearing was once again that of a Justice of
the Supreme Court, strong and in control.
He turned to Ben. “Won’t you sit down,
Detective? Beth, would you please get us coffee?”
Callie didn’t want any coffee, but Mrs.
Wallace had already turned away.
“Why are you here, Detective? Where is the
FBI? As you saw, we already have two federal
marshals to guard us. From a murder attempt
or to protect us from the media, I don’t
know. Do you?”
“I would say both, sir,” Ben said. “As
for the FBI, they’ll be here to talk to
you, Justice Wallace. I’m part of the team
put together by the Bureau. I really appreciate
you seeing me. If you don’t mind, sir, any
information you could give me about Justice
Califano would be helpful.”
Justice Wallace sighed. “So many guards,
so much security assigned to keep us safe.
How could this have happened? In the Supreme
Court Building, the bedrock of the rule of
law in our nation, the symbol of freedom and
balance in our government?”
Now that was eloquent, Ben thought, a lot
more statesmanlike than hitting on Margaret
Califano. Ben decided there was no reason
for him not to tell him. “It appears that
the killer knew one of the guards would go
outside for a smoke. He hit him on the head,
took his uniform, and came right back in.
It was after midnight, quiet, and unfortunately
he succeeded.” It was a lousy excuse, Ben
knew, but it was the truth. “Justice Wallace,
I understand you were Justice Califano’s
closest friend. Did you notice anything different
about him on Friday? Or during the past week?
Did Justice Califano appear distracted, perhaps
worried about something?”
“No, not at all. Stewart appeared the same
as always on Friday, and throughout the week
as well. I knew he didn’t want to revisit
the death penalty in the upcoming case, but
then again, neither did I.”
“Why would that be, sir?”
“He believed it wasn’t a good case for
the anti-death-penalty people to use since
this sixteen-year-old boy had murdered three
people in a particularly brutal manner. Still,
he hadn’t made up his mind about overturning
the ruling they’d made in 1989. The liberal
Justices wanted to swing him around to their
way of thinking to gain a plurality. There
was lots of maneuvering. I don’t know what
Stewart would have ended up deciding to do.”
“But you don’t believe he was in the Supreme
Court Library to think about this particular
case?”
“It’s possible. Whenever Stewart wanted
to be alone to think, to study a case or a
contentious issue like this one, he went to
the library. He simply felt an affinity for
it. He enjoyed being among those thousands
of books that give us the roots of what we
are as a people. They helped focus his mind,
he said, on the meaning of his work.”
“Do you have any idea who could have killed
him?”
Justice Wallace began rubbing his hands together,
like Lady MacBeth, Callie thought, and wasn’t
that a strange image to appear in her mind?
He said finally, his voice slow and thoughtful,
very much like a Justice rendering an opinion,
“No, there was no one, either in his past
or in the present, that I know of.”
“Do you know of anything on a more personal
level that was bothering Justice Califano?
Some disagreement he’d recently had? Some
argument?”
“No, naturally not. Stewart was very well
liked. He was happily married. He had a stepdaughter
everybody likes.” He sent something close
to a smile in Callie’s direction.
“You were his best friend, sir?”
“For many years. We both went to Harvard
Law. In those years, we drank too much, spent
too much time in clubs.” He fell silent,
sighed.
For the good old days? Ben had to remind himself
that the Justices of the Supreme Court had
once been young and that meant doing stupid
things, but it was still tough to believe.
Justice Wallace was one of the Supremes, so
high up he could call the President by his
first name.
It was time to move on, time to go to the
meat of the matter. He thought of what Savich
had said to him. “Remember, Ben, any of
the Justices could probably have you taken
out and shot, so be diplomatic, be respectful.”
Well, this wasn’t going to be respectful
at all. Ben could almost hear the firing squad
readying their rifles, but he formed the words
in his mind and managed to get them out of
his mouth. “Would you tell me, sir, whether
you’ve been personally involved with Margaret
Califano?”
Justice Wallace’s eyes flashed. What? Rage?
Embarrassment? No, not embarrassment, but
what? Astonishment that he’d been observed
and was being called on it? That was probably
it. His face paled a bit as he drew in a long,
slow breath. Ben prepared himself to be lambasted,
possibly threatened. He was aware that Callie
was staring intently at Justice Wallace.
But all the Justice said was, “That’s
ridiculous.”
“Yes, of course it’s ridiculous,” said
Mrs. Wallace from the door. “How dare you,
young man, intimate such a thing? You are
speaking to a Justice of the Supreme Court
of the United States.”
Ben wanted to apologize, but he held himself
still. He looked briefly at Callie. She was
still staring at Justice Wallace’s face,
not moving.
Beth Wallace wasn’t through. “The thought
that Sumner would ever do anything like that,
it’s nonsense. Both Stewart and Margaret
were our friends, both of them. It is also
an insult to me, Detective. My husband is
faithful to me, always has been. And to ask
such a thing at this time, in the context
of Stewart’s death—it’s reprehensible.”
The silver tray she carried trembled in her
hands. Callie quickly jumped to her feet and
took the tray.
Ben wished Mrs. Wallace could have remained
out of sight for two minutes more. Well, damn.
Her timing couldn’t have been worse. And
that was all he was going to get—a denial.
He nodded as he said, “Please let me apologize
to both of you. There are some questions a
policeman is forced to ask even though he
doesn’t want to. To return to Justice Califano’s
professional career. Can you think of anyone
who hated Justice Califano enough to kill
him?”
“Of course not,” Justice Wallace said
without hesitation. “If there were ever
such a question, any threatening correspondence,
for example, it was forwarded to the FBI immediately.
They always follow through on such things.
Of all the Justices, Stewart was least likely
to receive hate mail. Realize, Detective,
that the nine of us spend most of our time
in the Supreme Court Building. We’re not
out haranguing defense lawyers or sentencing
criminals, haven’t been for many years.”
There was a moment of tense silence, then
Justice Wallace said, “You don’t believe
this was a terrorist act, do you, Detective?”
“I don’t know, sir. And since we don’t
know, that’s why you have two federal marshals
assigned to guard you. They will remain until
we’ve solved this case. Now, sir, for our
information, and with my apologies, would
you please tell me where you were last night?”
Justice Wallace raised an eyebrow and said,
“Both my wife and I were home last night,
playing bridge with our next-door neighbors,
the Blairs. They left at around midnight.
Isn’t that right, Beth?”
Beth Wallace nodded. “Then we went to bed.”
She looked down at the beautiful silver coffeepot
no one had touched. “It does occur to me
to mention Eliza Vickers. She was Stewart’s
senior law clerk. She isn’t a very nice
woman.”
Justice Wallace frowned at his wife. “There’s
nothing to say about her, Beth.” When she
attempted to open her mouth again, he said
over her, “Eliza is one of the most effective
law clerks at the Court. She was always locking
horns with Stewart, always debating, especially
when she really cared about something. She
would nearly hold him prisoner in his office
when she wanted to bring him around to her
way of thinking.” He sighed. “She was
with him nearly a year and a half. He could
speak of nothing but keeping her on with him
beyond two years, something that’s very
rare.”
Beth Wallace said, venom in her voice, “She
disliked him, I know it for a fact.”
Now this exchange was peculiar, Callie thought.
She said, “Mrs. Wallace, why do you think
that?”
“It’s nonsense,” Justice Wallace said,
before his wife could speak. “You rarely
visited the Court. How would you know?”
“Tai Curtis, one of your own law clerks,
told me, Sumner.”
Justice Wallace looked embarrassed, but he
managed a dry laugh, waved his hand in dismissal.
“Ah, Tai dislikes her because she’s a
better law clerk than he is. Forget her, Beth.”
Mrs. Wallace looked at the coffeepot. She
said nothing more.
They took a respectful leave of Justice Sumner
Wallace and his wife, and shook hands with
the federal marshals who were still standing
near the front door. Ben was already plotting
when he could speak to Mrs. Wallace alone.
The reporters were still outside when they
left, shouting questions, but all they got
for it was a quickly pressed-together snowball
that Callie hurled at one of the reporters.
She hit him in the head.
“I always say to make use of what’s available
to you,” Ben said. “Not a bad shot.”
Callie gave a quick bow to the laughing reporters,
and got into the car. “Where are we going
now?” She was staring through the veil of
snow at the face of Bob Simpson of Fox, a
man she’d turned down some months before,
which hadn’t made him very happy. She gave
him a little finger wave. “Others will come
to interview Justice Wallace?”
“Oh yeah,” he said, carefully easing the
Crown Vic onto the street.
Callie hung on to the chicken strap, and watched
the world slide by. Fortunately there weren’t
many cars out, Washingtonians evidently living
up to their reputations for self-preservation.
“I’m taking you back to Colfax. Then I’m
going to the Hoover Building. We’re having
our first big organizational meeting. I’ve
never been involved in something this explosive,
but—”
He shut up like a spigot.
“But what?”
“You’re a civilian, Callie. You shouldn’t
even be in this car with me.”
“Get a grip here, Detective Raven—”
“Ben,” he said mildly. “You don’t
want to be formal after you’ve told me I
have sexy hair.”
She wasn’t even tempted to laugh. “Ben,
we’ve already been through this with Agent
Savich. Get used to it. It doesn’t matter
that you have sexy hair. I want to go with
you to this meeting.”
He turned the Crown Vic toward Virginia.
Ben waited until Callie stomped into the Kettering
house before he headed back to the Hoover
Building. He wondered if Savich would ever
tell her the main reason he’d let a civilian
tag along on an official investigation was
that, bottom line, he believed her threat
to investigate on her own, and he knew that
might put her in the sights of the murderer.
He wanted her to keep safe. So, on top of
everything else, Ben was a bodyguard for a
big-mouthed reporter.
CHAPTER
9
BETHESDA NAVAL HOSPITAL
MARYLAND
SAVICH LOOKED DOWNat the flaccid skin and
grayish pallor of Supreme Court Police Officer
Henry Biggs. His head was wrapped in a wide
white bandage. Savich knew he was fifty, married,
with three grown children. He was a man with
a long stable career, a man who, unfortunately,
hadn’t kicked the smoking habit. He was
lying perfectly still on his back, an IV drip
in his arm, his eyes closed, his breathing
a bit labored. He looked pretty bad, but Savich
could see the rise and fall of his chest through
the heating bag they’d put him in to regulate
his temperature after he’d been left outside
in the snow for so long. He could have frozen
to death. Then his eyelashes fluttered as
he became aware someone was there. He slowly
opened his eyes. From behind Savich, Dr. Faraday
said, “Mr. Biggs, two FBI agents are here
to speak to you, but only for a moment. Do
you feel up to it?”
“Track the bastard down,” Officer Biggs
whispered. “Fry him.”
Sherlock touched her fingertips to his forearm.
“You can count on that, Officer Biggs. We’ll
fry him to a crisp.”
Officer Biggs tried to smile, but couldn’t
quite manage it. “You FBI?”
“Yes, sir,” Sherlock said. “Both of
us. We’d like to go over what happened to
you, have you give us every detail you can
remember. If you become too tired, we’ll
let you rest. But we do need your help as
quickly as we can get it, Officer.” She
heard the doctor move restlessly behind her.
She turned, gave him a sunny smile, and said,
“We’re not going to put him on the rack.
When he tires, Doctor, we will go. May we
ask you to leave now?”
No one, Savich thought, bucked Sherlock when
she used that sweet iron voice.
Officer Biggs studied Savich for a moment.
“You heading this investigation, Agent Savich?”
“The FBI is heading it, Officer Biggs.”
“So the marshal of the Supreme Court Police
isn’t coordinating everything?”
How could Biggs ever have thought that, Savich
wondered. “Marshal Alice Halpern and her
people will be involved, certainly. You’re
really a lucky man, Officer Biggs. One of
your friends, Officer Clendenning, wondered
about you, and went looking. The man who struck
you down had thrown a tarp over you, left
you right there beside the wall.”
“And nobody realized when he came in that
he wasn’t me.”
Savich said, “No, but we’re still speaking
to all of the officers on that shift. Maybe
someone noticed something, felt something
wasn’t right. By the time the alarm was
raised, the killer was gone.
“All right now, Officer Biggs.” Savich
leaned close to his gray face, where so much
pain and rage flickered in his faded eyes.
“I need you to think back to this past week,
particularly yesterday. Did you notice anyone
who seemed to be hanging around, watching,
waiting, perhaps leaving, then returning,
anyone who didn’t look right, who gave you
pause?”
Officer Biggs closed his eyes. Slowly, he
shook his head. “We’ve got a residential
neighborhood not a block behind us, and there
are people hanging around all the time. I
didn’t notice anyone in particular, and
they’d be more noticeable at night when
I’m on duty.”
“I want you to think about this after we
leave. If you recall anything, call us. Now,
sir, it’s a quarter of twelve last night.
You haven’t had a smoke for two hours. You’re
antsy, hurting. You want to skip this break
since you’re trying to stop, but you had
an argument with your wife, and it’s eating
at you. You don’t want to go outside because
it’s cold and beginning to snow, but you’ve
got to have that cigarette. Tell us exactly
what you did.”
“How did you know about that fight with
my wife?”
“She told us,” Sherlock said. “She’s
really worried about you. She wants you to
forgive her.”
Those pain-faded eyes burned a bit. “It
was about our oldest son. It doesn’t seem
like much now. But she really made me mad,”
said Officer Biggs. “Okay, so, I have my
area, right there on the first floor, through
the Great Hall and into the courtroom. I keep
watch, always listen for any noise that shouldn’t
be there, make my rounds, watch and listen.
Dear God, Justice Califano is dead, he’s
dead, such a nice man, and it’s all my fault.”
Sherlock put her hand on his forearm again
and left it there. “Did you see Justice
Califano come in?”
“No, but I heard some of the guys talking.
Justice Califano was a regular, coming in
at all hours of the evening. It was kind of
a joke, you know? We’d lay bets on when
he’d come in, laugh about fights with his
old lady, about her driving him off.”
“But you have no idea why he came in last
night?”
“A couple of the guys were talking—something
Justice Califano said at the entrance, something
about having a lot to think about. But no
one knew for sure. Jerry Quincy thought it
could be about that death penalty case they
were hearing on Tuesday. That sixteen-year-old
kid killing three people. Of course he isn’t
sixteen now, he’s closer to thirty. Jerry
saw him head up to the library. That was one
of his favorite places. It’s really beautiful
up there, all those arches, all those books.”
Savich paused when Officer Biggs closed his
eyes, licked his dry lips. He watched Sherlock
lightly stroke the man’s forearm, soothing
him.
“Anyway, it was about a quarter of twelve,
like you said, Agent Savich, and I was ready
to chew off my elbows I wanted a smoke so
bad. So I tell my supervisor, that’s Mrs.
Parks, and she tells me to step out and do
the deed. I get my coat and gloves out of
the locker—we’re down in the basement,
you know?”
“Yes, we know.”
“And I went out from there, out the side
door that’s next to the information desk.
There’s lots of construction going on, and
it looked like an unfinished Hollywood set
out there, what with the piles of raw wood,
the row of Porta Potties, temporary construction
buildings, all covered with a sprinkling of
white. It was pretty, but cold, real cold.
Not much wind, which was good. I lit up. Ah—you
can’t imagine how deep I sucked it in, the
taste got me over my anger at Glyna.” He
paused, and Savich imagined he was remembering
the feeling of drawing that smoke deep into
his lungs.
“I was standing there, leaning my shoulder
against the wall, thinking about stuff, you
know? My son is in law school, but he’s
having some trouble with it, and the fight
with Glyna—then I heard something, something
I shouldn’t have heard. We’re trained,
you know, to tell sounds apart, to know which
ones are the usual sounds of the building
or the wind, which ones shouldn’t be there,
even the sound of someone or something brushing
against all that marble. I swear I can hear
someone running a finger over the marble,
you get real sensitive to stuff like that.
Anyway, I was reaching for my gun as I turned,
and something crashed down on my head. I was
gone, Agent Savich. Just gone. I don’t even
remember hitting the ground. I woke up here
with a nurse leaning over me.”
“That’s excellent, Officer Biggs. Now,
relax and think back again. You’re smoking,
thinking about your son. Then you hear something.
What is it exactly?”
“Like someone was there, behind one of the
temporary buildings, real close, not more
than a half dozen feet away. I remember thinking,
now what the hell is that? I even called out,
‘Who’s there?’ ”
“The sound was only six feet away?”
“Not more than ten feet, that’s for sure.
You saw the construction there, right? Nearly
right against the building. Yeah, real close.”
“How long was it after you heard the noise
that you were struck on the head?”
“Not more than a couple of seconds. Like
I said, I turned really fast when I heard
it, came right to attention, you know? Drew
my gun and everything. And just when I turned,
I got smashed on the back of my head.”
Sherlock said, “Do you think there were
two people there, Officer Biggs? One to distract
you, make you turn toward the noise, the other
person behind you?”
The man’s eyes closed again. Savich said,
“That’s right, try to feel it again, try
to remember exactly what you were thinking,
hearing. Okay, you’re standing there, Officer
Biggs, you’re alert, you’re listening.
You’re at attention.”
In a defeated voice filled with despair, Officer
Biggs whispered, “Now that I really concentrate
on it, I think it was one guy, Agent Savich.
Maybe he tossed something to make me look
in one direction, to distract me.”
Sherlock stroked her fingers down to close
them over his hand.
“I think I would have felt it if there’d
been two of them—I’ve got real good instincts
for stuff like that, real sharp senses. But
he still got me, still laid me flat.”
“Thank you, Officer Biggs. We’ll be speaking
to you again, but not until you’re feeling
better. You rest. You’ve given us excellent
information.”
“Did Marshal Halpern know anything? What
does she think of all this?”
Sherlock said, “She hopes that you’re
better soon. She asked us to tell you she’ll
be coming to see you shortly. Special Agent
Frank Halley is speaking with her now. She’ll
let you know if she has any other ideas about
this.”
“She’s been a good boss, doesn’t take
grief from any of the guards. I hope she doesn’t
fire my ass.”
Sherlock nodded to the guard stationed outside
Officer Biggs’s room. She said as they walked
down the quiet hospital corridor, “He’ll
have to live with this for the rest of his
life.”
“Yes. And I’ll bet you he’ll never smoke
another cigarette.”
They passed Glyna Biggs in the waiting room,
nodded to her, tried to look reassuring, and
continued on their way.
“Now,” Savich said, “it’s back to
headquarters. I have no doubt that Agent Frank
Halley will be ready to take my head off for
being assigned over him on this.”
They left the huge complex, heads down against
the blowing snow, and walked to the parking
lot. Once in his Porsche, Savich turned the
heater on high. Sherlock said, as she pulled
off her gloves, “Frank will get over it.
It’s what Director Mueller wants.” She
grinned, patted his arm. “I’ll tell him
that we’re the best. Then you can invite
him to the gym.”
Savich grinned at her, controlled a sudden
skid in the snow that would have slid them
into a fire hydrant. “The thing is, Frank
is good. I’m counting on him for his input.
But he’s old school, believes in rank and
seniority, regardless.”
Sherlock eyed an SUV negotiating a corner
some twenty feet ahead of them, and thought
about the turf wars. Most of the old guard
had retired in recent years. Under the leadership
of Director Mueller, the FBI had reevaluated,
reassigned, and refocused itself, placing
anti-terrorism and homeland security squarely
at the top of its priorities. All agencies
had been ordered by the President to communicate,
to work together and share information—a
concept that was finally catching on. But
there were egos and old rivalries at play,
so the going could still be tough.
Director Mueller was overseeing this extraordinary
case himself, with his second in command,
Jimmy Maitland, who was Savich’s boss. Both
would keep the waters calm, at least on the
surface.
CHAPTER
10
HOOVER BUILDING
“I’D LIKE TO KNOWwhy the hell you’re
heading this investigation, Savich.”
Reassured by Frank’s show of consistency,
Savich said easily, “I’m not. Director
Mueller and DAD Jimmy Maitland are. I’m
lower down on the chain.”
Neither Director Mueller nor Jimmy Maitland
was there as yet, so Frank Halley could vent.
Frank had collared Savich the moment he and
Sherlock had walked into the large conference
room on the fifth floor, blocked him off from
the other fifty or so agents who stood around
in groups. The large room was buzzing with
conversation before the meeting, about the
dozens of interviews that had already been
conducted during the past nine hours, the
newest available reports.
“Yeah, so you say, but not as low as the
rest of us. You’re the one handing out interview
assignments, speaking to Officer Biggs, coordinating
the whole direction we take. Why have I been
passed over?”
No, Sherlock thought, there was no shortage
of egos and turf, not in any organization
in the world. Given the sheer size and bureaucracy
of the FBI, they weren’t doing so badly,
really. She patted Frank’s arm. “Dillon’s
doing the major interviews because he’s
the best, Frank. If you’ve got a problem,
take it up with the director. Otherwise, I’d
suggest you get a grip and pull your nose
back in joint, or I’ll have to haul you
down to the gym and wipe up the mat with you.”
It was hard, even for a veteran of nearly
twenty years, to be mad enough to want to
tear a strip off Sherlock. He grinned down
at her, this small faerie with her marvelous
curling red hair, and he just couldn’t help
himself. “You’re half my size. You really
think you could take me?”
“Curious, are you? We’ll have to give
it a try sometime.” She gave him her brightest
smile. “Now, listen up. You really want
to do all the paperwork, interface with the
media? That’s nuts. You’re vital to this
investigation, Frank. Get in the field, that’s
where you’re best, that’s where the action
is. It’s where we’re going to try to spend
most of our time.”
But he still couldn’t let go of it. “It
isn’t right, Savich. It should have come
directly down to me, I’m the next in command.
This should be my deal.”
Sherlock, who’d turned to speak to another
agent, said from just behind Frank’s left
elbow, “It’s whoever’s deal Director
Mueller wants it to be. You’ve got to hang
it up, Frank.”
Frank waved his hand. “Boy, the first thing
I’d do is wipe up the floor with Marshal
Halpern at the Supreme Court. Actually when
I was interviewing her, it was hard not to
do a slam dunk with her head. Can you imagine?
One of her own police—that idiot Officer
Biggs—going out for a smoke, letting himself
get taken down like that, like an agent right
out of the academy.”
“That’s the truth,” Sherlock said and
imagined that Marshal Halpern was probably
so defensive when Frank went after her that
he didn’t get anything useful out of her.
“Ah,” Savich said. “Here are the bosses.
Let’s get ourselves seated. We’ve got
lots to talk about, lots of plans to make.”
Frank didn’t want to sit down, didn’t
want to do anything but break both of Savich’s
arms, but in a moment of stark clarity, he
knew he’d have to fall into line. He’d
been raised in the Bureau to do just that.
But it was very hard for him this time. A
Justice murdered in the Supreme Court library,
it was an incredible thing to happen. The
Supreme Court, that prissy Greek temple sitting
on the crest of Capitol Hill, was supposedly
one of the most easily secured buildings in
Washington. Here he was, Special Agent Frank
Halley, one of the top guys in the Criminal
Investigation Division, and yet Director Mueller
had placed Savich, with his dinky computer-based
unit, over him.
“Director Mueller.”
Everyone settled in and listened to the FBI
director fill them in on what had been happening
in the executive wing, Congress, and the media.
He closed by saying, “We have the resources
to find the person or persons responsible
for this heinous crime. I have confidence
in all of you. We are the best police force
in the world.” He looked around the room
for questions, then turned the meeting over
to Jimmy Maitland. Maitland was brief, reminding
them how critical this investigation was to
the nation and the Bureau. “Justice Califano
was murdered right under the noses of the
Supreme Court Police. Fair or unfair, it doesn’t
matter, we’re on the hot seat with them
since we’re Federal, too. All of us are
painted with the same brush. Let’s get this
nailed down, boys and girls.” He introduced
Savich as the person who would be heading
up the operation.
Savich walked to the lectern and adjusted
the mike, since he was about five inches taller
than his boss.
He looked out over the fifty-odd agents, the
representatives from the CIA, the Secret Service,
and Homeland Security. “Everyone’s greatest
fear is that Justice Califano’s murder might
have been committed by a terrorist. Both Homeland
Security and the CIA are covering every aspect
of this possibility, calling on every government
to provide any intelligence that might point
in that direction.
“However, we’re all inclined to think
this wasn’t a terrorist act for several
reasons. There has been no such intelligence,
no hint that any group was thinking along
these lines. No terrorist organization has
taken credit. The murder does not fit the
profile of any known foreign-based terrorist
group. While it’s true that a home-grown
terrorist, such as a political extremist or
a deranged individual, could be expected to
go for a high-profile assassination, you have
to wonder why such a murderer would not have
gone after the Chief Justice himself. That
would have created even more chaos, more publicity,
worldwide.
“So why would a terrorist of any sort select
Justice Califano to murder? What kind of statement
was he hoping to make? Justice Califano’s
opinions were considered mostly centrist.
Well, let me qualify that. Like some of the
other Justices, his opinions could go to the
right or the left, depending on the specific
issue. For example, he was basically conservative
on affirmative action, but he voted for the
most sweeping definition of sexual harassment
in the workplace. But there are Justices who
are far more polarized on issues. Justice
Califano doesn’t fit the bill as a prime
target.
“Don’t forget, the murderer followed an
extremely high-risk script. He actually struck
down a Supreme Court police officer, he took
his uniform and entered the building itself.
Even in some fundamentalist mind, this was
a huge risk. And then garroting Justice Califano
and slipping away? That was not the act of
a bomber, or a shooter in a crowd. That was
the act of a single man, done in a very personal
way.
“The chances are greater, as many of you
have already concluded, that this murder was
personal. It was up close and hands-on. Revenge,
possibly. Justice Stewart Califano served
as a DA, an Assistant Attorney General, and
the Attorney General before he was named an
Associate Justice of the New York Court of
Appeals in 1979. He prosecuted drug dealers,
mobsters—people who could have spent twenty
years in jail planning to murder him. We will
scour every high-profile case he was involved
in throughout those years.
“At the same time, we can’t afford to
take the chance that the murder wasn’t the
work of terrorists or a madman for the simple
reason that Justice Califano’s murder could
be the opening assault with more to come.
Extra security has been provided, not only
to the Justices, but to a number of elected
federal officials as well. As you know, federal
marshals accompany the Justices only when
they travel. They have temporarily extended
their protection to twenty-four/seven.
“All of you, many through painful experience,
know that the media will be following all
these directives right along with us. When
they find out which of you are involved in
the case, they’ll hound you. We will expect
your usual professionalism. You will refer
all press questions to DAD Maitland for official
comment.
“We’ve got all of Justice Califano’s
phone logs and contacts, his computers, both
from his chambers and his home, and those
of his law clerks and secretaries. We have
a list of all pending cases that the Supreme
Court will be hearing, also cases handed down
in the past years in which Justice Califano
played a critical role in reversing decisions
such as those involving race, abortion, individual
death penalty cases, and the like. The list
is daunting, but we’ll take them on.
“Investigation of the crime scene itself
and preliminary interviews are already ongoing,
as you know. We have divided you into twelve
teams of four agents each. Ollie Hamish will
be posting your names and handing out assignments
to each team, hoping to key in to the strengths
and experience of the members. We are fortunate
to have the teams made up of agents from a
wide variety of FBI divisions and units assigned
to us. It is true what Director Mueller said.
We are the best police force and intelligence
community in the world, and we will solve
this and do it quickly.
“By the way, you will have a unique resource
available to you from my own unit that is
new to many of you. We have developed a number
of computer programs that allow us to combine
data-mining capability with an artificial
intelligence engine—we call the program
MAX, after my laptop. We have found it extremely
useful to us, though we haven’t made it
available this broadly before, or in a case
of this importance.
“I’ve assigned agents Drucker, Bruner,
and Hart to instruct you about its capabilities.
Some of you will be asked to work with them
on this project. All of you will have the
benefit of any information MAX provides. If
you haven’t worked with these agents before,
I’ll tell you they’re excellent detail
people. They share with MAX an uncanny ability
to help you when everything starts to look
like chaos.”
Savich paused. “Now, before we split up,
I’d like to hear ideas about directions
any of you want to take that we haven’t
covered.”
The agents were eager for open discussion,
which quickly turned to the crime scene photos
Savich had tacked to a large bulletin board.
The meeting continued long after Maitland
had left. Pots of coffee were consumed, and
the snow blanketed the windows despite the
warmth of the room. When sandwiches and pizzas
were delivered from the cafeteria upstairs,
everyone took a break.
Frank Halley saw Savich talking to a man he
didn’t recognize, a big guy, a sharp dresser,
standing near the door with his arms crossed
over his chest. He was dressed in black slacks,
white shirt, black tie, and black leather
jacket. He looked like a smart-ass wiseguy
with that hard face of his. Frank walked over
and put himself in the guy’s face.
“And who the hell are you?”
“I’m Detective Benjamin Raven, Metro Police.”
Frank turned on Savich. “What’s a local
cop doing here, Savich?”
“It so happens that the Supreme Court Building
is in the Washington, D.C., jurisdiction,
Frank. We’re leading the investigation,
but Detective Raven is our local liaison with
the police commissioner at the Henry J. Daly
Building.”
Frank gave Ben one final look, then took himself
off to the table where there were still two
unopened pizza boxes.
Savich said, “Don’t mind Frank. He’s
a good agent, just protective of the Bureau
and somewhat territorial. Now, how did you
manage to ditch Ms. Markham? I would have
sworn she’d have been hanging on to your
coattails to get herself in here.”
Ben ran his fingers through his thick hair,
causing it to stand on end. “I didn’t
ditch her until she was safe back at the house
in Colfax. I’m lucky she didn’t follow
me in. I’ll bet she could have talked her
way past the guards.”
Savich laughed. “She seems like a pistol,
Ben, smart and insightful.”
“Well, maybe. Who knows? All I know so far
is that she’s a pain in the butt. She wanted
to smack a reporter at Justice Wallace’s
house. Can you believe that? She’s one of
them.”
“Yes, well, don’t forget, Justice Califano
was her stepfather, and the shoe’s on the
other foot now. But the thing is, she’s
on the inside. Use her, get her talking. I’ll
bet she knows things she can’t even put
together right now, things that are in her
brain waiting for you to get them out.”
“Actually, she’s already started to earn
her keep.” And then he told Savich about
Justice Sumner Wallace hitting on Margaret
Califano. “Doesn’t that boggle the mind?
The guy’s a grandfather.”
Savich said, “This is going to take some
thought. You’re right, Callie did good,
give her a medal. I guess after she told you
that, you can trust her not to feed stuff
to the Post.”
“Okay, yeah, so she’s a straight shooter,
at least so far. Like I said, I dropped her
off at the Kettering home before I drove back
in. Nearly landed myself in a ditch a couple
of times. The roads are a mess.”
“The snow’s supposed to lighten up tonight,
be gone by tomorrow. Hopefully it won’t
freeze, the ice would really make it tough
for us to get around.”
“At least the pizza’s pretty good here.”
“Yeah, agents are often stuck here for meals
during an investigation, so the cafeteria
keeps the food coming, about anything you
like. The only section Sherlock doesn’t
approve of is the Mexican wagon. Ah, I see
Agent Halley looking over here at you again.
He’s not a happy camper since he thinks
Director Mueller should have appointed him
to run the show, so ignore the attitude.”
“Not a problem. Everyone at Metro is hyped
about this. I’m lucky to be heading up the
field assignments. I’ve got maybe a dozen
cops ready to do whatever you need.”
“I’ll give you the assignments, don’t
worry.”
“Oh, by the way, Savich, I meant to ask
you. How is Sheriff Kettering doing?”
Savich gave him a big smile. “That’s how
we met, isn’t it? They’ve moved back to
Jessborough, Tennessee. Miles is building
a new helicopter facility there, and Katie’s
the sheriff of Jessborough again.”
Ben shook his head. “Talk about a pistol,
that sheriff sure qualifies.”
“Do keep our own pistol in the loop. I don’t
want Callie calling me at midnight, frothing
at the mouth. And thank her for the information
about Justice Wallace. It sure opens up some
interesting possibilities.”
“Yeah, it sure does. Did I remember to thank
you for sticking me with her?”
“No, come to think of it, I don’t think
you thanked me at all. There’s a couple
of slices of vegetarian pizza left. Why don’t
you tell me all the details of your interview
with Justice and Mrs. Wallace while we chow
down.”
CHAPTER
11
SHE RAN RIGHTin front of him, her long straight
hair flying, frantically waving her arms,
her eyes wild. He could tell she was yelling,
but he couldn’t hear her voice even though
she was right in front of him, yelling in
his face. She was close, so close, and he
could feel her terror as though it were his
own.
And then he was in that lovely big house on
the rise, all the lights on, looking back
to see her sitting on the living room sofa,
rocking back and forth, her thick veil of
hair hiding her profile, the fire blazing
behind her in the fireplace. He looked up
at the ceiling when he heard a noise, the
sound of quiet footsteps overhead.
Then he was climbing slowly up the ladder
into the attic, every sense on full alert,
but there wasn’t a man there. Something
flew at him, hard and fast, swooping like
a bat, or something else, something his brain
couldn’t accept, and slammed him back through
the ceiling door, knocking the breath out
of him.
Savich jerked awake, wheezing, heart pounding
so hard he thought he was dying. He couldn’t
breathe, couldn’t do anything but sit there
trying to suck in air.
“Dillon? Are you all right? You’re here
with me. It’s okay now, you were having
a nightmare.”
He still couldn’t talk. He felt her hands
rubbing his chest, his arms. “Samantha Barrister,”
he managed at last. “I saw her, felt her
right here, in my face. And then I was back
in the house, going up those ladder steps
after I heard the footsteps overhead. That
bat, or whatever it was, knocked me back down
to the corridor floor.”
“It’s all right now, you’re awake. Come
here.” She pushed him back down, her palm
rubbed over his chest, felt his pounding heart.
She turned and pressed herself over him, kissed
his neck, and whispered, “It will be all
right. You probably had the nightmare because
you can’t deal with Samantha’s murder
right now. What happened to Samantha was thirty
years ago, Dillon. It has to wait. Let it
go for now.” She continued to rub her palm
over his chest until she felt his heart slow
and his breathing steady.
“I saw her in the road, Sherlock, saw her
terror, I knew she was screaming, but I couldn’t
hear her. Then she was right here, probably
yelling for me to help her to stop him, only
I couldn’t hear her.”
Sherlock was silent for a moment. He could
practically hear her thinking. “Perhaps
she was, for you. I said it had been thirty
years, but the fact is, Samantha came to you—just
you—in the Poconos. Maybe something’s
happened to make her frantic, to make her
come here to Washington. Something bad.”
“What could it be? Now, after thirty years?
And what can I do about it? I can’t leave
Washington and go ghost chasing right now.”
She kissed his nose, his mouth, his throat.
“We could call the closest field office
to do some checking.”
He thought about that a moment, then shook
his head. “No, this is personal. I want
to deal with it, I have to deal with it, no
one else. I know it sounds weird, but I know
she wants me to be the one.”
“All right then. When MAX is freed up, we
can put him on it. He can scour databases,
find out about the Barrister family, see what
happened to her son and her husband.”
“But it’s going to be days before we can
free MAX up to do that.”
“I know, but I think Samantha will understand.”
She felt a measure of calm flow through him.
He turned on his side and drew her close.
He said against her left temple, “Do you
know something?”
She shook her head against his. Her curly
hair brushed against his ear.
“Some people would think I’ve flipped
out over this, want me to lie down on a shrink’s
couch.”
“You’re the sanest person I’ve ever
known. If I ever doubt you about anything,
I’ll stretch out on a shrink’s couch myself.”
She kissed him hard on the mouth, and eased
down to tuck her head against his neck. “It’s
nearly three o’clock. Sean will give us
until seven o’clock. Let’s use the time
wisely. We’ve got to sleep.”
When he fell asleep, Samantha Barrister wasn’t
with him.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
SUNDAY
BENRAVEN FLIPPEDthe channel on his TV from
national to local news while he ate his bowl
of Wheaties. It was his mom’s favorite cereal,
and she’d fed it to him every morning, which
explained, he supposed, a great deal. Director
Mueller’s face was everywhere on TV, as
well as sound bites from the Attorney General,
the President, even the Director of Homeland
Security. Anyone the media could get to, which
was just about every politician inside the
Beltway. And they all had something important
to say. The politicians and the talking heads
led the charge, blaming the FBI, the Supreme
Court Police, even the President for not providing
the nation with enough security from terrorists.
Of course Director Mueller laid out why he
didn’t believe terrorists were responsible,
but no one liked that. It had to be either
a terrorist or a madman, like the Washington
snipers of a few years ago, that was the theory
everyone wanted to run with.
Not even a day had passed since Justice Califano’s
murder before speculation began on who would
be on the President’s short list for appointment
to the Supreme Court to take Justice Califano’s
place.
Ben put his cereal bowl in the sink and filled
it with water. He had thirty-five minutes
to pick up Callie Markham, and then they were
off to interview Justice Elizabeth Xavier-Foxx,
one of two female Justices on the High Court.
When he pulled his Crown Vic in front of the
Kettering house in Colfax, he saw Callie Markham
looking out at him through one of the living
room windows. She had the door open when he
was still a good six feet away.
“It stopped snowing. Is it icy?”
“Nope, it isn’t bad at all. I gather you’re
ready to hit the road?”
“Oh yeah, but you said you wanted to speak
to Mom some more. Oh, Ben, here are our guards,
federal marshals Dennis Morgan and Howie Bentley.
Gentlemen, Detective Ben Raven from Metro.”
He shook hands with the federal marshals,
asked if they’d seen any reporters, to which
they said all had been quiet, thank God. Screened
condolence calls were coming through for Mrs.
Califano, so many of them that her four women
friends, who seemed to be here all the time
since she’d moved in, were assisting her
in dealing with them.
Things sounded under control. Ben wiped his
boots off on the front step, and followed
Callie into the warm living room. A restful
house, he thought, full of light and high
ceilings. He’d lived in condos all his adult
life after graduating from the police academy,
and he liked the space, the openness of the
house.
“Mrs. Califano,” he said, stepping into
the living room.
There were four women seated with her, all
of them about the same age, all wearing subdued
colors, all of their attention on the new
widow who’d just hung up the phone. When
he spoke, they looked up at him.
Ben said, “I hope you’re all right.”
She nodded. “It’s difficult, Detective,
but yes.”
He nodded toward the phone on the end table
beside her.
“Another condolence call?”
“Yes, so many people, so kind. You remember
Anna Clifford?”
Ben nodded to the woman he’d seen briefly
yesterday. The other women, waiting to be
introduced, inclined graceful heads as Callie
called out their names. “Janette Weaverton,
Bitsy St. Pierre, and Juliette Trevor.”
Elegant names all, rich names, trust-fund
money kind of names. He’d met all sorts
in his nine years on the force, but working
primarily in the bowels of D.C., it wasn’t
often he met society types.
They were gracious and attentive, and clearly
concerned about Mrs. Califano. The team already
had their addresses and phone numbers. He
wasn’t certain yet if he would be the one
interviewing them and their families. He asked
to speak to Mrs. Califano alone. Callie gave
him a look, but ushered the four women out
of the living room.
Ben sat down beside Mrs. Califano. He looked
for several moments at her beautiful profile,
similar to Callie’s, he realized, with her
clean, straight nose and high cheekbones.
He supposed he could understand Justice Wallace
being attracted to her even though she was
his mom’s age, and when he thought of his
mom, he thought of Wheaties and big laughter,
not sex, for God’s sake.
“There are a whole lot of people working
around the clock to find out who killed your
husband, Mrs. Califano.”
“Yes, I would imagine so.” Her voice was
quite without emotion, as if she’d simply
put a cork in the bottle.
“When Justice Califano went to the Supreme
Court Building on Friday night, he said he
had something to think about. Please, try
to remember, Mrs. Califano. What could it
have been? Did you have an argument? Was he
worried about some business deal? Something
like that?”
She sighed, clasped her hands in her lap.
She was very pale. “I’ve already told
you three or four times that I can’t think
of anything other than that case coming up,
the death penalty case in Texas. Also, before
you ask again, we didn’t have an argument
Friday evening. Sure, we fought occasionally.
All couples do, Detective. Aren’t you married?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You should be. You’re old enough.”
“The guards at the Supreme Court thought
Justice Califano seemed preoccupied Friday
night, something weighing heavily on his mind.”
This was a stretch, but worth a try. “You
were closer to him than anyone in the world.
What was eating at him, ma’am? Please, think.”
She sighed again, fanned her hands in front
of her. “Oh, all right. I knew he was upset
at Sumner Wallace for, well, for being inappropriate
with me, but you already know that, Detective.
Yes, my daughter told me that she’d passed
it on to you when you were going to interview
Justice Wallace. I hope it won’t come out
since it has nothing to do with anything,
but now I suppose you want to know the rest
of it. My husband knew about what Sumner had
done as well because I myself told him just
last week. He was singing Sumner’s praises
about something. I just couldn’t bear the
hypocrisy of it, so I told him what Sumner
had tried with me.”
“How did he take it?”
“He was angry, as you’d expect. I don’t
know if he confronted Sumner about it since
he never mentioned it to me again, which surprised
me. But I wasn’t about to bring it up. Was
he thinking about that on Friday night? I
don’t know, Detective Raven.”
“Justice Sumner Wallace denied this, ma’am.”
“Well, naturally. Wouldn’t you?”
“I suppose I would. His wife did as well.”
She shook her head. “Poor Beth. She puts
up with a lot from Sumner, and has all their
married life. How was he dealing with this?”
“Not well, neither of them were. Two federal
marshals were there in the house with them,
reassuring I’m sure, but still an invasion
of their privacy, and a constant reminder
that they might be in danger. Also, since
reporters were camped out in their front yard,
they felt like prisoners.”
“I so wish Callie weren’t a reporter,”
she said. “Doing that to people when they’re
in such obvious distress, and then trying
to justify it with that idiotic refrain they
so quickly toss out—‘the public’s right
to know.’ It’s only an excuse, of course.”
Since he agreed with that assessment wholeheartedly,
he nodded. “Let me ask you this, Mrs. Califano.
Sumner Wallace is not only of an age when
he should be settled, he’s a Justice of
the Supreme Court. This reputation you’re
attributing to him, it seems so unexpected
and surprising, so very incompatible with
what he’s supposed to be—a reasoned brilliant
legal mind, deciding huge issues for our country.”
“Yes, I suppose it would come as an unpleasant
surprise, but the fact remains he’s still
a man, a man who’s carried on a number of
affairs all his adult life. In my experience,
particularly in politics, it’s not at all
uncommon for men who hold a great deal of
power to exploit the women who are drawn to
it.”
Ben couldn’t disagree with that, too much
evidence to the contrary. He wanted to point
out that Justice Wallace also had six grandchildren,
but he kept his mouth shut.
“You had no hint that your husband might
confront him on Friday, Mrs. Califano?”
“No, no hint at all, like I’ve already
told you, Detective. No, wait a moment. Now
that I think about it, I did hear Stewart
on the phone—not on Friday, but last Wednesday,
I think. He wasn’t happy. On the other hand,
he wasn’t screaming either. Whether or not
he was speaking to Sumner, I can’t say.”
“What did you hear your husband say?”
She was quiet a moment, hands clenching and
unclenching in her lap.
“Something about ‘You will stop this immediately,
do you hear me?’—along those lines. That’s
all I really remember, Detective. His voice,
as I said, wasn’t particularly angry.”
“Did he pause then? For the other person
to answer him?”
“Yes, I believe he did. Then he sort of
nodded into the phone, didn’t say anything
more, and hung up. When he turned to see me
standing there, he shrugged. ‘Nothing to
worry about. It’s done,’ that’s what
he said. I suppose he wanted to cut off any
questions from me, and it did. In many ways,
Stewart was a very private man. His first
wife had died some years ago, you knew that,
and in the intervening years before we met
and eventually married, he became used to
being alone, to keeping his own counsel. That
isn’t a good thing, Detective. People shouldn’t
be alone.
“Get married, Detective. It’s healthy
to have another person in your life, someone
so close they can feel what you’re thinking.”
And she burst into tears.
Ben didn’t know what to do.
CHAPTER
12
CLOSE TOa minute later, Ben still didn’t
know what to do. He said finally, “I’m
going to catch the monster who killed him,
ma’am. I promise you that. Thank you for
speaking to me. You remembered more, as I’d
hoped you would. And thank you for telling
me about Justice Wallace.”
She wiped her eyes, tried a smile. “It can
have no possible relevance to any of this,
but you appear to want to know about all the
skeletons in the closet.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
When he came out into the entry hall a few
minutes later, he nodded to the four women
as they went back into the living room to
rejoin Margaret Califano. Callie was standing
in the hall, looking ready to leap at his
throat. He splayed his fingers in front of
him. “You ready?”
She waved toward the living room. “What,
you’re not going to arrest any of those
five killers?”
“Not your mom. We’ll see about the other
four ladies. Hey, that was pretty funny, Callie.”
Federal Marshal Dennis Morgan caught a laugh,
turning it quickly into a cough behind his
hand.
“Yeah, right. You ready?” She was nearly
dancing from foot to foot, wanting so badly
to leave. He nodded toward the living room.
“I’ll tell you, Callie, all of them look
suspicious to me, look like they’re hiding
something. Do you think I should go back in
there and grill each one of them in turn,
privately?”
“Har har,” Callie said. “Let’s go.”
He nodded to the federal marshals and ushered
her outside. He said, “Isn’t it amazing
what money can do? My mom is about their age,
but believe me, she looks like she lives on
a different planet. She’s cushy, her hair
is always frazzled, and she has the biggest
smile east of the Mississippi.”
She punched him in the arm. “You snob. Their
smiles are as big as your mom’s. I’ve
known them all my life. So they’re not cushy.
That just means that they take care of themselves.
They work out. Money doesn’t play a big
part in looking good. Hey, maybe you should
get your mom to work out, she’ll be healthier
for it.”
He took her arm when one of her boots went
out from under her. He couldn’t imagine
his mother walking on a treadmill or pumping
iron in a gym. But now that he thought about
it, she and his dad had begun walking together
in the evenings, quite a lot, in fact. He
said, “Careful, this drive isn’t for wusses.”
“I wish I could have been at your meeting
at the Hoover Building yesterday afternoon.”
“A reporter in the Hoover Building? Are
you nuts? They would have locked you in a
detention cell if you’d managed to sneak
in. They would have turned you over to Big
Matron Bubba, and she’d have strip-searched
you and taken the fillings out of your teeth.
The good Lord knows what would have happened
to you then.”
She couldn’t hold back the laugh, but sobered
immediately. She pulled her hat down over
her ears because the temperature was sitting
about three degrees above freezing. “I’ll
just bet there were hardly any women included,
were there? All you machos, sitting there
preening, believing it’s up to you to solve
all the world’s problems—”
“You’re being sexist, Ms. Markham.”
His voice was perfectly easy and mild, although
he was tempted to let her slide around on
the driveway on her own. “Maybe if I don’t
support you, you’ll go right down on your
butt. Of course, the macho is here to haul
you back up.” Then, of all things, he found
himself looking at her butt, realized hers
was an excellent butt, and looked away quickly.
But she saw it in his eyes and arched an eyebrow.
“I believe that’s approval I see. Well,
now, let me say that you’ve got a very fine
butt, too, Detective Raven. When I don’t
want to kick it, I admire it. Now, so you
can get your mind onto other things, let me
ask you how many female agents were important
enough to be included in the meeting?”
“As I recall, more than a dozen of the special
agents present were female. Your point?”
“That’s a start, pathetic though it be.”
She stared at his Crown Vic, and said nothing
more.
“When I’m able to get rid of you later,
why don’t you shovel the driveway? Or you
could arrange to have some macho guys come
here and do it for you. You wouldn’t want
any of your mother’s lovely rich friends
to break their necks, now would you?”
She looked thoughtful for a moment, then frowned
up at him. “Well, of course not. That’s
a good use for macho guys.”
He’d hoped she’d take the bait, but she’d
turned it around on him. Well done, dammit.
“All right. You were bragging about how
helpful you’d be, so tell me about the four
women.”
“Well, they and their families have always
been in my life. The only person I don’t
like is Juliette Trevor’s son. He’s a
spoiled trust-fund baby, and really smart.
That combination always irritated me. No,
I didn’t sleep with him, but it wasn’t
for his lack of trying. I remember Mrs. Trevor
gave me a Hermès scarf from Paris when I
graduated high school. Wasn’t that nice?”
“What’s the big deal about a Hermès scarf?”
“They’re very expensive, and so beautiful
they make you weep.”
“Yeah, right, I can see myself crying over
a scarf.” He gave her a look. “Only a
woman.”
When he started the car, she said pleasantly,
“Did I mention that you’re a pretty sharp
dresser? Maybe you’d like to hear about
the shoes I bought to go with the Hermès
scarf?”
He groaned, rolled his eyes. “All right,
I can see where this is all going.”
“Probably so. I’ve always felt sorry for
guys. Even though you obviously know how to
dress, are doubtless well aware of the effect
you have on the female population, you still
don’t have the gift of the shoe-shopping
gene. No man alive has it that I’ve ever
seen. That’s the gene that forces a credit
card right out of your wallet when you pass
a neat pair of shoes, no matter how many are
already in your closet. No, all guys have
is the Home Depot hard-wired into your brains.
It’s really sad.” She turned the heater
on full blast.
He laughed at her. “Another good use for
macho guys—fixing toilets.”
“All right, you got me fair and square.
Tell me everything that happened yesterday.”
To his surprise, he did. She asked questions,
grew thoughtful. She said finally, “The
pancreatic cancer, that will come out soon,
won’t it?”
“Oh yes, too many people know. Everyone
likes to talk, everyone. No exceptions to
that, unfortunately.”
She felt tears sting her eyes. Her stepfather
would have died in any case. But he would
have had six more months to live. Perhaps
he would have had a chance, with new drugs
discovered every day—
“I read up on pancreatic cancer. It’s
a killer, so don’t go there, Callie. Someone
brutally murdered him, that’s our only concern.
Whatever fate would have dealt him we have
no control over.”
“My editor called again last night, on my
cell, thank God. If he’d called the house,
I would have freaked. I hate leaks, I really
do, and if Jed Coombes had gotten the Kettering
house number, I’d be doomed.”
“What has he offered you to feed them information?”
“The inside track to a Pulitzer Prize.”
He whistled. “Hard to turn down.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll earn one on my own.
I nearly got one last year, it was that close.”
She held up two fingers, nearly touching.
“What did you do?” He was driving very
carefully even though there weren’t many
cars on the road, the sun was bright overhead,
and the snow was melting. But the occasional
pockets of slush could take a car into a ditch
with no warning.
“I have snitches, like you cops do. One
of them tipped me off that a child pornography
ring was operating out of the Barrington Hotel
right here in Washington. I broke the story.”
He jerked the steering wheel in his surprise
and nearly sent them into a telephone pole.
It was dicey for a moment until he got the
car straight again. “You were the one who
broke the Cadillac Ring story?”
At her nod, he could only stare at her. “I’ll
tell you, Callie, you had a lot of people
pissed off at your paper about that. We already
had undercover guys in there gathering evidence,
then you had to move in with your battering
ram. Lucky for the good guys we were nearly
ready to close them down.”
“Yeah, sure you were,” she said, eyes
narrowed. “I heard about an undercover operation,
but I didn’t see anything coming out of
your efforts. I got all the evidence for you,
Detective Raven. Oh yeah, you guys did a great
job—once I cracked it.”
Well, okay, she had done a lot and she had
given them a day’s warning, he’d hand
her that. And she had uncovered more evidence
than they had, dammit. He decided to give
the devil her due. “Well, maybe you did
okay. It was federal racketeering for the
bastards. The Attorney General brought them
all down. There were big names among their
clients, lots of money.”
“It was the children that got to me. They
were stolen from all over the world. They
weren’t physically hurt, actually, they
were just prisoners with anything they wanted—so
long as they did exactly what they were told.”
“They were all returned to their families.”
“Yes, but their lives will be messed up
in the short term at the very least. Poor
kids.”
“All right, so why didn’t you pull a Pulitzer?”
“Olsen Tynes at The New York Times broke
that big political scandal about Governor
Welles in Louisiana. Since the Times is Northern
liberal, and the governor was Southern conservative,
they poured everything into nailing him.”
“So you’re telling me you’re philosophical
about that?”
“What do you want me to do? Go blow up The
New York Times?”
“The least you could have done was not date
that moron New York Times reporter you caught
in bed with another woman. Me, I’d have
gotten right in this Tynes guy’s face, made
sure he knew who should have carried off the
prize.”
She grinned at him. “Thank you, Detective
Raven. I feel all sorts of warm and breathy
getting advice from such an alpha male.”
“Breathy?”
“Do you know, I’m beginning to think you’re
becoming resigned to me hanging around you.”
“Not in this lifetime. Well, you’re not
as bad as I thought you’d be. Look, now
we’re heading into the hills of Virginia,
horse country, that’s where Justice Xavier-Foxx
lives. I can’t imagine how she can help
us, but who knows?”
“Did you know Justice Holmes said the nine
Justices were like nine scorpions trapped
in a bottle?”
He grinned at her, shrugged. “Well, all
the Justices are in the same small area for
hours on end. Maybe she heard something, saw
something. I will live in hope until the contrary
is shoved in my face. Did Holmes really say
that?”
She nodded. “Okay, let me fill you in. As
you know, she’ll go down in the history
books as the first black woman appointed to
the Supreme Court. She was at the top of her
class at Stanford, law review, all extremely
accomplished for a black woman back in the
sixties—pretty remarkable. She wanted to
clerk for Justice Raines, a noted conservative
on the Court. She was recommended by two top
Federal Appeals Court judges, none of which
mattered since only men were taken by both
parties, and still are, for the most part.
You’ll appreciate this—she has three women
law clerks out of ten in the total count of
thirty-six.
“She’s much like my stepfather, usually
votes conservative—pro death penalty and
against attempts to increase prisoners’
rights. Like him she can go the other way
as well—she’s very much a proponent of
women’s rights, rabidly against sexual discrimination,
and pro abortion, except partial birth abortion,
which she is very much against.
“Her husband trains horses, races them,
has quite a stud program. She uses a hyphenated
name—Elizabeth Xavier-Foxx. It’s interesting,
isn’t it, how the two women Justices have
kept their maiden names? I guess it gives
them more heft, like they really were somebody
before they got married.
“Even though she’s black and a woman,
there were attempts to derail her confirmation,
the excuse being that there was lots of money
on her husband’s side, with perhaps the
taint of corruption.”
“What was the accusation? That she’d be
influenced unduly whenever there was a case
about federal horse racketeering?”
Callie laughed. “Nah, it was just politics
as usual.”
“What do you know about her confirmation?”
“Well, after some huffs and puffs because
she wasn’t staunchly pro abortion all the
way, and she was—gasp—pro death penalty,
the Senate confirmed her. They knew it was
an historic moment. No one was willing to
try to shoot her down. She’s expecting us?”
“Oh yeah. Do you like her?”
“Yes, I do. She’s got lots of class; her
husband stands behind her like this huge silent
power, as if daring anyone to come after her.
I personally don’t believe he’s guilty
of anything other than not being a Democrat.”
“But if he had been, then the Republicans
would have blown a fit.”
“True. Ain’t politics fun?” She grinned
over at his profile.
“Yeah, right.”
“Savich,” she said, then frowned, paused.
He arched an eyebrow.
“He’s cute. Whenever I see him, I think
of that actor James Denton.”
Ben rolled his eyes. “I’ll be sure to
tell him that, it’ll make his day.”
“As for his butt—”
“Get yourself together, Ms. Markham. We’re
here at Foxx Farm. Oh yeah, happy birthday.”
She gave him a perfectly blank look.
“You’re twenty-eight today.”
“Oh my, imagine that. Yeah, I guess you’re
right. I forgot. Isn’t that something? Thank
you.”
CHAPTER
13
SUMMERTON, VIRGINIA
FOXXFARM WAS HUGE, judging by the miles of
white fence that bordered it, a score of white
paddocks, rolling hills and forests. There
was a huge barn, two big stables, all dusted
white with snow, looking still and impossibly
beautiful on a Sunday morning. It looked magical
to Ben, and utterly alien.
A lone media van idled outside a gated entrance.
When Ben pulled up to the intercom, a reporter
jumped out of the van and ran over.
“Hey, you FBI? Can you get us in? They won’t
even let us through the gate.”
“Sorry,” Ben said. “Why don’t you
head back to Washington? I hear it’s really
pretty about now, a nice Sunday morning. You
can go to a park for a picnic.”
“That’s what we told him,” said a tall
man in a thick black wool coat, a federal
marshal’s hat on his head. He stood behind
the gated driveway, his arms crossed over
his chest. Good, they were here protecting
Justice Xavier-Foxx. “We figure as long
as the media is camped out all over the place,
ain’t no assassin going to get to the Justice.
All we’ve got to do is protect her from
these baboons.”
“Probably true,” Ben said as he handed
over his badge. “We’re here to interview
the Justice.”
The federal marshal studied the badge, raised
an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. “Go
on through. I’ll keep this charming gentleman
out here.”
“Hey, you’re Callie Markham, The Washington
Post. What are you doing here? What—”
The gate buzzed open, and Ben gave a small
wave to the guy. He ran back toward the van,
trying to make it through the open gate after
him, despite the fact that two federal marshals
were standing in front of the gate, guns at
their belts, legs spread. They could hear
him shouting after them, probably something
about the freedom of the press. The gate closed
smoothly behind them. Still, the guy stood
there, shaking his fist at the exhaust of
the Crown Vic.
Ben parked in front of a sprawling white one-story
house with a porch all along the front. He
could imagine sitting on this porch in the
summer, maybe drinking a beer, listening to
his hair grow. Justice Xavier-Foxx answered
the front door herself, greeted them politely,
gave a cursory look at Ben’s I.D., then
ushered them into a long narrow entrance hall,
where they removed their coats and scarves.
Then she led them into the living room. Ben
sighed with pleasure as he paused in the arched
doorway. It was a long, deep room with a very
old floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace, beamed
ceilings, lots of homey, oversized furniture
that looked like you’d sink to China when
you sat down, and Persian carpets scattered
over the shining wide oak-planked floor.
“You have a beautiful home, ma’am.”
“Thank you. Callie, what a pleasure to see
you. I’m so very sorry about Stewart.”
She pulled Callie into her deep bosom and
patted the back of her head. Callie nearly
burst into tears. It was close, but she held
it in. She felt Justice Xavier-Foxx’s steady
strong heartbeat, felt the warmth from her
solid body, breathed in her rose scent. She
was well into her sixties now, but solid and
fit, her hair flat against her head, in her
signature tight thick chignon. Callie slowly
pulled back in her arms and looked into her
beautiful dark eyes, liquid with tears.
“Thank you,” she said, and knew tears
were thick in her own voice. “It’s difficult.”
“I know. It is for all of us. This has been
such a shock, such a terrible thing. Come
along and sit down. We’ll all talk, try
to figure something out about this madness.”
She gave them mugs of coffee and pointed to
a tray. Ben saw a covered plate on the tray
beside the coffee. The Justice made no move
to uncover it. It had been a long time since
his bowl of Wheaties.
“You’re not an FBI agent. That surprises
me, Detective Raven.”
“I’m with Washington, D.C., Metro, working
with the FBI. What we need, ma’am, is as
much information as you can give us about
Justice Califano—his daily routine, his
likes, dislikes, how he related to other Justices,
and other staff, anything you can think of.”
She sat back and crossed her legs. She took
a sip of coffee. “We are a conservative
Court, Detective, six to three is the normal
voting pattern. However, depending on the
case, Stewart and I are the ones who will
swing toward the liberal side. There are three
Justices who make up the core of the liberal
wing—Justice Alto-Thorpe, Justice Bloomberg,
and Justice Samuels. Justice Samuels is eighty-two,
swears he won’t retire because the President
would appoint another conservative. Frankly,
he’s getting senile, plus he has a heart
condition. Once a law clerk found a Playboy
magazine sitting on top of his desk, which
has led to a good deal of awe and admiration
among the law clerks. I’m telling you about
Justice Samuels because he openly detested
Stewart’s stand on many issues. He was always
accusing him of being a Neanderthal in a black
robe, which gave everyone a big laugh, including
Stewart.
“On the conservative side are Chief Justice
Abrams, Justice Spiros, Justice Gutierrez,
Justice Wallace, Justice Califano, and me,
although again, Stewart and I were the ones
most often seduced by the Dark Side.” This
was said with a chuckle, and both Ben and
Callie laughed.
Ben said, “It sounds like there’s constant
maneuvering, ma’am.”
“Oh yes, always. However, regardless of
our political leanings, all of us love to
delve into arguments; we love to dissect words,
how and why they’re being used, the legal
underpinnings and rationales. We’re accused
of spending most of our time studying the
nuances of our navels, and perhaps this is
true, in part. We spend hours alone. There
is voluminous reading, studying, and just
plain thinking time. We have only two formal
meetings a week, Wednesday and Friday. Much
of our communication is done through various
sorts of memos, my own personal favorite being
the ‘I Join’ memo. This means, simply,
that one Justice is notifying another Justice
that he or she is willing to come onboard
in a particular case. Naturally it isn’t
usually that clean-cut, but it signals the
beginning of negotiations.
“We try to be pleasant to each other, but
when there are contentious cases, it can get
loud and argumentative. Everyone has an agenda;
there are shenanigans pulled by all the Justices,
like adjusting parts of a majority opinion
without telling anyone. Since there is so
much paper flowing in and out of our chambers,
it’s up to the law clerks to carefully read
all the decisions.
“As for Stewart, he was considered a centrist,
which annoyed both sides. He enjoyed being
courted, as I suppose I do, because we were
able, many times, to bring more compromise
to a majority decision.
“Stewart had a keen mind, a way of pulling
arguments apart that showed both strengths
and weaknesses. But he had certain core beliefs
that wouldn’t ever change. He was a good
man.” She lowered her head, looking at her
clasped hands in her lap.
Ben said, “You told us about Justice Samuels.
Are there any other Justices who didn’t
particularly care for Justice Califano?”
Justice Xavier-Foxx laughed. “Justice Lydia
Alto-Thorpe. She’s a dyed-in-the-wool ideologue,
Detective. She was happy as a clam in the
very liberal Brennan court. She was always
pushing her agenda. Unfortunately, Lydia has
little grace or tact, so she tends to raise
hackles rather than gain consensus for what
she wants. She sulks, Detective Raven. She’s
very protective of the Court, and all its
rules and formality, its sacred majesty. When
you speak to her, I imagine she will be very
angry that this has happened. When she’s
angry, she demonstrates a remarkable vocal
range.
“She disliked Justice Califano more than
any other Justice. Stewart made the mistake
a long time ago of laughing at her. She never
forgot. It didn’t matter that he sometimes
voted with her, unlike Abrams, Spiros, Wallace,
and Gutierrez. The other Justices liked Stewart
and respected him.”
Ben took a sip of the sinfully rich coffee.
“Justice Califano was in the Supreme Court
Library on Friday night, near midnight, something
obviously on his mind, something that made
him want to be alone, to think. Can you think
of anything in particular that was bothering
him?”
Justice Xavier-Foxx frowned, looking down
at her brown suede flats. “You know, Stewart
was somewhat distracted, I remember thinking
that during our Friday meeting, but then some
of the Justices got into an argument about
the upcoming death penalty case. Lydia knew
Stewart hadn’t made up his mind yet about
overturning the 1989 death penalty decision,
but still, she couldn’t help herself. She
sniped at him. Then the meeting was over and
I got busy and it dropped out of my mind.”
She turned to Callie. “I’m very sorry
I didn’t pursue it, my dear. Maybe he would
have said something, but I just went about
my business. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” Callie said.
Justice Xavier-Foxx bowed her head, but when
she looked up, she was smiling. “Just smell
those brioches. Let’s have one before they
get cold.” She whisked off the napkin that
covered the plate. “My husband makes them
every Sunday morning, ever since he became
a cordon bleu chef over fifteen years ago.”
It was hard, but Ben didn’t grab the plate
itself and clutch it protectively to his chest.
He took a bite of a brioche, felt it melt
in his mouth, and began to wonder if Wheaties
was the only breakfast option he should consider.
“Can you think of anyone who hated Justice
Califano enough to hire someone to kill him?”
“Goodness, no! Why, there is no one I can
imagine capable of such a brutal crime.”
Callie said, “The Supreme Court is a very
closed society, ma’am. Some have likened
you to the nine princes and princesses. Three
hundred–plus people spend hour upon hour
together in that one building, seeing to the
Justices’ needs. Close proximity can lead
to conflict. Can you think of anyone, ma’am,
anyone at all you observed who might have
disliked my stepfather, other than Justice
Alto-Thorpe?”
“Stewart was a nice man, Callie. No one
I ever saw or heard about disliked him.”
Ben said, “Any spouses or other family members
who might not have cared for Justice Califano?”
Justice Xavier-Foxx shook her head. “No.
There is, however, one interesting spouse,
Lydia Alto-Thorpe’s second husband, Harry
Thorpe. Her first husband died in a yachting
accident, and Lydia, already nearing sixty,
married Harry within six months. It was something
of a scandal at the time, given she was a
Supreme Court Justice, but soon forgotten.
I have to tell you that I feel rather sorry
for Harry even though he’s a very successful
businessman, owns Harry’s. The flagship
restaurant is in the Inner Harbor in Baltimore.”
“I’ve eaten there. It’s excellent,”
Callie said. “I had no idea Justice Alto-Thorpe’s
husband owned it.”
“Yes, well, Lydia overwhelms him when they’re
together in public. I’ve seen her occasionally
put him down, or, more often, ignore him.
But marriages work for a multitude of different
reasons. The few times the Justices and their
families have all been together, I’ve seen
Harry Thorpe staring at Stewart with anger.
Because of what Lydia had said? Probably.
I’m sorry, this can’t possibly have anything
to do with Stewart’s murder.”
“I can’t remember ever having too much
information, ma’am,” Ben said, then added
without pause, “Was Justice Wallace ever
inappropriate with any of the female employees
in the Supreme Court?”
Justice Xavier-Foxx was unruffled. She said
matter-of-factly, “There was occasional
gossip to that effect, yes. Evidently this
is an adult-long habit with Sumner.”
Callie cleared her throat. “How about my
stepfather, ma’am? Were there any female
employees he liked more than he should?”
Ben kept his head down. He simply hadn’t
thought along those lines. He didn’t think
anyone had. He said nothing, waited.
To his astonishment, Justice Xavier-Foxx slowly
nodded. “Perhaps not on Stewart’s part,
I don’t know. Eliza Vickers, his senior
law clerk, was in love with Stewart, if I’m
not mistaken. A tough situation. She was more
than thirty years his junior, in addition
to Stewart being happily married to your mother,
Callie. Eliza was in her second year with
him, very unusual since most law clerks stay
only a year. Did Stewart return her affection?
All I can tell you is that Stewart was getting
quite frantic that her second year was coming
to an end in July. He didn’t want to lose
her. Very bright lawyer, is Eliza Vickers.”
Callie hadn’t expected to hear this, both
Ben and Justice Xavier-Foxx saw it, but she
kept it together. “You really think Eliza
Vickers was in love with my stepfather? With
Stewart? A man old enough to be her father?”
“I’ve learned over the years that a person’s
age becomes less and less important. It’s
the other things that matter, like respect,
brains, kindness. Was she in love with him?
I’d say so, yes. It’s just my opinion,
mind you, Callie.”
Callie had to know. “Please, be honest with
me. Do you think Stewart was in love with
her?”
“I can’t say, Callie. I never saw any
sort of inappropriate emotion when they were
together. It’s just that once I happened
to look at Eliza when Stewart was speaking.
It was crystal clear to me, another woman,
that she loved him. Don’t get me wrong.
She never acted silly or smitten. She was
tough, and those who didn’t recognize her
brilliance fell victim to it. I enjoyed watching
her. By the time she hits thirty-five, she’ll
be formidable. She might be a Justice on the
Supreme Court herself someday.
“I realize you all believe Stewart was killed
by someone who knew him. That it was a personal
act, not a terrorist act, and that is why
I’ve told you this. I very much want you
to catch Stewart’s murderer. This information
is more than likely a dead end, but I knew
I had to tell you anything that might help.”
Ben eyed another brioche but exercised control.
“What do you think of Justice Califano’s
other two law clerks and his two secretaries,
ma’am?”
Justice Xavier-Foxx smiled. “Stewart’s
law clerks, like all our law clerks, have
their own beliefs, their own biases, their
own core values. Sure they’re young, still
changing, evolving. You can hear arguments
all over the Court. The lunchroom downstairs
is a hotbed of controversy, argument, brutal
insults. Do our law clerks sway us? Yes, sometimes.
Young people are so passionate, so idealistic.
It’s difficult to resist them sometimes
even when you know they don’t have the ability
to grasp the long view, the consequences of
a decision.”
Callie asked, “Do you think Justice Sumner
Wallace could have behaved inappropriately
with my mother?”
Again, Justice Xavier-Foxx was unruffled.
“It wouldn’t surprise me. He was always
testing. As I said, everyone knows that Sumner
has always had a roving eye. He’ll never
see himself as too old to follow through when
he sees a woman he wants.”
“Do you believe that Justice Wallace and
my stepfather were best friends?”
“If Sumner did behave inappropriately with
your mother and Stewart found out about it,
I would certainly doubt it. However, I hope
Sumner managed to hold himself in check with
Margaret.” She rose, looked at one, then
the other of them. “Both of you are very
young. Try to enjoy this special time. Detective,
find the person who did this.”
They left a few minutes later beneath a noon-high
sun that shone brilliantly on the melting
snow. Ben waved to the two federal marshals
guarding the residence as he drove through
the open gate. He said as he turned onto the
highway, “Mr. Foxx stayed close throughout
the interview, probably right outside the
living room.”
“How do you know that?”
“I smelled his aftershave. Old Spice.”
“I wonder why he didn’t come in, at least
to meet us. We could have thanked him for
the coffee and those marvelous brioches.”
“Good question. That was well done of you,
out of the blue asking her about, well, your
stepfather messing around. I confess I never
even thought of that.”
“I certainly didn’t get the answer I expected,
that’s for sure.”
CHAPTER
14
45 LAWFORD AVENUE N.E.
GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D.C.
SUNDAY MORNING
SAVICH ANDSHERLOCKstood a moment on the icy
front steps of Justice Lydia Alto-Thorpe’s
house, staring at the recently slammed door.
The door was still shuddering.
Sherlock said, “Should I arrest her?”
“For rudeness? For telling us we’re incompetent?”
“That’s a start. Goodness, Dillon, I feel
like I’ve been bludgeoned. Can she harangue,
or what? She slammed the door right in our
faces,” Sherlock said. Then she laughed.
“She actually slammed the door in two FBI
agents’ faces. Isn’t that a kick?”
“I’m still deciding what it was,” Savich
said.
The Justice had opened the door herself and
blocked them, even though she knew who they
were since they’d called out their names
through the closed front door. She stood there,
arms crossed over her chest. “Well, what
have we here? More reporters?”
Sherlock had given her a sweet smile, pulled
out her I.D., flipped it open, and said, “As
you see, Justice Alto-Thorpe, we’re FBI
agents. May we come in?”
Justice Alto-Thorpe had said out of a mouth
so tightly seamed they could barely see it,
“This is ridiculous. I’ve already spoken
to everyone. I know nothing about any of this
except that you’re all incompetent idiots.
A madman invaded the Supreme Court of the
United States of America and murdered a Supreme
Court Justice! This is ludicrous, unforgivable,
and disgraceful! You allowed it to happen.
All of you should be fired, beginning with
the Marshal of the Supreme Court, Alice Halpern.
The Attorney General should be shot. The President
should resign.”
And that had been only her opening salvo.
They walked back to Savich’s Porsche. Savich
waved to the two federal marshals who were
sitting in their car across the street. He
would swear there was a look of commiseration
on their faces.
As they drove away, Sherlock said, “Well,
even though I feel bruised all over, and we
didn’t learn a single thing except the Justice
is extraordinarily pissed off, there is an
upside to this.”
“Yeah?”
“We have lots of time now for Eliza Vickers.
She lives in McLean?”
Savich nodded, as he carefully negotiated
a corner. “I guess you could say she is
royally pissed.”
“Bludgeoned, we’ve been bludgeoned by
an expert.” She sighed. “After we speak
with Ms. Vickers we’ll go home for lunch
and see Sean and Lily. Hopefully everyone
will be smiling and glad to see us. That will
bolster our egos. Isn’t Simon coming down
from New York today to see Lily?”
“You bet. He’s trying to talk my sister
into marrying him sooner rather than later.
What do you think?”
“I guess we’ll see,” Sherlock said,
and settled back for the drive to McLean.
“Simon’s a pretty good talker.”
ELIZAVICKERS OPENEDthe front door of her condo
as soon as Savich’s Porsche pulled into
the driveway. The condo complex—The Oaks—looked
lovely under a pristine blanket of snow. The
individual condos were good-sized, modern,
and well maintained. The grounds were nicely
kept, the sidewalks well shoveled. The complex
backed up against a maple and oak forest.
Sherlock heard Dillon say, “Remind me to
review the financials on her later. Nice buildings,
nice setting. I wonder how much law clerks
at the Supreme Court make?”
“Probably not all that much. It’s such
a prestige thing, I imagine. Sort of like
being a Rhodes scholar.”
Eliza Vickers was a surprise. She was tall,
about five-foot-ten, full-figured, big-breasted,
with long, straight dark brown hair. She wore
white socks, jeans, and a huge creamy knit
sweater. Big glasses distorted her eyes a
bit, then she gave them a smile, and Sherlock
saw a wealth of beauty on her face. The smile
was brief, though, and it was clear she’d
been crying. She rubbed her fists over her
cheeks, trying to keep control, and whispered,
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Come in, let
me get myself together.”
The living room was good-sized, filled with
light from a dozen windows that looked onto
the woods, a modern fireplace, and a white
sofa and chairs with a dozen accent pillows
scattered artfully about. The carpet was white.
Sherlock automatically took off her shoes,
Savich followed suit.
“Yes, I know—why ever did I choose white?
I guess it was during my off-guys phase, you
know, back to virginal for a while. It’s
a pain now. Please come in. Can I get you
coffee or tea?”
“Tea would be marvelous,” Sherlock said.
“Straight.” That made Eliza smile a bit,
that beautiful smile, and her eyes cleared
behind those big glasses. “I’ll be back
in a moment.”
“I smell him,” Sherlock said.
“Who?”
“Justice Califano. I smell him. The same
smell in his inner office at the Supreme Court
Building.”
“So it was an affair, then, not just Eliza
Vickers worshiping Justice Califano from afar.
He came here.”
“Yes. And it was recent.”
When Eliza Vickers walked back into the living
room, she was carrying two mugs that each
said UVA. “A good school,” Savich said.
“With one of the best law schools in the
country, I understand. I thought you went
to Harvard Law.”
“I did. My younger brother goes to UVA.”
She gave them each a mug. “It’s plain
old Lipton. I hope you don’t mind.”
“It’s excellent,” Sherlock said, taking
a sip.
Eliza wasn’t a lightweight, nor was she
fat. She was simply solid, statuesque. She
took off her glasses a moment, and wiped them
on the hem of her big sweater. Savich looked
at her eyes. There was grief there, and confusion,
but obvious intelligence as well. He felt
immediate respect for her.
He said matter-of-factly, “Everyone tells
us you’re a real ballbuster, Ms. Vickers.”
“Call me Eliza, please, Agent Savich. Goodness,
yes, I suppose I am. Someone has to do it,
or things don’t get done quickly enough,
and believe me, speed is of the essence. So
much paperwork comes into a Justice’s chambers,
and all of it has to be reviewed, responded
to. I keep things going, have from the day
I walked into Stew—Justice Califano’s
chambers. I don’t think anyone particularly
dislikes me for it, but who knows? Who cares?
We accomplish what needs to be accomplished.”
“We understand that Justice Califano didn’t
want to lose you when your second year comes
to a close in July, either as his law clerk
or his lover.” Savich paused a fraction
of a second. “He was your lover, wasn’t
he, Eliza?”
Her mouth opened, shut, and then she sighed.
“I don’t know why I’m surprised you
found out. It’s just that I didn’t think
anyone knew. Actually I’m not certain that
Stewart believed me as good a lover as a law
clerk.” She tried to smile, but this time
she couldn’t. “I didn’t want to leave
him and he certainly didn’t want me to leave,
but I was leaving, in July. I’d made up
my mind. I would very much appreciate it if
you wouldn’t say anything about my relationship
with Stewart to anyone, particularly to Margaret.”
Sherlock said, “How long had you been lovers?”
“Four months now. Please, I don’t want
Margaret to know. Why hurt her needlessly?
It would be cruel.”
Sherlock said, “She’ll have to know if
it turns out your affair had anything to do
with Justice Califano’s murder.”
That knocked her back against the colorful
pillows that lined the back of the white sofa.
“How could I have anything to do with Stewart’s
murder? He was the finest man I’ve ever
known in my life. He was brilliant, he was
kind, he was gentle, he was unfailingly thoughtful.
He loved being a Supreme Court Justice, and
best of all, he was very good at it. We all
needed him; the country needed him; justice
needed him.”
Such fine, idealistic words, Savich thought,
and they came out of her so easily. Was she
that good an actress? Or was she sincere?
Fact was, she was a lawyer, a good one. Best
not to forget that. He saw tears swimming
in her eyes again and changed his direction
for the moment. “Tell us about your law
clerks, Eliza. What are their names?”
Sherlock didn’t bat an eyelash. Of course
Dillon knew everything about both the other
clerks, how much they drank at parties, what
sports they liked, but his look was very open
and straightforward. She would have believed
it instantly if she hadn’t known better.
“There’s Danny Boy, that’s what we call
him. Daniel O’Malley. I kid him about seeing
him standing on the shores of Ireland, a bugle
under his arm, ready to transport to France
and join the Brits in the ditches. Daniel
O’Malley, he’s got that idealistic look,
the burning fervor sort of thing. Fact is,
though, that idealistic look isn’t real.
There isn’t an idealistic bone in Danny’s
body. He doesn’t come from money and he’s
grown up wanting it, desperately, and to him
that means working for a big law firm in New
York City. Danny is twenty-six, younger than
his years should make him, eager to get his
work done well because he wanted a glowing
recommendation from Stewart to fire him off
to the big time.” She paused a moment, twisted
the hem of her sweater. “I don’t suppose
he’ll get one now.” She cleared her throat.
“I remember one time when I had to swat
him down.”
Savich said, “May I ask how you slapped
him down?”
“I told him his grandmother, God rest her
beloved soul, would turn over in her grave
if she heard him advocate that ‘under God’
violates the separation of church and state
in the Pledge of Allegiance. He tried to tell
me she was Irish, not American, and she didn’t
really understand. I told him his grandmother
was likely cheering when they added it in
1954, long before he was even born. Then I
picked up the St. Christopher medal he always
wears around his neck, pulled it tight, watched
his face turn red, and laughed at him. He
folded. End of story.”
Since Savich agreed with her about that argument,
he nodded. “Did Danny have a girlfriend?”
“Yes, only recently. He’s very shy with
women. She’s a clerk over at the Department
of the Interior, a computer geek, to tell
you the truth, but it seems they are getting
along, and that’s good. Don’t get the
wrong idea here, Agents. Danny is law review,
graduated Loyola with superior grades, and
has a recommendation from a professor who
was a former clerk, and still plugged into
the clerk network. Naturally, this is true
of just about every one of the thirty-six
law clerks here. Danny never had enough money,
which was par for the course with most of
the law clerks, but he managed.” She paused
a moment, and this time she did manage to
smile. “Do you know that in 1922 Congress
first appropriated money for Justices to hire
one law clerk each? Their salary was thirty-six
hundred dollars a year. That’s about a tenth
of what the salaries are today. Given inflation,
I don’t think we’ve made much progress.”
She smiled again, looked around her lovely
living room. “My uncle owns a law firm in
Boston. I worked for him before I came here.”
Savich smiled back at her. “Thank you. And
the other clerk?”
“Stewart elected to have only three law
clerks this year instead of the typical four.
Why, I don’t know. I didn’t ask him. So
the other clerk is Elaine LaFleurette. A ridiculous
name, and she hates it. She was considering
changing it, but she said her father would
have a conniption fit and disown her, so she’s
sticking with it. But since she hates to be
called Elaine, we all call her Fleurette.
She went to Tulane, a big party school that
she aced without really even trying, then
went to Stanford where she found what she
needed—more focus and less beer—and she
did very well. She’s not strong enough yet
to take on the world, but she’ll get there.
She’s a good woman, very good. She also
admired Stew—Justice Califano. Actually,
she worshiped the ground he walked on, like
a substitute for her father, who is evidently
something of a controlling son of a bitch.
Stewart always listened to her, always showed
her respect, even when he wanted to put duct
tape over her mouth. She came running into
his office once when she heard us yelling
at each other. She thought she needed to protect
him from me. It was a close call.”
She’d brought it back to her relationship
with Justice Califano without them having
to push her. Savich said, “What do you mean
close?”
“Well, if she hadn’t come bursting in,
I’m afraid that Stewart and I might have
been tearing each other’s clothes off in
the next five minutes. We liked arguing, it
stimulated us, made us a little wild. We never
made love in his office, but that time it
would have been close, I’ll admit it.
“And Stewart could argue, believe me. He
could execute a 360 on the head of a pin just
for fun, and argue the opposite side. He was
that good. He had this ability to see both
sides of an issue very clearly, and he could
argue either side so well, he could talk nearly
anyone over. It was a gift he had. But he
was willing to change his mind as well. The
good Lord knows even I made him change it
sometimes. Don’t get me wrong. He wouldn’t
change his mind about an issue or a case because
he loved me, it was always about his sense
of justice and the best way to achieve it
without stomping on the Constitution. He believed
our Constitution should serve our world today,
but he always tried to get into the Old Ones’
heads—that’s what he called them.
“He had weaknesses, too. He could take a
lawyer into dislike—and I know at least
a couple of times that it colored his decisions.
But he helped me form my own ideas about how
to balance justice and the law in each individual
situation. We’d disagree, we’d fight.”
Eliza stopped cold, looked down at her clenched
hands. “And now he’s dead, and we don’t
even know who killed him or why.”
She started sobbing, and Sherlock went to
her and pulled her into her arms and gently
rocked her back and forth. She whispered against
her hair, “I know, Eliza. We’re so very
sorry. We won’t be telling Mrs. Califano
anything, only if it’s vital, which I can’t
imagine right now that it would be. It’s
all right, Eliza. Is there someone we can
call for you?”
Eliza Vickers shook her head against Sherlock’s
shoulder, and slowly straightened. “You’re
so small, but you’re strong, aren’t you?”
Sherlock gave her face a gentle pat. “Yes,
I am. But I can’t stand to see this pain.
Listen to me now. It is right that you grieve,
that you think of all you’ve lost, but you’re
young and smart, and you will get over this.
You will move on, and you will marry and you
might be lucky enough to have a child. Agent
Savich and I have Sean, and we would give
our lives for him. So you see, things can
change, and they will, for the better. We’ll
be speaking to you again, Eliza.”
Before they left, Savich made an appointment
to see Eliza Vickers on Monday afternoon at
the Supreme Court Building.
“I wonder,” Savich said as he turned the
ignition key, “if she expected to marry
him.”
“I sure hope she’s too smart to have fallen
into that trap.”
“Next time we see her, let’s be sure to
ask. I want to hear what she has to say.”
CHAPTER
15
GEORGETOWN
WASHINGTON, D.C.
SUNDAY AFTERNOON/EVENING
LILYSAVICH SERVEDhomemade vegetable soup and
polenta, an unlikely combination except that
Sean adored it, and a warm baguette with strawberry
preserves, which Sean also liked. Sean floated
his polenta in the soup and hummed while he
spooned most of it down his throat.
Sherlock said as she tucked Sean’s napkin
more firmly around his neck and wiped bits
of polenta off his chin, “When’s Simon
coming, Lily?”
“Simon got hung up, and won’t be here
until this evening. Some big art acquisition
for the Met. He’s pretty impressed with
himself. You guys got home sooner than expected.”
“Yeah, well,” Sherlock said as she spooned
in a bit of soup, “Justice Alto-Thorpe blasted
us out of the water for allowing murder to
happen in the Supreme Court, wouldn’t even
let us in her house.”
“She lambasted us all right,” Savich said.
“It was quite an experience.”
“Somehow I can’t imagine anyone lambasting
either of you,” Lily added, her voice wistful.
“I wish I could have seen that. Okay, despite
her, how’s the case going?”
“We’ve got some interesting twists going.”
Savich’s eyes nearly rolled back in his
head at the taste of the soup. “You made
the soup, Lily? It’s wonderful.”
And Lily said without missing a beat, “Sure,
Sean and I sliced the veggies.” She winked
at Sherlock and mouthed “Balducci’s,”
naming a high-end deli over on M Street. She
continued, “After Justice Alto-Thorpe, you
guys sure don’t want to turn on the TV,
it’ll give you heartburn. Goodness, I had
no idea there were so many experts on exactly
what the FBI should be doing and isn’t doing,
on what the President should be doing and
isn’t doing. It shows no sign of stopping.”
“The price of doing business in this town,”
Savich said. “Now, don’t bother me, Lily.
I’ve got a spiritual experience going with
this soup. Sean? You liking it too?”
His boy sucked down a spoonful, most of it
making its way down his throat, but some of
the vegetables and broth dripping off his
chin. He gave his father a huge grin and picked
up a chunk of polenta out of his soup and
squeezed it through his fingers.
“I was just waiting for him to do that,”
Lily said, watching him flatten his palm against
his open mouth. “I think he likes the way
it feels squishing between his fingers.”
“Whatever works,” Savich said. “Thanks
so much for coming over, Lily. Graciella needed
some time off, her mom’s been ill.”
“Believe me, it’s my pleasure.” Savich
heard the hitch in her voice. She’d lost
her own little girl over a year before, but
now there was a nephew in her life, and he
knew it mattered. He wondered if being with
Sean was keeping her in Washington rather
than marrying Simon Russo and moving to New
York. On the other hand, The Washington Post
had picked up No Wrinkles Remus, her political
cartoon series, and she was laughing more,
looking better, happier.
“Yes, Lily, we really appreciate you feeding
us and taking care of the little wild one
here—” Sherlock was interrupted by her
cell. “Excuse me,” she said and turned
away. “Sherlock.”
“It’s Jimmy Maitland, Sherlock. You guys
are needed, now. There’s been another murder.”
“Who?”
“Daniel O’Malley, one of Justice Califano’s
law clerks.”
“Oh no,” Sherlock said. “Where did it
happen?”
“His girlfriend found him in his apartment.
Get over here as fast as you can. You got
the address?”
“Oh yes. We’ll be right there.”
Both Savich and Lily were on their feet. “What
is it, Sherlock?”
“Daniel O’Malley. Danny Boy. Someone killed
him. Lily, can you—”
“If you’re thinking about asking Mom,
hang it up. Sean’s mine. Go.”
Sean wanted to go too. It took a couple of
minutes to convince him that rolling his red
ball over his Aunt Lily’s stomach would
be more fun.
DANIELO’MALLEY HADN’Tdied easily. He’d
fought, hard, but his killer had been stronger.
He’d been strangled with his own St. Christopher
medal.
He lay sprawled on his back in the narrow
hallway that led from the living room to the
bedroom of his apartment. His fingers were
cut where he’d tried to get them beneath
the heavy chain. The living room had been
ripped apart—his one sofa, which looked
like it had come from his parents, was turned
facedown, a big TV chair ripped apart, the
television smashed, all the dozen upon dozen
of books pulled off the shelves, many of them
ripped in two.
His apartment was on Biltmore Street N.E.,
near the middle of a long block in a blue-collar
neighborhood that had undergone some recent
gentrification. The apartment was small—a
narrow living room, tiny kitchen, with everything
in it smashed, the refrigerator open, milk
pooled in the craters on the old linoleum
floor. There was one bathroom, again with
everything on the floor, a long skinny bedroom,
three dead plants lined up on the windowsill,
the only things that hadn’t been destroyed.
The mattress was turned over and slashed open.
All the drawers in the small dresser were
pulled out, shorts, undershirts, socks, pullovers
thrown on the floor. Everything in the small
closet was shredded, including two pairs of
shoes.
They heard quiet weeping from the kitchen.
Jimmy Maitland and the medical examiner nodded
to them in the hallway. Savich and Sherlock
went down on their haunches beside Detective
Ben Raven. He looked over at them. “You
can thank Mr. Maitland for getting me here.
He also called the dozen task force team leaders.
This place is going to fill up pretty soon.
He thought it would be more efficient than
calling everyone together again at FBI headquarters.”
“Is Callie with you, Ben?” Sherlock asked.
“Yes, she’s downstairs in the car. I ordered
her on pain of dismemberment to stay there.”
Savich said, “Good, no one wants her to
see this.”
They studied Danny O’Malley’s body. “It’s
like Justice Califano,” Sherlock said. “He
really fought, but in the end, the murderer
toyed with him, let him think he could pull
the chain free, but he couldn’t, of course.
The killer is strong, guys, he’s very strong.”
“And sadistic,” Ben said. “He enjoyed
this as much as he did strangling Justice
Califano, got a real kick out of Danny’s
struggles, gave him a whiff of hope, then
strangled him right through his fingers.”
Sherlock said, “I wonder if he brought his
own wire, then saw Danny’s chain and decided
that would do the job just as well.”
Savich nodded slowly. “Yeah, that’s probably
right. He would have come prepared. He knew
he was going to kill him, no doubt in my mind.”
Jimmy Maitland crowded in beside them. “There’s
got to be some useful physical evidence this
time. The guy was looking for something. Even
the bathroom, it looks like a hurricane went
through. The killer didn’t care, just destroyed,
even the mirror and the medicine cabinet,
glass everywhere, all the pill bottles open,
pills scattered on the floor. He even ripped
up the shower curtain. Still, we’ll go over
this place thoroughly, just maybe he didn’t
find what he was looking for.”
“Or maybe he wasn’t looking for anything.
He was enraged and wanted to destroy everything,”
Ben said.
“That’s possible,” Maitland said. “But
I hope you’re wrong, and the murderer was
looking for something.” Jimmy Maitland rose
and went off toward the kitchen.
Savich and Sherlock continued to examine Daniel
O’Malley’s body. “Do you smell that?
It’s like the Fantastik we use to clean
the counters and bathrooms at home.” She
raised Daniel O’Malley’s fingers and sniffed.
“The bastard scrubbed under his nails, cleaned
away any skin and blood, any evidence of a
struggle.”
Savich said, “Dr. Conrad is good. If there’s
anything to find, he and the forensic guys
will find it.”
They rose, stood looking down at the young
man’s body, the gray pallor, the bulging
eyes, the smell of waste his body had expelled—no,
Sherlock couldn’t see him with a bugle now,
uniform sharply pressed, standing on the shore
of Ireland. Twenty-six years old and he was
dead. “He was so young, so—new. Maybe
Eliza was wrong, maybe he would have turned
out to be Danny Boy, a bugle under his arm,
fighting for justice, maybe he wouldn’t
have turned into a money-grubbing kind of
lawyer. Why was he murdered?”
Savich said, “I don’t know, but it doesn’t
feel good.”
“No,” Ben said. “It doesn’t. Why was
the place torn apart?”
Sherlock said, “The killer was looking for
something. But what? What could a law clerk
for Justice Califano have that was so important
for him to find?”
Savich said, “There’s lots to consider
here, but like I said, I have a bad feeling
about this. And about Danny. Let’s speak
to Danny’s girlfriend. Hopefully she’ll
know what was going on with him.”
Jimmy Maitland was looking both pale and furious
when he walked back from the kitchen. “Damnation,
this makes me mad, a young kid like this,
why the hell did this maniac kill him?”
He looked down at Danny O’Malley’s body.
“He was so damned young. It burns me to
the ground.”
Sherlock said, “You find out anything from
the girlfriend?”
“His girlfriend—her name’s Annie Harper—said
she and Danny went to a movie Friday night,
couldn’t tell me what it was. She said Danny
loved Italian flicks, the ones with subtitles.
She spent the night with him. She said he
was really upset about Justice Califano’s
murder when he heard it on the news Saturday
morning. I’m going to shut up now. I want
you guys to speak to her, form your own opinions,
but I’ll tell you, she’s a mess right
now, incoherent really. Came over here, had
a key, let herself in and found him.”
“It sounds like she belongs in the hospital
right now,” Sherlock said. “They’ll
probably want to sedate her. And we’ve got
to call her family.”
Jimmy Maitland nodded. “Yeah, I think that’s
the way to go. Hope to God she’ll know what
was on his mind. I don’t mind telling you,
I really don’t like this.
“Okay, let me get Annie Harper to the hospital.
I’m going to leave it to Dr. Conrad and
the two forensic teams. We’ve got people
out canvassing the neighborhood. The twelve
team leaders are here. Come into the living
room when you’re done.”
“Oh yeah, best to put a guard on her, just
in case,” Savich said.
Maitland nodded.
Five minutes later, twelve agents stood amidst
the wreckage of the small living room. When
Maitland spoke, everyone fell silent. “We
want every person who knew Danny O’Malley
interviewed again as quickly as possible.
Check alibis and phone records. The canvassing
of Danny O’Malley’s neighborhood hasn’t
turned up anything yet, but we’ll continue
pounding the pavement, speaking to every neighbor—and
you can believe we’ll get all the warrants
we ask for.
“You all know the drill. Our murderer worked
fast. What was he looking for when he tore
up Danny’s apartment? We need to find that
out.
“Danny was killed within twenty-four hours
of Justice Califano, according to Dr. Conrad’s
preliminary examination, which means he was
killed early this morning or very late Saturday
night. Annie Harper, his girlfriend, didn’t
spend the night on Saturday.”
“That was her good luck,” said Agent Ollie
Hamish. “She’ll realize that soon enough.”
Maitland said, “Yes, she will, and then
she’ll have to live with it. Danny’s murder
brings us so close I can taste it. It’s
someone in this bloody loop, someone we’ve
already met and interviewed, not some deranged
stranger, not someone on the outside. Let’s
get it done, today, all of it.”
Savich said, “We’re going to focus on
the following scenarios. First, there’s
some connection between Danny O’Malley and
Justice Califano, something in Danny’s background
that ties them together. If this is the case,
we’ll find out what it is.”
Savich drew a deep breath. “The only other
scenario that makes any sense is that when
Danny found out about Justice Califano’s
murder, he either knew immediately who the
killer was, or he’d seen or heard something
he shouldn’t have, probably in Justice Califano’s
office. And he acted on it.”
Jimmy Maitland said, “I was hoping I was
the only one thinking that.”
Ollie Hamish said, “You hate it when young
could go hand and glove with stupid. Well,
we’ll hope there was another reason, that
maybe the two of them were tied together somehow
in the killer’s mind.”
Savich nodded. “I simply can’t think of
another reason why the killer ransacked the
apartment. He had to be looking for whatever
it was that Danny was holding over his head.
Danny could have also been involved in something
with the killer, and not realized that part
of the plan was to kill him as well. If it
turns out that Danny did know something and
tried his hand at blackmail, we’ve got to
find out what he knew and how he knew it.
So that means we’ve got to track every move
Danny O’Malley made.
“We’ll take his bills apart, strip his
computer down to the hard drive. If he used
them, we’ll know. As to who’s going to
do what, Mr. Maitland’s already made up
assignments.” He paused a moment, looked
out over the devastation, then finally at
the men and women who were packed into the
small living room. “None of us want Danny
O’Malley involved in some sort of blackmail,
but the fact is that it’s a possibility,
and we’ve got to face it head-on.” He
turned to Agent Michaels. “When you interviewed
him, Pete, did you get any impression he was
keeping something back? Was there any hint
that he wasn’t being straightforward?”
Agent Michaels said immediately, “He acted
like a choirboy, Savich, playing the hand-wringing
innocent, tears in his eyes the entire interview.
I should have realized—” Pete cursed under
his breath.
Savich said, “Forget it, Pete. We’ll hope
it turns out he wasn’t acting. We’ll push
harder on everyone else now. As Mr. Maitland
said, we’re close. Trust me on this, people.
We will get this monster, and we’ll get
him soon. First, we have to pin down exactly
why he murdered one of Califano’s law clerks.”
Sherlock said, “If it turns out Danny was
a blackmailer, what could he possibly have
known? He wasn’t anywhere near the Supreme
Court Building on Friday night.” She paused
a moment, stared around at all the agents.
“I hope Danny wasn’t that stupid.”
CHAPTER
16
AFTERSAVICH TOLDBen Raven to meet them at
Elaine LaFleurette’s place in two hours,
he and Sherlock drove again to Eliza Vickers’s
McLean condo.
Savich said, “I want to tell her myself,
look her in the face and tell her about Danny.
I want to see how she reacts for myself.”
She and Fleurette are our best leads now.”
When Eliza answered the knock, he said without
preamble, “Hello, Eliza. I’m sorry to
tell you this, but Danny O’Malley is dead.”
Eliza Vickers took the news like a body blow.
She turned white, whispered, “No, no,”
and stumbled back from the front door. Savich
grabbed her arm to keep her from crashing
into the small side table in the entry hall.
“No,” she said again, staring at them,
shaking her head back and forth, rubbing her
hands frantically over her arms. “This can’t
be true. It can’t. Oh God. Not Danny, not
him.” She covered her face with her hands
and stood there sobbing, rocking on her feet.
“Let’s sit down, Eliza,” Sherlock said.
Together, they led her into the living room.
Sherlock got her a glass of water. Eliza didn’t
seem to notice the glass at her mouth, but
when she took a drink, it seemed to help.
It was several more minutes before Eliza raised
her ravaged face. Her eyes were shocked, uncomprehending.
“Has everyone gone mad? For God’s sake,
why would anyone want to kill Danny?”
“We’re not certain yet,” Sherlock said,
“but Danny’s apartment had been torn apart.”
Eliza looked baffled. “But why? That doesn’t
make any sense. Danny didn’t have any valuables
hidden away.”
Sherlock said, “It’s possible Daniel O’Malley
was trying his hand at blackmail and that’s
why his apartment was torn up. The killer
was looking for whatever it was that Danny
was holding over his head. If Danny was attempting
blackmail, it cost him his life.
“We’re dealing with someone utterly ruthless,
someone who doesn’t hesitate when he sees
something has to be done to save himself.
And very possibly save the person who hired
him to kill Justice Califano.”
“You believe there are two people?”
“Yes. Someone hired the killer. He’s very
professional, Eliza, except for the risks
he chooses to take, and I get the feeling
that’s how he likes it. He’s an adrenaline
junkie. The bigger the risk the better.”
Eliza looked perfectly blank. “No, I can’t
believe Danny would do that. Besides, what
could he have known? What? He was so sweet,
but he worked hard because he saw this year
as the servitude that would eventually land
him the big bucks. He wasn’t stupid. A blackmailer?
Danny? I swear to you I never saw such a side
to him—you know, actually making the decision
to use what he knew to blackmail a killer?
Why didn’t he come to me? Why didn’t he
call you? I know money was important to him,
but this? I just don’t understand it.”
Her voice dropped off. “It’s got to be
another reason, it’s got to be.”
Sherlock said, “We’re looking into everything,
Eliza, but there aren’t all that many ways
to interpret this. It’s possible that someone
wants to kill everyone in Justice Califano’s
chambers. In case that’s the goal, there’ll
be an agent here to guard you.”
Eliza couldn’t get her mind around this,
they both saw it, and waited. “That’s
crazy.”
“Yes, it is,” Sherlock said.
Eliza sighed, paced from one end of her living
room and back again. “Maybe the killer believed
that Danny knew something, that Danny didn’t
try to blackmail him at all.”
“That’s possible,” Sherlock said, “but
not all that likely. Look, we’re hoping
that Danny’s girlfriend will have information
for us, but until then, let’s assume Danny
tried his hand at blackmail.”
“It’s tough, really tough. All right.
If Danny was a blackmailer, then I was obviously
wrong about him. Money was an obsession with
him, and I never realized it. I wonder how
long it takes to really know what’s going
on inside a person.”
Sherlock said, “Do you know if Danny was
in trouble financially?”
She shook her head. “Not that I know of.
We’re not paid princely wages at the Court,
as you know, but he had his own apartment,
though it was pretty spartan. I always got
the impression that he was pretty careful
with his money. He was just out of law school.
And you know, he wanted desperately to have
a year at the Supreme Court because he knew
it would open doors for him. He told me he
danced his mother around the room when he
found out Justice Califano selected him.”
“No gambling, nothing he was obsessed about
having—cars, a boat, whatever? No expensive
hobbies? Not a big clotheshorse?”
She shook her head.
“Then why would he do this, Eliza?” Sherlock
asked.
“It doesn’t say much for his morals, does
it?” Eliza jumped up, began pacing, then
whirled about. “Oh, Danny, you little pecker-head.”
And her eyes filmed with tears again. She
began rubbing her face, not looking at either
of them, probably looking inward to a young
man she’d liked, a young man she’d believed
she’d known, a young man she’d like to
punch out, if only he wasn’t already dead.
She would never see him again to yell at him.
Sherlock said, “He was killed within twenty-four
hours of Justice Califano. That means that
when he heard about the murder Saturday morning,
he realized that what he knew was worth a
lot of money. And he managed to notify the
person who hired the killer. What could he
have known, Eliza?”
“Oh God, I don’t know. All right? How
would I know what Danny knew and didn’t
know?”
“You knew Justice Califano,” Savich said.
“Danny must have overheard him talking with
someone, or he may have read something Justice
Califano left lying on his desk by accident.
Something. Think back, Eliza.”
She sat back down on the sofa, clasped her
hands between her blue-jeaned knees, and rocked
a bit.
Savich’s voice deepened slowly, and he stretched
his words out evenly. It was his interview
voice, deep and soothing. “I want you to
think back to Friday. You’ve just come in.
I want you to tell us exactly what Danny did
on Friday morning. Don’t leave out a thing.
Think particularly about when he had the opportunity
to speak privately with Justice Califano.
Just relax and think back, Eliza.”
But she wasn’t ready, and said instead,
“Danny’s mom, dad, and three brothers
live in New Jersey.”
“Yes, they’ve been notified.”
“You didn’t tell them why you think he
was murdered, did you?”
“No,” Savich said. “They’d spoken
to him yesterday when the news of Justice
Califano’s murder hit the airwaves. They
wanted to make sure Danny was all right. He
reassured them and told them not to worry.
Now, it’s time, Eliza. We need you. Danny
needs you. You’ve been thinking about Friday
for the last three hours. Talk to us.”
“I have, yes,” she said, still distracted.
But Eliza Vickers was smart. She turned her
eyes to Savich. Sherlock knew what she was
seeing—dark fathomless eyes, eyes that held
no threat at all, but an invitation to trust,
and the unspoken promise of understanding.
Sherlock recognized the concentration on Eliza’s
face. She sat forward a bit, all her own attention
on Justice Califano’s lover and senior law
clerk, a woman she wished she could have met
under different circumstances, a woman who
could have been a friend.
Eliza spoke slowly, her voice cool and steady
now. “Friday morning, all the Justices meet
alone in the Chief Justice’s conference
room, at exactly ten-thirty. Like clockwork.
But Stewart seemed to have forgotten about
it. I reminded him. He went flying out of
his chambers at exactly ten-thirty a.m.”
“When did he arrive that morning?”
“At a quarter of eight. Always the same
time. Stewart was very punctual. On Friday,
we arrived at the same time, as usual, and
had coffee together. He ate his morning sesame
bagel while we reviewed several cases before
the Eighth Circuit. Every Justice is responsible
for supervising one or more of the thirteen
Federal Appellate Courts. Stewart supervised
the Eighth. We went over the majority opinion
Fleurette had drafted for Winters v. Kentucky,
reviewed several bench memos Danny had prepared
and a postoral argument memo I’d written.
Stewart moved through all of this very quickly.
Then he said he had some things he needed
to do and wanted to be alone for a while.”
“This was unusual?”
“No, not at all. That’s why I didn’t
mention it to you this morning. I left him
about a quarter to nine.”
“What sort of things, in your experience,
would occupy him in the mornings? Matters
of the Court, personal things, outside business?”
Eliza’s eyes remained locked on Savich’s.
“All of those things. The Court was revisiting
the death penalty in the upcoming case on
Tuesday. I knew he was chewing on that one,
trying to determine if they should overturn
the opinion they rendered in 1989.
“Now that I think of it, since we’d been
talking about this case for several days,
I don’t think he needed more private thinking
time about it. No, this had to be something
else. Maybe it was about the party Margaret
gives every year. She invites all the A-list
people, and Stewart has to approve the list.
The A-list gets turned on its head whenever
there’s a change of party after an election.
As both of you know, it’s a crazy town.
Only the Justices get to be carried out in
coffins, or choose to retire, depending on
their personal political leanings, and who
is in office at the time.
“Most of the Justices don’t socialize
much with politicians, or with the big society
hostesses in Washington. They tend to be private.
Those who are like-minded or enjoy each other’s
company spend some time together socially,
but not all that often. They have such different
interests, like Justice Xavier-Foxx’s family
horse farm. Justice Gutierrez has this incredible
instinct for finance. Rich and very private,
is Justice Gutierrez. Happily married, lots
of kids and grandkids. Good man. Good brain.
He loves sailing and crabbing, knows every
square inch of the Chesapeake.”
Savich drew her back. “So Justice Califano
is in his office thinking about something.
From a quarter of nine until ten-thirty a.m.—that’s
a long time for him to be alone, isn’t it?”
“Yes, now that I think about it. Usually
I’d be in and out, as would Danny and Fleurette,
or the secretaries, but no, the door to his
inner office was shut tight.”
“Why, Eliza? You knew him well, what could
it be?”
She paused, stared down at the thick gray
socks on her feet, and said finally, “I
would never mention such a private thing to
anyone, but I suspect you already know. I
think it could have involved Justice Sumner
Wallace. Stewart wasn’t happy about having
Justice Wallace in his home, even though he
knew Margaret had to invite both him and his
wife to this party, but you see, Justice Wallace
hit on Margaret, and she finally told Stewart
about it last week. It pissed Stewart off,
which, when you think about it, is pretty
ironic since he was sleeping with me.” Eliza
shrugged, looked away from Savich a moment—was
it out of guilt, embarrassment, resentment?
“The fact is that Stewart loved his wife,
loved his stepdaughter, Callie Markham. I
was in third place, and I knew it, but it
didn’t matter.”
“You sound very philosophical about this,
Eliza. You loved him, he loved you, but there
was no future for you.”
She shrugged, her eyes still on Savich’s
face. “I think he loved my brain as much
as my youth, if you would know the truth.
Did I love him? A man old enough to be my
father? Well, there was an allure in sleeping
with a Justice of the Supreme Court, at least
I know myself well enough to have realized
that from the beginning. He was a powerful
man, it nearly came out of his pores. And
confidence, he was loaded with it. But yes,
I did love him. I tried to help him, to protect
him, to smooth things out for him. Did he
love me enough to leave Margaret? There was
no way that would happen. No, it would have
ended when I left. In my saner moments, I
realized it, accepted it. I love the high-pressure
life in the Court, and I loved learning from
him. He helped me see the law as a tool of
the nation. I hope to God that I gave him
my best in return.”
“Back up to Friday morning, Eliza. You haven’t
gotten him off to the meeting yet. Okay, his
door was closed, and that was pretty rare,
having the door closed that long, right?”
“Well, at some point he stuck his head out,
asked Fleurette something. I know, it was
an ‘I Join’ memo from Justice Spiros.
It was a bussing issue in Alabama, and Justice
Spiros wanted Stewart on board. Then he just
nodded to us and went back into his inner
office. He didn’t close the door all the
way this time. He must have left it cracked
open, like he did most of the time, because
I heard him speaking on the phone. It was
after ten, must have been. I don’t know
who he was talking to. He didn’t ask either
of the secretaries to call anyone for him.
“The doors are pretty solid, so even if
the door is open a bit, it’s still private
enough inside the office. Of course there
are people all over the place outside. There
are the tours, not that they come all that
close, but you can usually hear people talking.
And the Supreme Court Police are everywhere.
Always noise, but in his inner office, with
the door completely closed, you’d feel like
you were in another world. Several dark leather
sofas and chairs arranged in small groupings.
Of course, there’s a big conference table
for himself and the three law clerks. Also,
Margaret had given him a lovely Georgian silver
set and he really got a kick out of serving
coffee to any visitors. But you’ve seen
his office, I’m sorry. You know exactly
what it looks like.”
Savich said, “True, but I didn’t live
there, not like you did. Now, Eliza, keep
going. His door is nearly completely closed.
What are you doing? What is Danny doing?”
“Agent Savich, part of my brain was always
on Stewart, if he could possibly need me.
I remember I was speaking to one of Justice
Alto-Thorpe’s law clerks—Bobby Fisher—yeah,
like that chess player. Bobby was Justice
Alto-Thorpe’s clone, at least that’s the
image he projected. I suppose he was serious
and not just kissing up, and that’s why
she loved him. It was really rather pathetic,
and the other law clerks weren’t shy about
showing their contempt for him. Anyway, Bobby
was in our office, chewing the fat. Actually,
he does that a lot, visits a good five minutes
with the secretaries before coming to me,
and all I could think about was how to get
rid of the little jerk. He was usually after
a date when he came visiting, but I always
blew him off. I remember Danny was there,
drafting a concurrence—that’s an opinion
that agrees with the result reached by the
majority but for different reasons. He was
hunched over his desk, concentrating. Then
Bobby looked down at his watch, yelped, and
bolted out of the chambers. He didn’t bother
to tell me why, the dork, probably because
I turned him down again. But I looked up at
our big clock right behind Fleurette’s desk
and saw it was one minute until ten-thirty—time
for the Friday meeting in the Chief Justice’s
chambers. So I gave a fast knock on Stewart’s
door and opened it.
“He had the phone in his hand. He hung it
up pretty fast when he looked at me and saw
my urgency. ‘What?’ he asked, and I said
in my usual shorthand to him, ‘Friday meeting,
conference room,’ and he shook his head
like who cared? He sat there, tapping his
pen on the leather top of his beautiful desk,
and he was frowning, looking off somewhere.
Then he shook his head again, as if he still
couldn’t decide on something, and got up.
He didn’t say another word, just gave this
big sigh, and walked off to that meeting.
“I didn’t see him until I was eating a
sandwich at my desk at a little after noon.
Danny and Fleurette went out to a café down
the street, anything to get out of the pressure
cooker for a while, they said, and Stewart
walked in, nodded, and went right back into
his office. He shut the door this time, all
the way.”
Savich said, “Why didn’t you tell us this
morning, Eliza?”
“I didn’t think it was odd or out of character,
just business as usual. When he was really
thinking about something, he’d stay in his
office by himself. When he wanted to discuss
a topic, or he was ready for a good argument
about it, he’d call me in.
“Sometimes we liked to leave the building
to talk. Walk up into the residential neighborhood
behind us. Check out the construction, just
to be outside. It helped him to focus his
mind.”
“But on Friday, it’s still lunchtime.
What did he eat?”
“I brought him a pita sandwich, roast lamb,
his favorite.”
“He ate alone? In his office?”
She nodded.
“He didn’t ask you to join him?”
She shook her head.
“Was this unusual?”
“No, not really.”
“Where’s Danny?”
“Danny got back about a quarter of one and
Fleurette a little after one. Danny fritzed
around a bit, not really doing anything useful
that I could see, then he said he had to ask
Justice Califano something. I was busy so
I didn’t ask him what it was, specifically,
just tossed off something like, ‘It better
be important. He’s got his brain wrapped
around something.’ ”
“And what did Danny say to that?”
“He said, ‘Oh, he’ll make time for this,
Eliza, he’ll give me a few minutes.’ Oh
God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it seemed like
business as usual, but now it looks so different.
What did he mean by that? Danny already knew
something, didn’t he?”
Sherlock said, “Probably. You’re doing
great. Okay, Danny knocks on the door?”
“Yes.”
“Did Justice Califano say anything you could
hear?”
“Something like, ‘Yes, Danny? Come on
in, but not for long, I’m really busy.’
Something like that.”
“How long was Danny with Justice Califano?”
“I’m not sure, not long, maybe ten minutes.
But I’m not sure. I got a call from a lawyer
about procedure, then another call from the
Solicitor General’s office, more procedural
questions. People were in and out, a good
half-dozen.
“When Danny came out, he was quiet,” Eliza
continued. “He sat down at his desk, and
he was quiet. I told you he wasn’t stand-offish,
maybe a little reserved with people he didn’t
know well, but with Fleurette and me, he’d
usually yak up a storm. But Danny sat there,
not saying a word. I remember that I started
to ask him about a cert. Justice Califano
was concerned about. Oh, that’s a formal
request that the Supremes hear a case. I can
see Danny sitting there, and now I can see
something was on his mind. Then I got busy
again, and ended up not saying anything. The
rest of the day passed like all Fridays do.
Everyone talked about their weekend plans.
I think there was some sort of children’s
book festival going on over at Dupont Circle.”
“Danny interested in books?”
“Yes. He said he was going to go see the
storytellers with his girlfriend.”
“Did he mention that he and his girlfriend
were going to the movies Friday night?”
“I don’t remember. I just don’t.”
Sherlock said, “When was the party Mrs.
Califano was planning?”
“Not until next weekend. Poor Margaret.”
“She’ll be all right. She’s got lots
of friends with her, and her daughter.”
“Yes, the famous five friends. I always
thought that was wonderful—five women staying
together all those years, sharing their lives,
always there for each other.”
Sherlock said, “Was Justice Califano carrying
anything around with him on Friday—papers,
anything like that?”
“He did have a habit of keeping some papers
with him inside his breast pocket, usually
whatever he was working on. Agent Sherlock,
I can see him now, patting his chest to be
sure he’d remembered, to be sure whatever
he wanted was safe and sound with him. But
I can’t be sure if that meant he had any
papers with him on Friday. Poor Danny, do
you think he knew? Oh, Annie Harper. I’ve
got to call her.”
She was starting to lose focus, but that was
all right. Savich rose. “You probably can’t
reach Ann Harper for a while, Eliza. After
you’ve rested, I want you to go for a walk.
I want you to review the day again, every
moment of it, starting at the time you walked
into your office. If you think of anything,
doesn’t matter if you think it has any importance
at all, call me immediately.”
Savich gave her his card with his cell number
on it. “Keep Danny O’Malley at the front
of your mind. Follow his footsteps. Sherlock
and I are going to speak with Fleurette.”
“So you’ll tell her about Danny. Fleurette
called me this morning, devastated, in shock
really, about Justice Califano. At least her
dad is flying in. He’ll probably take her
home, after Justice Califano’s funeral.
Now Danny’s dead too. He’ll be here for
both funerals. Oh God. This is all so horrible.”
“Yes, Eliza,” Sherlock said, “yes, it
is.”
“Please prove Danny wasn’t a blackmailer.”
Neither Savich nor Sherlock said anything.
It didn’t look good.
CHAPTER
17
ELAINELAFLEURETTE’S DADDYhad money, Savich
already knew that. Big Ed LaFleurette was
a major player in commercial New Orleans real
estate development. He was tight with the
local police, not only for protection but
also for enforcement, and was ensconced in
the local political scene as well. Fleurette
lacked motivation until she was accepted to
law school, but now “driven” was the word
usually used to describe her. She wanted to
do things on her own, without her father’s
help. Well, except for where she lived. Why
live like Danny when it wasn’t necessary?
She lived in a lovely quiet upper-class neighborhood,
about as far removed from Danny O’Malley’s
digs as a dock bar from the Oak Room at the
Plaza. It was a beautiful, well-tended brownstone,
and it was hers, in her own name, a gift from
Daddy after she passed the bar.
They found Ben Raven and Callie Markham in
his Crown Vic parked down the block. The four
of them walked together to the brownstone.
“Callie, I’m glad to see you,” Sherlock
said. “You twist Ben’s arm here?”
“Actually, I had to threaten him again,
you know, calling my editor at the Post, offering
up goodies.” She lowered her voice, close
to Sherlock, “I really don’t think he
minds so much today. He’s a tough guy, but
I’m making inroads.”
Sherlock patted her arm. “I’m just glad
you stayed in the car at Danny O’Malley’s
apartment, like Ben told you to.”
“Actually, I cuffed her to the door handle,”
Ben said. “All right, I didn’t manhandle
her. She obeyed me this time.”
“Ben told me Danny and my stepfather were
killed by the same man. I knew Danny, not
well, mind you, but he always smiled when
I visited. It’s horrible.”
“I agree,” Sherlock said. “Now, I think
it’s good to have someone who knows Fleurette
in on this interview, and your reporter’s
trained eye makes it even better.”
Ben was looking at the two women. He didn’t
look very happy, more resigned. He’d found
Callie on his doorstep when he’d gotten
the call from Mr. Maitland about Danny O’Malley.
He’d tried to get rid of her, but the woman
was ruthless. Before they’d come here to
Fleurette’s house, she’d talked him into
having lunch, said she really liked Chinese,
spicy hot Szechuan, a good thing since it
was a staple for him when he wasn’t eating
pizza, and she knew two places he hadn’t
eaten at before.
The four of them heard a man and a woman yelling
at each other as they climbed up the six red
brick front steps to the bright red front
door with a lion-head knocker at its center.
They paused a moment, listening.
“You bastard! You used me because you wanted
me to convince Justice Califano to vote to
hear your damned case! You’re despicable,
you—”
“Get over it, Fleurette, it’s all irrelevant.
I’m a lawyer, you knew that going in. You
knew there was a case I was involved in, so
don’t whine about it now. Hey, the old guy’s
dead, so we’re not going anywhere, now are
we?”
The four of them stepped back as the front
door swung open and a man in his mid-thirties,
with impeccably styled light brown hair, a
handsome face, and a runner’s body, came
out, whistling, even as she continued to yell
after him.
“I hope you rot and die! I hope your dick
falls off!”
The guy looked at the four strangers, arched
an eyebrow, gave them a cocky grin as he rolled
his eyes back toward Elaine LaFleurette, and
continued on his way to a dark green Jaguar
parked in front of the house. He tossed his
car keys in the air, caught them, and opened
the door with the remote.
Savich flipped out his I.D. to the young woman
standing in the doorway. “Agents Savich
and Sherlock, Detectives Raven and Markham.
Are you Elaine LaFleurette?”
“Yes. Look, I’ve already talked to you
guys. I don’t know anything. What now?”
Sherlock simply walked right up to her, pressing
her back. “May we come in? It’s sort of
cold out here.”
Fleurette stepped back automatically. She
was still flushed, her breath still hot with
anger.
Sherlock pointed back to the man who was revving
up the Jag. “I agree with you, he’s a
jerk,” she said. “We couldn’t help but
overhear. You want me to go punch out his
lights?”
Fleurette stared at the lovely woman with
her curly red hair who stood a good four inches
shorter than she was, and laughed. “Nah,
he’s not worth you breaking a fingernail.
But you’re right about him. He just dumped
me because Justice Califano is dead, and so
I can’t help him now, not that I would have
in any case. Thank God I didn’t sleep with
him.
“Callie? What are you doing with them? Oh
God, I’m so sorry about your stepfather.”
Callie said, “Thank you, Fleurette. I’m
with them because I’m trying to help. About
that jerk, you’re lucky to be rid of him
so quickly. Why’d you hook up with him in
the first place?”
“Well, he is cute. And smart. But thank
God it hadn’t gotten serious.”
Savich and Ben followed the two women into
the living room, saying nothing at all. It
was a gorgeous place, with highly buffed floors
and an occasional Persian carpet. The living
room was filled with high-quality Early American
antiques, giving the living room a cozy feel.
A fire blazed in the fireplace.
Fleurette obviously hadn’t been expecting
company. She was wearing old gray sweats,
with only socks on her feet, and no makeup.
Her blond hair was in a ponytail. Her features
were sharp, her green eyes full of intelligence.
“The guy just showed up to kiss you off?”
Sherlock asked.
“Yeah, you’d think he’d at least call
first, give me a chance to do my face, but
here he is, standing on my doorstep, wanting
to tell me he’s seeing another woman now.
I wouldn’t be surprised if it isn’t Sonya
McGivens, Justice Wallace’s clerk.” Sonya
McGivens, Savich thought, unable to recall
any specifics on her. But he would find out
as soon as they got back to MAX and he opened
his data port.
Sherlock said, “I’m sorry to tell you
this, Miss LaFleurette—”
“Oh please, Agent Sherlock, you’ve heard
me screaming at my former boyfriend, seen
what a mess I am, please call me Fleurette,
everyone does.”
“Okay, Fleurette. I’m sorry to have to
tell you this, but Daniel O’Malley was murdered,
very likely by the same man who murdered Justice
Califano.”
Fleurette froze like a deer in the headlights.
She stood there, staring at Sherlock, uncomprehending,
her eyes blank, her face slack. Finally, she
moistened her dry lips. “Danny—our Danny—
is dead?”
“Yes, within the past twenty-four hours.
Now, you’re a smart person, Fleurette, you
must see immediately that Justice Califano’s
murder and Danny’s are somehow connected.”
“But how?”
“We have to consider that Danny may have
known something, maybe even tried to blackmail
the murderer. We very much need your help,
and we need it right now to find out who killed
him.”
“Why would you think Danny would do such
a thing?”
Sherlock said, “His apartment was torn apart,
Fleurette. Someone had been looking for something.”
“And you think this something was some damning
document that Danny had on the murderer?”
Sherlock shrugged. “Very possibly.”
Fleurette looked over at Savich, who was standing
leaning against the wall next to the fireplace,
then at Detective Raven and Callie. She said,
“I—I don’t understand this. What could
Danny possibly know about Justice Califano’s
killer?”
“Sit down, Fleurette. Let’s talk about
Friday.”
Fleurette sat, took several deep breaths,
and nodded. “I remember Danny going into
Justice Califano’s office. I remember he
shut the door when he went in. None of us
ever did that. If the door was cracked open,
it stayed cracked open, but Danny closed it.
Yes, that’s what he did.”
“So he wanted to speak to Justice Califano
privately? With no one interrupting.”
“Now that you put it that way, yes, okay.”
“Who came in first Friday morning? You or
Danny?”
“Me. It varied who was in first, depended
on what each of us had to do on any given
day. For the next couple of months things
won’t be so bad. It’s the dog days—that’s
what they’re called—April and May—when
everyone puts in ninety-hour weeks. It’s
when the major decisions pile up and—”
Sherlock brought her back. “When did Danny
get in on Friday?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Around a quarter of nine,
I think.”
“What did he do?”
“He drank some coffee, ate one of those
rolls from the downstairs cafeteria. He was
reading something, jotting down notes. I didn’t
ask because I had my own stuff to do. I remember
being a bit surprised that Eliza wasn’t
in with Justice Califano. They always met
first thing every morning. The Justice always
had his bagel. But Eliza was working at her
desk that morning. When I came in, we had
a bit of a chat, like usual, same with Danny.”
“Do you know what Eliza was working on?”
“No, again, I had my own work to worry about.
I was drafting a dissent.”
“So you’re all working. Then Bobby Fisher
comes in to shoot the breeze?”
“Yeah, he’s got a thing for Eliza, but
she never gives him the time of day. He’s
kind of creepy, the way he worships Justice
Alto-Thorpe. None of us like him. Then he
left.”
“And Eliza went into Justice Califano’s
office?”
“Yeah, it was time for the Friday morning
meeting in Chief Justice Abrams’s chambers.
Good ole Bobby had a stick up his—well,
he hadn’t said a word. He’s awful, no
manners, you know what I mean?”
Sherlock moved on. “So Eliza comes back
out, followed by Justice Califano, who runs
off to the meeting?”
“Yes, but it wasn’t right away. She was
in there maybe three, four minutes. I remember
looking up at the clock, knowing how Chief
Justice Abrams hated a meeting to start late.”
“What time did Danny go into Justice Califano’s
office?”
Fleurette looked perfectly blank. “I don’t
remember that. No, wait, yes, I remember I
had to go to the bathroom, but Danny still
wasn’t at his desk when I got back. Eliza
waved toward the door when I asked where Danny
was.
“I raised my eyebrows, but she just shrugged,
then the phone began ringing. The secretaries
always forward the calls to Eliza if the caller
doesn’t ask specifically for either Danny
or me. Then both of us were tied up for a
good half hour.”
“So you don’t know how long Danny was
in the office?”
“Ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Oh God, poor
Danny. Why would he do what you’re suggesting?
Why? It doesn’t make any sense. He wasn’t
stupid. He wanted a recommendation from Justice
Califano that would make the New York law
firms sit up and beg for him. It didn’t
matter that both of us were second fiddle
to Eliza. She’s really brilliant, and even
better, when Danny and I came last July, she
knew the ropes since she’d already been
there a year.”
Fleurette looked toward the open drapes that
gave onto the street in front of the brownstone.
“Now it doesn’t matter, does it?”
“No,” Sherlock said. “No, it doesn’t
matter now. Did Danny give you any hint at
all of what he’d spoken to Justice Califano
about?”
Fleurette slowly shook her head. “No, but
now that I picture his face in my mind, he
looked—smug, yeah, that’s it, Danny looked
kind of smug. I hadn’t seen that expression
on his face before, so it struck me. I remember
wondering, now what’s going on here?”
“But he looked smug—like he’d found
out something and rubbed Justice Califano’s
nose in it?”
“I didn’t think that then, but it could
have been something like that, I suppose.
Oh goodness, it was only two days ago—and
now Danny’s dead.”
“Do you remember seeing any papers on Justice
Califano’s desk, see him put any papers
in his breast pocket, hear him on the phone?”
Fleurette slowly shook her head. “Wait—when
he came out to run off to Chief Justice Abrams’s
meeting, he was sticking something in his
breast pocket, and then patted the pocket.
But he was always doing that.”
“Any ideas about what the papers were?”
“No, not a clue.”
“Did you ever hear of Justice Califano being
involved with anyone at the Court?”
Fleurette rocked back with surprise. “Oh
my, no, Agent Sherlock. He’s old, and all
sorts of proper and married, for God’s sake.”
She paused a moment. “On the other hand,
Justice Wallace has a reputation, if you know
what I mean. He’s a grandfather as well
as a Justice of the Supreme Court. Isn’t
that disgusting?”
Sherlock patted her hand.
That was interesting, Savich thought. He looked
over at Ben who’d taken Callie’s hand
to keep her still. Eliza Vickers and Justice
Califano were indeed good actors if the law
clerks hadn’t known. But Justice Xavier-Foxx
had noticed.
Sherlock rose, and everyone rose with her.
She gave Fleurette her card and told her exactly
what Savich had told Eliza Vickers. “Anything,
doesn’t matter if you think it’s silly,
you call me. We’ll catch this guy, Fleurette,
you can take that to the bank.”
They drove six blocks over to Indiana, only
a block from the Daly Building, to the Beau
Monde Coffee Shop. Savich took his chances
and ordered tea, the other three, coffee.
“So, Callie, tell me what you think of Fleurette,”
Sherlock said.
“She’s really scared.”
Ben slowly nodded. “You’re right. I realize
that now, but I didn’t pick up on it when
we were with her.”
Savich said, “Do you think she was holding
back?”
“She sure didn’t seem like she was,”
Callie said. “I have to tell you, though,
I’m surprised that she hadn’t picked up
on the affair Eliza was having with my stepfather.
Such close quarters, in each other’s faces
every day. And yet Justice Xavier-Foxx, who’s
not around them that much, picked up on what
Eliza felt for him.”
“Yes, I was surprised, too,” Ben said.
Callie sat back in the booth, fiddled with
her fork. “I still can’t come to grips
with it. He wanted to marry my mom so much.
I don’t understand how that can be. My poor
mother. Do you think she knew? Maybe guessed?”
“I hope not,” Savich said. “Fleurette
was scared,” Savich continued as he selected
a bag of Earl Grey tea from a box the waitress
held out to him. “I wonder if she has something
specific to be scared about.”
“Justice Califano and Daniel O’Malley
are dead,” Ben said. “If I were Vickers
or LaFleurette, I’d be scared on general
principles.”
“But Danny was acting strange, if they’re
telling the truth,” Sherlock said. “You
don’t think either of those two women would
be stupid enough to be in on it, do you, Dillon?”
“I wouldn’t think so, no. The agents assigned
to guard them, they’ll keep an eye on them.
They should be on the job pretty soon.”
Savich picked up his teacup, sipped cautiously,
and sighed with pleasure. “Who knew I’d
find good tea not a block from the Daly Building?”
Sherlock laughed, patted his arm. “Since
Ben hangs out here, you can make it something
of a hangout yourself. Callie, did you pick
up anything else?”
Callie shook her head. “No, I don’t believe
so. Did Eliza Vickers think my stepfather
would divorce my mom and marry her?”
“No. She seems philosophical about the future.
I don’t doubt her, Callie. She’s a good
woman, works hard, probably learns at a prodigious
rate, but most of all, she enjoys being on
the inside, close to power, which is one of
the trimmings your stepfather provided her.
But she knew that he loved your mother and
you. She said so. You’ve got to let it go.
It doesn’t matter now.”
But Callie couldn’t let it go. “How could
my mother not know? Not guess? I know if I
were married to a man for as long as they
were married, I’d know if he wasn’t faithful.”
“She’s never given you any inkling that
she had any suspicions at all?”
“No, she hasn’t.” Callie looked at Ben,
whose expression surprised her. It was austere
as a monk’s, his eyes very cold. “What?”
Ben Raven said, “I don’t approve of infidelity.”
Savich raised his teacup and gave Sherlock’s
cup a tap. “Well, neither do we.”
“But if Callie’s right, why was Fleurette
scared? Did you pick up on Eliza Vickers being
scared as well?”
Both Savich and Sherlock shook their heads.
Savich said, “I need to get back and spend
some time with MAX. We’ve got a whole crew
inputting all the background information and
interviews on all the players—the law clerks,
the Justices, and your mother’s and stepfather’s
friends and acquaintances, Callie. It’s
time for me to sort through some of that.”
“Does that include financials? Bank stuff?”
Savich merely shrugged. “MAX went platinum
a good while ago. He can find out almost anything
at all. If he’s in the mood, he can data-mine
in Siberia.”
“Okay, okay, I get it. You cut corners.”
Ben said, “You aren’t going to call that
into your editor at the Post, are you, Ms.
Markham? Do an exposé about misuse of federal
power?”
Callie struck a pose that Sherlock thought
was very effective. It nearly put Ben Raven
right under the Formica table. “I hadn’t
really thought about it, but now that you
bring it up—ah, so many possibilities.”
“To think I told this woman what an excellent
butt she has,” Ben remarked to the café
at large.
Sherlock laughed and tapped Ben on the shoulder.
Before she could say anything, Ben added,
“She also thinks your husband is cute. What
do you think of that, Sherlock?”
“A woman of excellent eyesight and taste,”
Sherlock said. “Hmm. Dillon, what do you
think?”
“I’d be stupid to disagree with you,”
Savich said.
“You know what I think, Ms. Markham?”
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me within
the next three seconds, Detective Raven.”
“I think I’ll take you to the Tidal Basin
and throw your black-belt ass in the snow.
No one would hear your yells over the waterfalls
at the Roosevelt Memorial.”
“You could try, Detective Raven, you could
try.” She gave him a salute with her empty
coffee mug.
“You guys put on a pretty good show,”
Savich said, peeling bills out of his wallet.
“If you’re through sniping, we’re outta
here. I want to stop off to talk to Dr. Conrad
and to forensics again. Then it’s back to
headquarters and MAX.”
“You’ll want to see what MAX has turned
up on Samantha Barrister’s husband and son,”
Sherlock said.
“Who is Samantha Barrister?” Callie asked,
her reporter’s ears on alert.
“Oh,” Sherlock said, and smiled at her.
“She’s a ghost who desperately needs Dillon
to find out who killed her thirty years ago.”
“Yeah, okay. Right. I got that.” Callie
stared from Savich back to Sherlock. But they
were putting on their coats and gloves, and
didn’t say anything else. Callie touched
Sherlock’s sleeve. “Do you know what?
I think I believe you.”
CHAPTER
18
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, the four of them drove
in Ben’s Crown Vic to Bobby Fisher’s apartment
on Hinton Avenue. “I wanted us to stay together
today,” Savich said. “Sorry about the
Porsche, Ben, but it only holds me and Sherlock.”
“I’m trying to be philosophical about
this,” Ben said. “A red Porsche classic
911. I’ll bet your son’s going to go nuts
when he’s old enough to drive it.”
Savich grinned. “Possibly so, but thankfully,
I can’t imagine Sean doing anything right
now but pulling spaghetti apart and wrapping
it around his ears.”
They found Bobby with three other Supreme
Court law clerks in his apartment, part of
a big complex near George Washington University,
all eating pizza and drinking Heineken. The
place wasn’t a mess, but it wasn’t all
that large and there were four young bodies
sprawled everywhere. There were nice pieces
of furniture, and that surprised Savich.
The law clerks jumped to their feet when Bobby
brought the four of them into the living room.
They were all mid-twenties, dressed casually,
and from their expressions it looked like
they’d been talking nonstop about Justice
Califano’s murder. No surprise there. Bobby
Fisher stood in the archway a moment, as if
uncertain what he was supposed to do.
Savich said, “I’m Agent Savich and this
is Agent Sherlock. We’re FBI—this is Detective
Ben Raven, Metro, and Callie Markham. Since
all of you are here, it’ll save us time.”
“But, sir, we’ve already talked—”
“I don’t know anything, Agent, I work
for Justice Gutierrez who loved Justice Califano,
loved him—”
“I’ve been in the bathroom all day with
diarrhea.”
Savich looked impartially at the group. They
looked both scared and excited, and on the
buzzed side. There were a good dozen beer
cans on newspaper-littered surfaces. All those
empty beer cans, well, that could work in
his favor. Everyone was introduced, voices
subdued. Savich said, “I know all of you
have already spoken to the FBI, but we’re
here to tell you something you might not know
yet.”
All four of them, three men and one woman,
leaned forward, their eyes glued on Savich’s
face.
He said, “Danny O’Malley is dead. He was
murdered.”
Savich, knowing that Sherlock, Ben, and Callie
were watching them as closely as he was, saw
the punch of surprise, then as his words sank
in, the shock that showed clearly on their
faces. None of them seemed particularly distraught
yet, probably because of the unexpected blow
they were absorbing.
“Okay,” Ben Raven said, “let’s all
sit down and talk about this.”
Tai Curtis, a law clerk for Justice Sumner
Wallace, a tall, slender, good-looking young
man, the one they’d been told disliked Eliza
Vickers, looked like he’d been slapped.
He streaked his fingers through his hair,
standing it on end. “Oh, not Danny. That
just can’t be right, he’s—oh shit, man.
You aren’t kidding us? Hey, you want one
of us to confess?”
“Actually,” Savich said, “spontaneous
confessions don’t happen all that often.”
It was Bobby Fisher who asked, “Why would
someone kill Danny, Detective Raven?”
Ben said, “Danny was murdered because he
was somehow involved in this. Maybe he tried
to blackmail the killer or the person who
hired the killer. We’re thinking Danny might
have known something that he unfortunately
didn’t pass along to us. He was killed not
twenty-four hours after Justice Califano.”
There was more on the four faces now—fear,
stark fear. Ben couldn’t blame them. One
of their own was dead, suddenly, violently.
He said, looking at each face in turn, “He
paid the ultimate price for a stupid decision.”
His voice sounded hard as nails, Callie thought.
“We hope that none of you would now consider
hiding anything from us, for your own personal
gain, or for any other reason. If you know
something, tell us now, for your own safety.
I don’t want to see any more dead bodies.
If you’ve never seen a murdered body, come
with me to the morgue and I’ll let you see
firsthand what could happen to you.”
The three men looked ready to be sick.
Sonya McGivens, another law clerk to Justice
Sumner Wallace, grabbed a slice of cold pizza
out of a delivery box from Pizza Heaven and
began chewing on it. A long string of cheese
fell over her chin but she didn’t seem to
notice.
Savich noted that she was a knockout—a tall
blond with classic features—and a bare midriff
down to well below her navel. She was wearing
bad-girl pants that barely covered her pelvic
bones, and a lacy white top. Savich wondered
if one of the reasons Justice Wallace had
hired her was because of her looks. He also
wondered if the Justice had ever lost his
head with this young woman.
She said between frantic bites, “None of
us know a thing, honest, Detective Raven.”
Bobby picked up the last slice of pizza that
looked nearly petrified. He held it out belatedly
toward Callie. “No, thank you, you go ahead,”
she said, and tried not to shudder.
Ben said to Bobby, “I understand you were
in Justice Califano’s chambers Friday morning,
shooting the breeze with Eliza Vickers until
you remembered the Chief Justice’s meeting,
and took off.”
Bobby Fisher slowly nodded. “Yeah. I wanted—”
He stepped away from the other three law clerks,
came close to Ben. “Okay, I don’t want
you to think I’m keeping anything back.
The deal is I wanted to ask her out, but Eliza
was playing hard to get. There was this show
at the Kennedy Center I wanted to see. I wanted
her to go with me.”
“Did she accept?” Sherlock asked.
Bobby shook his head. “No, she never accepted.
I guess that was maybe my last shot. Who cares?
No tragedy. Usually she acts like a bitch
to me, anyway.”
“She was a bitch because?” This from Callie,
who, if they believed she was a local cop
like Ben Raven, was fine. Better yet, since
she hadn’t ever met these four, they didn’t
know her relationship to Justice Califano.
Bobby shrugged his narrow shoulders, looked
away from her, not meeting her eyes. “She
didn’t like me. Called me Justice Alto-Thorpe’s
clone, and the way she said it wasn’t nice.
Sure, I usually agreed with my own Justice,
she’s brilliant, you know? Why wouldn’t
I want to be like her?”
Callie said, “So, you think Eliza was a
bitch because she wouldn’t go out with you?
Isn’t that a bit over the top, Bobby?”
The other three law clerks were standing,
all attention. Tai Curtis and Sonya McGivens
nodded in agreement. Dennis Palmer looked
blank, probably an expression he’d cultivated.
“Look, she wouldn’t go out with me, and
she wasn’t very polite about it. It’s
not like I’m a pauper. I could take her
nice places. And being a law clerk in the
Supreme Court means I’m no run-of-the-mill
law school graduate.”
Ben said, “Yeah, I hear it’s a great opportunity
for all of you.”
Bobby said, “Oh yes, it is. And when I met
Justice Alto-Thorpe, I knew it would be a
great year. I’m going into litigation, civil
litigation in the entertainment industry,
and I’m going to live in Malibu.”
Ben Raven saw Tai Curtis and Dennis Palmer
exchange looks that clearly said, Can you
believe this idiot? Let them keep listening,
Ben thought. When he got them each alone,
there was no telling what would pop out of
their mouths.
“Okay,” Sherlock said, “she’s a bitch
because she wouldn’t give you the time of
day. Most guys move on, Bobby, they don’t
get all hung up on it, don’t insult the
woman who rejected them. Did she dislike you
because you respected Justice Califano less
than Justice Alto-Thorpe?”
He flushed a bit. “The truth is I thought
Justice Califano was pompous and overbearing,
not at all like Justice Alto-Thorpe. Yeah,
sure, Eliza knew what I thought. It’s the
truth.” The other three law clerks were
frowning, as if embarrassed to be in the same
room with him.
Savich glanced over at Dennis Palmer, one
of Justice Gutierrez’s law clerks, a stocky
young black man with a tough jaw and hard
eyes. He was the best dressed of the four
of them. He was drinking a can of Heineken,
chugging it down. He wiped his mouth with
the back of his hand and looked at Bobby with
something like contempt.
Bobby picked up on it and hurried to say,
“Hey, it’s just that Justice Califano
and Justice Alto-Thorpe usually disagreed,
and I don’t think either of them liked the
other very much.”
“How about Justice Bloomberg?” Callie
asked, wanting to keep him talking. “How
did he and Justice Califano get along?”
Bobby shrugged. “Justice Bloomberg isn’t
much of a talker. He sort of sits there like
a big Buddha. Usually when court is in session,
he nods maybe once an hour, says very little.
However, he always votes with Justice Alto-Thorpe,
and that’s the right way, the just way.”
Dennis Palmer said in a beautiful, deep voice,
a voice that would very likely help him win
over juries in the future, “Bobby’s mainly
right about Justice Bloomberg. But the fact
is, he’s the most junior Justice. That means
he’s the one who has to take all the notes,
keep the records of all the proceedings. He
doesn’t have time to ask the lawyers questions.
He’s a deeply religious man, I do know that,
but I’ve never seen him make any waves about
it. As for my Justice—Justice Gutierrez—he
and Justice Califano agreed a lot more often
than they disagreed. They got along well.
Actually, truth be told, the only Justice
my Justice really didn’t care for was Justice
Alto-Thorpe, but of course he’d never say
anything bad about anyone. Face it, Bobby,
you suck up to her, you never see anything
but what you want to see.”
Bobby looked pissed off, but also resigned.
“That’s not true. You’re all ganging
up on me.”
Sonya McGivens said, “We’re not ganging
up on you. Fact is you do suck up to her.
If you saw her walking toward the bathroom,
you’d probably rush down the hall in front
of her to open the door. The stall door, too.”
“She has her own bathroom, like all the
Justices,” said Bobby.
What he’d said was so absurd that the law
clerks started shaking their heads and laughing.
Sonya McGivens was laughing so hard she was
holding her belly. She was hiccuping when
she said, “I saw you once, following her,
nearly into the bathroom, and yeah, you did
open the door for her.”
Bobby paused a moment, then said, frowning,
“I wondered why she didn’t use her own
private bathroom.”
The laughter grew louder.
Bobby looked like he wanted to hurl all of
them out the front window, Sherlock thought,
except it wouldn’t be possible; it looked
painted shut. “You’re all laughing at
me. Why the hell did all of you come over
here today to drink my beer and scarf my pizza?”
“You begged us to come,” Tai Curtis said.
“Look, we’ve got to straighten up here.
We apologize, Bobby. Now, guys, Danny’s
dead, and these agents didn’t come here
to listen to us laughing about bathrooms.”
Sherlock nodded to Tai. It was time to bring
things back on track. “Let’s continue,
then. Now, Bobby, you spoke to Eliza, she
blew you off, and you ran out. But you didn’t
remind her about the Friday meeting?”
“No, I guess I didn’t,” Bobby said,
looking down at his banged-up Nikes. “I
was upset at her, I’ll admit it.”
“Stop being a masochist, Bobby,” Sonya
said, not unkindly. “Stop asking her out.
Eliza could eat you for breakfast.”
Bobby turned a dull red and chugged down some
beer.
This was going nowhere fast, Ben thought.
“Did you see Justice Califano after the
Friday meeting in the Chief Justice’s chambers?”
“No. The Justices rarely ever hang around
together when they’re not in conference.”
Callie said, “Do you know what Eliza had
planned for Friday night?”
“Nah, she didn’t say. I asked her, but
she gave me this look, like what’s it to
you, jerk face? That’s when I left.”
“Fleurette heard you two arguing,” Savich
said. “What was that about?”
“The capital punishment case coming up.
Eliza said I should consider trying to let
some air into my brain, a little air couldn’t
hurt, and a new idea might find its way in.
Can you believe she said that? Just because
she didn’t agree with me?”
Sonya rolled her eyes. “Oh no, Bobby, I
simply can’t imagine that.”
Bobby said suddenly, “Wait, I do remember
I saw Justice Califano and Justice Wallace
talking on Friday afternoon, outside the gift
shop on the basement level. The Justices were
seldom down there, so it surprised me a little.
I was on my way to get some soda from the
cafeteria for Justice Alto-Thorpe, and there
they were, standing there, real close, and
neither of them looked happy.”
CHAPTER
19
NOW THIS WASa kicker, if, that is, Bobby was
telling the truth, Savich thought. “Did
you hear anything they were saying to each
other?”
Bobby shook his head. “No, but Justice Califano
was intense. I remember he pulled some papers
out of his jacket pocket, held them rolled
up, and gestured with them in front of Justice
Wallace’s chest, as if he were punctuating
each of his words.”
“You heard nothing at all?” Sherlock said.
“I saw Justice Wallace rear back, like it
was an attack and he looked surprised and
indignant, but there were lots of tourists
milling around, a big crowd of them, finishing
up a tour in the gift shop to buy souvenirs,
and I couldn’t see them any longer. I wondered
what it was about, but they disagreed sometimes,
all of them. I didn’t pay that much attention
at the time.”
“Okay,” Sherlock said. “Let’s get
back to Eliza.” From what Sherlock could
tell, Eliza was well liked among the law clerks.
Bobby Fisher would do well to watch his mouth.
She said, “What do you think Eliza thought
of Justice Califano?” She looked directly
at Bobby, but the other three clerks knew
the question was coming to each of them, and
it set them to thinking. Too bad, but who
knew what they’d say in response to another’s
comments?”
Bobby said, “Justice Alto-Thorpe thought
Eliza and Justice Califano didn’t get along
all that well, but you know, I don’t believe
that. I know she admired the old guy. She
tried to protect him and his time from anything
she didn’t think was important.”
Sonya McGivens agreed. “Eliza practically
worshiped him. The thing is, Justice Califano
treated her like an equal in a way none of
the other Justices do with their law clerks.
Justice Wallace sure has never treated me
or Tai like that. Justice Wal—” Her voice
dropped off. She turned red, seemingly embarrassed,
about what she’d almost said.
Dennis Palmer nodded in agreement. “That’s
true. It isn’t at all like Justice Gutierrez
treats me.”
“And how does he treat you, Dennis?” Sherlock
asked.
“He’s always nice to me, don’t get me
wrong, always listens politely to what I have
to say. But I always feel like he’s ready
to pat me on the back. I rarely feel he really
wants to talk to me.”
“So you think Justice Gutierrez treats you
that way because you’re black?” Sherlock
asked.
He smiled at her. “No. I’ve never thought
Justice Gutierrez is prejudiced. He hired
me because I was law review, at the top of
my class at Maryland, interviewed well, and
presented him two topflight recommendations.
But I really do think it made him feel warm
and fuzzy to hire a black man, because he’s
a minority himself, although I doubt he’s
ever thought of himself in that way.”
“All right,” Savich said. “Tell me about
Danny O’Malley. Bobby, when you were in
Eliza’s office on Friday morning, what was
Danny doing?”
“Okay. All right.” Bobby took a deep breath.
“Danny was at his desk, working on something,
I don’t know what. He looked up, saw me,
and kind of winced. He did that whenever I
came in. He never said anything nasty to me,
not like Eliza did, he’d just sort of wince.
Maybe he didn’t like it that I’d ask Eliza
out on dates. Maybe he wanted Eliza too, sort
of a dominance thing.”
“No,” Sonya said. “Danny really liked
Eliza, he looked up to her. He wasn’t interested
in her that way. He was going out with Annie
Harper, you know, the girl he met over at
the Department of the Interior.”
Sherlock asked, “Bobby, did you see Danny
go into Justice Califano’s office?”
Bobby shook his head.
Tai Curtis said, “I wasn’t anywhere close
that day. You guys weren’t either, were
you?”
Dennis and Sonya shook their heads.
Ben said, “Bobby, did you see Danny at any
other time on Friday?”
Bobby thought a moment, then nodded. “Yeah,
I saw him and Fleurette go out to lunch. They
had their heads together, talking real low,
about what, I don’t know. I didn’t see
Danny again. What did he have on the murderer,
Agent Savich? What could he have possibly
known, found out?”
“We don’t know yet, but we will soon.”
Callie said to Sonya McGivens, “Could I
come with you to the kitchen, Ms. McGivens?
I need a glass of water.”
“Sure.” Sonya shrugged, tugged her lacy
white top over her bare stomach, where it
hovered for perhaps two seconds before slipping
back up, and wandered out of the living room.
She’d been here before, Callie thought.
Why? Certainly not to hang out alone with
Bobby.
“None of us are stupid, Detective—I’m
sorry, I don’t remember your name?”
“My name’s Callie Markham.”
Sonya stopped dead in her tracks, stared up
and down at Callie. “I thought you looked
familiar. You’re Justice Califano’s stepdaughter.
I was thinking maybe you’d given me a parking
ticket or something, but that’s not it at
all. You’ve visited your stepfather before
in his chambers, haven’t you? And you’re
not a cop, you’re a reporter—for The Washington
Post, right?”
“Yes, I am. But I’m not here to do any
story, Ms. McGivens. I’m on leave from the
paper. I’m here because I think I can help
with this investigation, a sort of an inside
eye, someone who knows many of the players.
I really want to find out who killed my stepfather.
Can you tell me what you nearly said out there
about Justice Wallace?”
Sonya rolled her eyes. “Please keep this
quiet, Callie. Can I call you Callie?”
“Of course.”
“And call me Sonya. Okay, I’ll tell you,
not that you’ll believe it—Justice Wallace
tried to come on to me once, in a subtle sort
of way. I must have looked so horrified, he
tried to laugh it off as a joke. He looks
at me sometimes, I’ll see him from the corner
of my eye, looking. I have a good figure and
I like to show it off, but to have a Supreme
Court Justice staring at you, well, it’s
enough to put you off your feed. But who really
knows what old guys are thinking anyway?”
“I don’t even know what young guys are
thinking most of the time,” Callie said.
“That’s easy. It’s always sex. That
detective you’re with, Ben Raven, now you
look in those sexy dark eyes of his, and he’s
transparent as water. He might as well be
wearing a neon sign: Wanna have sex with me,
Callie? He’s a hunk. You guys dating, right?”
Ben the hunk wanted to have sex with her?
Nah, he barely liked her, although he had
been looking at her butt. And he liked her
butt, even if it was civilian. She cleared
her throat, aware that Sonya was smirking
at her. “No, we’re not dating. I’m not
lying, dammit. Listen, really, we’re paired
up on only this investigation. Since I’m
not a cop, he isn’t too pleased about me
tagging along.”
“Oh boy, are you ever blind. Polish up your
eyesight, Callie. He likes you, I can tell.
And you know what? He didn’t look below
my face once, not once. That’s fortitude.
Yeah, the man wants you.”
Callie smiled, since this notion clearly astounded
Sonya McGivens. “I’m curious, Sonya. You’re
not going to show off your body when you’re
out in the real world, are you?”
“Probably not, but it would be a temptation.
Some guys on the jury wouldn’t hear a single
word out of the other lawyer’s mouth. They’d
be looking at me and agreeing with whatever
I said.” She sighed. “But professionalism
has its place. I do wish guys and their libidos
would remember that. Hey, since you’re a
reporter, you must have problems with men
who think because you’ve got different equipment
you shouldn’t be allowed to play in their
sandbox.”
Callie grinned. “Tell you what. Let’s
go for drinks some evening and try to solve
that problem. Right now, we’ve got to focus
on this. Do you know if Justice Wallace may
have behaved inappropriately with any other
female law clerks?”
“There are only ten of us, but I think I’m
the only one he ever tried anything with.
I’ve heard some stories, everyone has, about
Court secretaries that go back years. His
poor wife. She seems nice, but downtrodden,
like she knows too much and has no intention
of doing anything about it. It’s like her
generation is hard-wired to protect their
husbands even when they know the men have
been unfaithful. Me, I can’t stand women
who let their husbands walk all over them,
but I guess that’s the way things were for
them.”
“So he never hit on Eliza?”
Sonya laughed, really laughed, and Callie
saw her navel ring dance. She gasped out,
“Justice Sumner Wallace hit on Eliza Vickers?
Oh, that’s a hilarious image. Oh no, he
knew Eliza would have produced a spit right
there, skewered him on it, and barbecued him.
She’d have turned him into leather. No,
he wasn’t suicidal.”
Callie liked Sonya and was tempted to ask
if she thought Eliza had slept with her stepfather,
but she couldn’t get the words out of her
mouth. She had a feeling that Sonya would
have told her if she’d seen or heard anything.
Callie said, “Sonya, would you really be
surprised if it turns out Danny O’Malley
tried to blackmail whoever killed my stepfather?”
Sonya got a glass down from the cupboard,
turned on the water at the sink, slid her
fingers through it to make sure it was cold,
and filled the glass, all without saying anything.
When she handed the glass to Callie, she said,
“Oh yes. You see, Danny always looked out
for numero uno. He was a good law clerk, don’t
get me wrong, he worked hard, and he was smart,
but he was after big money, wanted to make
gobs of it, and unlike most of us, that’s
why he came to the Supreme Court. He believed
it was his ticket to New York. He wanted to
make his mark there, nowhere else, not like
Bobby Fisher who obsesses about going to L.A.
and defending the stars.”
“Was Danny bright enough to succeed in the
big time in New York, do you think?”
“The truth is we all have a ticket to just
about anywhere, Callie. I don’t know about
Danny’s future. He was really bright, but
sometimes he’d talk and talk, and you’d
know he hadn’t read enough or thought enough
about the topic to even give an opinion. He
trusted his ability to bullshit. Maybe that’s
what he did here, only this time it didn’t
turn out well for him.”
Sonya slammed her fist down on the counter.
“Why the hell would he be so stupid as to
get involved with a murderer? Didn’t he
care about Justice Califano’s death? Did
he really believe the guy who had the balls
to kill a Supreme Court Justice in the Supreme
Court library was going to pay him money because
of any threat he made?” She shook her head,
and paused. “Poor Eliza. She liked to think
of Danny as an Irish lad filled with ideals.
She was really wrong.”
Callie took a drink of the water, placed the
glass back on the kitchen counter. “What
do you think about Dennis Palmer?”
“Dennis is okay. I just wish he’d get
over this black thing. He likes to think of
himself as Justice Gutierrez’s token black
boy, although he’d never admit it. I think
he’d do better with one of the white Justices—conservative,
liberal—it wouldn’t matter. I swear none
of them would give a damn if you were pink
or black or green. Female, now, that’s another
matter. Isn’t it ironic that you have sex
discrimination in the Supreme Court?”
“Yes, it is. And Tai?”
“He works hard, puts in his two cents, but
keeps his head down. He expends a lot of energy
being careful about what he says and how he
looks because he’s gay, and hasn’t advertised
it outside our chambers. I have no clue if
Justice Wallace has picked up on that.”
“What does Tai think of Eliza Vickers?”
“He admitted to me once, after three beers
on a Friday night at George’s Pub, that
he thought she was too smart for her own good,
that it would get her into real trouble some
day. She saw things she shouldn’t see, he
said, and she didn’t know enough to look
the other way.”
Callie finally decided to ask. “Did he ever
say anything about Eliza and my stepfather?”
Sonya looked genuinely surprised. “No, never.
As I said, Tai keeps his head down, except
around me and Justice Wallace’s other law
clerks. Then he’ll mouth off, particularly
if he thinks someone is attacking gays.
“As you can imagine, rumors abound in the
Court. We’re always in each other’s chambers,
gossiping, telling each other where our Justices
stand on this or that issue and what we’re
working on.” She paused a moment. “I’m
really sorry about Danny. I’ll tell you,
Callie, if I had him here in the kitchen with
me, I’d punch his lights out for being so
damned stupid.” She stood there, tears sliding
down her cheeks. “Oh, poor Danny. It’s
scary. This is just too close to home, you
know?”
CHAPTER
20
THE KETTERING HOME
FAIRFAX, VIRGINIA
SUNDAY EVENING
BEN STOPPED OFF in Georgetown to let Savich
get his Porsche, then led the way to the Kettering
home in Fairfax. They pulled into the driveway
just after seven o’clock that evening.
There weren’t any reporters or TV vans hanging
around. The media hadn’t yet learned where
the widow was stashed.
But there were four cars parked along the
curb, two Mercedes, a Lexus, and a BMW. Callie
said to Ben, “It looks like Mom’s friends
are here.”
Ben wasn’t listening. He was staring at
the display of automotive affluence, and grunted.
He wasn’t a snob, dammit, but couldn’t
any of them drive a plain old Ford? A truck,
something useful, something that didn’t
smack you in the face with dollar signs and
twelve cylinders, something like his? The
Crown Vic had plenty of muscle, but that was
different.
He realized Callie was staring at him, and
grunted again. “I drive a Beemer too,”
she said, and gave him a shameless grin. “All
right, so it’s one of the cheaper models.
You’re a truck guy, right? Maybe you’ve
got a dog hanging out the window?”
Savich and Sherlock joined them at that moment.
“I know it’s late, Callie,” Sherlock
said, taking her arm, “but we’d like to
see how your mom’s holding up, see if she’s
remembered anything more. We won’t keep
her long. Looks like she’s got lots of company
in any case.”
Callie nodded. “All her longtime friends
are here. There’s a couple of cars I don’t
recognize.”
The snow was melting, the air was sweet and
cold. The forecast predicted a dip below freezing
tonight, turning what snow was left into ice.
It was perfectly dark, not even a sliver of
a moon. Callie felt colder than she should
have, probably because she was stressed and
tired, her stepfather was dead, and now Danny
O’Malley was dead too. There was a monster
out there, and she didn’t have a clue if
they were getting any closer. Savich kept
stuff to himself, she’d realized that soon
enough. So did Sherlock, for that matter.
How odd that a husband-and-wife team worked
together for the FBI. They were so in tune
with each other. She wondered how long they’d
been together. She looked over at Ben and
wondered if she could ever be in tune with
him like that. That stopped her in her tracks.
Good grief, she was letting Sonya’s remarks
get to her.
She heard Savich laugh at something his wife
said. Would they let her review all the interviews
that Savich was putting on his laptop? She
hoped so. She had a good eye. According to
Savich, MAX was going to help highlight inconsistencies,
red-flag interviews that were glaringly at
odds with others, and do the analysis much
more quickly than a person could. Evidently
MAX was even going to suggest specific questions
to ask. It sounded amazing, and she wanted
to see it work.
She unlocked the front door and led them all
in. When she went into the living room, she
stopped cold.
In addition to Janette Weaverton, Juliette
Trevor, Bitsy St. Pierre, and Anna Clifford,
Justice Wallace and his wife were cozied up
next to Justice Alto-Thorpe and her husband,
both couples sitting on a sofa across from
Margaret.
“This is an unexpected find,” Savich whispered,
and strode in, drawing all eyes to him immediately.
He wondered for a moment how the two Justices
had found out where Margaret Califano was
squirreled away, then remembered the federal
marshals assigned to them. They were probably
parked discreetly outside.
Savich walked directly to Margaret Califano
and took her hand. He smiled down at her.
“I hope you’re feeling better, ma’am.”
“Callie called me about poor Danny O’Malley.
I didn’t know him well. It’s unbelievable
that he’s dead too, just like Stewart. What
is happening here, Agent Savich?”
Savich said loud enough for everyone in the
big living room to hear, “We don’t know
for sure, ma’am, but it would seem Danny
O’Malley knew something and may have tried
to blackmail the killer or the person who
hired the killer.”
A loud voice, anger simmering just below the
surface said, “Given the general incompetence
of the people who are supposed to protect
us, I am not at all surprised. It is a disgrace,
and I shall see to it that Congress does something
about it.”
He’d know that voice anywhere, Savich thought,
and the words, and turned to Justice Alto-Thorpe,
who was sitting on the edge of the sofa, mouth
pinched, a cloud of disapproval hanging over
her head. Her husband was looking off toward
the windows, seemingly paying no attention.
Savich said easily, “I’m not surprised
at your attitude, ma’am, given that you’ve
already told Agent Sherlock and me your feelings
on the subject at length.”
“I shall see to it that new laws are passed.
Murder done in the highest Court in the land!
It will go down as a disgraceful point in
our history.”
“Yes, indeed,” Sherlock said. “As it
should.” She proceeded to introduce all
of them to the Justices and their spouses.
She got the distinct impression that neither
Justice was pleased to see them.
Callie moved to sit beside her mother. Bitsy
St. Pierre quickly scooted over to give her
room.
Savich said to Harry Thorpe, “I had wanted
to meet you, sir. I’ve been told that you
own and operate Harry’s.”
Harry Thorpe looked up at Savich, his mouth
opening to reply when Justice Alto-Thorpe
said, “He sells fish. What are you doing
here, Agents?”
Savich said, “We wanted to see how Mrs.
Califano was doing. I assume that’s why
you are all here?” His question included
Justice Wallace and his wife.
Justice Wallace said quickly, “Yes, of course.
Beth and I are friends of the family, have
been for many years. Naturally we’d want
to see how Margaret is holding up.”
Thankfully, Justice Alto-Thorpe remained silent,
but she continued to look at Savich, Sherlock,
and Ben as if the murders were all their fault.
Savich said, “I assume your federal marshals
brought you here?”
Justice Wallace nodded. “Fine fellows. We
feel quite safe with them around.” Beth
Wallace didn’t say a word. From her expression
it was obvious she didn’t want to be here.
Sherlock saw her look directly at Margaret,
and there was something in those faded eyes
of hers, something that bothered Sherlock,
something that wasn’t quite right. Then
it was clear. She knew, Sherlock realized,
she knew very well that her husband had wanted
to add another notch to his aging belt. Sherlock
would wager she also knew that Stewart Califano
knew about it as well and had been upset at
her husband. But why was she looking at Margaret
like that? Margaret wasn’t the one in the
wrong. Then Beth Wallace looked at her husband,
saw that he was staring at Margaret. Sherlock
saw her wince, look down at her clasped hands,
slumping her shoulders, as if in defeat. She’d
said everything she felt and knew without
speaking a word. She was dressed in lovely
black wool trousers, a pink cashmere sweater,
and a matching black wool blazer. She looked
good on the outside. But her insides?
Margaret said, “Would you like some coffee?
Tea? No, not you, Anna, you’ve done enough.”
“That would be lovely,” Sherlock said.
Janette Weaverton quickly rose. Did the women
have a rotation schedule? Sherlock could easily
picture Janette in tennis whites, skillfully
wielding a racket. Yes, Janette looked like
she’d be a winner at tennis. Sherlock smiled.
“Why don’t I help you fetch the goodies?”
The Kettering kitchen was large, the walls
a pale yellow, the appliances sparkling new.
A large pine table was set in the center,
and Sherlock remembered the meal they’d
had here with Miles and Katie and the children
before they’d returned to Jessborough, Tennessee.
“This is a lovely home,” Janette Weaverton
said, and went efficiently to the coffeepot.
Was she staying here with Margaret? Actually
sleeping here? Were the other friends as well?
There was really nothing for Sherlock to do,
which didn’t surprise her. These women seemed
so very organized. She leaned against the
counter and said, “Margaret has more color
in her cheeks. She’s very lucky she has
such good friends.”
“She’s still pretty bad, just sits there,
staring off, and the rest of us sit there
with her and worry and try to distract her.
But she’ll make it. Margaret’s very strong.”
“How did the five of you get together, Mrs.
Weaverton?”
“Janette, please, Agent Sherlock. Incidentally,
that’s an interesting name. I bet you get
lots of jokes about it since you’re an FBI
agent.”
“Endless numbers of comments, yes. My father
is a federal judge in San Francisco, and he
gets the jokes too. But not in his courtroom—oh
no. I think the ‘Judge Sherlock’ scares
some of the defendants to their toes. Please
call me Sherlock.”
“Okay, Sherlock. The five of us got together
in school. We all went to Bryn Mawr, outside
Philadelphia, same place Callie went to school.”
“You’ve known each other that long?”
“Well, we didn’t all meet on the same
day. I roomed with Margaret our freshman year,
so I guess you’d call us the two originals.
Actually, we called ourselves the two Eves.
Then we picked up Bitsy in biology the second
year, Juliette shared an off-campus suite
in the third year, and Anna Clifford, a math
whiz, was tutoring one of our boyfriends in
our senior year. We came together and stayed
together.”
“When did the duo set of Justices drop by?
Were they unannounced?”
“They arrived maybe ten minutes before you
did. And yes, neither couple called first.
We’ve been talking about the Danny O’Malley
murder.”
Janette paused a moment with the silver tray
and cups. “I’ve met Justice Alto-Thorpe
twice. I wonder if she’s always so disapproving
of our federal police force?”
Sherlock smiled. “I imagine she hates law
enforcement in general, and this sent her
right over the top. I can tell you from firsthand
experience she’s been that way both times
I’ve been near her.”
“It’s a wonder her lips don’t disappear
completely into her face.”
Sherlock laughed, then sobered immediately.
“I’m actually surprised that Justice Sumner
Wallace came by, since he wanted to seduce
Margaret and she told her husband about it.
A lot of anger there. Why would he come?”
Sherlock calmly watched Janette Weaverton
drop a coffee cup. Both women watched it hit
the tile and shatter. That, Sherlock thought,
was some payoff to the outrageous statement
she’d just made.
“Oh dear, look what I’ve done. I’m so
clumsy.” Janette Weaverton quickly fetched
a broom and dustpan from the walk-in pantry,
and started in on the mess.
Sherlock said as she watched her sweep up
the broken cup and dump it into the garbage
can beneath the sink, “Surely you know what
happened, Mrs. Weaverton. Surely you aren’t
at all surprised by this. Margaret told all
of you about Justice Wallace and his unwanted
antics.”
Janette Weaverton washed her hands, dried
them, and said as she turned back to Sherlock,
“Margaret said very little about it to us.
When Anna brought it up, Margaret laughed
it off. I never got the impression it disturbed
her very much. She thought he was an old fool.
He’s never hit on me.” Janette began to
arrange cups on their saucers on the big silver
tray.
“Are there teabags?”
“What? Oh certainly.”
She fetched a tea box, an early American piece
divided into ten sections, each with a different
tea. Sherlock picked out Earl Grey, Savich’s
favorite. “My husband rarely drinks coffee.”
“Your husband is a lovely man. He obviously
takes very good care of himself. You’re
a lucky woman.”
Sherlock nodded in agreement. “Yes. We have
a little boy, Sean is his name. Do you have
children, Mrs. Weaverton?”
Janette shook her head as she poured cream
into a small pitcher and set it on the tray.
“No, my husband and I decided children weren’t
for us. Then we divorced.” Ah, Sherlock
thought, watching the woman, Janette Weaverton
had wanted children, but why then hadn’t
she remarried?
“I’ve heard Mrs. Califano’s boutiques
are quite successful. I plan to buy my husband
something for his birthday at the one in Georgetown.
That’s where we live.”
A smooth eyebrow went up. “Georgetown?”
“My husband’s grandmother was Sarah Elliott,
the painter. She willed her beautiful home
to my husband.”
Janette Weaverton’s jaw dropped. “Really?
Sarah Elliott was your husband’s grandmother?
The Sarah Elliott? How very incredible that
must be.”
Sherlock nodded, watched her put sugar packets
and Equal in a small bowl, and set it next
to the creamer.
Sherlock asked, “Do you work as well, Mrs.
Weaverton?”
“No. I’m fortunate to have been born to
very rich parents. I do, however, travel a
lot. But things are different now with Stewart
dead. Perhaps Margaret will need my help.
I don’t know yet.”
“Would you want to join her in her business?”
“Unfortunately I have no business experience.
And, the sad fact is, I don’t think I could
sell a shoe addict a pair of Ferragamos.”
Sherlock laughed. “Well, who knows? Shall
I carry this for you?”
“Thank you. Imagine being an FBI agent,
working with your husband. Does it cause problems
for you at home?”
Sherlock smiled, lifted the heavy tray, and
said over her shoulder, “Not yet.” People,
she thought, you never knew what was in their
minds, in their hearts, but bottom line, Janette
Weaverton was a loyal friend to Margaret Califano,
and that counted for a lot.
Conversation was strained in the living room.
Margaret had fallen silent, despite everyone’s
best efforts, and sat clasping and unclasping
her hands. Callie still sat beside her, her
own hand on her mother’s forearm, squeezing
gently, every once in a while, so she’d
know she wasn’t alone.
Ben saw a strong resemblance between the two
women, although Callie’s eyes were bluer,
her brows and hair darker. Callie had a sharper
chin, but there was no doubt that the same
intelligence burned brightly in both mother
and daughter. It still bugged him that Margaret
hadn’t married Stewart Califano until Callie
left for college. Being careful about protecting
your daughter was one thing, but it seemed
to Ben that Margaret had gone overboard.
Savich couldn’t figure out Harry Thorpe.
He sat there, silent and hunched over, saying
not a word. He wasn’t small or insignificant,
he looked fit, he was a very successful businessman,
rich in his own right, so why then did he
look somehow beleaguered? Savich realized
then that Harry had probably thrown in the
towel long ago, had handed over the reins
to this inflexible woman seated beside him
with her intolerant spirit, her seamed lips,
her extraordinary disapproval. How could he
love her? What need could she possibly fulfill?
A stupid question, Savich supposed. She was
a Justice of the Supreme Court. She would
be in the history books.
Savich said to Justice Alto-Thorpe, “Do
you have children?”
The lips didn’t unseam, but she finally
nodded. “Yes, two girls. They’re both
lawyers, both practicing in Denver, Colorado.
Harry is their stepfather. Their real father
died eleven years ago in a boating accident.”
Harry Thorpe didn’t say anything.
“It’s a lovely state,” Justice Alto-Thorpe
said.
Sherlock said, “I understand that a lot
of Californians have moved to Colorado, driven
up the home prices.”
Bitsy St. Pierre said, “Everyone has signs
that say ‘Go west again.’ ”
Once everyone had coffee and Savich had his
tea, Ben Raven said, “We spoke to Bobby
Fisher today, and three other law clerks as
well at his apartment—Sonya McGivens, Tai
Curtis, Dennis Palmer. We told them about
Danny O’Malley’s murder.”
The silence was sudden and acute.
“Bobby is a talented clerk,” said Justice
Alto-Thorpe. “As for Danny O’Malley, he
was all right, too, despite being in a conservative
Justice’s chambers. You could change his
mind. He had a good brain.”
“Unfortunately, ma’am,” Ben said, saluting
her with his coffee cup, a cup so feminine
and delicate he was afraid he was going to
inadvertently crush the damned thing, “our
working assumption is that his final decisions
were stupid enough to get him killed.”
Bitsy St. Pierre said, “I met Danny once.
He was quite polite, actually insisted on
taking the package I was hefting.”
Savich settled into the dynamics of this strange
group, knowing there were undercurrents he
didn’t understand, maybe secrets.
It was time, he thought. He looked over at
Justice Sumner Wallace. “Sir, may I speak
to you a moment, in private?”
Justice Wallace didn’t particularly want
to speak to Savich, it was clear on his face,
but he rose and followed Savich into the front
entrance hall. “What is it you wish to talk
to me about, Agent Savich?”
“Please tell me about the argument you had
with Justice Califano on Friday afternoon.”
Two gray bushy eyebrows shot up. “Argument?
I don’t recall having an argument with Stewart
on Friday. What is this all about, Agent?”
“You argued with Justice Califano in a public
place, sir. Bobby Fisher saw you and told
us about it. Since this argument occurred
only hours before Justice Califano was murdered,
I would really appreciate you telling me about
it. It goes to his emotional state, might
tell me what he was thinking or worrying about.
You see?”
Justice Wallace no longer looked confused.
“The discussion Stewart and I had on Friday,”
he said finally, “isn’t at all pertinent
to any of this. I will admit, however, that
the timing was certainly unfortunate. Stewart
was my friend. It is painful to remember it,
Agent Savich.”
“I understand that, sir, and I’m very
sorry. What did you argue about, Justice Wallace?”
“As I said, it was a personal disagreement,
nothing more, and it had nothing to do with
any of this.”
“Sir, I must tell you that we know about
the situation with Margaret Califano. We know
that Justice Califano confronted you about
it. Was that what the argument was about?”
“Do you realize who I am, Agent Savich?”
Justice Wallace’s voice was very soft, pitched
low so there was no chance anyone else could
hear him. Savich felt the very real threat
of him, heard the absolute knowledge in his
voice that he knew he was powerful, and nobody
should screw with him.
Savich said in an equally soft voice, “Oh
yes, I know. However, I hope you will understand
that we must follow every lead we get, we
must know every scrap of information even
peripherally related to this. As a Justice
of the Supreme Court, surely you must demand
every pertinent fact from your law clerks
on any given case. Surely you question all
the lawyers who try cases before you as closely
as you need to. Surely you must understand
that I must operate in the same way.”
Justice Wallace gave Savich a long look. Then
he shrugged. “Very well. This will not go
beyond the two of us, Agent. Do you understand
me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. It is painful, but I will tell
you. Margaret had told Stewart I had tried
to kiss her in the kitchen during a party
some months ago. However, it was a lie on
her part. The fact is Margaret wanted to sleep
with me. I didn’t want it, mind you, but
she was insistent. Understand, everyone got
a little drunk, so she really wasn’t herself.
She kissed me and I kissed her back. Stewart
was understandably angry and confronted me
outside the gift shop, as Bobby Fisher told
you.”
“What were the papers he was waving against
your chest?”
“Papers? I don’t remember any papers.
Stewart always carried papers, his notes on
whatever he was thinking about at any given
time. Oh yes, I remember, he pulled them out
of his pocket and began waving them around.
I have no idea what they were, Agent Savich,
no idea at all.”
“Did you tell him the truth about Margaret?”
“Certainly not. I accepted his anger and
apologized.”
Savich thanked him. He wondered how much he’d
just been told was the truth. It had been
a very long day. He needed to go home and
play with Sean before he went to bed. He wanted
to give Lily a chance to be with Simon Russo
and enjoy herself without having to worry
about a little boy stuffing polenta in his
nose.
They took their leave about five minutes later.
Callie saw them to the front door.
“We’ll do a very quick detour to headquarters,”
Savich said to Ben. “I’ll give you some
of MAX’s data to look over tonight, then
try to relax,” Savich said. “I want your
brain fresh in the morning. Oh yes, there’s
something else all of you need to hear.”
But he didn’t tell them about his conversation
with Justice Wallace until they were outside.
“Incredible,” Callie said. “He actually
accused my mom of coming on to him?”
“You don’t believe him, do you?” Ben
asked.
“At this point,” Savich said, “I have
no idea what to believe, but your mother,
Callie, she seems gold-plated to me.”
“She is.”
When Savich pulled his Porsche into the garage
at home at just after eight-thirty, he said,
“After we play with Sean until he’s snoring,
I’m thinking some big fat hair rollers might
be fun. What do you think?”
“You’re teasing me. You know very well
the moment Sean is down, you’ll spend three
hours with MAX.”
“Hair rollers first,” he said, kissed
her again, and grinned.
She rolled her eyes and climbed out of his
sexy Porsche.
CHAPTER
21
SAVICH LAY ON his back, staring up at the
ceiling, Sherlock tucked against him, asleep,
her leg sprawled over his belly, her soft
curly hair brushing against his jaw. Her breath
was warm and steady against his neck. He should
have been asleep, but Danny O’Malley’s
girlfriend, Annie Harper, filled his mind.
He wished there’d been time this evening
to visit her at the hospital, to judge her
state of mind, to see how coherent she was.
To walk in and find your boyfriend’s murdered
body, it was a ghastly experience for anyone,
particularly an innocent young woman.
Well, there hadn’t been time. Tomorrow morning,
first thing, he’d see to it. Savich knew
that Annie had to know something, even if
she didn’t realize it, he was sure of it.
But right now he had to slow his brain down,
had to get some sleep. First thing in the
morning, he’d call George Washington University
Hospital—
He was suddenly aware he was dreaming. He
was also very strongly aware of himself being
in the dream. Sherlock was there with him,
pressed against him, but it wasn’t Sherlock
he felt, it was a change in the air itself.
It seemed suddenly heavier somehow, a bit
more difficult to draw into his lungs. It
wasn’t particularly frightening, just different,
something he’d never experienced in a dream
before. That heavy air seeped slowly into
him, and with it, something that should have
been solid, but wasn’t. He was no longer
alone inside his mind; he was filled with
something that stirred the hair on his arms,
something he recognized because she was full-blown,
right there with him.
It was Samantha Barrister.
How interesting that she was able to simply
plug herself right into his brain. He still
felt no particular fear, it was a dream, after
all, nothing more. But he felt her fear, and
her urgency, a dreadful urgency. She was waiting
for him to acknowledge her, to let her know
he was aware of her.
In that instant he saw her clearly. Her black
hair, long and straight, nearly to her waist—an
old hippie style from the early seventies
when women parted their hair in the middle.
She was wearing the same summer dress, the
one she’d been wearing that night in the
Poconos. She was very pretty, with dark blue
eyes. Black Irish, that’s what she was,
although he didn’t know how he knew. He’d
been barely older than Sean when she’d been
murdered.
He focused on Samantha’s white face, and
said in a whisper so as not to awaken Sherlock,
“I’m here, Samantha. What’s wrong? What’s
happened?”
She didn’t answer him, just looked at him,
afraid.
“You’ve got to know that I’m an FBI
agent, Samantha,” he said quietly. He spoke
aloud because she seemed to understand him
that way. “You’ve also got to know that
my wife and I were called away from Blessed
Creek when that Supreme Court Justice was
murdered. I have to deal with that, no choice.
But I haven’t forgotten you. I’ve got
my laptop—” Suddenly she looked perfectly
blank, and he very nearly smiled because her
confusion was quite clear to him. “It’s
a computer, a really smart machine that can
look up old records, something that wasn’t
around back in the early seventies. Computers
are fast now, part of our daily lives. Well,
never mind that. I’ve gotten my computer
started to find out about you—as soon as
I can, I’ll help you. I promise you that.”
“My boy, my precious boy.”
“Samantha, what is going to happen to your
boy?”
“Dillon?”
Savich jerked awake, opened his eyes wide.
He shook off the dream. There was a sliver
of streetlight coming through the bedroom
window, not much, but he could see that around
the bed at least there was no one there. Well
of course she wasn’t standing at the end
of his bed, beckoning to him with ghostly
fingers he could see through.
“Dillon?” Sherlock’s hair tickled his
nose as she raised her head, her eyes instantly
focused on his face, but her voice still a
bit slurred from sleep. “Who are you talking
to? Were you dreaming? Are you okay?”
Then she stopped cold, her eyes alert, her
elbows locked over him. “Were you dreaming
about Samantha again?”
“Yes. I’m okay, I’m awake now.” The
heaviness in the air was gone, and she wasn’t
in his brain anymore. He was awake, but oddly
enough he sensed a sweet smell that lingered,
jasmine, he thought. He smelled jasmine. He
kissed Sherlock. “I can’t let this go
on any longer, Sherlock. In my dream, she
was worried about her boy. I could be crazy,
but I’ve got to deal with this. I’ve got
to get up and go to MAX.”
She kissed him quickly, let him go when he
pulled away.
He paused in the doorway. “I was awake,
thinking about what Annie Harper might know.
I’m going to see her first thing in the
morning. I’d like you to go to headquarters
for me, coordinate all the information for
MAX with Ollie.”
He pulled on a pair of jeans, and then he
was off to his study, top button open on his
jeans, wearing nothing else. Sean liked the
house warm, so jeans were all he needed.
Sherlock turned over and tried to go back
to sleep—big fat chance of that happening.
The strange thing was that she did just that,
in only a couple of minutes, and her sleep
was deep and dreamless.
Sherlock didn’t know when Dillon came back
to bed, only that he was holding her very
tightly when the clock radio buzzed the following
morning, and the early morning radio host
began talking about a six-car pileup near
the Tidal Basin.
GEORGE WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL
WASHINGTON, D.C.
MONDAY MORNING
ANNIE HARPER LOOKEDabout twelve years old.
Her face was clean of makeup, her light brown
hair pulled back in a ponytail, and her hospital
gown hung off her left shoulder. Even that
thin shoulder looked twelve.
She was pale, her skin pulled taut over her
cheekbones, as if something deep and vital
had been sucked out of her. But it was her
eyes that held him, dark eyes that seemed
old, not twelve at all.
“Hello, Ms. Harper,” Savich said, smiling
as he walked to her bed, then immediately
realized she wasn’t alone. Her parents were
standing close by, looking at him with their
arms crossed over their chests, looking defensive
and angry.
He wished for a moment they weren’t here,
but there was nothing to be done about it.
She was, after all, only twenty-three, and
it was good for her that her parents were
with her, supporting her through this nightmare.
“Do I know you?” Annie said, looking at
him vacantly. She was probably still sedated
to the gills.
“Not yet,” Savich said. “I’m FBI Agent
Dillon Savich. I was at Danny O’Malley’s
apartment.” For a moment, he lightly clasped
one of her pale hands. Then he turned to her
parents, who were now crowding next to their
daughter’s bed, his hand extended. “Agent
Dillon Savich.” Mr. Harper finally uncrossed
his arms and shook his hand, as did Mrs. Harper.
Savich was patient, hoping to show them that
he cared about their feelings, and indeed,
he did feel compassion for these people. “Mr.
and Mrs. Harper, I don’t want to cause Annie
any more pain than she’s already experienced.
Feel free to stay, but I do need to speak
to her. I’m sure that you, as well as Annie,
want us to find the man who killed Danny.”
Mr. Harper opened his mouth, then shut it.
He studied Savich’s face and slowly nodded.
But when Mrs. Harper spoke, her tired voice
was full of anger. “How could this have
happened, Agent Savich? We knew Danny, we
liked him. He was a fine young man—a law
clerk for the United States Supreme Court
for heaven’s sake—and you let a Supreme
Court Justice get murdered in the Supreme
Court Building itself where there must be
a hundred police, and what did they do? Nothing.
And now everyone is saying that Danny was
killed because he was involved somehow in
Justice Califano’s murder or knew something
about it. I’m telling you, Danny liked Justice
Califano, do you hear me? Liked him, respected
him, and yet everyone is saying he did something
wrong! This can’t be true.”
Annie Harper answered her mother, and Savich
was pleased to hear some vitality in her voice.
“Mom, I loved Danny, but the thing is, we
don’t know what’s true. I want to know,
don’t you see? No matter how it turns out,
I’ve got to know.”
Savich said, “It’s possible the murderer
assumed Danny knew something.”
Annie Harper shook her head, and looked down
at her hands. “That’s kind of you to say,
Agent Savich, but I know you don’t believe
that.” Her voice was tired. There was no
anger in it, only infinite weariness.
Savich said, “I understand your frustration,
Mrs. Harper. We will find out who did this
and we will find out exactly why it was done.”
He held her eyes until finally Mrs. Harper
sagged against her husband’s shoulder. Mr.
Harper put his arm around her and hugged her
close to him. “Speak to Annie, Agent Savich.
Her mother and I would feel better staying,
if that’s all right with you.”
“That’s not a problem.” Savich turned
back to Annie, who’d pulled the nightgown
back up over her shoulder. Perhaps her eyes
were a little brighter now. He wanted to take
her mind off her parents, who were standing
only six feet away, get her to focus on him,
so he took her hand to give her comfort with
the feel of human contact. He saw from the
corner of his eye that her mother was watching
his hand, holding her daughter’s. He positioned
himself between them and their daughter, and
turned his back to them. There was another
bed in the room. Thankfully it was empty.
“I understand you picked Danny up from the
Supreme Court on Friday evening.”
Annie nodded. “Yes, he was stuffing some
things into his briefcase—it was a Gucci,
I gave it to him for Christmas, just last
month.” Her breath hitched, and she fell
silent. Savich wondered how many drugs were
still in her system. But her words had seemed
coherent, so he waited.
“Danny loved that briefcase, always carried
it around with him even though usually he’d
have nothing of any importance in it. We took
my car, and he locked the briefcase in the
trunk. We laughed about how he shouldn’t
take it into the movie theater with him—you
know, a bomb, something like that.”
Savich saw Mrs. Harper make a move toward
her daughter, but Mr. Harper held her in place.
“We went to dinner first, at Angelo’s
over on Spreckels Street. Danny loved the
olive, onion, and anchovy pizza there. Angelo’s
was his favorite restaurant in Washington.”
“Where was the movie playing?”
“At the Consortium, over in Georgetown,
you know, that arty theater that’s usually
half empty.” She looked at her hands, and
he felt hers move in his, burrow in a bit.
“Whenever I said that, Danny would say no,
it’s half full.” Good, she’d given him
a small joke, and that meant she was beginning
to trust him. Her other hand lay open on her
lap on top of the thin sheet that covered
her, her fingers curved inward, a bit like
claws. “I didn’t want to see the film.
I didn’t share his enthusiasm for them,
but—” She sighed. “Danny had been talking
about it for a week and a half. I kept putting
him off, hoping the thing would close, but
it was still playing and I couldn’t put
him off any longer. We went to the nine o’clock
show. The film was in Croatian, with subtitles,
and the translation was so bad the dozen or
so people in the theater were laughing. Danny
didn’t, though. It was like he was watching
a different film, sitting forward, his eyes
glued to the screen. It was filmed in Split,
that city on the Dalmatian Coast where that
Roman emperor built this huge palace that’s
still used today.”
“When you were at Angelo’s, did you talk
about your day?”
“Not really. Danny didn’t want to. He
was always talking about Justice Califano,
about Eliza and Fleurette, but Friday night,
he just ate, listened to me talk mostly, or
so I thought. You know what? I was jealous.
I was thinking about Fleurette and how he
thought she was so cool, and I was jealous.
I wasn’t very nice to him. I was going through
the motions. I wanted to drive away with that
Gucci briefcase I spent nearly a week’s
salary on, and throw it in a dumpster.”
“But he wasn’t thinking about Fleurette.”
She shook her head. “No. When we got back
to his apartment, he—” She looked over
at her parents. Thankfully they were still
six feet away, facing the window now, their
backs to Savich and their daughter.
She lowered her voice and Savich had to lean
down to hear her. “He jumped on me the instant
we got through the door. Danny was always
horny, but this time it was different. He
was excited, not just about sex, but about
something else. And it wasn’t Fleurette.
How could it be?”
Savich’s heart began to pound slow steady
beats.
“We made love on the living room floor.”
She said this in an even lower whisper, her
eyes on her mother’s back. “Then Danny
got up and ran to the kitchen, opened a bottle
of wine, and poured us each a glass. He toasted
me, grinning like a loon. I’ll never forget
the look on his face. He said, ‘Annie, I’m
going to be rich.’ And I said, well, sure,
Danny, you’re smart and blah blah blah—I
don’t remember the rest of it. I said something
about was he going to take a client on the
side. Truth is, I was cold and wanted to put
my clothes back on. But there he was, expecting
me to drink the wine, and so I did.”
She might be twenty-three, Savich thought,
but she was still so very young, so insecure
in her youth.
“Danny shook his head. ‘No,’ he said,
‘this is something else entirely.’ But
he wouldn’t say what. And he grabbed my
hand and dragged me into the bedroom.” Again,
her voice was a whisper. “We did it again
before he finally fell asleep.”
“He said nothing about what this something
else might be? No hints? Nothing else at all?”
Annie shook her head. “No, I was lying there
listening to him snore. When I woke up the
next morning, it was late. I put on one of
his T-shirts and went into the kitchen. He
was standing there, looking at the TV, and
he was saying, ‘My God, my God, my God’—over
and over. We stood there and watched the news
about Justice Califano’s murder. I couldn’t
believe it. Danny looked like he’d been
kicked in the gut, like his world had ended.
But then everything changed on his face, and
his posture became really straight. He got
taller, I swear it, he stood there and got
taller.”
“You realize now that he’d come to a decision
of some sort? That he realized he could use
what he knew?”
“Yes, I can see that now. Poor Danny. It
sure didn’t take him long, did it?”
“Evidently not.” Savich knew there was
more, but not in her conscious mind, not yet.
“Then what did he say?”
“I asked him what the hell was going on
with him, but he shook his head at me and
said I had to leave, he had stuff to do, real
important stuff.”
“I was so mad. I yelled at him that I wasn’t
going to do his laundry for him anymore. I
went in the bedroom, got dressed and left,
didn’t say another word to him.”
“Where was he when you left?”
“I heard him moving around in the kitchen.
I think he was on his cell phone.”
“You didn’t hear anything he said on his
cell?”
She frowned, clasped his hand even harder,
but slowly shook her head. “No. I remember
how his voice fell, then it rose, but I was
really so mad that I just slammed out of his
apartment and went back to mine.”
“But you went over again Sunday morning.”
She was chewing on her lips. They were chapped.
“Yeah, I did.”
“Why?”
“I guess I wanted to know what was really
happening with him. I suppose I was worried
about Fleurette again. Have you ever seen
Sonya McGivens, Justice Wallace’s law clerk?
Have you seen how she dresses when she’s
outside the Court?”
He was hard-pressed not to smile. “Yes,
I have.”
“She works out,” Annie Harper said. “She
really works out hard. Over at Interior, nobody
works out.” And she turned her face away
from him, squeezed his hand until she was
nearly cutting off the circulation, and began
to weep.
Savich waited, trying to comfort her, when
her mother turned toward them, the tortured
look on the woman’s face painful to see.
He nodded to her and mouthed, “Annie will
be all right.”
When Annie quieted again, Savich said, “I
would like to hypnotize you, Annie.”
“No, there’s no way you’re going to
do any hocus-pocus on my daughter! She’s
been through enough!”
Savich looked up at Mrs. Harper. “It’s
a very safe way for me to help her remember
things she can’t recall right now. Please
remember, Mrs. Harper, Danny O’Malley was
brutally murdered like Justice Califano. If
Annie can remember more, it could help us
immensely. You and your husband could be present,
of course.”
But again, it was Annie who answered. “That’s
fine with me, Agent Savich. I want to know
who did this to Danny more than you do.”
CHAPTER
22
HOOVER BUILDING
FIFTH FLOOR
LATE MONDAY MORNING
“I DON’T BELIEVE IT,” Frank Halley said,
looking through the sheaf of papers in his
hands. “MAX gives recommendations? You’ve
got an alien inside that laptop, don’t you,
Savich?” Savich, who’d just slipped quietly
into the big conference room, merely nodded
at Sherlock, who was at the head of the room,
in charge of the meeting.
Sherlock said, “Nope, Frank, Dillon programmed
it. Maybe he’s an alien. But I’ve never
before met an alien that good in bed.”
Savich grinned at his wife and felt his chest
expand. He knew some of the agents had already
seen him and were hooting and giving him high
fives. When the laughter died down, Savich
realized Sherlock had already handed out all
the updated assignments five minutes before
he’d gotten there. There was optimism in
the air now, not the stark confusion that
had reigned in yesterday’s meeting. From
listening to the other agents talk, Savich
realized Sherlock had covered everything perfectly.
When the meeting broke up at last, Savich
said, “Sherlock, you’re coming with me.”
“Where are you going, Savich?” Frank Halley
still wasn’t over his snit, given the aggression
in his voice.
Savich said mildly, “We have a date with
Dr. Emanuel Hicks out at Quantico. He’s
going to hypnotize Annie Harper for me.”
“O’Malley’s girlfriend?”
“The very same,” Sherlock said. “You
want to come along? You can deal with Annie’s
parents while Dr. Hicks and Dillon work with
her.”
“No, now that I think about it,” Frank
said quickly, “I’ve got more than enough
to go over with my team.”
“You do that so well,” Savich said, kissed
Sherlock’s ear, and whispered, “I’m
better in bed than any alien you’ve ever
met?”
“So far,” she said, and gave him a wicked
smile over her shoulder as she walked out
of the conference room.
JEFFERSON DORMITORY
QUANTICO
SHERLOCK SAT WITH Mr. and Mrs. Harper, having
directed them to the farthest side of Savich’s
office. Savich heard her soothing low-pitched
voice, the same voice she used when she was
trying to talk Sean into doing something he
really didn’t want to do.
He turned when Dr. Hicks sauntered into the
room. Dr. Emanuel Hicks always sauntered,
it was one of his trademarks. His other trademark
was the three very long hairs he combed from
near his left ear over the top of his bald
head. The three hairs didn’t go all that
well with the saunter, but since he was so
gifted, Savich wouldn’t have cared if he
danced the salsa when he came into a room
wearing a pink turban. He’d admired Dr.
Hicks since he’d been in the academy. He’d
realized what a valuable resource he was.
He rose and shook hands. “Thank you for
coming, Dr. Hicks. Anything else you need
to know about this situation?”
“No, Savich, you covered it well.” Dr.
Hicks nodded toward the parents and without
pause pulled a chair up to Annie’s. He smiled
at her. “I’m Dr. Hicks and I promise you
that none of this is going to hurt. It was
part of the oath I had to take to work for
the FBI. How are you feeling, Ms. Harper?”
“Okay. Well, I really feel bad, like I want
to cry all the time, but there aren’t any
more tears.”
“No wonder, you’ve been through a terrible
experience.”
“I’m not the one dead, Dr. Hicks.”
“The dead don’t care anymore, Annie, only
the living,” Dr. Hicks said. “Now, you
think you’re ready?”
“I’ve never done this before. Don’t
you want me to lie down or something?”
“No, that’s not necessary. Just get yourself
comfortable in the chair. May I call you Annie?”
She nodded.
“Okay, now, I’d like you to look closely
at this silver dollar. It originally belonged
to my great-grandfather. Look at it, nothing
else. That’s right, follow it with your
eyes.”
While he gently swung the silver dollar on
its chain about four inches from Annie’s
face, he began talking about the people he
knew who worked at the Department of the Interior—there
were at least a dozen of them. His voice was
soft, without inflection. Within four minutes,
Savich thought she was under. Dr. Hicks slipped
the silver dollar back in his vest pocket
and said in his slow soft voice, “Annie,
how do you feel?”
Annie was still looking at the place where
the silver dollar had been swinging. “Cold.
On the inside. Could Agent Savich hold my
hand?”
Savich clasped both of her hands between his.
The three of them were very close now. He
saw from the corner of his eye that both the
Harper parents were staring toward them, but
thankfully, Sherlock was keeping them under
control.
“Better now, Annie?”
“Yes,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice.
“I wish Danny could have been more like
Agent Savich. This wouldn’t have happened
if he’d been like Agent Savich, but Danny
was an opportunistic jerk.”
Now this was interesting, Savich thought.
He kept stroking her hands, which were becoming
warmer by the minute.
He waited until Dr. Hicks nodded to him, then
said, “Annie, did you realize Danny was
an opportunistic jerk only yesterday, or some
time before?”
“I guess I’ve always known, Agent Savich.
He played a good game, what with his sweet
Irish lad act. He liked me, don’t get me
wrong; I know he did. But he didn’t love
me, not like I talked myself into thinking
I loved him. Can you believe I even did his
laundry because he told me he loved the way
I folded his clothes? What an idiot.”
“What did Danny do to make you question
his integrity?”
“Well, he lied to Eliza, told her he’d
done stuff when he really hadn’t, but not
that much because Eliza’s really smart,
and he knew he couldn’t get away with it.
Then he’d kiss up to her big time because
he knew she had real power over his life.
She could get him fired if she wanted. Justice
Califano really listened to her, at least
that’s what Danny was always telling me.”
“Eliza never noticed when Danny didn’t
follow through? That he lied?”
“Not that he ever told me. He’d laugh
about it, you know, like a little kid in grade
school who’d pulled something over on the
teacher. Eliza was always really nice to me.
I think I could have been a close friend to
her, only there wasn’t time in her life,
and I understood that. As for Fleurette, I
don’t think she knew Danny all that well,
but I could be wrong.”
“What about Justice Califano? Did he ever
catch Danny in a lie that you know of? Catch
him doing something he shouldn’t have been
doing?”
Slowly, Annie shook her head. “I don’t
know. I wasn’t part of the inner circle.
All my information came from Danny. If Justice
Califano had caught him in a lie, he sure
wouldn’t tell me about it, would he? And
the fact is, Danny wanted Justice Califano
to like him. He wanted a great recommendation
from him when the year was up. So it seems
to me the last thing Danny would want to do
is lie to Justice Califano.”
“Okay, I want you to tell me about Friday.
You picked Danny up at the Supreme Court Building.
What sort of mood was he in?”
“The fact is I’d never know which Danny
I’d see. The happy Danny or the brooding
Danny. He wasn’t either one on Friday. He
was distracted, like there was really something
on his mind. But he wouldn’t talk about
it, just kept eating those disgusting anchovies.
I hate anchovies.”
“Do you think he put something important
in his briefcase?”
She looked thoughtful, then shook her head.
“I don’t know. Where is his briefcase?”
“We couldn’t find it. It wasn’t in his
apartment.”
“That’s too bad. Danny would like to be
buried with that briefcase. Oh, God, I didn’t
mean it like that.”
“I understand. That’s all right, Annie.”
“I know he took it out of the trunk, I watched
him carry it into his apartment. When I bought
it for him I never thought the stupid thing
would become some sort of icon to him.”
“Let’s move forward to Saturday morning.
There wasn’t any talk between you during
the night, right?”
“No, he was snoring.”
“You said he was saying ‘Oh God, oh God,’
when he saw that Justice Califano was dead.”
“Yes, over and over. I couldn’t believe
it either. It didn’t seem real, like one
of Danny’s stupid foreign flicks that doesn’t
make any sense at all.”
“But then he changed. Right before your
eyes, he changed.”
“Yes, completely.”
“I want you to picture Danny in your mind,
Annie. You’re right there, watching the
TV, then looking at him. What do you see?”
“He’s acting like he just hit a really
big jackpot in Las Vegas. He looks like he’s
conquered the world. Smug, that’s it, he
looks smug.”
“So he might be thinking about what he knows?
And that something could make him rich?”
“Yes, that’s exactly it. It’s so clear
to me now. He thought about it for maybe three
seconds, and then he decided to go for the
money.”
“What did he say?”
“He had stuff to do. I went to the bedroom,
got dressed, and slammed out.”
“But you heard him on his cell.”
“Oh yes.”
“Okay, Annie, you’re standing there, you
don’t want to see him, but you hear him
on the phone. Where are you standing?”
“In the front entrance.”
“How far away is Danny?”
“The kitchen isn’t more than fifteen feet
away from where I’m standing.”
“He’s on a cell phone.”
“Yes.”
“Did the phone ring or did he initiate the
call?”
“I never heard it ring, so he must have
made the call.”
“Just a moment, Annie. We checked his cell
phone records and there was no outgoing call
made on Saturday morning.”
“I’m sure he was using a cell.”
“Do you think it could have been a throwaway
cell phone? Did he own one?”
“Yes, he had several of them, got them really
cheap from a guy on the street.”
Interesting, Savich thought, and dropped it.
“Does he carry an address book in his pocket,
along with his cell?”
“Yes, it’s just a skinny little black
book.”
“So he pulled out the black book, looked
up a number, and called it?” But not using
his own cell phone, Savich thought, and realized
Danny knew exactly what he was doing and wasn’t
about to take any chances on it coming back
to bite him.
“Yes, that’s what he would have done.”
“Okay, you’re standing there, angry, wanting
to leave, but you pause. Because he’s on
the phone and you want to know what’s going
on, right?”
“Yes, that’s exactly right. I wanted to
know what he was planning on doing.”
“You’re listening. What is he saying?”
“I can’t—”
He squeezed her hands, and began to lightly
stroke his fingers over the now-warm flesh.
“You’re standing there, Annie. You’re
listening. What is he saying?”
She sucked in a deep breath, fell silent for
a good minute. Savich didn’t say a word,
just kept holding her hands, waiting.
“He said ‘I think we can come to some
sort of agreement here.’ ”
There was a sharp cry of anguish from Mrs.
Harper. Savich heard the soothing voices of
both Mr. Harper and Sherlock.
“Anything else, Annie? You’re still there,
right?”
“No, I’m out the door.”
“What were you thinking?”
“That I was pissed. That he was an idiot
for thinking I loved him. Nothing, I don’t
know. Really, I didn’t hear anything more.
I didn’t know what he even meant, but I
knew in my gut he was doing something bad.”
“But you didn’t want to know what it was.”
“Not then.”
“Is that why you came back on Sunday?”
She nodded. “Yes. I wanted the truth. And,
I’ll admit it—I was worried about him.
I thought he was going to do something, I
didn’t know what.” She stopped and looked
toward her parents. “I’m lying to myself.
Yes, I knew he was doing something wrong,
I didn’t want to admit it to myself.”
Savich nodded to Dr. Hicks. Slowly, Dr. Hicks
brought her out of hypnosis. He told her she
was a very brave woman, that what had happened
was going to fade from her mind in time, and
that she was strong enough to see things the
way they’d really been, and would be able
to put them in perspective. Savich smiled
a bit as Dr. Hicks engaged in some therapy.
He felt compassion for this waif, this young
woman who’d fallen for a man who’d used
her and then had died. Dr. Hicks went on to
tell her that she would feel good about herself
now, that she was hungry. A pepperoni pizza
at the Quantico restaurant, The Boardroom,
was what she wanted, and Savich would buy
it for her. He looked over at her parents,
who were listening to every word and nodding.
He told Annie her parents would like the pepperoni
pizza, too, that they were here for her, that
they loved her and would stand by her.
Unfortunately, Savich thought, when he finally
managed to get away from Quantico, Danny O’Malley’s
Gucci briefcase, his cell phone with its memory
chip, a throwaway cell phone, and the skinny
little black book were gone.
FBI HEADQUARTERS
EARLY TUESDAY MORNING
SAVICH STOOD at the head of the conference
table, looked out at the sea of faces.
“MAX has found an assassin who is a high-probability
fit for our murderer. He has used the alias
Günter Grass, middle name listed as Wilhelm.
He has used the same M.O. as our killer on
a number of victims—a garrote, up close
and personal, and mostly in high-risk settings.
The two have always gone together for him.”
“Hey, that name sounds familiar,” said
another agent.
“Yes,” Savich said. “The real Günter
Wilhelm Grass won the Nobel Prize for Literature
in 1999. Maybe some of you have read his first
novel, The Tin Drum. He’s also a poet, novelist,
playwright, even a sculptor. He has described
himself as a ‘ Spätaufklärer,’ a belated
apostle of enlightenment in an era that has
grown tired of reason.
“No one knows why the killer selected this
name as his primary alias. I’d imagine he
admires something about Günter Grass, or
about something he wrote. Steve and the behavioral
sciences group at Quantico will be telling
us more about that. No one knows his real
name. He only goes by the name Günter.
“Last night I spoke to our local Interpol
guy here in Washington, Johnny Baines, to
Jacques Ramie in Lyons, and to Hans Claus
in Berlin. Günter Grass isn’t on their
current radar because he hasn’t been active
in well over ten years, at least not that
anyone knows of. That’s why it took MAX
a little while to find him.
“The German and French authorities are certain
that no such person or anyone similar is connected
to any known terrorist cell.
“So the question is, where has the guy been?
What’s he been doing? Where is he now? Still
in Washington or long gone? And how did the
person behind the two murders even know about
a guy like this, a professional assassin?”
Jimmy Maitland said, “Of course, there is
no one by this name currently here in the
U.S., no passports or visas issued in that
name. Bottom line, we know who he is, but
we have no clue where he is.”
Ben Raven asked, “No old photos? Nothing?”
Savich nodded. “I’m passing out a grainy
old photo that Jacques Ramie sent over. They
tried to clean it up digitally, but it’s
still not good. You’ll see that it’s a
photo of a much younger man. He’s big, you
can tell that much, and looking at the clothes,
it would put the photo in the mid- to late
eighties. Even though he’s older now, he’s
still got to be pretty strong to take out
Justice Califano and Danny O’Malley.”
Jimmy Maitland shook his head. “The thing
about picking high-risk places—it’s very
rare for a professional. A professional is
in and out, clean and fast, gets the job done.
But our guy’s got to have this adrenaline
shot. We’ve never run into anything like
that before.”
“Calling himself Günter Grass, that’s
just nuts,” said another agent.
“He’s giving everyone the finger,” Jimmy
Maitland said. “Done it for years; unfortunately,
he’s gotten away with it. He’s still free.
Estimates on how many people he’s killed,
Savich?”
“Jacques believes it to be around twenty.
Günter was active until the late eighties,
none of them high-profile killings—drug
dealers, international mafia, those sorts
of hits. Then nothing. Until Justice Califano.”
“He probably made himself a big bundle and
retired,” said Jimmy Maitland. “Changed
his name. He could be living anywhere in the
world, or he could be living down the block
from one of us, as far as we know.”
“And that brings up another thing,” Savich
said, and sighed. “According to Interpol,
the man is fluent in four languages—German,
French, Italian, and, naturally, English.”
“Does he sound American or English?”
“American, I’m told. The person behind
these murders knows Günter on a personal,
business, or social level. And somehow, he
found out exactly who and what Günter was
and still is.”
“Hey, Günter could be somebody’s plumber,”
called out one agent.
“With what they charge, he wouldn’t have
had to take the job,” said another agent.
CHAPTER
23
ST. LUKE’S EPISCOPAL CHURCH
WASHINGTON, D.C.
THURSDAY MORNING
ST. LUKE’S WASfar too small for the throng
of mourners there to witness Justice Stewart
Califano’s funeral. The media were kept
milling about outside the small Episcopal
church, trying to catch a brief interview
with all the notables who were invited.
There was room for only one hundred and fifty
mourners inside St. Luke’s. Friends and
family only, other judges, members of Congress,
and the President and Vice President and their
families. The President himself delivered
the eulogy.
Margaret Califano sat with Callie, holding
her hand, both of them covered from head to
foot in black. Margaret’s friends, their
husbands and families flanked her. Like the
Swiss Guard protecting the kings of France,
Savich whispered to Sherlock.
Director Mueller, DAD Jimmy Maitland, Sherlock,
Savich, and Ben Raven sat two pews behind
Margaret Califano, and behind them were several
Supreme Court police officers, including Henry
Biggs, who still looked frail, but at least
was alive. Savich wondered why Mrs. Califano
had invited him. She was, he decided, a class
act.
When the service ended, the President and
First Lady were escorted out of St. Luke’s,
surrounded by the Secret Service, then the
Vice President and Mrs. Chartly. Margaret
stood beside her husband’s flag-draped coffin,
shaking hands, speaking in her low quiet voice,
thanking people for coming. When it was time,
she looked toward the doors, saw the media
held back by the Metro police. She drew a
deep breath, squared her shoulders, and walked
out with Callie to speak to them, the coffin
wheeled slowly after her by the eight remaining
Justices, an incredibly stirring sight Savich
knew would be immortalized around the world.
The shouted questions stopped the instant
she opened her mouth. Margaret spoke quietly,
and graciously thanked everyone for their
warmth and support for her family. Concerning
the investigation, she said only that she
was confident the FBI would find the man who
had killed her husband. She also said that
after her husband’s interment at St. Martin
of the Fields, she would speak to the media,
at her own home. She politely declined to
answer any questions, only repeated, “I
will speak to you again later at my home.”
The small, private interment went quickly
and smoothly, with the media kept a good distance
away from the gravesite by the same officers
who had been at St. Luke’s.
Savich, Sherlock, Ben, and a few more FBI
agents accompanied Margaret Califano to the
press conference she gave at her home on Beckhurst
Lane. She answered every question patiently
and politely.
“We hear The Washington Post has the inside
track on this because of you, Ms. Markham,”
shouted one reporter. “Is that proper conduct
for a major newspaper in an investigation
of this stature?”
Callie stepped forward. “No, it certainly
wouldn’t be if such a thing were true, but
it isn’t. I’m on a leave of absence from
the Post. I’m helping the authorities as
much as I can, but only as Justice Califano’s
stepdaughter.”
Jed Coombes, Callie’s editor, called out,
a mixture of sarcasm and bitterness clear
in his voice. “It’s true, she won’t
give us the time of day.”
This brought more laughter.
“You’re gonna fire her?”
A thoughtful frown. “Probably not.”
When it was over, when finally all the TV
vans and reporters had left, Sherlock went
home to Sean, and Savich stopped in to see
Jimmy Maitland at FBI headquarters.
FBI HEADQUARTERS
THURSDAY AFTERNOON
IT WAS WINTER, dark at five-thirty. A cold
drizzle slapped against the window in Jimmy
Maitland’s office. Savich sat in front of
his boss’s desk, his hands clasped between
his legs, staring at his shoes.
“MAX has come up dry, and so have we,”
Savich said. “Günter seems to have completely
disappeared in 1988.”
“Anything at all useful about Günter before
1988?”
Savich shook his head. “He could be an American,
an Albanian, an Armenian. He left no clues.
The guy’s a pro.
“As for the rest of it, the local investigation—we
haven’t turned up a fingerprint, a footprint,
usable DNA, not even a vague description by
a witness. The garrote leaves no trace, one
of its advantages.
“We’ve followed up on all the phone records,
checked every deleted file on computers that
could be connected to the Justice, but nothing
has fallen out of that.
“Some of what we’re looking at—further
background checks on everyone who could be
involved, review of both victims’ financial
records, interviews with felons Justice Califano
convicted and white-collar criminals he bankrupted,
going back many years—these will take more
time, but as you know, they’re a bit of
a stab in the dark. So far, all we really
have is the connection MAX gave us to Günter,
and the fact that whatever it was that triggered
Justice Califano’s murder, Danny O’Malley
was somehow able to find out about it.
“Our interviews have been useful, but nothing
seems to tie into anything substantial yet.
All the inconsistencies, even the downright
lies don’t seem to matter. And Danny—the
only person I can believe about Danny is Annie
Harper, and that’s because Dr. Hicks hypnotized
her and I questioned her myself.”
Jimmy Maitland said, “Danny O’Malley sounded
like an opportunistic little prick.”
“Yes, unfortunately he was. And deep down,
Annie knew it, but she was too young and too
in love to admit it. She does now.”
“You sound like her father, Savich.”
“I felt ancient when I was speaking to her.”
“Nothing on the briefcase, the black book,
or the cell phone.” A statement, not a question.
Savich shook his head.
Jimmy Maitland said suddenly, “When was
the last time you were at the gym?”
Savich’s head whipped up. “Two, three
days. Why?”
“That’s your problem. You need to sweat
this out of your system, have one of the guys
bust your butt a little, let this slide off
you for a while. Go, Savich, go work out,
you need it.”
Savich slowly rose. “Maybe you’re right,
sir.” He grinned. “Then I can get Sherlock
to rub me down with BenGay.”
“Hey, that woman Valerie Rapper still at
the gym? The one who came on to you?”
Savich was clearly startled. “How did you
know about her?”
Jimmy Maitland, father of four sons, all of
them built like bulls—like their father—and
all firmly in the control of his wife, whom
he could tuck under his armpit, said, “I
know everything, and it’s best you never
forget that, boyo.”
Savich was actually smiling when he left the
Hoover Building to head to the gym. And when
he walked through the front door of his house,
so beat he could barely walk upright, Sherlock
shoved him into the shower, then fed him a
big plate of spinach lasagna. He fell asleep
lying on his belly in the middle of the bed,
Sean beside him, pressing his teddy bear’s
nose in the BenGay as he followed the path
of his mother’s massage.
BECKHURST LANE WASHINGTON, D.C. THURSDAY EVENING
BEN AND CALLIE followed Margaret Califano
into her house. Her friends were waiting inside
the front door—Janette, Anna, Juliette,
and Bitsy. Their families had evidently gone
home.
Ben said, eyebrow up, “Are they going to
move in?”
Callie said, “I’ll assume that was an
attempt at a joke. I guess they’ll be here
for her as long as they believe she needs
them.” Callie watched the women surround
her mother as the group walked back into the
living room. At least her mother was home
again. Callie paused a moment more, watching
them from the living room doorway. “They’ve
always been around. For each other, and for
all the kids. I grew up with these women.
Each of them taught me something special—”
“Like what?” Ben asked.
Callie looked toward Janette Weaverton, who
was laying the fire in the fireplace. “Janette
taught me how to knit. Anna taught me how
to play the piano. Juliette taught me tennis,
and Bitsy, well, she taught me how to make
the best pizza crust in the world. And that
gives me a great idea.”
She headed into the living room, Ben on her
heels. She smiled as she clapped her hands.
“Hey, everyone, I’m calling in for pizza.
It’s on me. Mom’s home again, you’re
all here, we got through the day and the media.
We’ve got champagne to celebrate Stewart’s
life and being here together, and we’ve
got beer for our guy here. What does everyone
think?”
For a moment, there was silence. Then Margaret
smiled at her daughter. “Do you know, I
think Stewart would like that.”
“Good. It’s done.”
It was pretty clear to Ben that the women
would as soon see the back of him, but they
were all nodding and smiling, polite to their
undoubtedly beautifully polished toenails.
It was Bitsy who said, “Anchovies for me,
Callie.”
“As if I didn’t know,” Callie said.
Janette said, “I want double pepperoni.”
Ben nodded. “A woman after my own heart—make
that two.”
Callie ended up ordering seven pizzas, including
a large caper and olive for herself.
It was Margaret’s first night home. Callie
was going to stay with her for a while, but
Ben got the distinct impression that her mother
really didn’t need her to stay or particularly
wanted her to stay either. She had her four
friends. Were her friends closer to her than
her own daughter? They were all of an age,
all of them had shared so many years of their
lives together, each other’s pain as well
as happiness. He supposed they knew each other
as well as old married couples must.
He turned to Janette Weaverton, who’d gone
to open the drapes a bit to look out. “No
more media,” she said over her shoulder.
“Margaret did an excellent job with them.”
Ben joined her at the window. “Yes, she
did. I understand from Callie that you taught
her how to knit.”
Janette didn’t look at him. “She’d be
quite good if she applied herself, but Callie’s
young, she’s got so much stuff to do—and
her career is really taking off. I think a
Pulitzer might mean more to her than a knitted
afghan.” She turned to face him, her arms
folded over her chest. “She knit me a sweater—her
very first effort. I still have it.”
“Does it look like a sweater, or is it one
of those stereotypical things you see that
goes on for yards and yards?”
“Nope, it’s a sweater. She was good when
she was twelve. Haven’t you been to her
apartment?”
He shook his head. “She’s a civilian,
ma’am. She was assigned to me. None of this
is social.”
“What a waste that seems, Detective. Callie’s
a special girl, always has been.”
“So special that Mrs. Califano didn’t
marry Justice Califano until Callie went off
to college?”
Janette Weaverton shrugged. “Maybe, maybe
not. What happened to her sister’s girl
really affected her, affected all of us. None
of us encouraged Margaret to change her mind
about it. The thing is, though, Callie has
gumption—she would have kicked her stepfather’s
ass if he’d ever tried anything with her.
And she really liked Stewart, admired him
tremendously.”
Hearing a blueblood like Janette Weaverton
talk about kicking ass made Ben choke. He
coughed into his hand.
She laughed. “Oh, I see. You think I should
speak more demurely, to match my St. John
suit?”
“What’s a St. John’s suit?”
Janette smiled. “That’s what I’m wearing.
It’s a designer label. Did you know Callie
has a black belt in karate?”
“Yeah, she might have mentioned it once
when she wanted to boot me out the car window.”
“The first thing Margaret did after her
sister’s daughter was molested was to enroll
Callie with an excellent instructor, to be
sure that Callie would never be a victim.
“You seem like a good man, Detective Raven.
You’re interesting, you’re also an excellent
listener. I’ll bet you manage to get information
out of the most obdurate of perpetrators,
don’t you?”
“I try, ma’am. Actually, I hear it’s
Agent Savich who’s the master at it. They
give lots of classes on interviewing at Quantico.
One day I might go see what it’s all about.”
“You really think Agent Savich is all that
good? It’s been nearly a week since Stewart’s
murder and nearly four days since Danny O’Malley’s
murder, yet he doesn’t seem to have turned
up anything.”
“He will. Justice Califano interacted with
a great many people, so many it makes your
head ache, and everyone has something quite
different to say. Lies? Just differences of
perception? Sheer perversity?”
“I see what you mean. Well, you’d expect
that, wouldn’t you? It would be like Bitsy
and me being married to the same man. We’d
both experience him as very different men.”
“I never thought of it like that. Do we
change our behaviors so much with each different
person we know?”
“I’d rather eat pizza than think about
that,” Janette said.
CHAPTER
24
THE DOORBELL RANG, and the delivery boy stood
grinning from ear to ear with seven pizza
boxes piled up to his nose. Callie, charmed
by that grin, gave him a big tip.
Bitsy St. Pierre said between mouthfuls of
her anchovy pizza, “This is delicious. Eat,
Margaret, I don’t want to have to tell you
again.” The other three women nodded. Ben
watched them, his head cocked to the side.
He was eating with six women, five of them
his mother’s age, something he couldn’t
remember ever doing before in his life. He
decided he liked it.
Margaret took a small bite, chewed on it forever
before finally swallowing it. Bitsy said matter-of-factly,
“We buried Stewart today. It was a grand
send-off. The President spoke, the Vice President
spoke. You dealt magnificently with the media,
Margaret. We’ve given Stewart a wonderful
toast with his favorite champagne. He would
have made one of his decision matrixes and
concluded he was proud of you. Now, eat.”
He’d heard them say such things to Margaret
at least three or four times that evening.
Did it help? Evidently so. Margaret Califano
took a bigger bite of pizza and actually looked
like she might be enjoying it.
Janette Weaverton appeared to be the quietest
of the five women, although he hadn’t found
her reticent or shy at all. It was just that
the others seemed more forceful in their opinions,
bigger in their laughter. She seemed preoccupied.
Yes, that was it.
Ben said, “Will you ladies be staying here
tonight?”
Five sets of eyes turned to him. “Oh no,”
said Anna Clifford. “Our families are patient,
they understand, but they want us back home.
Since Callie’s here now, we’ll leave when
it’s time for Margaret to go to bed.”
“Your husband, Mrs. Clifford, what does
he do?”
“He used to be a banker, but now he’s
a venture capitalist.” She paused a moment,
chewed some pizza. “Most people don’t
really understand what that means, exactly,
but to me it sounds mysterious, maybe dangerous,
like laundering Mafia money.”
That drew a round of laughter, but Margaret
said, in a serious voice, “There’s nothing
illegal in what Clayton does, Anna. He simply
invests his own and other people’s money
in individual entrepreneurs or start-up companies
that interest him. He’s good at analyzing
their growth potential, their planning skills,
and deciding if they’re worth the risk.”
Anna smiled as she said, “Come on, Margaret,
you know very well Clayton says it’s like
deciding whether or not to buy Boardwalk in
Monopoly.”
Bitsy said, “Eat more pizza, Margaret. Those
chunks of pepper will bring back your sense
of humor.”
Margaret dropped her slice of pizza back on
her paper plate. She looked like she was about
to burst into tears. “You don’t know what
I did!”
“Mom, whatever it was—”
“Stewart wanted to be cremated. I didn’t
follow his wishes. It was the President, you
see, and all the protocol experts. Everyone
expected a big church service, Stewart in
a coffin in front of celebrity mourners. I
ignored his wishes and buried him.” Margaret
put her face in her hands and wept. “I buried
him.”
“Oh, Mom, don’t.” Callie put her arms
around her mother and rocked her. The women
gathered around, patting her hair, her shoulders,
her arms. “It doesn’t matter, Mom. Stewart
wasn’t there. That magnificent service was
for all his friends, for the President, for
all those people who admired him. It was for
everyone there to say their farewells to him.
And the burial itself was so beautifully done.
He wouldn’t have minded, truly.”
Ben had never felt so useless in his life.
If he could have disappeared in that instant,
he would have.
Then the storm of tears was over. Margaret
gave a small laugh. “Poor Detective Raven.
I’m sorry for that. You poor boy, stuck
among all us women, but you’re doing very
well, isn’t he, Juliette?”
“Very well indeed.”
Ben said, “You said that we hadn’t gotten
much done, ma’am. Well, actually that’s
not true. The FBI think they know who the
assassin is. He calls himself Günter Grass,
or just Günter.”
Margaret said, puzzled, “The writer? The
man who murdered Stewart is a German?”
“We don’t know what nationality he is.
Günter Grass is the name he uses. He’s
been inactive, supposedly for at least fifteen
years now, until this. He’s known to speak
four languages fluently, including English.
He could very well live among us. He could
even be living locally, and the person who
wanted Justice Califano murdered very possibly
knew about Günter and his profession.
“This man killed twenty people in Europe
in the seventies and eighties. We don’t
know why he stopped.” Ben pulled two photos
out of his shirt pocket. “Here’s a grainy
photo, digitally enhanced—Interpol is about
ninety percent sure it’s him—and here’s
one that’s been aged to show how he’d
probably look today, unless, of course, he’s
taken pains to change his appearance, which
is possible.” He handed both photos to the
women and waited until each one had looked
at them.
“Does this man look familiar to any of you?”
Juliette said, “He looks like a contractor
my neighbor hired to gut her house.”
Margaret said, “Detective Raven, if this
Günter Grass hasn’t killed anyone for at
least fifteen years, doesn’t that mean he
made enough money to retire in style?”
“One could assume that, yes.”
“Then why would he kill my husband and poor
Danny O’Malley?”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Califano.”
Bitsy St. Pierre said, “Maybe the person
who hired him found out about him, blackmailed
him into doing this.”
Janette said, “That’s stupid, Bitsy. Look
what he did to Danny O’Malley—killed him
within twenty-four hours of a blackmail attempt.”
“Yes,” Margaret said. “It must be something
else. Maybe there’s a tie between this Günter
and the person who wanted Stewart dead.”
“It’s possible.” Ben had watched each
woman study the photos, watched for any sign
of recognition on their faces. He hadn’t
seen any.
“Callie,” Margaret said. “Does he look
at all familiar to you?”
“Actually,” Callie said, “I thought
he looked a bit like one of our investigative
reporters. No, no, just kidding.”
Ben said, “If Günter’s not an American,
chances are he came here maybe fifteen years
ago. He’s physically strong, and he seems
to like taking risks. Since he’s well into
his fifties, maybe even sixties, I doubt he’s
into any extreme sports, but he’s still
very strong and fit.”
“But if he is an American,” Anna Clifford
said, “he could have lived here all his
life and who would be the wiser for it?”
“That’s true,” Callie said. “And the
thing with Danny, that was a big risk, right
in the middle of the morning, anyone could
have seen him go into Danny’s apartment,
heard him.”
“But no one did, apparently,” said Juliette
Trevor.
Ben’s eyes swung to her. She said, “There
would have been some news about that, wouldn’t
there? A witness saying something, right?
But there’s been nothing reported at all.”
“You’re right. No one saw anything, and
you can believe that everyone within a several
block radius has been interviewed by experts.”
Ben put the photos in his pocket, and finished
off his last slice of pizza. He looked from
one woman to the next. All of them seemed
to blur together, forming one image in his
mind. They seemed united, and in that moment,
he had no doubt they would pull Margaret Califano
through this tragedy by sheer force of will.
He looked at his watch, saw that it was after
ten o’clock. He rose, nodded to all the
women. “Callie, I believe you and I are
going to be having dinner with Savich and
Sherlock tomorrow evening.”
She rose to stand beside him. “Yes. I understand
Savich is a great cook. Is that okay with
you, Mom?” In her question she included
all her mother’s friends as well.
“Certainly,” said Janette. “We’ll
all be here tomorrow night. We’re going
to have a potluck dinner; our families will
be here as well. We’re very pleased that
you’re working with the FBI and the local
police, Callie.” She patted her arm. “It
also helps keep your mind occupied, doesn’t
it?”
“Actually, it helps me focus on who killed
my stepfather and Danny. If it’s Günter,
I want him caught as badly as all of you do.
Ben, I’ll walk you out.”
He shrugged on his black leather jacket, pulled
on his black leather gloves. His hand was
on the doorknob when he turned back. “My
mom has only one close woman friend. This
is new to me. They’re quite a unit, aren’t
they?”
“A unit—yes, that’s a good word for
them. All of them are incredible women.”
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning at
ten o’clock. Savich wants us to see Fleurette.
He said four other agents have already spoken
with her, but he wants us to focus on her
lunch with Danny on Friday. He says his gut
is dancing, and tells him there’s got to
be something more there. He wants us to take
a crack at it.” Ben paused, grinned. “He
wants to know exactly where they sat in the
sandwich shop, what they ate, and the color
of Fleurette’s toenail polish, everything
about that lunch until they got back to the
Supreme Court.”
“Sure, we can give it a shot. Do you know,
it feels weird to be sleeping here. I never
did very much since they bought the house
after I went to college. I’d like to go
back to my apartment, but I can’t yet.”
“Be patient, Callie. Now, tomorrow evening,
dinner will be about six. Savich said he’ll
have Sean fed by then. I think his sister
and her fiancé will be there too. Savich
doesn’t want to talk shop, but I’ll just
bet you we will.” He reached out and lightly
cupped her cheek in his gloved hand. “You
okay?”
Callie didn’t think, leaned into his hand,
and stared up at him. “Sonya said you wanted
to sleep with me.”
He didn’t move his hand. “That’s what
you two were talking about in the kitchen?”
“For just a couple of minutes.”
“Sonya really said that?”
“Yes. She said you never looked below her
face. She couldn’t believe it.”
Ben grinned at that. “The woman’s built,
but I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
“She said I was blind, she said you were
interested.”
“Is this a roundabout way to ask me if I
am?”
“Truth is, I’ve never been very good at
the man-woman thing. Yeah, tell me, I’d
like to know.”
“The answer’s yes.” Slowly, he moved
his hand from her cheek. “I’ll see you
tomorrow.”
“It’ll be Friday. A week anniversary.”
“Yes.”
“Does Savich want to hypnotize Fleurette
like he did Annie Harper?”
“He hasn’t said. Let’s take a crack
at her first.”
She smiled up at him. “Isn’t it odd, Detective
Raven? Here you are with this bird name, and
you’re not such a bad guy after all. You
haven’t bitched about taking me along with
you in at least forty-eight hours.”
“That long? Hmm. Well, the thing is,”
he said simply, “you’ve got a good brain.”
Callie flushed. “I—thank you. Yes, thank
you, Ben.”
GEORGETOWN WASHINGTON, D.C. THURSDAY EVENING
“I’M COMING.”
A few minutes later, Savich walked into their
shared office, holding Sean over his shoulder,
lightly rubbing his boy’s back in light
soothing circles. “He had a nightmare. What’s
going on?”
“I’ve got a surprise for you.” She was
grinning even as she patted Sean’s cheek.
“He okay now?”
“I think so. What are you up to? What surprise?”
“I know you wanted to get to work on Samantha
Barrister, but you’ve been too busy to do
much, so I contacted both the Boston and the
Pittsburgh field offices on Tuesday. I massaged
a few egos, and when that didn’t work, I
called in a couple of favors, convinced them
this was important and required immediate
attention.”
“Why the Boston field office?”
“I’ll tell you in a few minutes. I’ve
had MAX working on everything too, but so
far he hasn’t found much since all this
happened in the early seventies.” Sherlock
waved a nice thick folder at him. “But no
matter, we’re in business. Sit down, Dillon,
just you listen, my man, to what I’ve found
out.”
Savich stared down at his wife. “Have I
told you lately that my Porsche isn’t in
the same ballpark with you? You’re amazing.”
She stood up and hugged him and Sean to her.
“I like hearing that. After you chew over
what I’ve got, I’ll bet you’ll even
agree to give me the Porsche if I ask you.”
“That could be pushing it, sweetheart, but
I’m open.” He sat down next to her and
settled Sean against his chest.
Sherlock sat next to him and opened the folder.
“Let’s begin with Blessed Creek, Pennsylvania,
1973, population of about three thousand seven
hundred and eighty-five souls. The Barristers
were the big cheeses, no one else remotely
close to them in influence and wealth. They
owned the only tourist facilities around Lake
Klister, the six gas stations in the area,
and Mr. Barrister was the mayor, had been
for twenty years. He also owned the local
bank and the two biggest grocery stores. It
was the senior Barrister who built the big
house on that knoll outside Blessed Creek.
“They had three sons. Townsend Barrister,
the eldest, married a woman named Samantha
Cooper, in 1964. It was a really big bash
that included nearly all the townspeople.
It was in the middle of the summer, a big
barbecue at the house. The Barristers brought
in all kinds of help. They really did it up
right.”
Savich, still rubbing Sean’s back, said,
“So they approved of their firstborn son’s
marriage?”
“It appears so, but I can’t be sure. I’ll
need to go deeper. The couple moved into the
big house with the two brothers and the parents.”
“Ouch.”
“Wasn’t so bad. As you know from firsthand
experience, that house is huge.”
“You got any feel for how she got along
with her brothers-in-law?”
Sherlock turned to see him rocking slightly
in his chair, Sean held tightly against him.
She smiled. Such a familiar sight, it made
her want to grin like a loon. She cleared
her throat. “I’m reading between the lines
in all this stuff—articles on the family,
biographical info on the brother, everything
the Pittsburgh office could pull together.
The second brother, Derek was his name, was
two years older than Samantha. He unexpectedly
left home three months after Townsend and
Samantha married. He joined the army, went
to Vietnam and was killed within three months.
The family was devastated.”
“Do you think he had the hots for his brother’s
wife?”
“There’s no hint of anything like that,
naturally, but it could explain his abrupt
and unexpected departure. He was twenty-two,
had just graduated from Penn State, was going
to start training in his father’s bank,
but he up and left and joined the army.”
“How about the youngest brother?”
“Jonathan. He was seventeen at the time,
a senior in high school when Samantha and
Townsend were married, and he remained living
there until he went to Dartmouth that fall.
He was a wild one, big into drugs—well,
but a lot of people were back then.”
Savich rose. “Give me a moment. Our boy
is out. Let me go put him down.”
When Savich came back, he leaned down and
kissed the back of her neck. “What happened
to Jonathan?”
“He lives in Boston now. He’s very well-off,
has three boys of his own, all married with
children, and he’s still married to his
first wife. He seems fine financially and
psychologically, as in no public fits or aberrant
behavior.”
“Okay, the parents. What happened to the
senior Barristers?”
“Now that’s really strange. Both of them
drowned in a boating accident on Lake Klister.
That was one year to the day after Townsend
married Samantha.”
“Was there any suspicion at all of foul
play?”
“None that I’ve been able to see. One
day they were there, hale and hearty, then
the next day they were gone—there was no
sudden storm or squall, nothing to explain
why both of them fell out of their boat, other
than talk of lots of booze. Evidently the
senior Barristers liked their martinis, and
they liked to be on the lake fishing while
they drank—so it could be that simple. The
belief is that one of them went overboard,
the other went in to make a save, and both
drowned.
“Townsend took over everything. Problem
is that Townsend wasn’t the businessman
his father was. But Samantha was. She began
taking over very quickly. Then she got pregnant
in 1966 and gave birth to Austin Douglas Barrister
on August 14, 1967. Within a year she was
running the whole show. It appears from the
records that Townsend Barrister became something
of a drunk, was arrested a couple of times
on DUIs—out of the local area, so it couldn’t
be kept out of the regional press, but still
he had enough influence to have the charges
quashed.
“It wasn’t in the local paper, naturally.
Townsend also took up gambling, went to Las
Vegas every two or three weeks.
“On August 14, 1973, on the very same day
that they’d been married, the same day the
senior Barristers drowned, the same day Austin
Douglas Barrister was born, Samantha died
as well. There was a huge party for Austin
on the grounds of the house, a big barbecue
for his sixth birthday. Samantha was running
around seeing to everything. Townsend was
manning the bar, probably drinking pretty
steadily, and everyone seemed to be having
a good old time, until they found Samantha.
Here’s a quote from the Blessed Creek Weekly
Journal: ‘Samantha Barrister’s body was
discovered on the floor of her second-floor
bathroom at three o’clock in the afternoon
by one of the guests, Mrs. Emmy Hodges, who
said she’d wanted to use the facilities
and thought that Samantha’s bathroom would
be free. “She was lying in blood,” said
Mrs. Hodges, “it was under her, seeping
all around her. It was horrible. I knew she
was dead, knew it right away.” ’
“Then there’s the quote from newly elected
Sheriff Doozer Harms, the sheriff we met in
Blessed Creek just last Friday. He said, ‘Mrs.
Barrister was stabbed through the heart by
a person unknown.’ ”
“You’ve got a gleam in your eye, Sherlock.
What else did you find out?”
“First thing I did was locate the widower,
Townsend Barrister, same as you did. He’s
in Boston. I managed to actually speak to
him. He wasn’t real happy to hear from the
FBI, but I kept after him until he opened
up. Turns out he’s remarried to a woman
who brought in lots of money that he hasn’t
managed to go through yet. He has a new family,
two daughters.
“Now, here’s why we couldn’t find out
anything about his son, Austin Douglas. When
I asked him where his son was, he hemmed and
hawed until I threatened to have agents on
his doorstep. He finally said that Austin
Douglas up and disappeared the day he graduated
high school. He’s never heard from him again,
doesn’t have a clue where he is.”
Savich was surprised. “I didn’t expect
this when I set MAX on Samantha’s murder.
Well, it doesn’t matter. We’ll locate
him, no problem. I’ll give MAX the task
of finding Austin.”
“I already did. It turns out to be quite
a problem, for MAX and for everyone. When
Austin Barrister up and left Boston at eighteen,
he must have latched on to a new identity,
because I can’t find him anywhere in the
U.S.
“Boston field office is working on tracking
him down, starting with interviewing the family
and all his former high school friends.”
“Sounds like he was escaping,” Savich
said. “I wonder why.”
CHAPTER
25
SUPREME COURT BUILDING
WASHINGTON, D.C.
FRIDAY MORNING
ELAINE LAFLEURETTE WASN’T in Justice Califano’s
chambers, only Eliza Vickers, who had a phone
tucked under one ear, her finger poised above
the button of another ringing line. She looked
up, nodded at them, and began speaking more
quickly into the phone. Ben and Callie moved
to the visitors’ chairs and sat down.
Two minutes later, Eliza laid the phone gently
back into its cradle, leaned back in her chair,
and closed her eyes. “Sorry for the delay.
Detective Raven, Callie, it’s good to see
both of you.” She ran her hand through her
straight hair. “It hasn’t stopped. We’re
having to review all of Justice Califano’s
unfinished work, decide which Justices and
clerks will take over drafting majority and
dissenting opinions on case votes already
taken, and so much more—concurrences, join
memos, bench memos, certs., but that’s not
your concern.
“I’ve been offered help, but somehow,
I need to do it myself. I also need to speak
to Mrs. Califano about all of Stewart’s
things.” Her voice trembled a bit, but almost
immediately she had herself in control again.
She even smiled at them. “I haven’t been
able to reach her. Do you know where she is,
Callie?”
“She went to the High Style Boutique at
Tyson’s Corner,” Callie said. “Don’t
you have her cell phone?”
“Yes, but I didn’t want to intrude like
that, it’s more personal.” Eliza slowly
rose and stretched. “I’ve been here since
six o’clock this morning, trying to get
all the stuff cleaned up. Now, would you like
some coffee? I’ve made some in Stewart’s
office.”
“No, thank you. Actually, we were looking
for Fleurette. Where is she? Why isn’t she
here helping you?”
“What time is it?”
Callie said, “It’s nearly eleven.”
“Her uncle was killed in Vietnam on this
date in 1975. She visits the Wall every year
at this time. She won’t be back until noon.”
Ben nodded, paused a moment, studying her
face. “Are you okay? Is there anything we
can do, Eliza?”
For a moment Ben thought she hesitated, but
then the phone rang, she shrugged, and said
over her shoulder, “No, everything is under
control. Well, not really, but it will be.
The funeral, it was very nice, Callie. The
President was eloquent. Your mother and her
friends all did very well.”
“Yes, the President was eloquent, but then
my stepfather was such a good man. It wouldn’t
be difficult for anyone to say wonderful things
about him.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” Eliza said, then
again, looked as if she might say something
more—but then she reached for the phone,
gave them a small wave, and turned away. Callie
heard her say, “Justice Califano’s chambers.
Eliza Vickers.”
Ben said, “We’re only about ten minutes
from the Vietnam Memorial. You ever been there?”
“Yes. It’s always a two-handkerchief occasion,
no matter how many times I go there. I think
the Wall is the most moving memorial in all
of Washington.”
“Yes, I agree with you. Nearly everyone
lost someone in Vietnam. One of my father’s
best friends managed to ship home with two
shattered legs that healed in time, but his
psychological wounds were more difficult.
My father came here right after the Wall was
finished. He saw his friend in a wheelchair
in front of the Wall, looking for other friends
who’d been lost over there. My father told
me they spoke for some time, but he never
saw him after that.”
It took them eight minutes to get to Constitution
Gardens, a beautiful open space that pointed
east to the Washington Monument and west to
the Lincoln Memorial. Callie looked around
the vast empty space as they pulled into a
parking place on the street. “Well, it is
January, cold, and the only tourists likely
to be here have to be from North Dakota.”
They walked down the path toward the Wall.
They saw Fleurette immediately, standing at
the middle of the Wall, completely still except
for a single finger she was tracing over a
name.
Ben cleared his throat as they came down the
walk so as not to startle her. There were
only three other people scattered along the
Wall, three older men who looked cold and
determined. Even from ten feet, Ben could
see a sheen of tears in their eyes and hear
their low voices. He knew they were talking
about young men who hadn’t come home, but
who’d left their names on a beautiful granite
wall.
“Fleurette? It’s Detective Raven and Callie
Markham.”
She seemed completely unaware of him for a
moment. Then she slowly turned and straightened.
“Is something wrong? What’s happened now?”
“Nothing. We wanted to speak to you.”
He nodded to the Wall. Even though he knew,
he asked, “Who is here for you?”
“My uncle, Bobby LaFleurette, my dad’s
younger brother. He’d be in his fifties
now, not young anymore.” She turned back,
traced her fingers over his name. “He died
in 1975, just months before the troop withdrawal.
He was only twenty-one years old. I’m twenty-six.
Isn’t that the strangest thing? He was so
very young, and in many ways he’ll be young
forever.”
Her finger traced again over the name, Robert
R. LaFleurette. “His name comes right before
Robert Petit and right after Douglas Mahoney.
I’ve always wondered how they knew exactly
who died in what order—that’s how they’re
all listed, you know, in order of their death.”
Callie said, “Why do you come here, Fleurette?”
“Because Bobby was so young, because my
father never stopped talking about him, how
fun and wild he was, how he would have been
such a hotshot in the business world, if only
he’d survived the war. My father brought
me here when the Wall first opened, back in
1984. I was six years old, and I remember
it so very clearly.”
Callie said, “Fleurette, remember when we
talked on Sunday? You said that Danny O’Malley
had looked smug last Friday morning.”
“Yes, I remember that.”
“Smug how, exactly?”
“Like he knew something that neither I nor
Eliza knew, and it tickled him. He looked—pleased
with himself. I remember he was nodding, like
he was having this sort of internal conversation
with himself, and he liked what he was hearing.”
Ben said, “Think back, Fleurette. Do you
remember if Danny looked at Justice Califano
when he left his chambers to go to the meeting?”
She closed her eyes a moment, then they popped
open. “Yes, Danny did do that. Yes, he did
look at Justice Califano. It was a bit of
a smirk, really. It all happened so fast it
really didn’t settle in when it happened.
But when I close my eyes now, I can see Danny
sitting there, tapping his pen against his
desk pad, and a smirk passing over his face.”
“Did Justice Califano notice? Did he look
over at Danny?”
“I don’t—”
“Close your eyes again, Fleurette. Think
back.”
Fleurette closed her eyes. She swayed a moment,
leaned against the Wall for support. “Justice
Califano’s back was to me when he passed
by Danny’s desk, but he glanced at me before
he left—and he looked suddenly tired.”
“Tired?”
“Yes, he looked tired, like something was
too much for him. There was something on his
mind, something he knew he had to deal with,
but he looked tired. Maybe I’m reading too
much into it now. You want me to see something
and so I’m trying too hard to cooperate
with you.”
“But you don’t think so?” Ben asked.
Slowly, she shook her head. She looked up
at the gray sky. “It’s going to rain soon.
I wonder if it will turn to snow again. I
hope not. Everything becomes such a mess.”
Callie said, “Fleurette, why are you scared?”
“Scared? Me? I’m not scared.”
“Yes,” Callie said slowly, “you are.
On Sunday, I could see it very plainly. You
are scared. Why?”
Fleurette looked off toward the Lincoln Memorial,
then back again at Callie. “Look, two people
close to me have been murdered. If you saw
any fear in me, it’s because of that.”
“Nothing else?”
“No, nothing else. I’d sure tell you if
there were.”
Ben said, “Bobby Fisher—one of Justice
Alto-Thorpe’s law clerks—”
“Yeah, I know the little creep.”
“He said you and Danny went out to lunch
on Friday. You didn’t mention that to us.”
“That’s because we only walked to the
corner together. Danny was in a mood, preoccupied,
snarly—I suppose it makes sense now—but
then I thought, Danny, you’re such a pain
sometimes. I’d heard about a shoe sale at
Maximillan’s, not two blocks away. I dumped
him and went shoe shopping.”
“Bobby said you two had your heads together,
a real chummy conversation,” Ben said.
“No, that’s Bobby being a creep again.
He probably wanted you to focus your attention
on someone else. He disliked Justice Califano,
probably because he and Alto-Thorpe weren’t
on good terms.”
“Bobby Fisher and Eliza—what did you think
about that? You knew he wanted her to go out
with him?”
Fleurette shrugged. “Oh that. Fact is, Eliza
couldn’t have cared less. Bobby didn’t
really come into her line of focus, you know
what I mean? She put up with him. What she
really wanted to do was drop-kick him out
of the building.”
“Do you think Eliza really disliked Bobby
that much? Do you think he hated her because
she kept turning him down?”
“Who knows? When he finally ran out of there
on Friday, she looked at me, rolled her eyes,
and said, ‘Well, maybe that’s the last
time I’ll have to tell him to take a hike.’ ”
“So she never really took him all that seriously.”
“No,” Fleurette said. “The only person
she took seriously was Justice Califano.”
“So what did Danny say to you before you
told him you were going shoe shopping?”
“Nothing really, just something like ‘Women
and shoes, that’s all you think about.’
Then he said he was going to see a foreign
film with Annie that night, that he had something
going—listen, Danny was always on the make.
Usually whatever he said didn’t mean anything.”
“Except this time it did, didn’t it?”
Ben said.
Before Ben and Callie left her by the Vietnam
Wall, next to her uncle’s name, Ben remembered
to ask Fleurette what color her toenail polish
was last Friday. She looked startled, then
laughed. “It’s called ‘I’m Not Really
a Waitress Red.’ ”
Callie said to Ben as they drove away, “I
wonder if her father makes the pilgrimage
here every year like Fleurette does.”
“Somehow I don’t think so. After all,
he wasn’t six years old when he first came
here.”
“She’s scared, even though she denies
it.”
“Yes, I think you’re right.”
CHAPTER
26
GEORGETOWN WASHINGTON, D.C.
FRIDAY EVENING
“SEAN ATE MOREspaghetti than you, Callie,”
Savich said, eyeing her plate. “You need
more Parmesan? Garlic bread? How about more
of Sherlock’s Caesar salad? It’s the best.
I taught her how to make it myself.”
“No, I’m fine, truly. It’s so nice to
go off our pizza diet. It’s been a very
long week.”
“Your mom is having her potluck tonight
with her friends?”
Callie nodded to Sherlock, who was cutting
into a beautiful apple pie.
Simon Russo, Lily’s art broker fiancé from
New York, was sitting back in his chair, hands
over his lean stomach. He was looking at Savich’s
sister, and there was such sweetness in his
look that Callie gulped. She had listened
to them talk about No Wrinkles Remus, Lily’s
political cartoon series that The Washington
Post had picked up, about Sarah Elliott’s
paintings, one of which hung over the fireplace
in the living room, but of course, the conversation
always returned to Justice Califano and Danny
O’Malley.
Savich served the warm apple pie with a big
scoop of French vanilla ice cream on top.
“Oh goodness,” Callie said. “This is
wonderful. Just smell that. Were you a chef
in a former life, Dillon?”
“He was probably a sculptor and a chef,”
Sherlock said. “He’s still both in this
lifetime. When we go back into the living
room I’ll show you some of his work—”
Savich’s cell phone rang. He answered, jumped
to his feet. “Eliza? What is it, what’s
wrong?”
He listened, everyone else at the table focused
on him.
Suddenly he yelled into the phone, “No!
Eliza, fight him!”
He was already running for the front door.
“He’s there, attacking her, right now!
Lily, Simon, stay here with Sean. Ben, get
your siren out, we’re going to McLean. That
bastard is there! Hurry!” He clamped the
phone back to his ear. “Eliza? Please, say
something. Fight! You can do it, fight!”
Ben slammed the siren down on top of the Crown
Vic in a second, already on his radio as he
pulled out of the driveway, calling to control
to report a murder in progress at Number 102,
The Oaks condo complex in McLean.
In the Porsche, Sherlock was on her cell to
Jimmy Maitland. “He’s got Eliza Vickers
right now. Get the SWAT team out there, sir,
a helicopter, the local police. We can’t
let him get away. Oh God, Dillon heard him
attacking her!”
Savich was still holding his own cell phone
to his ear as the Porsche hit eighty miles
an hour, heading for the highway to McLean.
There were no voices now, no noise of any
kind, just silence.
Eighteen minutes later, they barreled into
the driveway, barely missing a squad car that
was parked halfway on the drive, halfway on
the front yard. There were a good dozen blue-and-whites
all over the block, cops everywhere. The front
door of Eliza Vickers’s condo was open,
uniformed men and women streaming in and out.
Savich was at the door in an instant, his
I.D. out. “Agent Savich. Where is she?”
A woman stepped forward. “I’m Detective
Orinda Chamber, McLean PD, Agent Savich. We
just got here. There was an initial charge
into the place, so the scene’s a mess. I’ve
tried to keep everyone out after I saw she
was dead. She’s in the kitchen. I hear she
was on the phone to you and you heard him
attacking her?”
Savich nodded. “Please get all your people
combing the woods, look for his car. Agents
will be here very soon to help you, along
with a helicopter and the Washington SWAT
team. He’s a big guy, probably in his fifties,
white. He has to have had some sort of transportation,
so let’s get everyone on it.” He paused
a moment. “Detective Chamber, this is the
man who murdered Justice Califano.”
Orinda Chamber reeled back, then steadied
and nodded. “Yes, sir. I’m on it.”
Sherlock had run past him, pushed past the
three men who were standing in the kitchen
looking down at Eliza Vickers. She was lying
on her side, her long straight hair tangled
over her face, but Sherlock saw her eyes through
the veil of hair, still bulging wide. Terror
and surprise no longer filled them. They were
empty now, empty even of the memory of life.
Sherlock fell to her knees beside her, gently
pulled her hair away from her face. “Eliza,
I’m sorry. Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”
“Hey, lady, who the hell are you? What is—”
Savich shoved his I.D. in the officer’s
face. “She’s FBI. Back off. Go outside
and help find this bastard.”
“Yes, sir,” one of the other officers
said, and pulled the officer away.
Sherlock was leaning over Eliza, her hands
shaking her shoulders, trying to awaken her,
trying to make her empty eyes fill with life
again. Tears streamed down her face. “Oh
no, Eliza. I’m sorry, I’m so very sorry.”
Sherlock pressed her face against Eliza’s
hair, sobbing.
Savich came down on his haunches beside his
wife. He rubbed her shoulders, didn’t say
anything, just gave her what comfort he could.
He felt like crying himself. This bastard,
this Günter freak, had killed her, knowing
she was on the phone to him. Savich would
never forget as long as he lived what the
man said in the background after the phone
had crashed to the kitchen floor: “Well,
she’s dead now, isn’t she? You hear me,
Agent Savich? This will be the only time.
You’ve got nada, rien, nichts.” And he
laughed. Savich had heard him still laughing
as he’d picked the phone up off the kitchen
floor and thrown it across the room, and walked
out of there, the sound of his footsteps clear
for Savich to hear. Savich had continued to
listen, for the sound of a door opening, a
window, anything. But there was only silence.
And he’d known Eliza Vickers was dead and
that he’d been helpless to do anything about
it.
Günter had sounded as American as the apple
pie they’d baked for dinner. American. No
regional accent. Savich was aware of Ben and
Callie standing in the kitchen doorway, keeping
the other officers out.
Of course Günter was long gone. Savich knew
in his gut they wouldn’t find him, not this
time. Too much cover in all the maples and
oaks behind the condo complex, too many places
to hide a car, a motorcycle, or even to run
a mile to someplace near the highway.
He closed his eyes against the pain of Eliza’s
death, realizing he could hardly bear it either.
He’d never seen Sherlock like this. She
looked beaten down, crushed. Eliza Vickers,
so smart, so very real, and he’d heard her
die on his damned cell phone. He knew he would
live with that forever. He lowered his head,
holding both his sobbing wife and Eliza Vickers,
who wasn’t there anymore to care.
Suddenly, Savich reared up and yelled, “Ben,
Callie, we’ve got to get over to Fleurette’s
house. Call her, tell her to hide. Call 911,
have as many squad cars there as fast as possible
to canvas the area, stop everyone who’s
alone in a car. Take her to my house. Hurry!”
Ben didn’t hesitate. Both he and Callie
were out the door. Ben tossed Callie his address
book as he jumped into the car. “Fleurette’s
number, quick!”
She read it out, and he dialed. The phone
rang once, twice, three times. Finally, Ben
heard her voice. “Hello?”
“Fleurette?”
“Yes, who’s this? It’s after midnight,
who—”
“This is Detective Ben Raven. No, be quiet
and listen to me. Is your house alarm set?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a gun?”
A slight pause, then, “Yes, a twenty-two
revolver.”
“Loaded?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Get the gun and come back to the
phone.”
After a short pause, she said, “Okay, I’ve
got it.”
“Now keep it close until Callie Markham
and I get there. Find a place to hide where
no one can surprise you, and stay there. If
a man gets into your house, I want you to
shoot to kill, you got me? Don’t hesitate,
shoot to kill. You’ll be hearing sirens
any minute. Keep inside. We’re on our way.
But don’t let anyone in until you’re sure
it’s me. Hurry!”
“But—but what’s going on here, Detective
Raven?”
“We’ll tell you when we get there. Open
your front door only to me, you got that?
And don’t shoot me. I’m going to be taking
you over to Agent Savich’s house in Georgetown.
Do you understand?”
“No, and this is very frightening.”
“It’s good to be scared. Keep that gun
close, and listen for any sound inside your
house. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”
Ben punched off his cell phone, dialed 911,
told the dispatcher he’d instructed the
potential victim to keep her gun handy. The
officers converging on the brownstone were
not to go roaring in or she’d shoot them.
He punched off his cell phone again. “I
sure hope they pay attention. I don’t want
her to kill anyone.”
He slammed on the siren, and the Crown Vic
roared onto the Beltway on-ramp. The roads
were nearly empty, thank God. They were at
Fleurette’s brownstone in under twenty minutes.
Several police cars had already arrived, their
lights flashing, officers milling around the
brownstone. Thank God none of them had gone
up to the front door. “Stay in the car,
Callie. I’ll get Fleurette.”
Ben ran up the walk, banged on the front door,
calling out as he struck it with his fist.
“Fleurette, it’s me, Detective Ben Raven.
You can let me in. Don’t shoot me.”
Fleurette opened the door immediately and
stepped back. She was holding a small .22
at her side. “So now will you tell me what’s
going on here, Detective?”
“Get inside, Fleurette.” He turned to
see Callie running up the walk, and waved
her in. “Hurry.”
Fleurette grabbed his arm. “All these cop
cars. Detective Raven, what’s happened?”
He searched her face as he said, “Eliza
Vickers was just murdered.”
Her face went utterly white. Her eyes went
blank. Then she whimpered, deep in her throat,
and sank to her knees on the floor.
Ben closed the door behind Callie and flipped
off the light switch. It was completely dark
inside the brownstone, not even a shadow for
Günter to shoot at. He eased up the window
a crack and yelled out, “We’re okay in
here. Spread out and check the neighborhood,
we’ll be leaving here soon.”
“That you, Ben?”
“Yeah.”
“Keep down. There’s no sign of anyone
here, but we’re on it.” He recognized
Sergeant Teddy Russell’s voice.
Ben held his gun at his side. “Fleurette,
push your twenty-two over to me.”
He heard the small gun slide across the marble
tile. It hit his boot. He put it in his belt
holster.
“Detective—”
“No, no, stay quiet for a while longer.”
He pulled out his cell and called Captain
Halloway, who answered like he’d been awake
for hours. Ben quickly told him what was happening.
“Just keep the women safe, Ben. I’ll handle
everything else. Do you know the lead officer
at Ms. LaFleurette’s house?”
“It’s Sergeant Teddy Russell.”
“He’s a good man. He’ll get things done.
Hang tight, Ben, hang tight and protect the
women. We’ll get you out of there soon enough.”
Ben punched off his cell, then leaned back
against the wall, closed his eyes a moment
and let the events of the evening race through
his brain. Incredible, all of it. At least
Fleurette was alive. He said, “Let’s stay
down, and stay quiet. We don’t know if the
guy’s out there yet. He’s good at losing
himself in the shadows.”
Ben heard Callie moving toward Fleurette.
“Stay down,” he said. He opened his cell
to call Savich while they waited. “We made
it, Savich. Yes, I told her about Eliza. She’s
holding up. We’ll be at your house as soon
as I’m certain it’s safe to take Fleurette
outside.” He heard Savich speaking to someone
in the background, Sherlock, probably. “Okay,
I hear the cops coming up the stairs. I’ll
see you at your house.” Ben slowly rose.
He went to the front door, stood to the side,
and identified himself as he opened it. “Hey,
Teddy, good to see you. Is it clear?”
“Not yet, Ben. Stay inside a few minutes
longer until the rest of my men check in.”
Ben nodded. “I spoke to Captain Halloway.
He said he told you he was sending more squad
cars.”
“Yes, we’re all spread out now, canvassing
everything within a mile of the house, but
it’s tough, folks who live in this area
like to party on Friday night.”
“The guy we’re looking for is American,
probably in his fifties, white.”
Sergeant Teddy Russell, a twenty-four-year
veteran, put his beefy hand on the butt of
the Smith & Wesson 1911 holstered at his belt,
and looked from Ben to the two women. “Boy,
you guys in Metro sure like to live on the
edge.”
CHAPTER
27
GEORGETOWN
WASHINGTON, D.C.
EARLY SATURDAY MORNING
FLEURETTE SAT at the kitchen table, a hot
mug of coffee held between her hands, her
head down, her blond hair straggling out of
its ponytail. She was wearing an oversized
cable knit navy sweater, blue jeans, and boots.
An orange duffel bag and oversized purse lay
at her feet.
“Thank you, Agent Savich,” she said at
last, still not looking up. “You probably
saved my life.”
“I’m just happy that Ben got there in
time. You’ll be staying with my wife and
me for a while, all right?”
Fleurette shuddered. “Thank you.” She
raised her head and looked from him to Sherlock.
“Do you often have people like me staying
with you?”
“No,” Sherlock said, pouring more hot
coffee into her mug, “not often. Here, drink
this down, Fleurette, you need it.”
Callie was leaning into Ben. She looked dazed
and absolutely exhausted. She said, “I’ve
got to call Mom, tell her what’s happened.”
Savich said, “No, not yet, Callie. She doesn’t
need to know right now. Let her rest, let
her have a bit more recovery time before we
hit her with Eliza’s murder. We’ll go
over tomorrow.” He watched Sherlock walk
quietly out of the kitchen. He nodded to Ben,
said to Fleurette, “Keep drinking that hot
coffee.”
He found his wife sitting on the bottom step
of the staircase, her face in her hands. He
sat beside her and pulled her into his arms.
In the kitchen, Lily and Simon were cutting
slices of apple pie and heating them in the
microwave. Lily said, “Fleurette, you need
sugar, it will help calm you.”
“I really don’t want—”
“I know it’s not chocolate,” Simon Russo
said, “but it’s a good excuse to eat the
best apple pie in the universe and not feel
guilty about the calories.”
Fleurette actually smiled. It fell off her
face quickly enough, but it was a start. There
was enough left for all of them to have a
small slice. For a while, there was only the
sound of chewing in the kitchen.
“DILLON?” Sherlock’s voice was muffled
against his shoulder. “I’m sorry I’m
falling apart like this. It’s just that—”
“If you weren’t falling apart, then I
would be,” he said, and kissed her hair.
“It’s tough, sweetheart, really tough.
I’m as sorry as you are. Eliza was special.”
“Yes. Dillon, I liked her so very much and
I’d only met her. Just twice and the funeral.”
“But all three times were emotional, the
kinds of meetings that draw people together.
I really liked her, too, I really did.”
He drew a deep breath, kissed her again. “Why
did he feel he had to kill her?”
“This time, we don’t even know. Maybe
she knew something after all, and he was afraid
she was going to break. And she did break,
she called you. Oh God, Mr. Maitland brought
in the agents too soon.”
“It was after Justice Califano’s funeral,
everyone believed it was over.”
Ben stood alone in the archway of the living
room. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry
to bother you, but there’s something I forgot
to tell you. When Callie and I went to see
Fleurette at the Supreme Court Building this
morning, only Eliza was there. She was cleaning
out Justice Califano’s stuff, and constantly
answering the phone, really harried. We spoke
for just a few moments. Before we left, I
asked her if there was anything I could do.
She hesitated, I’m sure of it. She looked
sort of undecided, like there was something
on her mind, but then the phone rang again
and she waved us out. Damn, Savich, I didn’t
think anything about it.”
“So maybe she did know something,” Sherlock
said. “But what? And he was there, in the
condo, with her. Do you think he let her pick
up the phone, dial you, speak to you?”
Savich said, “I wouldn’t be surprised.
Maybe he needed to take a risk again, and
so when he heard her on the phone to me, that
was it, this time. And then he garroted her,
just like Justice Califano and Danny O’Malley.”
Sherlock said against Dillon’s neck, “And
Fleurette was helpless, just like Eliza.”
“Yes,” Ben said. “She did have a gun,
a twenty-two revolver, but he wouldn’t have
given her the chance to get to it.”
Sherlock said, “Eliza was strong, probably
stronger than Danny O’Malley. She must have
fought him.”
Both Ben and Savich were silent for a moment.
Ben felt Callie come up behind him. He hadn’t
heard her, but somehow he knew she was there.
She leaned against him, but said nothing.
Savich said, “Yes, I’ll bet she did fight
him, fought him as hard as she could. They
took her to Quantico. Dr. Conrad went out
there to do the autopsy. Since we were there
so quickly, I doubt Günter took the time
to remove all evidence of himself. Maybe we’ll
be lucky and she managed to scratch him. Something,
all we need is something.”
They sat together, listening to the low buzz
of conversation coming from the kitchen. Savich
looked up to see that Ben and Callie had gone.
Suddenly, they heard a cry from Sean.
As one, they looked up. “Life goes on,”
Savich said as he slowly rose, bringing Sherlock
with him. Sherlock straightened, scrubbed
her hands over her face, and went up with
him to see what had awakened Sean.
FBI HEADQUARTERS
SATURDAY MORNING
DR. CONRAD TACKED up a blow-up photo of Eliza
Vickers on the corkboard behind him. “Eliza
Vickers fought hard. She was a big woman,
one hundred fifty pounds, strong and very
fit.” He pointed to her hands. “She has
defensive cuts, and she injured him at least
once, scored some of his skin off. We can’t
be certain yet, but the skin was probably
from his neck or face. It was under her nails
along with some of his blood, and there had
been no attempt to clean it off. You said
he was laughing when he left, Agent Savich,
but he had to be hurting, too, and bleeding.
He had to know he was leaving us evidence.”
Savich said, “He was laughing because he
knew I heard him killing her. He did that
on purpose.”
Dr. Conrad continued. “We have easily enough
for DNA analysis, and as soon as that is complete,
we will try to find a match, not just through
domestic databases, but through Interpol.”
Agent Frank Halley said, “Okay, he had to
get the hell out of Dodge, so he didn’t
have time to clean up after himself. The profilers
might be right, though, the guy is so damned
arrogant, he might not have cared, just blew
us off.”
“That’s possible,” Jimmy Maitland said.
“Anyone who uses Günter Grass as an alias
is about as egotistical as any killer I’ve
ever seen.”
Savich heard Sherlock’s cell phone play
the beginning bars of Bolero, and looked up.
He watched her face as she listened, then
said, her voice urgent, “We’ll be there
as soon as we can. Don’t force his hand.
Don’t hurt him.” He was stepping toward
her as she jumped to her feet. “Dillon,
we’ve got to go, now. It’s Samantha’s
boy, they’ve found him, and there’s trouble.”
Jimmy Maitland didn’t hesitate. “Samantha’s
son? Tell me later. Go, but you call me when
you get back, okay?”
Savich nodded, even as he was running for
the conference room door. “Ben, Callie,
you’re with us.”
As they raced from the elevator toward their
cars in the garage, Sherlock said, “I had
the Boston field office put out an alert on
the name Austin Douglas Barrister. If it turned
up, I was to be called immediately. That was
Chief Howard Gerber of the Petersboro, Maryland
Police Department. He said they have a hostage
situation, a man inside a house with his wife
and two children. The Hostage Rescue Team
was trying to talk him out when the guy yelled
out that his name wasn’t Martin Thornton,
it was Austin Douglas Barrister. Chief Gerber
realized he’d just read that name, looked
it up, and called me. I told him we’d be
there as soon as we could.”
“Don’t lose us,” Savich shouted to Ben
and gunned the Porsche out of the garage.
Savich headed the Porsche north on the Beltway.
Sherlock said to him as well as to Ben on
her cell phone, “The siren is great, Ben.
We want to get there as fast as possible.
Until we got this break, we couldn’t locate
Austin Barrister. It was like he disappeared
off the face of the earth. Neither the Boston
field office nor MAX could track him down.
“Okay, now, it looks like Petersboro is
about ten miles due west of Alston, Maryland,
off 270. We’re about forty-five minutes
away, particularly with you, Ben, sitting
on the siren. We’ll probably get there with
a four-car escort.”
Ben said, “I’m with you. Tell Savich we’re
right behind him, at least I’m trying. That
Porsche is something.” Ben laughed as he
shut down his cell.
Savich said to his wife, “You didn’t tell
me you’d put a tag in the system.”
“Yep, I didn’t really think it would result
in anything, but who knew?”
Savich shook his head, amazed as always with
her ingenuity, signaled, and passed a Beemer
at one hundred miles per hour. “So he’s
been using the name Martin Thornton since
he ran away from Boston.”
“Yes. The Hostage Rescue Team was probably
calling his name over and over, you know how
they do—Martin, do you hear us, Martin?—and
he must have cracked and shouted out his real
name.”
“Thank God for that.”
“Thank God for a police chief who remembered
the alert and acted quickly on it.”
Inside the Crown Vic, Callie watched the traffic
whiz by them, cars pulling over quickly as
they neared, looking almost as if they were
standing still. When they reached a clear
stretch, all she could see of the Porsche
was a flash of red.
“More pedal to the metal,” Ben said, and
soon the Porsche came back into sight.
“This is the strangest day of my life.”
“You really think this is a strange day?”
“Don’t arch that supercilious eyebrow
at me, Ben Raven. First I’m allowed in a
meeting on the sacred fifth floor of the FBI
building, and the next thing I know, we’re
chasing Savich’s Porsche to Maryland to
find this guy who’s the son of a woman who
was murdered thirty years ago.”
“That’s why I went into law enforcement,”
Ben said, “the excitement. It’s nonstop.”
“Yeah, right, so you say. The cops I’ve
talked to usually whine about how boring it
is—on the phone and the computer all day.”
They rounded a bend and the Porsche accelerated
forward out of a curve. “My oh my,” Ben
said. “Be still my heart. That car can go,
just look at it.”
Callie laughed at him. “So get yourself
one—to go with your truck.”
“Would you prefer I picked you up in a Porsche
or a truck?”
“Now we’re going on a date? You’re asking
me my car preference?”
He shrugged. “It might be fun in the truck.
You and my dog could hang out the window,
tongues lolling in the wind. Well, at least
it could be fun in the summer. Now, about
a Porsche—I’d probably get so many speeding
tickets I’d get drummed off the force.”
She laughed again, shook her head, and laughed
some more. It felt great.
“Now, seriously, the thing about Porsches
is that the minute your foot connects to the
accelerator, it gains weight and pushes down
harder and harder. Just look at Savich. You
think he’s got a clue how fast he’s going?”
“Yes, I think he knows exactly how fast
he’s going.”
“Well, maybe you’re right, in this situation.
What do you think, one hundred and ten miles
an hour?”
She shook her head, tapped her fingers to
her chin. “No, more like one twenty.”
She paused, then turned to him. “Okay, I
understand now. You’ve been distracting
me. And you’ve done it very well. You’ve
made me laugh. Thank you. Now, for our first
date, I want to ride in the truck. I want
to drive out in the wilds of Virginia to some
country barbecue place where they don’t
have any tablecloths, just long wooden tables,
and tubs filled with ice and beer. Hey, you’re
losing sight of him.”
The Crown Vic leapt forward. One hundred miles
an hour. Ben heard sirens behind him. Good,
their escort was with them. He had to get
closer to Savich, or the cops would go nuts
at the sight of that speeding Porsche. He
got on his radio, called dispatch. “This
is Detective Ben Raven, on Highway 270. We’re
just past Rockville, Maryland. We’re heading
up to Alston, then ten miles west to Petersboro.
FBI Agent Dillon Savich is in front of me,
driving a red Porsche 911. My siren’s on
and I’ve got two cop cars behind me. Alert
the highway patrol about our position and
the Porsche. This is an emergency.” He listened,
said yes a couple of times, and punched off.
“Okay, if we’re lucky everything should
be all right. Let’s hear it for a show of
competence.”
“An amazing thing, competence. I’m always
pleasantly surprised when I trip over it.”
Ben caught sight of the Porsche. “He just
passed a patrol car coming off an exit onto
the freeway. I’m going to call dispatch
again, just to be sure.” Ben memorized the
patrol car number and radioed dispatch again.
They watched the patrol car pull back a bit.
“Good.”
Callie said suddenly, “Why would he go after
Fleurette?”
So much for distracting her, Ben thought,
and said, “I’ve been wondering the same
thing. Maybe she’s another loose end. Like
Eliza.”
“I don’t think Eliza was just a loose
end. Don’t forget, she was calling Savich,
to tell him something, maybe something she
knew but hadn’t said anything about before.
And why not? Because she was afraid? Or because
she was a part of something that led to my
stepfather’s murder?”
“Whoa—that’s a giant leap. But you’re
a reporter, you’re paid to make wild guesses,
right?”
“Do you really think it’s such a wild
guess?”
“Maybe. Who knows? Hey, I’m trying to
keep from killing us here. I’m now going
one hundred and ten miles an hour. Keep an
eye out for more patrol cars. Or any pedestrians
who might be running across the highway.”
He laid a gloved hand on her leg as she laughed
again. “You really want a down-home, hoe-down
kind of country place where you get barbecue
sauce all over your face and Billy Bob tries
to make a pass at you?”
She laughed again. “That’s it exactly.
And just think, I’ll be with such a guy’s
guy—truck, beer, testosterone, nice butt.
What more could a girl ask? Look, Alton’s
coming up. I’ll keep an eye out for Petersboro.”
“Just watch the Porsche. Sherlock probably
has MAX on her lap and he’s providing them
directions.”
“Nah, she’s a real navigator. I’ll bet
she’s using a plain old map.”
Ben slowed to match the Porsche. The squad
cars behind him kept thirty feet back.
Savich led them directly into a subdivision
of ranch-style homes not far from the highway.
A half-dozen squad cars were angled around
one of them, a dozen or more police huddled
behind them, using the cars for shields.
CHAPTER
28
PETERSBORO, MARYLAND
NEIGHBORS WERE GATHERED, talking and pointing,
looking both scared and excited, held behind
a police line half a block away from the house.
Savich pulled the Porsche behind a squad car
three houses away from where Austin Douglas
Barrister lived. Ben and the two highway patrol
cars pulled in behind him.
He and Sherlock saw a man in a heavy jacket
holding a bullhorn in his hand and ran toward
him. Before they could get to him, an officer
yelled, “Hey, buddy, get the hell back!”
Savich turned, pulled out I.D., and held it
in the officer’s face. “Where’s Chief
Gerber?”
Officer Ridley looked at the big guy in the
black leather jacket who’d just climbed
out of a sexy red Porsche that would cost
him three years’ salary and said, “So
who gives a damn if you’re FBI? Chief Gerber
is busy. This is a local matter, Agent, we’ve
got it covered.”
“Let’s try again, Officer. Where is Chief
Gerber?”
Ridley took another step toward him, leaned
right in his face now. “And why is that
any of your freaking business?”
Savich grabbed Ridley by the collar and hoisted
him off his feet. “I asked you where Chief
Gerber is, Officer.”
“Hey! What’s going on here? Hey, you,
let that officer down! Back away!”
The second officer reached for his gun. Sherlock
grabbed his arm and stuck her I.D. in his
face. “Don’t you even think about drawing
a gun on a federal officer. Back off, all
of you.”
“But—”
Sherlock said, “We’re here because the
man inside that house—his mother called
me, frantic for help. The FBI has been looking
for him. Now, where is Chief Gerber?”
“Right here, Agent Sherlock.” A big beefy
cop around fifty, with a baby face and a paunch
starting to overflow his wide leather belt,
approached them. “Calm down, guys. I was
expecting these people. Lew, back off. Both
of you get back to work.”
Savich slowly let Officer Ridley down, but
didn’t turn his back on him. Testosterone
filled the air, and adrenaline was pumping
because of the uncertainty of what was going
on inside that house, an explosive combination.
Sherlock stuck out her hand. “I’m Special
Agent Sherlock, FBI. This is Special Agent
Savich. You’re Chief Howard Gerber?”
“That I am.” He shook their hands. “You
got here very quickly.”
Sherlock said, “We’ve been looking for
the man who lives in that house for several
days. Thank you, Chief, for calling me so
quickly. This is a personal matter for us,
as well as professional. We think we can help.”
Officer Ridley was still breathing hard, but
Savich realized he now had himself under control.
At least enough control so he wouldn’t pull
his gun and shoot him. Savich said, never
raising his voice, never sounding anything
but calm and in control, “Tell us what’s
happening here, Chief.”
“As I told Agent Sherlock, the guy who lives
here, his name’s Martin Thornton. He’s
got a wife, Janet, two daughters, ages eight
and ten, inside the house, and won’t let
them come out. We got a call from a neighbor
about an hour and a half ago. They’d heard
a gunshot and some screams. We think the husband
went nuts. Why, we don’t know. Joe Gaines,
the one with the bullhorn, is from the Hostage
Rescue Team. He’s trying to get the guy
to talk to him again, establish a dialogue.
So far the guy hasn’t talked much, except
to yell out once that his name wasn’t Martin
Thornton, it was Austin Douglas Barrister.
That’s when we ran the name and found the
alert to call you, Agent Sherlock.” He paused
a moment, eyeing Savich. “Okay, you said
this is personal too. I’ve told you the
facts as I know them, now it’s your turn
to fill me in.”
Savich said, “We need him as a possible
witness in a murder investigation, and I know
a great deal about his life. Give me a vest.
I’ve got to be the one to speak to him.
I may be the only one who can get through
to him. His mother is the reason he cracked,
and I’m the only one who knows her. She’s
extraordinarily important to him. You’re
going to have to trust me on this. It’s
the best chance for his wife and daughters.
Austin too.”
Chief Gerber had listened intently, listened
to every inflection, then made a decision.
“Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t
be inclined to let a hot dog who drives up
in a red Porsche anywhere close to that house.”
He fell silent. Then he slowly nodded. “Guess
these circumstances aren’t all that normal
though. Joe, give Agent Savich the bullhorn,
he’ll need it. Duncan, get Agent Savich
a Kevlar vest. Keep your traps shut, I’ll
take responsibility.” He studied Savich’s
face. “You’re really sure about this?”
“As sure as I can be about anything.”
“I recognize you now. You’re the FBI guy
heading the murder case at the Supreme Court,
aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
Officer Duncan handed Savich a vest. Savich
stripped off his leather jacket, peeled off
his leather gloves, and tossed them to Sherlock.
He pulled on the vest over his shirt. When
he put on his leather jacket, he zipped it
over his belt holster. He said low to Sherlock,
taking her hands in his, “Another day in
Paradise, right, sweetheart? Pray a little.”
She wanted to wrap her arms around him and
not let him go. She didn’t want him to step
anywhere near that harmless-looking house
with a gun-wielding maniac inside. She said,
“I will pray, you can count on that.”
Her mouth was dry with fear. She swallowed,
but her voice still came out scratchy and
hoarse. “Take care, Dillon.” She stepped
back. She felt someone against her back, felt
a man’s hand on her arm. It was Ben, with
Callie beside him.
Savich took the bullhorn from Joe Gaines,
and began his trek to the driveway. A large
oak tree stood tall just off center in the
front yard. He saw a basketball hoop set up
over the double garage doors. The net was
ripped, showing lots of use. There were a
couple of girls’ bikes leaning against the
closed left garage door. He walked past dormant
rosebushes lining the front of the house.
The curtains were drawn over the single large
front picture window. He was aware of the
low murmur of cop voices behind him, and farther
away, the worried and excited conversation
of the neighbors. He wondered if there would
be another shot and he’d be dead before
he hit the ground.
He stopped just before he stepped off the
driveway onto the sidewalk that led to the
narrow front porch. He raised the bullhorn.
“Martin, Austin—my name is Dillon Savich.
I’m an FBI agent. I know your mother. It’s
because of her that I’m here. She’s really
worried about you. If you talk to me I can
tell you all about it.”
Dead silence.
“Your mother, Samantha Barrister, is worried
about you, Austin. Let me come in and tell
you what she said to me.”
Savich didn’t move, just held the bullhorn
loosely at his side.
There was movement inside the house, then
a woman’s low voice. The wife was alive,
thank God.
Savich stood still as a stone, the cold seeping
through his boots and gloves. He finally saw
the front door crack open, saw a flicker of
movement, and knew it was Martin Thornton—Austin
Douglas Barrister—standing close behind
the partially open doorway, out of the line
of fire from the police at the curb.
He didn’t say another word, just waited.
“You’re a liar,” Austin said. “My
mom’s been dead for thirty years. You hear
me? Someone killed her! So who the hell are
you? Why are you lying to me like this?”
The voice was low and scared, and there was
something else, a loss of control, close to
the surface. But he’d asked a question,
and that was positive.
“I’m not lying, Austin,” Savich said,
and took another step up the short sidewalk.
“My name’s Martin. Austin, that’s someone
else. Don’t you move!”
“All right, I won’t. But I’m not lying
to you.”
“Sure you are. Who told you about my mother?”
“Let me come closer and I’ll tell you
all about it.”
A moment of silence, then, “All right, you
can come up on the porch, but no closer.”
Savich walked up the sidewalk, slow and easy,
stepped up onto the porch and waited.
“Talk.”
“I saw your mother a week ago Friday night,
near Blessed Creek. I was driving to the cabin
where my family and I were staying for the
weekend when I had a blowout. I’d just finished
changing the tire when a hysterical young
woman ran out in front of my car, claiming
someone was trying to kill her, and I had
to take her home, right away. I couldn’t
get much else out of her. I followed her directions,
and ended up at a huge house on top of a knoll.
That was your old home, Aus—Martin. I had
her sit on the sofa in the living room as
I searched the house, but I didn’t find
anyone. When I went back to where I’d left
your mom in the living room, she was gone.”
Martin Thornton yelled, “She’s dead, do
you hear me? Dead for thirty years. You made
this up, mister. Did my father send you? No,
there’s no way he could have found me.”
Savich continued, keeping his voice calm.
“I dreamed about Samantha the very next
night after I was called back to Washington
on an emergency. And again this past week.
She mentioned you, her son, her precious boy.
Since we couldn’t locate you, we put out
an alert, and Chief Gerber called us when
you shouted out your real name just a little
while ago. I’m not lying, Martin. Why would
I?”
Savich knew that the cops couldn’t hear
either of them.
Martin Thornton’s voice was hesitant. “I
didn’t mean to call out that other name,
it just came out of my mouth. What are you
saying? There’s no such thing as ghosts.
My mom couldn’t come back—how could she?”
“I don’t know, but she did come to me,
then she was in my dreams. Martin, I’m here
to help you, but I can’t until I know what’s
changed in your life, what’s happened to
you to make you do this. Let me come inside.
I’m not about to hurt you or your family.
I’m here for you, but mainly I’m here
for your mother, Samantha, and not as an FBI
agent.”
The door eased open and a man appeared in
profile. Then he turned to face him. Savich
knew Austin Douglas Barrister was only a couple
of years older than he, about thirty-seven,
but he appeared older. He had thinning black
hair, a very pale face, and his mother’s
incredibly beautiful eyes. But his pupils
were dilated, huge and black with fear, just
as hers had been. He was thin, a bit stoop-shouldered,
and wore dark brown corduroy trousers, sneakers,
and a white shirt beneath a dark brown V-neck
sweater. He heard his wife Janet say, “Let
him in, Martin. I believe him. It sounds too
crazy not to be true. Come, we’ll work this
out. Let him in.”
Savich saw that Martin was holding a shotgun
at his side, a weapon that could blow a hole
through a man, Kevlar vest or not.
Martin slowly nodded. He looked out toward
all the cops, shrank back a bit. “All right,
you can come in, but I still think you’re
nuts.” Then he laughed. “I said you’re
nuts? That makes both of us nuts. What did
you say your name is?”
“Dillon Savich.”
“Did the cops give you a gun?”
“I already told you I’m an FBI agent.
Of course I have a gun. It’s in the holster
at my belt. Would you like me to drop it out
here?”
Martin Thornton stared at him, the shotgun
held tight in his right hand. Savich was close
enough to see that it was an SKB model 785,
a beautiful weapon, finely tooled with an
automatic ejector, and with a silver nitrite
finish. It was expensive, and it was deadly.
Martin Thornton said slowly, “No, leave
it holstered. Come on in.”
“Would you like to send Janet and the girls
out?”
Suddenly a woman was standing at Martin’s
right shoulder. “No, I don’t want to leave
Martin. I’m fine right here. The girls are
locked in a bedroom. They’re all right too.”
She drew a deep breath. “This has happened
twice before. We got through it. Come in,
Agent Savich.”
“Yeah, all right, come in,” Martin said
and stepped back, careful not to show himself
fully in the doorway. Savich didn’t blame
him for that. Savich looked back to nod toward
Chief Gerber before he stepped through the
front door and waved his hand.
He stepped inside the house. It was dim and
shadowy. He could barely see the woman standing
beside Martin. He said, “Can we turn on
some lights?”
Martin shut and locked the front door, then
flicked on the light switch.
Savich looked into a good-sized living room,
a long, narrow space with two thick carpets
on the hardwood floor, comfortable furniture,
a lot of chintz. Feminine, but inviting. It
looked like a home, a happy contented home.
This had happened twice before? And Janet
had hung in there? That said something about
her, about them. She was nearly as tall as
her husband, plump, big-breasted, with long,
naturally curly dark brown hair.
Savich saw the gaping hole in the living room
wall where Martin had fired a blast at close
range. So that’s what the neighbors had
heard, why they’d called the police.
Savich sincerely hoped Martin Thornton didn’t
lose it like that again, and put the same
size hole through him. But suddenly, he wasn’t
sure. Martin’s eyes had gone hot and dark.
CHAPTER
29
SAVICH DIDN’T MOVE. He nearly stopped breathing.
He wondered in that instant what that SKB
shotgun fired at this close range would do
to his chest. Probably shred both the vest
and him, and he’d be dead so fast he wouldn’t
even realize it. He smiled at Martin Thornton.
“This hole in the wall. Do you know what
it made me think about?”
Martin blinked, his eyes slowly focused. He
looked over at the wall. “What?”
“I was thinking that this was the very first
time I’ve seen what a shotgun blast could
do to a wall, and I was wondering what it
would do to a human body. I’m wearing a
Kevlar vest, but even so, I think it would
splatter me from here into the next block.
It would make an awful mess.”
Martin stared at him as if he’d lost his
mind. Slowly, he shook his head. “No, I
don’t want to think what it would do to
you.”
“I hope you never have to see it. Now, I
want you to listen to me carefully, Martin.
Are you hearing me?”
Savich waited. Slowly, Martin nodded. Savich
saw his fingers ease off the trigger, saw
he was holding the shotgun more loosely now.
Good, he had his attention.
“You’ve already done a very violent thing
in firing that shotgun, but no one was hurt.
Now concentrate, focus your mind. I want you
to look inside yourself, Martin. Look at the
powerful feelings that made you do that. Examine
them, ruminate on each one of them. Look at
them like you would something you want to
eat, something you’re not really sure of,
but you’re hungry, you have this compulsion
to eat everything in front of you. I want
you to ask yourself where those feelings are
coming from.”
Martin looked bewildered. “I don’t know.
I don’t want to look at them. I want them
to go away and stay away, but they won’t.
They get all heaped up in my head, and I can’t
see clearly, can’t separate them out. They’re
there all of a sudden and make me crazy, they
just—happen, like this morning, everything
just popped. I knew it was happening, but
I couldn’t stop it, just couldn’t.”
“You’re a strong person, Martin. You’ve
survived what many men would never survive,
so I know you can deal with this, too. I’m
not a physician to give you drugs or tell
you to meditate to stop the feelings from
overwhelming you.
“What I know is this—you and I are standing
right here, you’ve got a shotgun in your
hand, the police are outside, and your family
is frightened. This is real, Martin, and it
could turn tragic. You have to deal with this
right now. Without violence, without any more
loss of control. I want you to focus your
mind on the most real thing in the world to
you—your wife, Janet, who’s scared even
though she’s hiding it really well. You
don’t want her to be frightened any more,
do you?”
“I—I, no, I don’t. I hate it when this
happens because I can see she’s afraid,
afraid of me. And she’s afraid even more
for the girls. Oh God, I love Janet.”
“I can see why.”
Martin shook his head, as if coming out of
a fog. His voice was shaking as he said, “I’m
sorry. I understand. I think I’m feeling
better now. Those feelings seem to be backing
off, I’m more in control again. Really,
I’m not just saying that. Please, Agent
Savich, sit down.”
Martin paused, his hand loosening even more
on the beautiful black walnut stock of the
shotgun. He said, his voice curiously childlike,
wistful, “I’ve never met an FBI agent
before.” He turned to his wife, and his
voice was easier now, less frightened. “Janet,
did you hear what he said?”
“Yes, and it makes a lot of sense to me,
Martin. You didn’t want to see a doctor
before, but now that’s what we must do.”
She glanced at Savich, and quickly again at
the shotgun.
“Janet, did you hear what he said to me
about my mother?”
She nodded. “Yes. He said your dead mother
came to him, then she came to him again in
his dreams. She spoke of you, her precious
boy. She wants him to help you.” She touched
her husband’s shoulder. “Martin, please
put down that shotgun. I never want to see
it again, ever. I want to throw it in the
river.”
He nodded and grinned at her, actually grinned.
“It’s going to cost us a fortune to repair
the wall.”
“Forget about the wall. Agent Savich is
going to help us, Martin.” She held out
her hand. “Give me that thing. I know it’s
beautiful. I know you paid a bundle for it,
but it frightens me. It destroys. I’m going
to unload it and lay it beside the front door.
Okay?”
“Here,” was all he said, and handed her
the shotgun. She paused a second, because
she really didn’t want to touch it, but
she took it and did exactly what she’d said
she would. She walked to the front door, unloaded
the shotgun, and laid it on the floor.
Us, Savich thought, Janet had said us, not
just her husband. And that may have been the
right thing to say. When she returned, he
said, “Please, both of you, call me Dillon.”
Odd how so few people called him by his first
name, but somehow, in this circumstance, he
knew it was right. He smiled at both of them.
“Thank you, Dillon,” Janet said. “Sit
down, Martin. I’m going to go talk to the
girls. They’re scared and I want them to
know everything is all right. I’ll be right
back.”
Martin looked undecided, but for only a moment.
“All right. I’m sorry, Janet, I didn’t
mean to—the girls, God, I scared them to
death. I’m so sorry.”
She hugged him, kissed his cheek. “It will
be all right. I’ll speak to the girls, make
them understand, then I’ll be back. I’m
going to leave them in the bedroom, it’ll
make them feel safer, I think. Now, would
you like some coffee, Dillon?”
He smiled at her. “Tea would be wonderful.”
“A real live tea drinker. Goodness, we’re
coffee addicts in this house. I’ll be right
back. You talk to him, Martin. You talk to
him, tell him everything, and then listen.”
She nodded, patted her husband’s shoulder,
and lightly shoved him down into a big easy
chair with a remote control pocket holder
on the side, obviously his chair.
Martin eased down into the chair like it was
an old friend and stretched out his legs in
front of him. As if by habit, he reached into
the chair’s side pocket, felt the remote
control, brought his hand back up. He didn’t
face Savich yet, just looked down at the remote
for several moments. Then he splayed his palms
on his legs, as if trying to relax. He said,
still without looking up, “I lost it. I
just lost it. Like Janet said, it’s happened
a couple of other times, but I never had a
gun before.” He shuddered, drew a deep breath,
and at last met Savich’s eyes. “I went
out last week to a gun show in Baltimore,
and I bought the SKB and a big box of shells.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know really. I felt I had to.
Something was pushing me, like it had me by
the throat. I felt like something bad was
coming.”
“Was it a memory, or dream, what?”
“A dream where everything is black, and
I’m hiding, where, I don’t know, but I
do know to my soul I have to stay hidden.
I know something horrible is happening, but
I can’t move.”
“Do you think it had something to do with
your mother’s murder?”
Martin looked toward the hole in the living
room wall. “Everything was black. I couldn’t
see anything, couldn’t even tell where I
was. I didn’t even know my mother was murdered
until I was eighteen.”
“You didn’t know or you didn’t remember?”
“I don’t really know which. All I knew
was that she wasn’t there anymore. Sheriff
Harms—I remember him really well—he was
younger then than I am now—I saw him in
my dream when I was eighteen. I actually saw
my hand in his. Mine was so small and his
was like a giant’s, I do remember that,
and he was leading me downstairs and my father
and a whole lot of people were there, looking
very serious and sad. He handed me over to
my father. Then I don’t remember anything,
except that we were living in Boston, though
I don’t remember moving there, or how or
why. Mom was gone, and that was really hard,
but my father said it wasn’t our fault she
died, that he expected me to be a good, strong,
young man.
“After a while I didn’t really ask about
her anymore or think about her, accepted that
my father and I were in Boston, and I went
to school and made friends like any other
kid.
“Like I said, I didn’t know anything about
how my mother died until I was eighteen. About
two months before I graduated high school,
I began having nightmares—really violent
dreams about people having their throats cut,
people being stabbed in the chest—horrible
dreams, blood everywhere, and I’d wake up
screaming.” He paused, shuddering with memory.
“I remember my father came in once. He didn’t
say anything, even when I gasped out the dream
I’d had. He stood there, stared at me like
I was a freak, like he was afraid of me. Then
he left, and he didn’t come back when I
had the other dreams. I woke up alone and
I stayed alone.” Martin looked at Savich.
“It was around that time I realized something
was really wrong.”
Martin’s father hadn’t said anything about
this to Sherlock. Hadn’t Townsend Barrister
realized what the dreams meant? Of course
he had.
Savich sat forward on the sofa, his hands
clasped between his knees. “Later, did you
talk to your father about the dreams?”
Martin shook his head. “I couldn’t, and
besides, I knew he didn’t want to know.
I’d look at him and my two little bratty
and normal stepsisters at the dinner table,
and I’d think, I could dream tonight that
someone is stabbing Cassie through her neck
and cutting Tammy’s throat. And I could
see their blood, their surprise, the looks
on their faces and then they’d be dead.
“It wasn’t something I could talk about.
They wouldn’t understand. My father behaved
as if he’d rather not even have me there,
as if he’d rather I didn’t even exist.
It was like he was afraid of me.”
“Then what happened? Did you tell your father
anything?”
“Yes, I asked him one day how my mother
died.”
“Out of the blue? For the first time since
she was murdered in 1973, you thought to ask
him?”
Martin nodded slowly. “Yeah. It came to
me, probably because of my dreams, I’m not
sure. But it came out. Suddenly I had to know.”
“What did your father say?”
“He told me there’d been a terrible accident
on the day of my sixth birthday. My mother
had slipped and fallen on a kitchen knife,
and she’d died. And he’d brought me here
to Boston, so we could both recover, start
over again. He called her death an accident.
Can you believe that?”
“I gather you didn’t believe him?”
“No, I could see in his eyes he was keeping
something back. I realize now he didn’t
want my half-sisters or my stepmother, Jenny,
to find out, and be afraid, maybe be afraid
of him.
“So I went off to search on my own. I looked
up the Barristers in old newspaper files.
Remember, this was before the Internet, back
in 1984. But it was enough to point me back.
I remembered a road sign clear as day—Blessed
Creek. I knew it was a little hick town in
the Poconos, in northeastern Pennsylvania.
I drove out there. It didn’t take me long
looking through archives from that time to
learn that she’d been murdered, that my
father had taken me away to Boston right after
the funeral.”
“Is that why you disappeared after your
high school graduation? Did you think your
father had something to do with it?”
Martin wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“Listen to me, Martin. You were only six
years old when she was killed. Kids have an
amazing ability to block things out that could
harm them. And that’s what you did. You
saved yourself by repressing everything that
happened until you were older, more ready
to face up to what happened.”
“I know, I know.” He was twisting his
hands together, and Savich knew that for the
moment, they’d accomplished enough.
“Hey, don’t worry about it, Martin. Show
me how that remote works. It looks pretty
fancy.”
CHAPTER
30
FIVE MINUTES LATER, Janet Thornton came into
the living room to see her husband showing
the FBI agent how to work a remote that she
hadn’t yet figured out. She was carrying
a colorful wooden tray, coffee, tea, and a
small plate of cookies on top of it. She poured
Savich some tea, arched a questioning eyebrow
as she handed it to him.
“Straight is fine. Thank you.”
The tea was delicious. He hadn’t realized
how cold he’d been. This was so mundane,
so normal, sitting here learning about a remote,
drinking tea, and knowing he’d find out
soon enough why Martin had left the day after
he’d graduated high school. For now, drinking
tea was just fine. He drank, felt the warmth
all the way to his belly, and thanked God
he was still alive. “My wife, who’s also
an FBI agent, is outside with the police and
your neighbors. I’d like to call her, tell
her that everything’s okay. Also, I don’t
want the cops to worry, maybe fire something
in here. Okay by you, Martin?”
Martin drank his coffee, said nothing, only
nodded.
“That’s a very good idea,” Janet said
as she sat herself on the other end of the
sofa, as close to her husband as she could
get without climbing into his lap.
Sherlock answered before the second note sounded
in Bolero.
“Sherlock, it’s me. Martin is disarmed,
we’re talking, everything’s under control.
He’s calm and rational, telling me what’s
happened to him. Please tell Chief Gerber
and Joe Gaines, the hostage negotiator, they
can stand down, at least put away their weapons.
There’s no reason for anyone to get hurt
now.”
He heard her speaking, then she was back on
the cell. “Chief Gerber won’t go for it.
You need to tell him yourself, Dillon.”
Savich did, slowly, easily, making certain
Chief Gerber knew he wasn’t under any duress.
“Yes, I’m sure of it. In fact, I’m drinking
an excellent cup of tea at this very moment.
There’s a plate of chocolate chip cookies
in front of me. Janet Thornton is fine, as
are the girls. I think it would be best if
you dispersed the neighbors, told them that
everything is all right. I don’t want them
looking at Martin like he’s some sort of
freak who will flip out when he walks out
of here.”
There was a long pause, then Chief Gerber
said, “I’ll do that, Agent Savich. Your
wife said that if I don’t believe you I
might as well hang it up and sail to Fiji.
Not a bad idea, really. But you’ve got to
know that none of my people are leaving here
until I see Martin Thornton in custody and
everyone safely out of that house.”
“Believe me, Chief Gerber, I appreciate
that. Thank you for your cooperation. That
will take some more time. Oh yes, would you
please tell my wife it will be a little while
longer?” He shut off the cell and slipped
it back into his jacket pocket.
“You don’t pull any punches, do you?”
Janet Thornton said, a dark eyebrow arched
up a good inch.
“No reason to. Both of you know exactly
what the score is, what’s going on outside.
Chief Gerber is a good man. He’ll deal with
things. As for your neighbors, I’m thinking
you guys should move away from here. People
don’t forget the sound of a shotgun, or
police cars all over the neighborhood, not
when they’ve got kids around.”
“No, you don’t pull any punches,” Martin
said. “Yes, we’ll move. I hadn’t thought
that far ahead yet.”
“Of course not,” Savich said. “Do you
feel like getting back to it, Martin?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me why you disappeared right after
you graduated, without saying a word to your
father.”
“When he looked me right in the eye and
told me that my mother’s death was an accident,
something died inside. I simply couldn’t
accept who he was or what he was. I remember
very clearly thinking my old man had lied
to me, flat-out lied, not because of me, mind
you, but because of his wife, Jenny, my stepmother,
and their two daughters. I realized I had
nothing to do with his new life. If he could,
I think he would have swept me under the carpet
or tossed me out with the trash.”
“My wife, Agent Sherlock, said that isn’t
true at all. When she spoke to your father,
he was frantic to know where you were.”
Martin’s clear brown eyes, very intelligent
eyes, had no shadows or madness in them now,
just disbelief. “It may have suited the
moment. I really don’t believe him.”
Savich nodded. “You know him better than
we. But tell me why you erased yourself.”
“Erased myself,” Martin repeated slowly,
as if tasting the words. “Yes, I suppose
I did that. I got a whole new identity. It’s
not hard to do if you live in Boston, and
are willing to take some chances. I approached
people on the street—fences, drug addicts—until
I found the people who were willing to sell
me an identity. I bought my name—Martin
Thornton—got a social security number, a
driver’s license, everything I needed, and
then I hitchhiked out of Boston, didn’t
tell a single person where I was going. Actually,
I didn’t know myself.”
“Where did you go?”
“I went out to Seattle at first, got a job
pumping gas, started working my way through
school. The dreams stopped then. It seemed
that when I found out about my mother’s
murder, I didn’t need to dream about it
anymore. The funny thing is, I wanted to remember
my mother, I wanted to know what she was like.
I wanted to know who murdered her and why.
But the dreams never told me that.” He stopped
suddenly, stuck out his hand for Janet to
take, and said, “I dated. I slept with my
first girlfriend when I was nineteen. I felt
like a man. I felt normal.”
“You are normal,” Janet said, and there
was absolute conviction in her voice. “What
happened to you, Martin—your mother’s
murder, being uprooted, not having your father
tell you the truth—you dealt amazingly well
with all of it. If I’d started having those
dreams, I would have ended up in Boston Harbor
or slitting my wrists. You didn’t do either
of those things. You survived.
“I don’t blame you for leaving your father,
for chucking all of it. The only thing is,
I wish you had told me. We’ve been married
eleven years, and you never told me. What
Agent Savich said about the truth—he’s
right, only the truth will do. I wish you’d
told me so I could have helped.”
“I couldn’t,” he said, looking directly
into her eyes. “I never wanted to think
about him again. I never wanted it to touch
our lives. I didn’t want it to hurt you,
or us.”
“Well, aren’t you a bloody fool!?”
He actually grinned, squeezed his wife’s
hand. Savich held very still, knowing he was
invisible to them in this moment.
A few moments later he brought them back.
“Martin, the first episode, when was that?”
Janet Thornton sucked in her breath. “What
a horrible word.”
Savich shrugged. “But I think it fits, more
or less, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Martin said. “Now I can say that.
Six months ago, it just hit me like a hammer.
All sorts of wild things careened through
my head. I thought I was going crazy. It lasted
only a couple of hours, but I scared the hell
out of Janet. She talked me down, thank God.
The girls weren’t here that time or the
second time either. That was about two months
ago, and that one lasted longer.”
“You were here, at home?”
“Yes, Janet and I were having dinner—hot
dogs and baked beans, potato chips—all my
favorites. It was the day after my birthday.
Janet thought we should have our own private
celebration, without the girls. They were
at a sleepover at a friend’s house. I suddenly
remembered this was exactly what I always
loved to eat when I was little. I started
crying. Janet held me, didn’t stop talking
to me, and finally, after a while, everything
began to fade.”
Savich looked thoughtful. “The day after
your birthday. You nearly remembered something.”
“You think so?”
“Maybe. Then what, Martin?”
“I—I was going to go to a doctor, really
I was, to a shrink, but I didn’t know anyone
and I was, well, I was ashamed. No, I was
afraid of what a shrink would say, afraid
I’d end up in a padded cell and my life
would be over, all except for those horrible
dreams. Believe me, Janet’s been on my case,
but—I didn’t go, just didn’t.”
“Doesn’t matter now. If it’s okay with
you, Martin, I’m getting rid of that shotgun.
I want you to promise me you’ll never as
long as you live have another gun in your
home.”
Martin looked over to where Janet had laid
the shotgun on the floor beside the front
door.
“All right. Yes, I promise, Dillon.” He
rose, but Savich held out his hand.
“Let me tell Chief Gerber that I’ll be
handing out the shotgun so they don’t get
nervous.”
When Savich walked back into the living room
a few minutes later, he said, “All done.
Everything’s fine now. We’ve got a lot
of relieved people out there. Now, you guys
got a good babysitter?”
They both stared at him. Janet nodded. “Well,
yes, my mom. She lives in Rockville. She loves
having the girls. When Martin had the second
breakdown, I made an excuse and they stayed
with her for three days.”
“Good. Both of you are coming with me now,
back to Washington. We’ll drop the girls
off at your mom’s. You’ll be staying tonight
at the Jefferson Dormitory at Quantico. You’ll
be safe there, Martin. If something pops again
in your brain, there’ll be people there
to control things.
“Where do you work, Martin?”
“I work in the IT section at the Giant corporate
office.”
“Really? I have some interest in computers
myself. Maybe we can talk about that later.
Anyway, we can call your boss and get you
some leave.
“After what’s happened here, I’ll have
to take you into my own custody. We’ll call
it a temporary commitment. That should keep
Chief Gerber from filing any charges.
“Tomorrow morning, you’re going to meet
Dr. Emanuel Hicks. I’d like him to try to
hypnotize you, see if we can learn anything
more about what happened to you when you were
six years old. And he’ll be recommending
a psychiatrist to you who’ll know all the
facts. Sound okay?”
“It sounds like a miracle,” Janet said.
Martin searched Savich’s face, and slowly
nodded. “Yes, it sounds okay to me, too.”
Janet looked at Savich, held his eyes, and
said simply, “Thank you so much for coming
into our lives, Dillon. I’ll go get us and
the girls packed and call my mom.”
Savich said, “Maybe the one to thank is
Samantha Barrister. Yeah, I know how strange
it all sounds, and maybe I dreamed some of
it. But I’ll tell you guys, she was as real
to me as it gets. I’ll tell you more about
it after we get to Quantico.
“Right now, I’m going to bring in my wife—she’s
the one who found you, Martin—and Detective
Raven and Ms. Markham. They’ll help get
us on the road. The thing is, I’m heading
up the investigation of Justice Stewart Califano’s
murder, and I’ve got to get back to Washington.”
They both stared at him. Janet walked over
to him and hugged him. “Bring on your wife.
I can’t wait to meet her.”
CHAPTER
31
GEORGETOWN WASHINGTON, D.C.
SATURDAY NIGHT
IT HAPPENED SO fast that Sean, playing with
Legos on the floor, didn’t have time to
react. Fleurette was sitting on the sofa,
laughing at something Callie had said, when
suddenly, one of the front windows shattered
and a bullet slammed into the wall not six
inches above Fleurette’s head.
Savich was just coming through the kitchen
door, carrying tea and coffee on a tray. “Everyone
down! Sherlock, get Sean!” He dropped the
tray, ran to Fleurette, and dragged her off
the sofa. He fell on top of her, drawing his
gun at the same time. He looked toward the
shattered glass in the front window. Close,
too close. He said, “Nobody move. Sherlock,
you’ve got Sean. Ben, yeah, kill the lights,
then pull all the drapes, call 911.”
“Got it.”
“Callie, get your nose pressed into the
floor.”
Callie was already down, in front of the sofa,
not moving.
Sherlock had Sean beneath her. He was howling
under her, but she didn’t let him up, kept
pressing him into the carpet, covering all
of him. Ben crawled to the switch, went up
on his knees, and punched off both light switches.
There was still light arrowing in from the
kitchen. He was crawling to the front windows
to pull the heavy drapes when another shot
rang out, shattering what was left of the
front glass window, hitting low, then another
and another.
Finally it was silent, except for the breathing
in the living room. Savich said, “Everyone
okay?”
Sean’s yell was muffled from beneath his
mother, “Daddy!”
“Sean is, but he sounds pissed,” Ben said,
and punched 911. They heard him give fast,
terse instructions.
“They’ll be here soon. Savich?”
“I’m dialing my boss right now.” Jimmy
Maitland answered on the first ring. Then
another shot burst into the living room, ripping
the back out of one of Savich’s favorite
chairs. “I heard that,” Jimmy Maitland
said. “What the hell is going on, Savich?”
“Günter’s paying us a house call,”
Savich said.
“This guy crazy or what?”
“Bet on it,” Savich said. “Hurry.”
“Half the city will be there in a minute.
Keep everyone safe.”
Savich punched off his phone, and wrapped
his arm around Fleurette’s head again. “Okay,
now, everyone stay as close to the floor as
possible. Slow and easy, elbow your way out
of the living room to the staircase. The kitchen
light doesn’t reach there. There aren’t
any windows near the staircase. It’s the
safest place in the house.” He lifted most
his weight off Fleurette. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
But she didn’t sound okay. “I’m going
to stay over you. Let’s shimmy on our elbows
together now. I’m right with you. Sherlock,
you okay with Sean? You need any help?”
“Nope, got him.” She nearly had to yell
to be heard over Sean’s howls. “We’re
okay. I’m dragging him beneath me. We’re
right behind you.”
Ben said, “You guys stay down. Savich, Sherlock,
you’ve got your guns. Callie, you sucking
the floor?”
“I’m sucking,” she said from outside
the living room. “It won’t need vacuuming
for a week. I’m nearly to the staircase.”
Another shot rang out, this one shattering
a lamp next to a big sofa. Then another, blasting
obliquely through a side window, going wild.
Ben said. “Okay, everyone stay down. I’m
going out to see if I can find Günter. See
if he’d like to dance with me.”
“No!” Callie jumped to her feet and landed
against him, knocking him back against the
wall. She grabbed his shirt. “You’re not
going anywhere. Are you crazy? We’re going
to wait for help.” She actually pulled him
tight against her, hanging on for dear life.
“Do you want to get yourself killed?”
“For God’s sake, Callie, I’m a cop.”
He grabbed her hands, trying to pull her off
him, but she held on tight. “Stop trying
to strangle me. Listen to me, it’s what
I do for a living—serve and protect. Now
get back down on the floor and crawl over
to that staircase.”
Her fingers dug into his shirt. “If you
want to be a damned hero, I’m coming with
you.”
Sherlock gave Sean to her husband, and simply
tackled Callie, took her down. Callie didn’t
stand a chance, black belt in karate or no,
and now she was helpless, couldn’t move.
“I can’t believe you’re actually doing
this to me,” she gasped, her face in the
carpet. “You really shouldn’t be able
to.”
“I learned from the best. Be quiet, Callie,
and don’t move or I’ll hurt you. Ben,
go, and be careful. As soon as I get Callie
to listen to me, I’ll let her up. Dillon,
you got Sean? Fleurette’s down?”
“Yeah, we’re fine. You keep Callie’s
face in the floor.”
“Why did he try to kill me?” Fleurette
whispered, coming up on her knees, clutching
Savich, her breath hot against his neck, Sean
trapped and crying between them. “I don’t
know anything, but he fired into your house.
To kill me. Why? I really don’t know anything
that could harm him. Why would he come after
me?”
“He obviously believes you do know something,”
Sherlock said over Sean’s yells, “and
it doesn’t look like he’s going to stop.
Now, Callie, you got it together, or do you
need to get more splinters in your face? Sean’s
crying, in case you hadn’t noticed, and
it really pisses me off that I’m not comforting
him right now.”
“I’m okay,” Callie said, “or very
nearly. I’m sorry. Ben’s already out the
door, the idiot. I swear I won’t go after
him. Go get Sean, Sherlock.”
“Fleurette and I have him,” Savich said.
“Get yourself together, Callie. Don’t
make me regret bringing you into this investigation.”
Callie drew a deep breath, hiccuped, and said,
“I’m sorry, it’s just that Ben—”
“I know. But it’s his job. Let it go.
Get yourself together.”
“Okay, okay, I’m trying but, he’s such
a macho moron, saying he’s going to go out
there and dance with that monster.”
“That particular macho moron is an excellent
cop,” Sherlock said.
“That was just a touch of cop humor,”
Savich said.
“He knows what he’s doing. Now, Callie,
we’re going to glide slowly across the floor
to sit next to Dillon and Fleurette. I’m
going to hug Sean. We’re going to wait for
the cavalry. You just stay down, you got that?
Ready?”
They were both breathing hard by the time
they could lean against the staircase. Sherlock
pulled Sean from between Fleurette and Dillon,
and pressed his small face against her shoulder.
“It’s okay now, champ,” she whispered
against his wet cheek, “don’t worry, it’s
okay. Mommy’s right here. It was just a
loud noise. You can yell louder than that.”
Not even a minute later sirens sounded loud,
at least a half dozen of them. When the front
door opened, both Sherlock and Savich had
their guns aimed at it. Ben called out before
he showed his face, “Jimmy Maitland is here
along with lots of my guys and FBI agents.
They’re already spreading out, searching
for Günter, talking to every neighbor who’ll
answer the door. You guys okay?”
“Yeah, we’re fine,” Sherlock said.
Ben made his way over to one of the living
room side windows, pulled the drapes tight.
Once the room was shrouded, Ben turned on
the light switches. Everyone blinked. Savich
said, “All of you, stay away from the windows.
No telling what that maniac might try. Thing
is, after that first shot, he knew he was
shooting blind, knew we wouldn’t just stand
in the middle of the living room. So why did
he keep firing?”
“He thought he might get lucky,” Ben said.
“But the chance he’d hit Fleurette?”
Sherlock said, “You know, I don’t think
he cared. I think he wanted to terrify us,
let us know he was close. I don’t know about
the rest of you, but it worked for me.”
Callie came up on her hands and knees, and
stared at Ben. Then she was on her feet, running
at him. She grabbed him close and held on,
her face buried in his shoulder. “I should
kill you, you macho asshole, running out there
like that and this madman with a gun, shooting
like crazy. He’s a good shot, and he would
be really happy to see you dead, even if you
aren’t Fleurette. Dillon is right, he didn’t
care who he hit, and here you were making
that lame joke about dancing with him—if
that’s an example of cop humor, you need
a new writer.”
He holstered his gun in his belt, put his
arms around her and hugged her. “Well, he
wasn’t all that good a shot this time, was
he? And he tried six times. If you start crying,
I’m going to throw you out the front door.”
“I’m not crying, you jerk.”
Ben grinned down at her. “Good. I’m all
right. He’s long gone. One thing Günter
isn’t, is stupid. He knew cops would swarm
here within minutes after he fired those shots.
He had to know too that it would be a miracle
if he got to Fleurette after the first miss.
Maybe they’ll find his car, or one of the
people who lives a couple of blocks over saw
him running to his car, got the make. Maybe
someone actually got a look at him.”
Sherlock said, looking around the shattered
living room and at each of them in turn, “Günter
took his shot, missed, but all of you know
he’ll be back. He wants Fleurette dead and
he’s not going to stop until it’s done
or we get him first.”
Savich said, “We were lucky your parents
weren’t here, Fleurette.”
Fleurette, still plastered against him, shuddered.
“If they’d still been here, he might have
shot one of them. I can’t stand this. I
don’t understand why he’s doing this.
I don’t know anything!”
Sean began humming, the sound very loud in
the entrance hall. It made everyone smile,
which was a good thing. Sherlock was standing
to the side, close to the staircase, rocking
him from one leg to the other. She said, between
kisses on Sean’s cheek, “We’re all okay,
but this was way too close. I’m thinking
that to keep you completely safe, Fleurette,
we need to take you to Quantico. No one could
get near you there. Security could catch a
runaway flea there. Little sucker could end
up on the firing range.”
Fleurette looked shell-shocked, but she straightened,
her eyes blinking as if waking from a dream.
She looked toward Sherlock. “That was funny.
You guys are so amazing, so—what if he’d
hit Sean? I couldn’t take that. It would
have been my fault.”
Sherlock’s voice was calm. “You know something,
Fleurette? You’re right about one thing.
I’m thinking about our boy too. He’ll
be safer with you out at Quantico. This is
the second time violence has come into our
home. If it were just Dillon and me, that
would be different, but Sean’s the important
one, and we’re supposed to protect him.
Now, no more angst from any of you. It’s
done. I’ve got to clean up that coffee before
it stains the floor, and then you’re going
to Quantico, Fleurette. You can call your
parents from there. They can visit you there
for as long as they’re in town.”
Savich rose, took Sean from Sherlock, and
began rocking him in exactly the same way
she had, one large hand going up and down
on his son’s back. “I really wish we didn’t
have to tell your parents about this, Fleurette.”
“No choice, Dillon,” Callie said. “It
was on the police radio, and soon it will
be all over the news. I don’t see any choice.
The media will descend any moment. And they’ll
be all over us if we’re still here.”
Sherlock muttered under her breath at the
coffee and tea spreading over the floor. She
walked into the kitchen to get paper towels
to clean it up. “Callie’s right, Dillon,”
she said as she came back into the living
room. “This is Georgetown. If the chef at
Pamplona’s cuts his thumb chopping a carrot,
it’s front page in the Post. Worse, this
is an FBI agent’s house, who also happens
to be the lead investigator on Justice Califano
and Danny O’Malley and Eliza—” Her voice
caught in her throat and she dropped to her
knees and viciously wiped up the coffee and
tea, in wide, heavy strokes, her pain palpable
to Savich. Savich handed Sean to Ben, who
nestled him into the crook of his arm, gathered
up some more paper towels and helped her.
Fleurette and Callie stood silent, watching
Ben rock Sean, and Savich and Sherlock clean
up the spreading spill. The creamer ran into
the seam where the wide oak planks met. “It’s
a beautiful oak floor,” Fleurette said,
and grabbed some paper towels and went after
the creamer. “My mom said it was the prettiest
floor she’d ever seen and she wondered how
you kept it so nice what with Sean running
all over the place. Will it stain?”
“No, it’ll be fine,” Sherlock said,
took a final swipe and rose to her feet. “Callie,
we don’t need you down here on your knees
too. Thank you, Fleurette. There, all done.
Hey, Ben, you’re a natural. Sean’s nearly
out.”
Ben paused in his rocking and looked at her.
Sherlock wanted to laugh, the expression on
his face was so priceless. Then he said slowly,
“Yeah, I guess I am a natural. Thing is,
I’d be a natural too with a red Porsche.”
Callie laughed, got up, and walked to him.
She punched him in the arm. “You are such
a guy.” Then she cocked her head to one
side as she looked at Sean, asleep in his
arms. “Yeah, I guess you are a natural.”
A moment later there was pounding on the door.
“Let’s get it over with,” Savich said
and went to let in Jimmy Maitland and a half
dozen FBI agents and Metro cops.
CHAPTER
32
JEFFERSON DORMITORY
QUANTICO
SUNDAYMORNING
DR. HICKS WAS flummoxed, and Savich knew why.
Martin Thornton wasn’t going under. Something
inside him was fighting the loss of control.
Martin wasn’t going anywhere.
Savich wondered if this was Dr. Hicks’s
first failure. It was just the three of them
in Dr. Hicks’s small office; Janet was in
the Quantico gym, working out with some students,
who’d been assigned to keep an eye on her.
Dr. Hicks tried again. “Martin, listen to
me carefully. I want you to relax, I want
you to let yourself go. You’re safe, you
do understand that, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“No one’s going to hurt you. I know you
want to remember. I know you want to know
the truth about what happened on your sixth
birthday. I’m here to help you do it, but
you have to help me, you have to let go. Now,
let’s try again. Concentrate on this bright
silver dollar, keep your eyes on it, watch
it swing back and forth and try to focus that
brain of yours.”
Martin stared at the blur of silver as it
swung back and forth several dozen times,
until his eyes nearly glazed over. He finally
shook his head, rubbed his temples with his
fingertips. “I’m sorry, Dr. Hicks. Nothing’s
happening and believe me, you’re right,
I want it to. I want to remember. I want to
know what happened to my mother that day.
You know what else? I want to remember what
she looked like, what she smelled like. I
know she wore a perfume like flowers, but
I can’t smell it anymore. I’m beginning
to believe I do know what happened that day.
I want to see the man who killed my mom.”
“I agree you might have seen your mother
murdered,” Savich said. “Martin, do you
remember hiding in the attic? Martin—Austin.
Which do you prefer?”
“I’m Martin Thornton now, Dillon, have
been for more years than I was Austin.”
“All right, then, Martin. I’ve described
the house to you, described the attic, described
your mother. Do you remember the attic? Can
you see it in your mind at all? Do you remember
ever being in an attic?”
“No, I don’t. There’s nothing there.”
Dr. Hicks put the watch away, sat back in
his leather chair, and crossed his hands over
his skinny belly. “I’m thinking that when
Agent Savich is through with this current
case, you need to go back to Blessed Creek,
see the house where you spent the first six
years of your life. You need to climb up that
ladder into the attic, go into the bathroom
where they found your mom. I’m thinking
that might break that dam in your memory,
help everything flood back.”
Martin’s eyes lit up. “I could go back
now, with Janet.”
“No way are you going anywhere, Martin,”
Savich said, his voice sharp. “You’re
going to promise me that you’ll stay right
here. Promise me.”
“But—”
“Promise me.”
“All right, I promise.”
“I don’t want you going anywhere. You’re
in a safe place, and right now, that’s exactly
what you need—to feel safe. You need to
know that if something happens in your brain,
you’ll have help to deal with it. Forget
the frustration of not remembering. It will
all come back when it’s ready to. Now, Dr.
Hicks has the name of an excellent psychiatrist,
and you’ll want to tell him or her everything
you know, everything you’ve felt, in great
detail. Who do you have in mind, Dr. Hicks?”
“Dr. Lynette Foster. She works regularly
with the FBI. She’s very good with memory
issues, cases of trauma. You can trust her,
Martin.”
Slowly, Martin Thornton nodded.
Savich said, “I’ve already spoken to Janet.
Believe me, she’s not worried about your
girls or anyone but you. You’re here for
the near future. Hey, the food in The Boardroom
is pretty good, and you have the PX with plenty
of FBI souvenirs to buy, pretty cool stuff
you can give for presents. Best of all, you
can spend some time with Janet. You’re staying,
Martin, until I’m through with this case.”
Dr. Hicks smiled when Martin nodded.
“Excellent. Now, Janet’s in the gym, getting
started on losing fifteen pounds she said,
and it’s been over an hour. Dr. Hicks will
show you the gym, then you and Janet can have
lunch, wander the grounds if you like.
“I’m going to head out to the Hoover Building.
By the way, can you do any of your work remotely
if you have access to a computer?”
“Yeah, sure. I spend most of my time on
the computer.”
When Savich left, he saw Martin standing tall,
his shoulders no longer slumped. He heard
him say to Dr. Hicks, “I’ve got lots of
work to do. You said this Boardroom place
has some good food?”
Savich would swear as he walked down the hall
of the Jefferson Dormitory that he heard Martin
Thornton whistling.
FBI HEADQUARTERS
WASHINGTON, D.C.
EARLY SUNDAY AFTERNOON
SAVICH LOOKED OUT over the thirty-plus agents
and cops in the conference room. “Last night,
as most of you already know, Günter fired
six shots into my living room, his primary
target Fleurette. His performance last night
shows he’s becoming increasingly less controlled,
more desperate, but given what he did in the
middle of Georgetown, I certainly can’t
say he’s any less daring. So long as he
continues, our chances of finding him improve.
So far the only physical evidence we have
are ballistics from the recovered bullets—probably
a plain old thirty-eight. We’ve located
Günter’s approximate range and position,
but apart from a few broken branches, some
partial footprints in the snow, he left nothing
behind.
“But we may have a lead. Two Metro policemen
found a witness, an older man who was walking
his dog two blocks over. They’re not convinced
he’s reliable, but let me report what Mr.
Avery told them. He said he saw a man running
toward a car. He thinks it was a light gray,
or maybe white, late-model Toyota. Said the
guy was fast, ran easily, was tall and well-built.
He was wearing a Burberry coat, black gloves
on his hands.
“Now the thing is, the two policemen had
major doubts about Mr. Avery’s mental acuity.
They thought he might be embellishing, even
creating, all these excellent details to impress
them. Evidently Mr. Avery also told him that
the car fishtailed as it drove away, headed
east. He thinks it was a Virginia plate, the
first two letters RT or BT. There’s no match
for that plate to a late model Toyota, so
we’re checking for recently stolen Toyotas
and reports of stolen plates with those letters.
Mr. Avery did not hear any shots.
“As I said, the police weren’t sure we
could believe much of anything he said, that
he wandered all over the lot—even asked
his dog’s opinion—seemed a little too,
well, old and odd is how they put it. Oh yeah,
the police officers said when he asked his
dog’s opinion, the little sucker actually
barked.
“It’s clear we have no unified, specific
theory for these latest crimes, the murder
of Eliza Vickers and the attempted murder
of Elaine LaFleurette last night. In Danny
O’Malley’s case, there are strong indications
he made contact with the perpetrators. For
the two women, the connection to Justice Califano
is of course clear, but the killer’s specific
motives are not.”
He paused, looking out over the group. “All
right, I want every idea, every speculation
you’ve come up with on why Eliza Vickers
was murdered, and why Fleurette was shot at.
Ollie, you’re nearly busting out of your
vest, so you lead off.”
Ollie Hamish, Savich’s second-in-command
in the Criminal Apprehension Unit, cleared
his throat. “Okay,” Ollie said, “let’s
start with Eliza Vickers.” He sat forward,
his hands clasped in front of him on the conference
table. “Ben told us about last Friday when
he and Callie were in Justice Califano’s
office looking for Fleurette, but only Eliza
was there, cleaning up things. He said that
when he asked her if there was anything he
could do, she hesitated. I can’t get that
out of my mind.” He paused a moment, focusing
his thoughts. “She knew something. Maybe
she didn’t realize how important it was,
but you know, that’s not very likely. What
was it? Was she involved in Justice Califano’s
murder? Did she turn on him because he wasn’t
about to leave his wife for her?” Ollie
shot an apologetic look at Callie. “Rage
can do terrible things to people, we’ve
all seen it. Eliza Vickers could have found
out who Günter was, maybe she’d dated him
or met him some other way and hired him or
persuaded him to murder Justice Califano—”
Sherlock shot to her feet. She bent over the
table, her hands flat on the piles of paper
on front of her. “No, that can’t be right,
Ollie. Eliza was solid. Listen to me, it’s
true I only met Eliza Vickers twice, then
spoke to her briefly at Justice Califano’s
funeral, but I felt I knew her in all the
important ways. I even admired her. Eliza
couldn’t have had Justice Califano killed,
she was devoted to him, loved and respected
him as both a man and as a Justice. Did she
have him killed out of jealousy? No way. She
knew there was no future for them. That isn’t
it, Ollie. It’s got to be something else.
“Say you did believe she was responsible,
then the logical follow-up would be that Günter
then killed her because she was cracking under
the pressure. It doesn’t fly. No, this hesitation
Ben and Callie saw, it was about something
else entirely.”
“Okay, Sherlock, if it wasn’t about this,
then what do you think she hesitated about?”
Dillon’s calm voice always cooled her down.
She said, the emotional edge gone from her
voice, “Maybe she wanted to say something
about Danny O’Malley, or she was worried
about Fleurette, thinking maybe Fleurette
could be a target too.”
Agent Foley said, “All right, let’s go
with that. So if Eliza was thinking about
Danny O’Malley or worrying about Fleurette,
then why wouldn’t she say something to Detective
Raven? Why wouldn’t she warn him that Fleurette
might be in danger, and why would she think
that? Why?”
Ben said, “The thing is, the place was a
madhouse. She was the only one there. The
phone rang, and she waved us out. That’s
what happened. What was she thinking?” Ben
shrugged, then turned to Callie. “You got
any thoughts on this? You were there, you
saw exactly what I saw.”
Callie said, “Yes, she hesitated. I saw
it. Wondered about it, but just for a moment.
Unfortunately, I was focused on finding Fleurette,
we both were.”
Ben said, “I’m thinking that maybe Eliza
wondered if Fleurette knew something, but
then again, why wouldn’t she tell us?”
Ben saw that Sherlock was ready to break in,
gave her a half-smile, and added, “No, I
don’t think Eliza herself knew anything
about Justice Califano’s murder. And I don’t
think she’d want Justice Califano dead,
for any reason. I think Eliza could have walked
in and found Justice Califano making out with
Sonya McGivens or Fleurette or Tai Curtis
on his big mahogany desk, and still not have
reacted with violence. Like Sherlock said,
she was too together and on-track with herself.
She was too accepting of who and what Justice
Califano was.”
Ollie Hamish said, “All right, I’m hearing
you guys. So her hesitation has got to mean
that she found out something, or heard something,
but she wasn’t quite sure what it meant,
maybe didn’t want to say anything to Ben
until she was sure, one way or the other—”
Ben said, “So whatever she heard was from
someone she trusted or liked or simply couldn’t
conceive of having anything to do with Justice
Califano’s murder.”
Jimmy Maitland spoke for the first time. “Let’s
say Eliza Vickers did find out something.
In any case, it was the real deal. It got
her murdered. And that means, people, that
we’re back to tracing her movements. We
need to know where she went, who she saw,
or talked to, everything, since Justice Califano’s
murder. And as far back as we can. Jagger,
you and Brewer put your teams on it.”
Savich said, “We already checked her phone
records, no go there. Maybe we’ll get lucky
and she actually visited whoever it was. Maybe
she asked too many questions, made this person
nervous, and that signed her death warrant.”
Jimmy Maitland said, “The person knew she
wasn’t going to let it go, knew she was
smart, knew she’d gnaw on it until she figured
it out, so the person called Günter. Like
you said, Savich, it signed her death warrant.”
Frank Halley said, “But what did she hear?
And where was she? In Justice Califano’s
office? Or maybe someone called her, warned
her, but she wouldn’t believe it. Maybe
there’s someone else here, someone else
in the Supreme Court Building, another law
clerk.”
Savich nodded. “Good. Keep going.”
Another FBI agent said, “But why wouldn’t
this other law clerk, or whoever it was, tell
us? We’ve been all over them, at least three,
four interviews of everyone who works there.
And why Fleurette?”
Savich said, “Okay, we’ve got some good
solid ideas on Eliza, but still nothing definitive.
Why Fleurette? I’m thinking now the reason
Günter wants Fleurette dead is pretty straightforward—he
saw her speaking with Danny O’Malley last
Friday, and he believed Danny was confiding
in her.”
Callie said, “She walked with him for a
block or so when they left the Supreme Court
to go to lunch.”
“And Günter saw them together,” Savich
said. “Okay, we need to get back to the
law clerks again just in case one of them
knows more than they’ve told us. Also, we
need to go back to my neighborhood today to
canvass a wider radius. When you have your
assignments, we’ll head out again.”
When the conference room cleared, Savich approached
Mr. Maitland and Director Mueller. “Thank
you for staying. I’d like your permission
to let the world know that Elaine LaFleurette
isn’t at our house any longer. Two reasons:
first, for Sean’s safety, and second”—Savich
searched the faces—“I think it’s time
we became proactive. We may be able to flush
Günter out. We can select a volunteer to
impersonate Fleurette, make her visible on
the grounds at Quantico. Most assassins would
never risk a kill at Quantico, but Günter?”
Ben said, “For Günter, it would be the
ultimate high for him. Trying to kill Fleurette
on the grounds of the safest compound in the
world? I don’t think he could pass that
up.”
“He couldn’t,” Savich said. “He’d
have to use a rifle. Let’s say he’s got
only average skill as a sniper. With a good
sniper rifle, say a gas-operated semiautomatic,
he could hit his target at about twenty-four
hundred feet. If he’s an expert, that goes
up to three thousand feet. That’s a very
long distance, well off the grounds.
“The new sniper rifles are even more accurate
than those we used five years ago. For example,
the Yugoslavian M-76 has a longer, heavier
barrel and a modified stock that’s more
ergonomic. It’s chambered in a much better
long-range caliber than the calibers of the
rifles it’s derived from. I’d wager he’d
use one as good as that. Could he hit a person
at three thousand feet? I wouldn’t want
to bet against it.”
Director Mueller said slowly, “We’d be
putting agents’ lives at risk. And to have
agents and SWAT teams trying to cover that
huge area twenty-four/seven, the necessary
manpower boggles the mind. There’s lots
of egress, roads and trails both. We have
to assume Günter is an expert. Have you mapped
out the terrain where he’d have his best
shot, Savich?”
Savich nodded. “Yes, we have. Unfortunately
there’s more than just one.”
Director Mueller looked toward Jimmy Maitland,
who nodded. “It’s a big risk, Jimmy. But
I’d bet on our snipers over just about anyone.
Can we have enough of our guys out there to
keep a reasonable guard over our agents?”
“We can try,” Jimmy Maitland said. “I
can get the Washington, D.C., SWAT team and
the Hostage Rescue Team at Quantico. Also,
we can enlist SWAT teams from all the local
cop shops. No doubt everyone wants to bring
this asshole down. But there’s no way to
keep it secret—we can’t expect to hide
that many men from view. Günter will know
it’s a trap. I don’t think there’s anything
we can do about that.”
Savich grinned at them. “We’re not even
going to worry about it. I want him to find
out. Don’t you see? Günter will see it
as a direct challenge. He’ll want to spend
time out at Quantico finding the firing spot
he wants, locating the positions of our snipers,
figuring out how to get away. Oh yes, I’m
counting on Günter to thumb his nose at us.
“Okay, the first step is to let Günter
know exactly where Fleurette will be. Callie,
you want to be a turncoat and reveal Fleurette’s
hideout to the Post?”
Callie laughed. “My editor will wet himself.
It’ll be in the evening paper.” She punched
Ben in the arm. “Hey, you think this might
mean a Pulitzer?”
“Nah, this’ll probably just save your
job,” Ben said.
They all laughed. Director Mueller stood up.
He looked at all of them in turn. “I wish
us all luck with this.”
When the conference room door closed behind
the director, Savich said, “Okay, we’ve
got a plan. We’re finally acting, not just
reacting.”
“Let’s get it done, boyos,” said Jimmy
Maitland.
CHAPTER
33
QUANTICO
LATE MONDAY AFTERNOON
SOME DEAD LEAVES MOVED, three fingers gave
a little wave. Dave Dempsey heard Joe Boyle’s
low-pitched voice. “Hey, did you tell your
wife you might tangle with Günter?”
Dave whispered back, “I wanted to, but she
isn’t speaking to me right now, said I was
a pig.”
A low chuckle. “Yeah, so what else is new?
Hey, do you think this Günter character will
really show?”
Dave said, “Agent Savich told us he’s
betting on it. Says this guy loves to take
the big risks, and what bigger risk could
he take than coming to Quantico to kill Elaine
LaFleurette? He said Günter will know it’s
a trap and he won’t care. It’ll make him
even more determined to come out and play
with us. What do you think, Joe?”
“I’m not as sure as Savich is. I mean,
this Günter guy’s survived a lot of years,
and that’s gotta mean that he isn’t stupid.”
Dave whispered, “On the other hand, he went
right to Savich’s house in Georgetown and
shot it up—is that nuts or what? And he
got away. Sounds like he’s got bigger guavas
than my mother-in-law.”
Joe said, “Take a look around. There are
lots of low hills, lots of trees and bushes,
true, but everything’s bare now. That makes
it really tough for him.”
“But there are still some places to hide.
Look at us, nearly thirty of us and we’ve
managed it.”
Joe said, “Okay, agreed, but Quantico itself
is safer than the fricking Mint. How can this
goon imagine he’d actually get in here,
no matter how crazy he is?” He was silent
a moment. “I’ll bet he’ll leave us lying
out here for a week, just laugh and watch
us. I wonder how long Giffey Talbot is going
to wander around outside the Jefferson Dormitory
before Savich finally calls this off.
“I was thinking about Giffey—quite a thing,
offering yourself up as bait.”
Dave shifted a bit more underneath a bush
that barely covered him, and swept his eyes
westward. “Hey, we’re bait too, we’re
just armed with sniper rifles. Savich said
he could be an expert sniper, who the hell
knows?”
Joe was listening to Dave shifting in the
bushes when he heard some branches snapping
off to the side. “Did you hear that, Dave?
Hey, look at three o’clock. I saw something
moving. All of our people are supposed to
stay down, but I saw something move. Just
beyond those pine trees.”
Dave Dempsey squinted in the watery sunlight
toward the hillock, didn’t see anything.
“Who do we have over there?”
“Luther Lindsay.”
“I don’t see anything, but call him now,
Joe. This isn’t the time for second-guessing.”
Dave heard Joe whisper urgently into his radio,
“Luther, movement in your area. What have
you got over there? Luther? Dammit, talk to
me. Luther!”
Both Dave and Joe could hear their own breathing.
Luther was a fifteen-year man, married with
two teenage girls, solid as a rock, and he
could hear footsteps on a carpet. Günter
couldn’t have gotten to Luther.
Joe repeated, “Luther? Dammit, talk to me,
Luther.”
Dave Dempsey was on his own walkie-talkie,
calling command. “Captain Ramsey, possible
situation. Lindsay isn’t answering. Joe
swears he saw some movement over there where
Luther’s supposed to be. He can’t raise
Luther. We’re moving out.”
Within seconds six SWAT team members were
moving fast, bent over, with only the sound
of the branches crunching underfoot as they
converged on Lindsay’s location.
A shot rang out, then another.
As they climbed the knoll, Joe Boyle could
see down into the Quantico quadrangle. Giffey
Talbot, her two FBI agent guards behind her,
was standing in front of the entrance to the
Jefferson Dormitory. She was weaving, looking
down at her bloody hands over her chest, the
agents behind her were shouting, their guns
drawn, jumping in front of her. He watched
Giffey fall, one agent catching her before
she hit the ground. They both covered her
with their bodies as shouts filled the air.
Joe yelled, “Oh Jesus, Dave, he’s near
Luther’s location, and he shot Giffey! Get
him!”
“Luther!” Dave Dempsey dropped to his
knees beside Luther, one of the best of the
best, a dead shrub half covering him. He was
shaking as he pressed his fingers to the pulse
in Luther’s neck. His fingers sank into
his flesh to touch the silver wire embedded
deep in his neck. Luther was dead.
Within moments, using a general mayday to
every SWAT team member, Chief Ramsey deployed
them all in twos and threes, to close in on
where the shot had been fired. He prayed as
he barked out orders that they wouldn’t
find any more men dead.
Six minutes later, Dr. Clyde Peterson, the
surgeon stationed at Quantico for the duration
of Operation Flower Girl, came out of the
small exam room, peeling off his blood-covered
surgical gloves, and said to Savich, “Agent
Talbot is alive. We’re stabilizing her,
then getting her to Bethesda. I won’t lie
to you, Agent Savich. It’s a large caliber
bullet, slowed down some by her vest, but
still real close to her heart. She’s actively
bleeding and it’s going to be close. It’ll
depend on exactly what it hit. So pray. I’ll
keep in touch.”
Pray, Dr. Peterson wanted him to pray. Savich
watched two men roll Giffey by on a gurney
on a dead run. She as white as the sheet pulled
up to her neck, an oxygen mask over her nose
and mouth, blood running into IVs in her arms.
Her own blood was everywhere, surely more
blood than a body could lose. If Giffey died,
it would be his fault, because he’d been
arrogant enough to assume three SWAT teams
could control the perimeter, could protect
Fleurette—Giffey—from this monster. Dear
God, not Giffey. She was a good agent, he’d
watched her volunteer for a myriad of assignments,
always eager, ready to take on the world.
Savich stood with his back against a brick
wall, aware of all the activity going on around
him as the helicopter lifted off the pad right
outside the Jefferson Dormitory. He knew that
Captain Ramsey was searching methodically,
that the captain knew a lot more than he did
about how to cover the grounds as quickly
and efficiently as possible to find Günter.
There was nothing he could do to help out
there. All he could do was stand here like
a dolt and know that he’d been the one to
bring it all about.
Jimmy Maitland came striding up to him. “I
just spoke to Chip Ramsey. Dammit, Luther
Lindsay is dead, but thankfully, everyone
else is accounted for. Günter penetrated
the lines all the way to Luther without being
spotted. That means he was in a camouflage
uniform, just like the SWAT guys, his face
blackened. He obviously knew the terrain well
enough to pick a rise he could shoot from.
“Chip doesn’t know how long he waited
there before he took out Luther, but he’s
thinking it wasn’t long at all. Someone
would have noticed. Günter saw Fleurette
flanked by two bodyguards, standing right
in front of the Jefferson Dormitory, took
Luther out, and took his shot. Dave and Joe
heard the struggle and headed to Luther’s
location. Günter heard them, and that’s
probably what saved Giffey’s life—threw
his aim off.
“The thing is, Savich, why would he think
that we’d actually put Fleurette out there
in harm’s way? He knew we’d set a trap
for him.”
Savich said, “I saw Fleurette and Giffey
standing side-by-side after Fleurette had
finished Giffey’s makeup, done her hair
this morning, given her one of her dresses
and her coat. I swear I couldn’t tell them
apart. Could be twins.”
“Well, Günter must have believed it was
her, too. I’m willing to bet he was ready
to spend a couple of hours watching, may have
been surprised anything could come of it this
quickly. The bastard.”
“How did he get Luther?”
“Chip says Luther was on his belly, looking
toward Giffey sweeping the area, and Günter
jumped on his back, looped the wire around
his neck, and that was it. Luther probably
managed to fight, and that’s what Joe Boyle
and Dave Dempsey saw—the bit of noise, the
shadow of movement was Luther trying to save
himself. But he couldn’t. Then Günter sighted
in on Giffey—he actually used Luther’s
own rifle—but before he could shoot, he
heard Joe and Dave and that, thankfully, pulled
his aim off a bit. He fired, saw her fall,
saw it was a chest shot, and he was out of
there.
“This is a tough one, Savich. I’ve known
Luther for more than a dozen years. Chip and
I will speak to his family as soon as I can
get away. Amanda Lindsay is a great lady,
and their teenage girls are terrific. Dammit,
dammit.”
Savich nodded, swallowed. He’d met Luther
about six years before, admired his skill,
his humor, his love for his family. But his
skills hadn’t saved him. He tried to think
of something to say, but couldn’t. All he
saw was Giffey on that stretcher, lying in
her own blood, and he couldn’t stand it.
He said then, “Giffey might die, and I know
it’s my fault if she does.”
“We all knew the risks, Savich, Giffey,
too. We all went along with this plan as our
best opportunity. It may have been the only
way we had to get Günter.”
It was in that moment Savich realized they
still had a chance to pull it off, to protect
Fleurette and get Günter. “Sir, I’ve
got another plan, although since this one
was such a spectacular failure, I wouldn’t
blame you for telling me to shove it.”
“Lay it on me, Savich, let’s see.”
When Savich finished, Jimmy Maitland sucked
in a deep breath. “I like it, and it might
work. Your brain is good, Savich, keep using
it. You need to go see Fleurette. She’s
with her parents and Sherlock, and she’s
really shaken. I’ll keep in touch with Bethesda,
have Dr. Peterson call you as soon as he knows
Giffey’s status.
“Yeah, this might work. You can bet Günter
will be glued to the TV, waiting to hear the
breaking news that Fleurette is dead so he
can celebrate.”
Savich said, “We’ve got to outthink him.
That’s why we can’t come out and announce
she’s dead, and that’s why we’ll delay
announcing who was taken to Bethesda in the
helicopter.”
“Director Mueller sure won’t like holding
back like this, dancing around the truth,
but I think he’ll agree. Then we have Callie.
You think you can convince her to go along
with this?”
“In a heartbeat.”
“Maybe we’re being premature. There’s
still a chance we can get our hands on him
today. Chip has the SWAT people spread out
all over. Since we don’t have anything more
reliable, we’re looking particularly hard
at any late-model cars, Toyotas, you know,
like Mr. Avery described last night, and anyone
fitting Mr. Avery’s description. We might
get this guy.”
He stopped talking, saw that Savich looked
frozen, as if stuck to the wall he was leaning
against.
“Savich, stop blaming yourself. I need you
sharp and focused on getting this plan of
yours to work.”
“Dr. Peterson told me to pray.”
“I’ll wager a lot of people at Quantico
are praying. Do your job, Savich. Where’s
Sherlock when I need her here to punch your
lights out?”
“You told me she’s with Fleurette and
her parents.”
“Yeah, so I did. And look at what else I
forgot—it must be senility that I clean
forgot that you’re God and you make all
the decisions around here. Well, you’re
not, so get over it. Do your job. Get Günter.”
Jimmy Maitland turned, his cell phone already
in his big hand. He turned back, frowned.
“Hey, what’s Giffey’s name short for?”
“Gifford. She told me her mom named her
after Frank Gifford, lived near him in New
York City, at One Lincoln Plaza. Her dad liked
Gifford too, he’s a real football nut. Giffey
told me once it was the only thing she could
ever remember her parents agreeing about.”
“I’ll talk to her parents too. They need
to get to Bethesda.” Mr. Maitland looked
down at his watch. “I’ve got to speak
to Director Mueller right away, tell him about
your plan. I’ll bet the media are calling
already.”
Savich was grateful to his boss for dealing
with Giffey’s parents and Luther’s family.
One phone call, and your world, as you knew
it, was gone. Just gone. He thought that if
he had to speak to them, he’d start crying.
CHAPTER
34
SAVICH FOUND FLEURETTE in his office, sobbing
in her father’s arms, her mother standing
by looking helpless. Sherlock was watching
them, sitting on the edge of the desk.
Sherlock looked up. “Giffey?”
“She’s on her way by helicopter to Bethesda.”
And then he saw Fleurette’s white face and
lied clean. “She’ll be all right. She’s
fit and strong. Giffey will be all right.
They’re going to be in touch with us constantly.
I’ll let you know immediately if something
happens. Okay?”
Mr. Malcolm LaFleurette, a tall, handsome
man dressed like a diplomat in a gray cashmere
Italian suit, looked up over his daughter’s
head. “How did this happen, Agent Savich?”
“It shouldn’t have, Mr. LaFleurette. It
shouldn’t have.”
“The shot the guy made—I can’t imagine
shooting that far and actually hitting someone.”
“It was over three thousand feet.” Savich
paused a moment, saw that they were all trying
to make sense of the distance, and said, “That’s
more than ten football fields.”
Elaine’s head snapped up. “Ten football
fields? I don’t think I can even see that
far.”
“He had a very powerful scope, the very
best of everything.” Savich looked toward
Sherlock, even managed a small smile. “Excuse
me a moment,” he said to Fleurette, nodding
solemnly to her mother, Norma Lee, who was
looking at him as if he were their savior,
and how could that be? He took Sherlock outside
and leaned his forehead against hers.
Sherlock smiled up at him, gave him a hug,
and cupped his face between her palms. “Giffey
will make it, Dillon. No, don’t shake your
head at me. Stop looking like you’re going
to fold in on yourself with guilt. You made
the right decision based on what you knew.
She’ll pull through this.”
At that moment, Savich simply couldn’t believe
how very lucky he was that she’d come into
his life. “You know, for the first time,
I think she just might.” He hugged her again.
“Where’s Sean?”
“Lily took him over to your mom’s. Your
mom, Lily told me, begged so pathetically
that she had simply no choice. I think Simon
wanted to score points, so he went with them.
You know Simon always charms your mom’s
socks off.”
“He’ll ooze charm. He wants Lily powerfully
bad. Listen now, and tell me what you think
of this.”
When he walked back into his office, Savich
felt like a hundred pounds had been lifted
off his back. “Fleurette, let me tell you
what’s going to happen. I’m going to ask
Callie Markham to release to the press that
you were actually the one shot, not an FBI
agent. It will help us keep you safe. But
you’re staying right here, inside at least
for a few days. You can go to classes, work
out in the gym, stuff pizza down your gullet,
but you’ll have to remain indoors. There’ll
always be two agents with you.”
“What are you going to do, Agent Savich?”
Savich gave Mr. LaFleurette a big smile. “I’m
going to get Günter, but believe me, my first
priority is to keep Fleurette safe. What do
you say, Fleurette? Will you do as I ask?”
Fleurette pulled herself together, straightened
her shoulders, and, for the first time since
Savich had come into his office, she turned
back into an adult. She stepped away from
her father, hugged her arms around herself,
and nodded at her mother. “Yes, Agent Savich,
I’ll do exactly what you say. You know something?
I’m finally thinking straight, and I realize
that Günter must have seen Danny talking
to me, and believed he was telling me secrets.
Obviously, he didn’t see me ditch Danny
after a block or so. What I don’t understand
is why he didn’t kill me right away.”
Savich said, “For whatever reason, the person
who hired him believed Danny O’Malley and
Eliza Vickers were greater and more immediate
threats.”
“All of this is quite terrifying, Agent
Savich,” said Mrs. LaFleurette. She looked
young enough to be Fleurette’s older sister,
with the same hair, the same eyes, same tilt
of the head. “You know as well as we do
that Elaine won’t be safe until the assassin
is caught or dead.”
Sherlock said, “That’s right. And we have
a lot of people hunting him right now. There
are witnesses, there always are. We’ll find
them, just like we found Mr. Avery last night.
But you’re right, Fleurette isn’t safe
until we take him down, and that’s why she’s
staying right here. Inside.”
Sherlock paused a moment, then pulled two
photos out of her shirt pocket. “I know
we already showed you these photos, Fleurette,
but would you look at them again?”
Fleurette took the photos, walked over to
the window, and studied them in the bright
light, for a very long time. Finally, she
shook her head. “No, I’m sorry.”
“Think back to Friday when you were walking
with Danny. Did you see anyone looking at
you?”
Again, she shook her head. “No, if he was
there, I wasn’t aware of him at all.”
Sherlock said, “Okay, why don’t we go
downstairs to a conference room where there’s
a TV. Dillon, it’s been thirty minutes.
Okay, let’s all go see if Director Mueller
is on yet.”
Director Mueller was just coming on. Fox TV
had mobilized fast. Director Mueller looked
stoic, grave and solemn. His eyes sheened
with tears when he spoke of Luther Lindsay,
the dead SWAT team member from the Washington,
D.C., field office. He was tremendously apologetic
to everyone. As for any other casualties,
and who was behind the assault, he promised
full disclosure as the information became
available. Even though he took responsibility,
he managed to convey the impression that he
was doing his best under trying circumstances.
He took no questions. As far as Savich could
see, it was a flawless performance of bureaucratic
cover-up. There wasn’t a word about Fleurette.
And Günter would start to wonder why.
As for Savich, he wondered whether Director
Mueller’s mother would be on the phone to
him right after the press conference demanding
to know what was really going on. He wondered
if Director Mueller would tell her.
Savich’s cell phone rang. His first thought
was Giffey. But it was Callie, who said immediately,
“How is Giffey?”
“I don’t know anything yet. Did you do
it?”
“Oh yeah. I just faxed Coombes a note about
how badly the FBI screwed up in trying to
protect Fleurette, how Director Mueller was
trying to keep it all quiet. I told him I
thought Fleurette was the one shot and they’d
taken her to Bethesda. Old Jed will eat it
up, bet he’s claiming he knew Director Mueller
was covering his ass by not admitting she’d
been shot at Quantico. Made me sick to give
that slant, but I did it, as you asked. Jed
will write it up as a scoop and make it really
contemptuous of the FBI. He and I will both
be in trouble when Fleurette shows herself
safe and in one piece. So I hope this was
worth it to you.”
“I hope so too. I owe you one, Callie.”
Not three minutes later, his cell rang again,
and this time he knew it was about Giffey.
He didn’t want to answer it. He stared down
at it like it was a snake about to bite him.
Sherlock’s hand suddenly covered his. She
didn’t say anything, smiled up at him, and
nodded.
“Savich here.” He listened for some time,
then said, “Great news. Thank you, Dr. Peterson.
We’ll be here.”
There was silence in the conference room,
only the movement on TV, muted now, by Sherlock.
Savich said, “That was Dr. Peterson. He
said that Giffey’s got Dr. Edward Bricker
operating on her. He’s one of the best thoracic
surgeons in the world. They’ve got the bleeding
stopped, and Giffey’s hanging in there.
Dr. Peterson thinks she’s going to make
it. She still has to pull through surgery,
and the next twenty-four hours will be critical,
but I could hear the optimism in his voice.
She’s got a good chance.”
“Thank God,” Fleurette said. “Oh, thank
you, God.”
An hour later, Savich walked back into his
office to see Ben and Callie in close conversation.
When they saw him, they stepped quickly apart,
and looked embarrassed. Well, well, Savich
thought, and smiled at them. He could think
fast on his feet, and he did so now. “I’ve
got a favor to ask of you guys, that is, if
you’re both free tonight.”
“Sure, no problem,” Ben said. Callie nodded.
Savich studied his thumbnail a moment, then
said, “I’d like you and Callie to go to
a pretty nice restaurant in Georgetown this
evening—how about Filomena’s on Wisconsin?”
“That’s a real fancy place, Dillon,”
Callie said. “It’s one of my mom’s favorite
restaurants. I can’t imagine we could get
in on such short notice.”
“Who’s paying?” Ben asked.
Savich laughed. “The FBI will reimburse
you. When you call, mention my name to the
maître d’. He knew my grandmother, Sarah
Elliott, and he’s still impressed that I’m
her grandson. He’ll get you two a table,
probably a really good one.
“Spend some time at the bar first. All I
want you to do is listen to what’s being
said. I want your opinions on whether or not
people saw through Director Mueller’s fancy
excuses. And if they’ve read the Post, does
everyone believe that Fleurette is at Bethesda.
Talk to people, see what they think. What
you don’t want to hear is that Fleurette
isn’t the one who was shot here at Quantico,
or that she’s dead. We want speculation
on that. What do you guys think?”
Callie shot a look at Ben, but nodded. “All
right.”
When Savich met Sherlock a few minutes later,
she said, “I ran into Ben and Callie. They
said something about dining out on the FBI
this evening, and then Callie sort of looked
confused and said she really didn’t understand
why this was so important to you.”
He grinned at her. “Yeah, well, we’ll
see what comes of it. Now, I need to deal
with Bethesda.”
FILOMENA’S
WISCONSIN AVENUE,
N.W. GEORGETOWN,
WASHINGTON, D.C.
SUNDAY EVENING
CALLIE TOOK A BITE of her beautifully prepared
swordfish, looked up, and saw Ben staring
at her. “What?”
He shook his head, but didn’t look away.
The fact was she didn’t look like he was
used to seeing her, and he couldn’t quite
get himself used to the transformation. She
was wearing a little black dress that had
long sleeves and no back to speak of, and
high heels that put her nearly at six feet
tall. He’d picked her up earlier at her
mother’s house, she’d waltzed down the
stairs, looking the way women always look
when they’re going to drive a man crazy.
He couldn’t stop staring at her. And she
was wearing her hair differently, pulled back
and up on her head with dangly little curls
hanging over her ears. He said, “I was thinking
you look pretty good tonight.”
“Why, thank you, sir. Your suit looks pretty
good, too.”
“What? This old thing?”
She laughed. “Yes, that old thing—Italian,
right? And you think my mom’s friends are
snobs.”
“I picked you up in my Crown Vic. You can’t
get more pedestrian than that.”
“Yes, you did. I wanted the truck, but I
probably couldn’t have climbed in it anyway,
not in these heels. You know, Ben, actually,
I think you look hot.”
He stirred around the little pile of potato
fritters, and kept his mouth shut.
“This dress does wonders for my butt, don’t
you think?”
“Well, it sure is short. I’ve only seen
you in pants, boots, and sweaters big enough
to fit me. And your hair’s always stuffed
under a cap.”
“No hat hair tonight.” Callie pulled off
a piece of her dinner roll, and decided that
what she really wanted to do was jump over
the table and kiss him stupid. Instead, she
cleared her throat and said, “I’m still
wondering why Dillon sent us here. Does he
think Günter is the type to eat at fancy
restaurants?”
And in that instant, Ben saw the light. He
and Callie had been maneuvered by an expert.
It gave him a jolt to realize he probably
wouldn’t have thought of it himself, although
he should have. Regardless of how this lovely
candlelit dinner had come about, he was sitting
across from a beautiful woman who was wearing
a short black dress, eating swordfish. What
had she said? Oh yes, Günter. Ben said, “Who
knows if this is Günter’s kind of place?”
“For all we know, he could own the joint.”
“That’s depressing and true. I think after
dinner, we should walk to Barnes and Noble,
it’s a good place to hang out and listen
to people talk.”
As they walked down M Street, the frigid January
air seeping under their collars and up Callie’s
dress, Ben said, “In those stilts you’re
wearing, you’re nearly to the bridge of
my nose.”
“Nah, I’m above your eyebrows, admit it.”
It seemed natural to take her hand, even more
natural for her to move closer.
In every Barnes & Noble aisle, like at Filomena’s,
nearly everyone had believed Director Mueller
was covering up the shooting of another law
clerk, read the Post, that’s where the real
scoop was.
Callie said, “Jed was fast, as well as going
the extra ten yards beyond what I told him.”
They heard a man say, “I sure wouldn’t
apply there if I was fresh out of law school.
I wonder if there’ll be a shortage next
year.”
“All three of the law clerks who worked
for Justice Califano—dead in a week.”
“The Post didn’t say she was dead. She’s
in Bethesda.”
“Who knows?”
They walked through the aisles, pausing to
listen when they hit a new group of people.
“I sure hope they protect that poor law
clerk this time. If she’s still alive.”
“Bingo,” Ben said.
When Ben and Callie left, he found himself
driving back toward Savich’s house. He said,
“I spoke to Savich when you went to the
bathroom. I told him what we’d heard, and
he said okay, good, that was what he’d hoped.
I got the impression that he feels like shit
about Giffey. I heard it in his voice. He
blames himself.”
“Yes, he would. And given what happened,
I’d blame myself too. Where are we going?”
Ben slowed down in front of the house, then
pulled to the curb and put the car in park.
“I wanted to check on them. Everything looks
quiet. I know Savich has a state-of-the-art
security system, protection for his grandmother’s
painting, of course. But still—”
“You wanted to make sure. No problem.”
“One more stop?” Ben pressed the turn
signal, went right toward the house where
old Mr. Avery lived. “I remember it being
2371 Lombard Street. It’s not too late.
Let’s stop in and talk to him. You game?”
CHAPTER
35
NATHANIEL AVERY ANSWERED the door almost immediately.
He was decked out in a tatty pale blue chenille
bathrobe that fell nearly to his bony feet.
It looked like it belonged to his wife. Ben
felt his optimism sinking fast. Truth was,
Mr. Avery looked like a batty old codger who
wouldn’t know a Toyota if it had its name
printed across the windshield.
At least Mr. Avery wasn’t wearing fuzzy
house slippers, or Ben might have turned right
back around and left. No, his house slippers
were a manly dark brown leather.
“Who’re you, sonny?”
Ben pulled out his badge, held it out for
Mr. Avery to study, which he did, pushing
his glasses up on his nose and looking at
Ben’s badge for a long time, silent the
whole while. He finally looked up. “Okay,
you’re really a cop. And you?”
“I’m Callie Markham. I’m with him.”
“What are you two doing here all duded up?”
“We had dinner at Filomena’s,” Ben said
smoothly. “The swordfish was excellent.”
“I never cared none for swordfish.”
Callie said, “Do you think we could speak
to you about last night, and the man you saw
jump into that car and drive off?”
“I already spoke to a good half-dozen local
cops. I was hoping maybe the FBI would call,
but they haven’t checked in yet. You think
they might?”
“Nah. I think we’re the best you’re
going to get,” Ben said. “It’s been
twenty-four hours since you spoke to anyone,
and I’ll bet that you, Mr. Avery, have thought
and thought about it, replayed the scene a
lot in your mind.”
“Well, yeah, that’s true enough. I know
all about that agent’s house getting shot
up—we haven’t ever had anything that exciting
happen in this neighborhood.”
“Maybe, sir, if we all discuss it together,
you might remember something new that could
help us.”
Mr. Avery’s glasses were sliding down his
nose as he waved them into a dark living room
where the TV was on, but there was no sound.
“Marylee, don’t worry, it’s the cops!”
An old woman with lots of beautiful silver
hair, wearing an identical pale pink chenille
bathrobe and fluffy pale pink slippers, was
sitting in a La-Z-Boy chair, feet up, staring
at them. “What did you say, dear?”
Mr. Avery raised his own voice to a yell.
“It’s the police! Go back to your knitting,
Marylee. Everything’s okay. Where’s Luciano?”
There was a surprisingly robust bark, and
then a tiny black dog pranced out, tail wagging
like a fast metronome. “That’s Luciano,
my little boy. He’s only two, my happy little
camper, always on the go. I have to walk him
six times a day. He loves to waggle around,
walks right up to big dogs and barks at them,
tries to lick them.” Mr. Avery leaned over,
knees creaking, and picked up Luciano, who
licked him all over his face, barked, and
then paused, cocked his little head, and stared
at Ben and Callie.
“Now Luciano is a seriously cute dog,”
Callie said. “What’s his breed?”
Mr. Avery leaned close, whispered, “He’s
a miniature poodle, but he doesn’t know
it. If you asked him, he’d say he’s human.”
He patted the dog, raised his voice, and waved
them in. “All right, you come in and sit
down. Marylee doesn’t use the sound on the
TV, couldn’t hear it unless it was loud
enough to blast out the neighbors, but she
likes it on while she knits. Good lip-reader,
Marylee.”
Mr. Avery settled himself in a matching La-Z-Boy,
settled Luciano on his bony legs, and waved
Ben and Callie to a very lovely brocade sofa
opposite him.
“All right. Ask your questions, Detective
Raven.”
“Let’s go over exactly where you were
when you saw this man, Mr. Avery.”
“I was maybe twenty feet south of my house.”
“There was a half-moon last night, so that
means light. Were you wearing your glasses?”
“Yep, have to when Luciano does his business
because I gotta scoop it up. And I don’t
want a car to run me down when Luciano wants
to walk over to Madison Avenue, that’s one
of his favorite areas around here.”
“Okay, so you saw a man. How old was he?
What did you think when you saw him?”
“He wasn’t old, but gawldarn, Detective
Raven, a guy’d have to be seventy before
I wouldn’t think he was a kid. Okay, let’s
say he was getting up there, middle age, fifties,
I’d say. He was big, looked fit, no fat
that I could tell. He was wearing a Burberry
coat. I know Burberrys because that’s all
my brother wears, the affected dufuss. I only
noticed him because he was running. You don’t
see that very often on a Saturday night in
this neighborhood. No druggies hang out here,
just good solid folks, like Marylee and me
and Luciano. We’ve been here for forty-five
years.”
“Where was his car parked?”
“About twenty feet north of my house, on
this side, it was the only car out on the
street. Like I said, this is a homey neighborhood,
folks have garages and use them. No punks
with cars up on blocks in their driveways
or on the street.”
“You said it was a white car, maybe a pale
gray?”
“I think now it was white.”
Callie beamed at him. “So you remember that
now.”
“Yep, thought about it a lot, like Detective
Raven said I’d do. I told the other cops
it was a gray or white Toyota, late model,
maybe a 2000 or a 2001, but I wasn’t all
that sure at the time. Guess they had good
reason not to take me seriously about it.
I saw a couple of Toyotas today, and that’s
what it was. The Toyota had two doors, not
four. It was clean, even the radial tires.”
Ben said, “So the guy runs up to the driver’s
side, pulls open the door, jumps in, starts
the car, and peels away from the curb.”
Mr. Avery was shaking his head. “You know
what—hey, Luciano, come back to Daddy—don’t
chew on Marylee’s slipper!—good boy, that’s
a good boy. Now, what was I saying? Oh yeah,
the thing is, now that I think about it, the
car was already running.”
Ben didn’t move a muscle.
“That’s something else I remember now.
You see, Detective Raven, there wasn’t time
for this guy to run to the car, open the door,
stick the key in the ignition, turn over the
engine, and take off. Nope, he jumped in the
driver’s side.” Mr. Avery snapped his
fingers. “Yeah, I remember that clearly
now. The car had to be running. And he didn’t
have to open that door, it was already ajar.”
Ben, doubtful now, and hating it, hoping the
cops weren’t right about Mr. Avery making
things up, nonetheless said, “Were you going
to call the FBI about remembering this, Mr.
Avery?”
Mr. Avery was shaking his head. “Well, maybe,
if they’d asked again, but I knew they were
thinking I was just an old buzzard with pudding
for brains and probably blind and deaf as
a post, like poor Marylee. They sort of acted
that way last night. I mean, they were respectful,
and they nodded a lot, but you know, I saw
them looking at each other when they didn’t
think I’d notice. Why waste my time?”
Mr. Avery paused a moment, then cursed. “Yeah,
I would have called tomorrow, anyway. My pa
was a cop, taught me what was right.”
“Good for you,” Callie said.
Ben sat forward, hands flexing on his knees.
His eyes were bright, and he felt his heart
begin to pound. “Well, I’m here, Mr. Avery,
and it seems to me you’re as sound as I
am, sir. Okay, then, were you saying there
was someone else in the car?”
Both Callie and Ben waited to the sound of
Marylee humming to the theme song of a television
show no one could hear, her knitting needles
clacking loud in the silence. Luciano was
standing on his hind legs, his front paws
on Mr. Avery’s knee, tail wagging, as if
waiting to hear what his master was going
to say, too.
“You know, I don’t remember hearing the
car running, but then, I wasn’t really paying
any attention, until I saw this guy heading
toward that car on a dead run, that Burberry
coat flapping around his legs. I guess someone
in the car saw him coming, and that someone
had to turn on the ignition key. The driver’s
side door wasn’t shut, yeah, it had to be
partly open, that’s it, because, like I
told you, that guy comes running up—he wasn’t
even out of breath, I remember that too—and
he pulls the door open, jumps in, his foot
slams down hard on the gas, and he fishtails
it away from the curb.”
Callie’s foot was tapping. She was sitting
forward.
Mr. Avery pulled Luciano back up on his lap.
“Jeez, yeah, now I see it, you know what
else? Someone moved inside the car, in the
passenger seat. I remember when he floored
the gas and the car fishtailed a little bit,
someone’s head jerked back. It had to be
a woman because her hair sort of fanned out.
Yeah, it was a woman waiting for him, a woman
who turned on that car. That or some sort
of weird hippie guy with long hair.”
It was close, but Ben avoided picking up Mr.
Avery and Luciano and waltzing them around
the living room.
Ten minutes later, Ben was on his cell to
Savich, telling him how smart old Mr. Avery
turned out to be.
Savich said, “You’re sure the old man
has it together and he wasn’t spinning a
good story for you?”
Ben said, “He’s a piece of work, I’ll
grant you that. Initially he comes across
on the flaky side, but his brain is intact,
Savich. I’m as sure of that as I am that
my mother found my stash of Playboy magazines
when I was eleven years old.”
“Okay. You’re right, Ben, this could be
big. Well done. Tell Callie she’s a princess.
Oh yeah, did you guys enjoy Filomena’s?”
“Probably as much as you intended us to.”
“Well, that’s good.”
When Ben hung up, he turned to Callie. “Savich
said you were a princess. Does that make you
proud?”
Callie laughed, then sobered quickly. “All
right. What are we going to do now?”
“I’m taking you home. I think we’ve
got enough for tonight.”
“I agree. So there was a woman in Günter’s
car. I suppose now Savich will find out where
every woman involved in the case was last
night. Oh, Ben, you will call me the minute
you find out anything about Giffey?”
“You got it.”
He turned the Crown Vic around and headed
toward Margaret Califano’s house on Beckhurst
Lane.
After about five minutes of staring straight
ahead through the windshield, Callie said,
“You know, you did look like a natural.”
“What? A natural what?”
“When you were holding Sean last night.
You looked like a natural.”
“Oh yeah, well, I got four nieces and nephews,
two of each. I’ve changed a couple of diapers
in my time.”
Now she did turn to face him. “Really? You’ve
really changed diapers yourself?”
“It isn’t rocket science, Callie. What
with the Velcro tapes, I’d bet you a baby
could do his own diaper. Where’s this coming
from?”
She shrugged. “We did have a lovely dinner,
didn’t we?”
“I was salivating more over that dress of
yours than I was the swordfish.”
“It’s been just over a week. It doesn’t
seem real.”
He nodded, turned smoothly onto Caledonia
Street and continued west. He wanted to ask
if she’d like to neck with him, but managed
to hold his tongue.
“Hey,” she said, “Mr. Avery is something
else, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he is, and that little dog is a ridiculous
little bit of fluff, but you know what? I
liked him. Happy little critter. Can’t believe
I’d say that about a poodle. A miniature
poodle, for God’s sake. Thing is, I can
see him crawling all over me at six in the
morning, licking my face off.”
As a matter of fact, Callie could picture
it too, and that was a surprise. What wasn’t
a surprise was that she could also see herself,
lying next to Ben Raven, laughing, waiting
for Luciano to leap over on her. Why did feelings
and attachments have to sprout like weeds
at a time like this?
Ben shot her a look, but didn’t say a word.
When they got to Margaret’s house, he walked
Callie to the front door. The lights were
all off except for the porch light.
“Looks like your mom’s friends have gone
for the evening.” He waited until she’d
unlocked the door and stepped inside.
“Callie, about this natural thing.”
“Yes?”
“Ah, forget it. Never mind. I’ll call
you when I find out anything about Giffey.”
She was bundled up in her black wool coat,
a bright red scarf wrapped around her neck,
but he could clearly picture that sexy little
black dress beneath. No, it wasn’t the time,
dammit. “Sleep well. I’ll see you in the
morning.” He turned to leave when she grabbed
his arm and yanked him back. Then she looked
up at him and said, “Don’t go. Oh dear,
am I an idiot or what? I forgot that my mom
told me she wanted me to move back to my own
place this evening. She said she was fine
now, that she needed to be by herself for
a while. I told her I would, that I’d see
her for dinner tomorrow night. I forgot. I
wonder what I should do.”
“Check on her, make sure she’s okay, then
I’ll take you to your apartment.”
She nodded. “Okay. What will we be doing
tomorrow?”
“I have a meeting with Captain Halloway
and Police Commissioner Holt at the Daly Building
at eight-thirty, but I’ll call, let you
know when I’ll be coming by to get you.
Savich will have something for us to do, count
on it.”
“Come in with me. I’ll check on Mom, then
we can have some of her fancy French roast
coffee. Anything I’d have at home would
be stale, probably growing mold. And Mom always
keeps some croissants in the freezer. What
do you think?”
Ben wasn’t tired either. He was hyped. He
could take on the world. The fact was he wanted
to take her to bed, and that made everything
even more intense. “Okay, a croissant sounds
good. You got real butter?”
“Maybe Mom does. You’ll have to take your
chances.”
She took him to the ultra-modern stainless-steel
kitchen, gave him a bag of gourmet coffee,
and pointed him to the coffee machine, a European
thing that looked like you’d need a degree
in French engineering to figure it out.
Callie said, her voice dropping to a whisper,
“Let me go upstairs and check on Mom. Thing
is, I’m still worried about her. I’ll
be back in a minute.”
“Yeah, go on up, make sure she’s really
asleep. If she wakes up, hears us moving around
down here, it might scare her since she’s
expecting to be alone.”
“I’ll be right back.”
“I’m right here,” Margaret said, smiling
at both of them as she walked into the kitchen.
She looked pretty good, Ben thought, as he
nodded to her.
“You having any problems with the coffeemaker,
Ben?”
“He’s a guy, Mom. It’s in his genes.”
Margaret laughed. “Stewart never had that
particular gene.” Her voice dropped off,
but she didn’t start crying. She walked
to the cabinet and reached for coffee mugs.
Ben’s cell phone rang. “Raven here.”
Both women watched him as he listened for
several moments. When he punched off, he said,
“I’m sorry, but something’s come up.
Mrs. Califano, Callie, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And he was gone.
Callie started to go after him, then stopped.
“I wonder what’s going on?”
“He’ll tell you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, but in the meantime I’ll miss all
the fun.”
Margaret said, “I think I’d rather have
tea. Will you join me?”
CHAPTER
36
BETHESDA NAVAL HOSPITAL
SURGICAL INTENSIVE CARE UNIT
THE LARGE ROOMwas filled with shadows except
for the semicircular workstation where six
nurses and three clerks manned computers and
monitoring equipment, filed reports, and wrote
notes in the patients’ charts in the muted
light of their individual desk lamps. Conversation
within the group was low but frequent, just
above the hum and repetitive beeping of the
monitoring equipment.
Only the curtain to cubicle twelve was pulled
back slightly.
At eleven-thirty, an X-ray technician slid
her I.D. badge through the slot reader in
the SICU door and maneuvered in, pushing the
portable X-ray unit in front of her. She was
wearing rubber-soled shoes and made no sound
when she walked over to the dry erase board
to find the cubicle of her patient. She nodded
to one of the nurses, who looked at her from
behind the console, nodded toward cubicle
twelve, and looked back down at the chart
she was checking. The X-ray tech located the
patient, and disappeared inside uncurtained
cubicle number five. There was a soft murmur
of voices, the sound of a machine being positioned,
then silence.
The X-ray tech emerged from the cubicle five
minutes later, gave a small wave to the staff
behind the large workstation, and wheeled
out her equipment. Minutes later, another
I.D. badge slid through the door slot. A tall
older man walked in silently, wearing a white
lab coat over green scrubs, carrying a plastic
tray with blood-drawing paraphernalia. He
was whistling under his breath. The nurse
gave only an infinitesimal start, then shook
her head at the obvious black dye job on his
hair and mustache. Her fingers moved away
from a small button at her side.
The lab tech smiled at her, and then, like
the x-ray tech, checked the dry erase board
for his patient. “You’d think,” he said,
“that docs would try to schedule these nonemergent
blood draws when the patient has a chance
of being awake.”
“Nah,” one of the nurses said, “better
to catch them half asleep, they don’t worry
as much.”
The lab tech carried his tray to cubicle number
four and quietly pushed the door open, disappeared
inside.
After the lab tech left, it was silent again
in the large room, and in fact hardly anything
seemed to happen in the SICU for the next
two hours. The monitors continued their repetitive
low-hum vigil, and the patients’ heart rates
and blood pressures read out as curiously
stable for an intensive care unit. None of
the nurses left the central workstation.
At a quarter to one in the morning, the door
to cubicle twelve opened. Agents Savich and
Sherlock came out stretching.
Savich said, “It’s time for a shift change.
Are all the new patients ready?”
“I got a buzz from Agent Brady. He says
all’s clear, and they should be arriving
as a group just about now.”
In the next moment, the door to the SICU swung
open and three men and two women dressed in
hospital nightgowns came walking in, behind
them a score of new nurses, clerks, and techs.
“Hurry,” said one of the patients. “Brady
said they just spotted a guy coming this way
from the pathology lab.”
A patient with a huge bandage wrapped turban-style
around his head waved an IV line toward his
assigned nurse, who rolled her eyes at him.
Within two minutes, new patients were lying
in beds in five of the cubicles. The nurses
and staff were settled in behind the workstation,
and the machines and monitors resumed their
low buzz, the sign all was normal once again.
Savich paused a moment in the doorway to check
over the SICU once more. “Let’s go home,
Sherlock.”
FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, Savich pulled the
Porsche into his garage. Sherlock punched
in the code to disarm the security system,
saying over her shoulder, “I’m bushed.
Nothing’s as tiring as waiting for someone
who doesn’t show.”
Savich rubbed her shoulders as they walked
into the kitchen. She turned on the overhead
light.
“Bed never sounded so good,” Savich said
as he pulled a bottle of water from the refrigerator,
unscrewed the lid, and took a long drink.
He wiped his hand across his mouth and said
to his wife, who was leaning against the counter,
“Günter is crazy, no doubt in my mind about
that. Given the risks he’s taken to date,
I was betting he’d take this one too. But
he fooled me.”
“Maybe he’ll show in the middle of the
night.”
Savich shook his head. “Too quiet. Too empty.
He’s crazy, but he’s not stupid.”
He drank deeply again.
His fingers tightened slightly around the
bottle when he heard a whisper of movement
not ten feet away from the dark dining room.
Sherlock caught his eye. She picked up a dishcloth,
wiped down the island surface, and turned
to face him, looking relaxed, her arms crossed
over her chest. “Even though Günter’s
crazy, he must have realized his luck couldn’t
hold out. He’s an old man, Dillon, old and
used up. Quantico was his last hurrah. He’s
got no more in him. So why is he here now?”
A man’s deep voice came out of the shadows,
a bit of a slow Southern pace to his words.
“Because I knew you flat-footed morons were
setting another obvious trap at Bethesda,
just like at Quantico. I’ve been waiting
for you here, Savich, for quite some time.
And now you’ll tell me where you’ve hidden
Elaine LaFleurette.”
“I believe we have a guest, Sherlock. Günter,
come into the light, no need to be shy.”
A tall barrel-chested man walked into the
doorway, a SIG-Sauer held in his left hand.
As soon as Savich saw he wasn’t hiding his
face, he knew Günter intended to kill them.
He was dressed in black, even his hands were
gloved in black leather, a black cap pulled
down to his ears. He looked fit and strong,
but his face was deeply seamed, his mouth
small and deeply grooved. He looked old, like
he’d lived through too many long nights
planning too much death. Did he look crazy?
His eyes did, Savich thought, cold and empty.
“Günter Grass,” he said, savoring the
sounds. “You found out that name very quickly.
I haven’t used it for years.”
Savich asked as he walked slowly toward the
man, “You came here even though Fleurette
is in Bethesda?”
“Keep your distance, Savich, don’t try
to rush me. I know you can fight.” Günter
backed up so that he kept ten feet between
them. “Both of you, drop the SIGs now and
kick them over here.”
Savich and Sherlock both eased their guns
from their belt holsters, laid them on the
kitchen floor, and kicked them over to where
Günter stood.
Günter pointed his SIG directly at Sherlock.
“Both of you, come into the living room.
Savich, keep her between us.” When they
were in the living room, Günter motioned
them to sit on the sofa. He walked to the
living room archway, his SIG still pointed
at Sherlock’s chest. “Enough now. Where’s
Elaine LaFleurette?”
“At Bethesda,” Sherlock said. “In the
surgical ICU. Don’t you remember? You shot
her.”
Günter fired. The shot was deafening in the
quiet living room. Sherlock sucked in her
breath as the bullet grazed the outside of
her arm and buried itself in the wall behind
her. She jerked at the shock of it, but didn’t
cry out. She clapped her hand to her arm.
Savich was on his feet, in motion.
“Stop or I’ll kill her!”
Savich was breathing hard, adrenaline and
rage pumping through him. He wanted to kill
Günter, but he had his gun on Sherlock. He
reined himself in and sat back down, heart
thudding hard against his chest, afraid now.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m all right, Dillon. I’m all
right.”
Günter was smiling. “You don’t screw
with me, you hear? I am as much a professional
as you are. When I ask you a question, you
don’t smart-mouth me, you got that?”
“Yes, I’ve got that.” Sherlock knew
the numbness would fade soon and her arm would
be on fire. But the wound wasn’t bad, he’d
just wanted to scare her. His quiet threat
of more violence scared her more than the
bullet that had already torn through her flesh.
Savich said, “Put the gun down now, Günter.
There are a dozen more FBI agents surrounding
the house. It stops here, now. There’s no
way out for you.”
Günter stared at him. “You set me up at
Bethesda? And here in your own house?”
“Yes, that’s right. I underestimated you
once. I wasn’t about to do it a second time.
Put down the gun and we can end this without
any more killing.”
Savich saw the instant Günter believed him,
the instant he knew it was over for him. Something
in his eyes went dead and flat. He was suddenly
afraid that Günter would shoot both of them
before he could be stopped. He had to keep
him talking. “Tell us why you murdered Justice
Califano, Günter. Why you murdered Danny
O’Malley and Eliza Vickers. Why you still
want to kill Elaine LaFleurette. This is your
chance to tell us and the world. Tell us who
was working with you, it doesn’t matter
now, does it?”
Günter continued to hold his gun locked on
Sherlock’s chest. “You want the truth?
All right, I’ll tell you a bit of truth.”
He paused, his eyes calm now, resigned, and
Sherlock would swear she saw relief there
as well. He continued in a slow voice. “I
am actually impressed with you, Agent Savich,
as one professional to another. But the end
must come for all of us, me, Califano, you—the
difference is that while you have chosen it
for me, you did not choose this ending for
yourself. But I have. I knew some time ago
my life was coming to an end. The only question
was, how to end the drama, how to make the
exit?
“Do you know why I chose the name Günter
Grass? Because my father was born in Danzig,
as Grass was, and Grass wrote The Tin Drum,
the story about where, and what, I came from.
His Oskar’s world crumbled, and he built
a life for himself with what skills he had,
as I did. The Nazis literally sacked my parents’
home, destroying everything. Near the end
of the war, it was a Polish judge who condemned
my father to death. To save herself and me,
still in her womb, my mother degraded herself,
and slept with that judge, and so I am here.
After my father’s death in front of a firing
squad, my mother moved in with that judge.
And then she married him, married the man
who’d killed my father. She betrayed my
father and slept with that monster. I never
forgot. When I was seventeen, I became the
judge and the executioner and avenged my father.
I garroted both of them, just as I did that
whore Eliza Vickers and her confidant Daniel
O’Malley.
“I called myself Günter in a long-ago life.
Let me tell you about that Günter. For a
very long time he killed to earn his bread.
It was the only thing at which he was truly
skilled, the only thing he had a taste for.
All of his targets deserved to die—they
were evil people, drug dealers, revolutionaries,
fanatics, terrorists, or just simply criminals
who’d corrupted those around them. And of
course there were the dishonest judges who
accepted payoffs, who kept mistresses. But
he tired of cleaning up society’s mess and
being hunted for it all the while. And so
Günter ceased to exist, and I came here and
became an American.
“I thought it an act of fate—the complete
turning of the wheel, if you will—when I
saw Justice Califano kissing a young woman
in the middle of the day in a small park,
the two of them standing in the shade of an
oak tree. There was no one else around. Except
for me. She was laughing, kissing that old
man’s mouth, her hands pressed against him,
between them. This man was not just any corrupt
judge like my stepfather—he was a Justice
of the Supreme Court!
“I watched them, and felt my rage build
until I wanted to kill both of them right
there in the park, but I knew that would be
foolish and dangerous for me, and because
I must be sure. And so I followed them to
a condominium. I found out the young woman
he was taking advantage of was one of his
law clerks. I saw soon enough that he had
obviously turned this young woman into a whore,
just like my mother. I loved killing her,
loved her futile struggles, knowing you were
hearing it all. And I saw my mother’s face
when the life went out of her. Killing her
was almost as gratifying as choking the life
out of that corrupt justice. He disgusted
me. He was a filthy, common little man, as
bad as any of the garbage I killed in Europe.
I savored the instant when Califano realized
he was dying, realized he was paying the ultimate
price. It was my destiny to end his life,
or die trying.
“You want a bit more truth, Agent Savich?
It surprised me that I actually succeeded,
both at the Supreme Court and at Quantico.
You really did a very poor job of damage control,
don’t you think?”
Savich said, “And so you killed three people
because two of them were having an affair?”
“You know as well as I do that evil is always
banal and common, if you look at it closely,
and it must find other evil, and feed. And
so I will go down in history as the man who
killed a Justice of the Supreme Court and
two of his law clerks—those young acolytes
who supped and slept with him, and drank in
his words, and knew what he was, and reveled
in it.”
Savich said, “You garroted Danny O’Malley
and tried to kill Elaine LaFleurette because
you believed they sanctioned Califano’s
affair with Eliza Vickers?”
“They all knew what he was doing, and they
did nothing. Just as no one did anything when
my mother slept with that judge. They enjoyed
his power, lusted after such power for themselves.
They deserved to die.”
He was breathing hard, the gun jerking slightly
in his hand. He was near the edge. Savich
said quickly, his voice low and steady, “Why
haven’t you told the world why you killed
these three people? Don’t you want everyone
to know why you made an example of Justice
Califano?”
For the barest moment, Günter simply stared
at him. Then he shrugged, and his voice was
as empty as the still air itself. “I destroyed
him. That is all I need. Whatever the world
thinks, it doesn’t concern me.”
Savich said, “What makes you think I won’t
tell the world?”
Günter smiled. “Because you’ll be dead,
as dead as I will be. Three corpses know the
truth. It is enough.”
Sherlock said, “But you weren’t alone
in this, were you? Who was the woman with
you the night you fired into our house?”
Günter laughed, but his gun never wavered
from her chest. “Who cares anyway? That
woman in my car was just a drunk I picked
up at a bar. She was good camouflage, to help
me get through roadblocks.”
“But you know it stops here, Günter,”
Sherlock said. “It stops now.”
Günter laughed. “It doesn’t stop until
I say it does. I’ve spent enough time with
you. I’m going to die, but you’re going
to hell with me.”
Ben shouted from behind Günter, “Don’t
you even think of shooting or I’ll blow
your head off!”
Günter whirled, fired, and kicked out all
in the space of a moment. The bullet slammed
into the wall not two inches from Ben’s
head as Günter’s left foot struck his arm,
numbing it instantly, and sending the gun
crashing to the floor, skidding toward the
front door.
Ben dived at Günter, slamming him onto his
back to the hall floor, but Günter’s locked
fisted hands smashed hard into Ben’s throat,
just as his legs kicked up against his back,
throwing him off. Ben fell against the areca
palm, gagging, trying to get his breath. Günter
fired into the living room, sending Savich
and Sherlock diving behind the sofa. Then
he fired toward Ben as he rolled away, shattering
a beautiful Chinese vase, and sending the
palm tree crashing to the entrance hall floor.
It was the palm tree that saved Ben’s life.
The next bullet shot through fronds, striking
so close he could smell the singed material
from his jacket sleeve. Günter burst through
the front door, slamming it behind him, and
leaped down the front steps.
Ben heard Savich shout at him, but he didn’t
stop. He grabbed his gun up in his left hand,
threw open the front door, and raced after
him, Savich three feet behind him.
From the darkness, Jimmy Maitland yelled,
“No, hold your fire!”
“There’s no escape, Günter,” Savich
shouted. “Agents are everywhere. Stop where
you are and drop the gun.”
Savich switched on the front lights, held
his SIG in front of him as he looked at Günter.
Ben was just to his left, behind a large urn
that held an Italian cypress tree. For an
instant, their eyes met.
Günter didn’t drop his gun, he shot from
the hip, missing Savich by inches. Before
he could fire again, a single loud rifle shot
pierced the air. Günter whirled about, thrown
forward as he slapped one palm against his
neck. The last thing he saw was Dave Dempsey
stepping from out behind a car at the curb,
a sniper rifle aimed at him.
A half-dozen agents came running from their
positions, guns aimed at the unmoving body.
They walked to where the man who’d wreaked
so much devastation lay, unmoving.
There was absolutely no sound for a good thirty
seconds. Finally Jimmy Maitland said, “Jesus,
am I glad that’s over.”
Ben nodded, stood up. “Sherlock, are you
okay?”
“Yes, fine. Don’t worry about me.”
Jimmy Maitland said, “He doesn’t look
all that scary now, does he? He just looks
like a dead old man with a slack jaw. Nice
shot, Dave. And thank you, Ben. You shaved
it a little close, but you got him out to
us.”
He turned to Savich, who had Sherlock pressed
against his chest. “I was watching through
the living room window, Savich. When he put
that bullet through Sherlock’s arm, I nearly
shot him myself then. Okay, I guess it’s
time to call Dr. Conrad and get the trash
taken away.”
Two paramedics came quickly forward, stepping
over Günter to see to Sherlock. Ben looked
at Savich, but Savich was focused on his wife.
He turned back and smiled at Dave Dempsey.
“That was a good shot, Dave.”
“I guess it’s something for Luther’s
family. But not enough. It’s never enough.”
“Ben,” Savich called out, “check him
for I.D. Find out who he is.”
Günter lay on the sidewalk on his back, his
gun still in his hand. Both Jimmy Maitland
and Ben went through all his pockets. They
came up with nothing at all, not even a fake
driver’s license. Slowly, they both rose.
Ben called out, “Nothing, Savich. Nothing
at all.”
“It’s not a surprise,” Jimmy Maitland
said, staring down at Günter. “He lived
with another man’s name and died with no
name at all.”
Savich had bared Sherlock’s arm. “The
bullet came real close to your knife scar.”
“I’ll be fine. Dillon, before you turn
the paramedics loose on me, I think you, Ben,
and I should talk. You know we do.”
“Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, of course
you’re right. Ben, could you come into the
house for a minute?”
Ben nodded.
Savich picked her up and carried her inside
over her protests, leaving the paramedics
to wait in the ambulance for another ten minutes
before Savich called them in.
Jimmy Maitland wondered if Savich would ever
tell him what the three of them discussed.
CHAPTER
37
TUESDAY NIGHT
IT WAS JUST after eleven o’clock when Ben
pulled his truck into Margaret Califano’s
driveway.
“I can’t believe it’s over,” Callie
said. “And you never said a word to me.
I could have stayed outside with the other
agents.”
“I couldn’t, direct orders from Savich.
You’ve been saying that all evening. I guess
that means I’ll never hear the end of it,
will I?”
“Probably not. But I’ll forgive you since
Savich gave me that great inside interview
for the Post this morning. Coombes is dancing
on the file cabinets, high-fiving everyone
he runs into, an idiot grin on his face. You
said you liked my story, but what do you really
think? Did you notice it was above the fold
on the front page? Right there with my own
byline?”
She was so proud, he smiled. “Yes, I really
did like your story. It was excellent. Congratulations.
So this means your job is safe?”
“Oh yes. Suddenly I’m valuable to him
again. I was relieved to see Sherlock looking
back to normal, well, nearly so. Dillon kept
going on about the sling.”
“He told me it reminded him of a night he
didn’t want to remember. He wouldn’t tell
me about it.”
“Maybe I can get it out of Sherlock.”
Callie settled back against the seat and closed
her eyes. “It’s all happened so fast,
I still can’t quite process it, even after
writing my story. I’m glad Günter’s dead,
but the fact that he picked my stepfather
by chance? It didn’t matter which Justice
he murdered? Stewart was such a fine man—”
She stopped and drew a deep breath.
Ben repeated what he’d been saying over
and over to her that evening, “He was crazy,
Callie, just plain crazy. He wanted to go
out in a blaze of glory. How better to get
attention than to murder a Supreme Court Justice,
any Supreme Court Justice, and all his law
clerks?
“You want to know something else? When he
realized that Savich had set a trap for him,
he wasn’t about to die ignominiously in
an FBI agent’s living room. He wanted to
continue his blaze of glory last night, and
that meant getting outside Savich’s house
to take on a dozen FBI agents trying to bring
him down. It was very much in character for
him.”
Callie said after a moment, “And you believe
he picked up a woman in a bar as camouflage?”
“Being crazy didn’t make him stupid. That
was real smart of him. Who’d be looking
for a couple?”
“He’d been Günter Grass for so many years,”
she said. “I guess he never even knew who
he actually was.”
“As Jimmy Maitland said, he used another
man’s name in life and died with no name
at all. Callie, before you go in, I want to
say something. I sure liked that black dress
you wore the other night. Can I see you wear
it again sometime?”
She gave him a small smile. “I’m moving
back to my apartment tomorrow. My mom says
now that it’s over, she doesn’t need me
with her anymore.”
“Ah.”
“Ah good or Ah bad?”
“Do you know it’s only a thirty-eight-foot
walk from my front door to my king-size bed?”
She laughed, leaned over, kissed him on the
mouth, and was out of the door of the Crown
Vic. “Tomorrow, Ben?”
“Sure. Great. You know, that little black
dress of yours would look even better hanging
on my bedroom doorknob.”
“What a guy-type visual. Be still my racing
heart.” She gave him a little wave and walked
up the sidewalk to her mother’s house. He
waited until she unlocked the front door and
disappeared inside before he drove away.
Callie turned to set the house alarm, wondering
why her mother hadn’t armed it when she’d
gone to bed. She walked upstairs, and paused
a moment by her mother’s bedroom door, listening.
Slowly, she pushed the door open and stepped
into her mother’s lovely bedroom. The white
spread shone stark and cold in the moonlight
pouring through the window.
She walked to the bed to make sure her mother
was all right.
The bed was empty.
She turned on the lights, searched for a note,
then walked to her own bedroom to look for
one.
She picked up the bedroom phone to call Bitsy
when she saw the blinking message light. She
pushed the play button. There was a call from
her mother’s manager at the Tyson’s Corner
store, one from the dry cleaner, a message
to call her lawyer about Stewart’s will,
and finally, the last message. “Margaret,
this is Anna. Come to Janette’s house right
away. It’s an emergency.”
Anna had called an hour and twelve minutes
before.
What emergency? Callie started to call, then
slowly laid the phone back in its cradle.
It was no surprise they were meeting at Janette’s
house because there was no family to juggle
around at her house since her divorce some
ten years before. The five friends frequently
met there.
What emergency? Callie didn’t pause, bundled
back up in her coat and gloves, and headed
out to her car.
Janette Weaverton lived in Emmittsville, Maryland,
not more than a twenty-minute drive this late
at night.
There weren’t many people on the road, and
she made good time. She pulled into Janette’s
driveway behind her mother’s Mercedes nineteen
minutes later.
Besides her mother’s Mercedes, Callie saw
four familiar cars parked in Janette’s driveway.
There were a lot of lights on in the house.
Callie walked to the front door, quietly opened
it, and stepped into the warm front entrance
hall. She eased the door shut behind her.
Janette was a minimalist, everything spare,
utilitarian. She remembered as a child that
Janette had loved girlie-girl stuff, but that
had changed after her husband had left.
Callie heard women’s voices as she walked
toward the living room. She paused just outside
the open door when she heard Juliette’s
voice: “And just what are you proposing
to do now?”
Callie heard her mother say, “Calm down,
Juliette. It won’t help if we all fall apart.
It’s been a shock, but we’ll deal with
it. Let’s talk about this. We’ll figure
out what’s best.”
“But Stewart was your husband, Margaret,”
Bitsy said. “How can you be so damned calm
about it?”
“What do you want me to do? Shoot her for
stupidity? Poor judgment in men? That’s
nothing new, is it?”
Anna said, “How can we be certain the FBI
are convinced that he acted on his own? Don’t
forget he wasn’t alone in that car—”
Margaret said patiently, “Agent Savich said
Günter told him it was a woman he’d picked
up in a bar, for camouflage. That was the
last door and he closed it. He never implicated
any of us in any way.” She paused a moment,
then said, “Günter told his grand lie to
protect you, to protect all of us. It’s
all in Callie’s headline story for the Post.
He committed the murders to show how skilled
and fearless he was, that he could even kill
a Justice of the Supreme Court in the library
itself.”
Janette said, tears thick in her voice, “But
he was crazy, deranged, just look at what
he did—he should have been killed at the
Supreme Court, at Quantico. He was completely
out of control.”
Callie stepped into the living room.
Five pair of eyes stared at her.
“Callie!”
“Hello, Mother,” Callie said, then nodded
at the four women. Anna, Janette, and Bitsy
had been crying. Her mother hadn’t, though
she was the one of them who had lost the most.
Juliette looked to be in shock. Callie said
slowly, “I guess there was a woman involved
after all. Which one of you was it?”
It was subtle and automatic. The five women
all moved to stand together. For a moment,
they all blended, standing shoulder to shoulder,
as if they’d closed ranks against her. “Do
you want to tell me what’s going on here?”
“Nothing that need concern you, Callie,”
Margaret said. “Like everyone else in the
country, we were just discussing that murderer,
Günter Grass.”
“He protected one of you, thus protecting
all of you when he lied about being alone
in this rampage?”
Margaret shot a look at the other four women,
watched each of them nod, then turned back
to face her daughter. “Listen to me, Callie,
because this is the most important thing I
will ever say to you in your life.”
Not my mother, please, not my mother. “I’m
listening.”
“One of us was involved with Günter. Naturally
she didn’t know he was Günter. He told
her his name was John Davis, probably another
lie. She had no reason not to believe him
when he told her he’d been born and raised
in Maryland.” Margaret paused a moment,
saw that Callie was closely studying all their
faces. “Do you want to know the why of all
this tragedy, Callie? All right, I’ll tell
you. Did you know that it was Eliza Vickers
herself who called me to tell me she was sleeping
with Stewart?”
Callie shook her head. “No, I didn’t know
that.”
“Oh yes. That bitch really wanted my husband.
She wondered if I’d sensed he was having
an affair, and of course I had. A wife always
knows, they say, and it’s true. But I hadn’t
asked Stewart for a divorce and she didn’t
understand that. So she told me that Stewart
had admitted to her that he’d married me
because he wanted to be close to you, Callie.
Ridiculous, of course, and naturally, I laughed
at her.”
“Why didn’t you ask Stewart for a divorce
if you knew he was unfaithful to you?”
“I probably would have, eventually. To punish
Stewart I came on to Sumner Wallace. It was
small of me, but I wanted to break up their
friendship. But that’s not important now.”
“I can’t believe—Eliza really told you
that?”
“Oh yes. She was getting desperate. She
had only six more months in Stewart’s chambers,
then she was gone.
“Naturally, I told my friends. And one of
them told her boyfriend. Günter. He was enraged
that a Justice of the Supreme Court would
sleep with a law clerk, that he would invite
scandal and dishonor like that, hurt his wife
and, in turn, her friends. She was angry as
well, but she remembers now that he really
seemed over the top about it. But then he
didn’t say anything more.
“Günter made his decision to kill Stewart.
He didn’t tell her what he’d done, and
naturally, none of us imagined it was he who
had killed Stewart.
“Then Danny O’Malley called me, saying
he was going to tell the world about how Stewart
had married me just to get at you if I didn’t
pay him off. Evidently he’d overheard Eliza’s
phone call to me. That was careless of her.”
Callie said, “I don’t understand. Danny
went into my stepfather’s office that Friday
morning. Was he trying to blackmail Stewart
as well?”
“Oh no. He was warning Stewart that all
of it was going to hit the fan. He did this
not because he worshiped Stewart, but because
he knew that he could give him recommendations
that would get him into the finest law offices
in the country. But after Stewart was killed,
Danny immediately realized what he knew was
valuable. He told me he was also going to
call Eliza, get money from her as well. Of
course I told my friends about it, and without
hesitation she told her boyfriend. Then Danny
was garroted, just like Stewart.”
“And no one considered this murderer just
might be close to home?”
“Callie, you must understand. Günter never
said another word about any of it to her.
She had no idea if he’d even really paid
any attention to her. Would you suspect your
boyfriend of murder? Of course not.
“I will be honest with you. My friends suspected
I was behind Stewart’s death, though they
loved me too much to openly accuse me. No,
Bitsy, be quiet. It’s true and you know
it. Didn’t I have the best reason?
“The evening of Stewart’s funeral, your
Detective Raven showed us all the photo of
Günter, taken many years before. None of
us recognized him, except the one who was
seeing him, and even she wasn’t certain,
she was more disbelieving than anything.
“But she confronted him Friday morning.
He changed, Callie, even as he told her it
was the truth, she watched him change into
a man she didn’t know. He made her believe
that if she told anyone, he had friends who
would kill not only her, but the rest of us.
She should have called the FBI, but she didn’t,
and it’s too late now.
“He didn’t tell her he was going to kill
Eliza, but when Eliza’s murder hit the news
on Saturday, she knew. Oh yes, she knew, and
she realized she was dealing with a madman.
“She was terrified, for herself and for
us, and so she kept quiet. He kept telling
her he was doing all this for her, for us,
for me.”
Callie said, “One of you was with him the
night he shot up Agent Savich’s house trying
to kill Fleurette.”
Margaret said, “She was an accessory to
Fleurette’s attempted murder, no denying
that since she was in the car, waiting for
him. Günter forced her to go with him. Again,
he threatened to kill her if she didn’t
do exactly what he told her to do. You can’t
for one minute believe she knew what he planned,
or that you were there, Callie.”
“But she heard the shots. She knew something
bad had happened.”
“Oh yes, she knew, but she was also terrified.
When she heard he’d been killed by the FBI,
she called us. That’s why we’re all here.
We didn’t realize until after reading your
story in the Post, Callie, that Günter had
lied about all of it, to protect us.”
“She knew, but she told no one.”
“If she had, that crazy man might have killed
her. He was crazy, Callie, you know that,
regardless of why he did anything, he was
crazy. He figured he had nothing to lose.
What would you have done, Callie?”
I would have killed him myself, but she held
herself quiet. “I don’t know.”
“No, no one could ever guess what she would
do in such a situation. But the fact remains,
crazy as he was, he protected her and the
rest of us last night before he was killed.
He lied to Savich and Sherlock and Ben, and
they unwittingly lied to you and the world.”
“You can’t expect me to keep quiet about
this, Mother.”
“Yes, I can and I do, Callie. Think a moment.
She didn’t know what he planned, none of
us did. She didn’t know what he’d done
until after she saw that photo and began to
wonder, and then he killed Eliza. She was
terrified, nearly over the edge herself.
“And she was terribly worried about me.
I was a basket case, and she had to pretend
that everything was all right, she had to
protect me. As I said, it wasn’t until we
got word that Günter had been killed by the
FBI that she told us the truth.
“What good would it do if you told your
friend, Detective Raven, about this? What
good? She might be prosecuted though she committed
no crime. What would be the point of that?
It could only result in the truth coming out.
I loved your stepfather, Callie. I don’t
want his name going down in history as the
Supreme Court Justice who screwed a law clerk
and was murdered for it, along with two other
law clerks. I know that you cared for him
too. It’s not much of a stretch to believe
I would be implicated as well.
“She has suffered enough. All of us have.
Leave it alone, Callie. I’m asking you to
leave it alone.”
“I’m very sorry about the affair between
Stewart and Eliza, Mother. I’m sorry you
knew about it. I’m very sorry Eliza wasn’t
the fine woman Sherlock believed she was.”
Margaret shrugged. “As I told you, a wife
always knows.”
Callie said, “Would all of you like to know
something? Günter was dead wrong. Fleurette
didn’t know a thing about Stewart and Eliza.
Regardless, one of you aided and abetted a
murderer.”
Margaret said, “Not knowingly, not willingly.
She couldn’t control him. He kept her a
prisoner. She was as much a victim as the
others.”
“No, she’s still alive, isn’t she?”
Margaret said, “Günter was a madman when
all was said and done. She was not responsible!”
Callie looked at each of them in turn. She’d
known them all her life, loved and respected
them. They were always there for each other.
Even though one of them had kept quiet about
her stepfather’s murder, her mother had
no intention of exposing her. None of them
did. To tell the police would mean exposing
her mother as well as the others.
“I don’t know,” Callie said. “I’ve
got to think about this, Mother.”
“While you’re thinking, remind yourself
what your own newspaper would do with this
story. I want Stewart’s name protected.”
“I understand that.”
He mother stepped back into the circle of
women. “Think hard, Callie.”
Four of them had hair long enough to fan out.
Any of the four could have been in the car
with Günter. Any could fit Mr. Avery’s
description.
Except for her mother. Thank God.
Callie looked at them one last time, wondering
which one had slept with Günter, which one
had been threatened by him, which one had
lived with his madness, with the knowledge
of what he was doing. And had done nothing
to stop him in the end.
CHAPTER
38
BLESSED CREEK,
PENNSYLVANIA
THE FOLLOWING TUESDAY AFTERNOON
MARTIN THORNTON WALKED into Sheriff Doozer
Harms’s office. No one was inside except
Doozer, sitting behind his big wooden desk,
working the New York Times crossword. He looked
up when the door opened. “How can I help
you?” He laid down his pencil, but didn’t
rise.
Martin said, “I guess you don’t remember
me, do you Sheriff Harms? Actually, I remember
you even though the last time I saw you I
was only six years old.”
Sheriff Doozer Harms grew very still. He looked
behind the man standing in front of him out
the glass windows that gave onto Main Street.
He saw no one. He smiled and kicked back,
put his booted feet up on his desk. “Well,
well, if it isn’t Austin Barrister. Imagine
you of all people turning up on my doorstep
this beautiful, snowy day. It is you, isn’t
it? It’s hard to tell, you haven’t aged
well. Fancy you showing up here, after so
many years.”
“I came to see you because I remember now,
Sheriff. I’ve been out to the house. It
all came back to me when I stepped into the
bathroom.”
“So,” Sheriff Harms said slowly, his fingers
caressing the pistol butt on his belt, “you
finally remember stabbing your mama, do you,
boy?”
Martin smiled. “Nice try, Sheriff. But that
isn’t what happened. As I said, I remember,
all of it. Clear as a bell.”
Sheriff Harms rose, spread his palms on the
desktop. “You were six years old when your
mama died, Austin, a hysterical little boy
who couldn’t even say who he was or where
he was. What you think you remember, Austin,
it’s all from your child’s imagination.”
“That’s another good try, Sheriff.”
“Nope, there’s nothing for you to remember,
but here you are, standing here in front of
me in my office, all straight and defiant.
Sometimes there’s just no rhyme nor reason
to life, is there? Hey, sometimes there is
no big, bad wolf.”
“And sometimes there is. That’s what you
are, Sheriff. You murdered my mother.”
Sheriff Harms pulled the gun out of its holster.
“You’re not threatening an officer of
the law, are you, Austin? Now, it isn’t
that I’m not glad to see you, but it’s
time for you to go away now. Don’t come
back.”
“I saw you plunge the knife into her chest.
It’s as clear as anything now.”
“What do you want, Austin?”
“The truth. That’s all.”
“You want the truth, do you? I wonder, are
you devious enough to be wearing a wire, you
little pissant?”
He laid his gun on the desktop, walked to
Martin, jerked open his coat, and patted him
down. No wire. And no gun. “Why are you
really here, boy?”
“I want the truth, just like I said. I want
to know why you did it.”
Sheriff Harms stepped back, picked up his
gun, and held it loosely in his hand.
Martin said, “I know you won’t kill me,
at least not here. In case you’re tempted,
though, my wife is down at the Blue Bird Café,
expecting me in an hour. Nope, you can’t
kill me here, right in your office.”
“Me kill you? Nah, I like to have my gun
handy when I’m with people I don’t trust,
keeps them honest. No matter what you think
you remember, I didn’t do anything wrong.
Now, why don’t you get out of here.”
Martin said, “I know you killed my mother.
I also know there’s nothing I can do about
it. I’m not stupid. A little boy’s testimony
about something that happened over thirty
years ago against the revered Sheriff of Blessed
Creek—who would pay any attention?”
“There you go again, making accusations.”
He brought his gun up, aimed it at Martin’s
head. “You know, I could take you out and
your wife too, if you screwed with me.”
“I have no intention of screwing with you,
Sheriff.”
Sheriff Harms took a step back, leaned against
his desk, the gun still in his hand. “Like
you said, Austin, no one would pay any attention
to you if you shot off your mouth. But if
you did, it would really piss me off. I’ll
bet you it’d piss me off enough to come
after you and kill you dead. You know that,
don’t you, Austin?”
“Is there anything you’d flinch from doing,
Sheriff?”
“I’m a lawman, and I’ve had the guts
for thirty years to keep myself and this town
safe from people like you. Don’t you think
to fuck with that, Austin.”
“I’m asking you to tell me why you killed
my mother.”
Sheriff Harms walked to the door, opened it,
looked up and down Main Street. A few people
he’d known for years, but not a stranger
in sight. He turned, shut the door, locked
it. He leaned once more against his desk and
grinned. “You know, it’s just the two
of us here. All my deputies are out patrolling.
Grace is having her lunch.”
“Then tell me the truth. You said it wouldn’t
matter.”
“You want the truth? All right. Why the
hell not? You really surprised your daddy.”
“My father? Don’t you try to bring my
father into this. It was you I saw.”
The sheriff laughed. “You really believe
that? You lived another twelve years with
your mama’s murderer, at least with the
guy who paid for it. Don’t be stupid, Austin,
of course your daddy was in on it. You know
what else? After he left, Townsend called
me once a week, told me how you didn’t have
a clue, not even an inkling of what had happened,
didn’t even seem to remember your mother,
didn’t seem to care. I stewed over it, worried
about it, but after a few years, ended up
letting it go.
“Then he called me, what was it—oh yeah,
must have been nearly twenty years ago, scared
out of his gourd that you were suddenly asking
questions, and he worried you were going to
remember. Your daddy was always a pathetic
excuse for a man. He knew what had to be done,
but he didn’t have the guts to do it.”
Sheriff Harms shrugged. “I knew I should
go right up to Boston and shoot your ass.
I was planning my trip, didn’t tell your
daddy, of course, no telling what he’d have
done, but then you just up and disappeared
right after you graduated high school. I couldn’t
believe you did that, neither could your father.
But you were gone. Poof, gone. I thought maybe
you’d come back, but you didn’t. I thought
I’d find you. After all, you were only a
kid, eighteen years old, and what did you
know? I’ll tell you, I checked you out as
if you were a fugitive, looked all over for
you, but there wasn’t a single sign of you.
No credit cards, no licenses, nothing at all.
“Then here came the Internet, every year
better and better. It should have been a piece
of cake, but it wasn’t. I still couldn’t
find hide nor hair of you. How did you do
it, Austin?”
“Actually, I bought an entire new identity,
not all that hard when you hit the streets
in Boston.”
“Not bad for a puling little rich kid.”
“Do you know I kept trying to make myself
remember, but I couldn’t? Just shadows,
voices, until this afternoon when I finally
went into the house, and walked into the bathroom
where you murdered my mother, and then I climbed
up into the attic.
“All right, Sheriff, tell me you’re making
this up about my father being involved. Tell
me what happened.”
Sheriff Harms laughed, stroked his fingers
over the barrel of his gun, and began to toss
it from his right to his left hand, again
and again, knowing that Austin was looking
at it. He wanted to scare him, make him worry
that he might not live through this little
drama, at least not for long. Maybe a nice
car accident off the cliff road into Long’s
Quarry, with his wife in the car beside him.
Martin said, “There’s no reason for you
not to tell me, no reason for you to keep
saying that my father was a part of it. You’re
just too chicken to tell the truth, aren’t
you, Sheriff? All you can do is throw the
blame on someone else.”
“Nah, why would I even care what you thought?
Hey, I know Townsend’s your dad, that you
believed in him for eighteen years, but the
fact is you must have known way down in your
gut there was something wrong about your daddy,
why else would you have skipped Boston, disappeared,
never contacted him again?
“Yep, it was your daddy who wanted your
mama murdered. He offered me a whole lot of
money to off her. But you know, Austin, I
was worried about keeping the money coming
in since it was your mama who ran the business,
and wasn’t that a funny thing back then,
particularly thirty years ago? But your daddy
promised me it wouldn’t be a problem, there
was lots and lots of money, and he’d be
in control again once she was out of the way.
Your daddy liked to gamble, went off to Las
Vegas at least once a month, and Sam was giving
him grief about all his losses. Maybe he thought
about divorcing her, I don’t know. But what
happened was that your mama figured out he
was cheating on her. She had him followed,
and a private investigator caught him catting
around with a couple of local women. He documented
it with lovely big black-and-white photos.
Your mama was going to divorce him, and he
couldn’t have that. She’d take all his
money, and you. I guess he figured he didn’t
have any choice but to have me kill her, so
your daddy promised he’d get me elected
sheriff of Blessed Creek for life, if that’s
what I wanted, and that’s what I did want.
I’d just been elected by a real narrow margin
with his help, and I knew I’d need really
big bucks to keep this job come the next election.
It’s amazing how well people treat you if
you’ve got some money to spend, and your
old man has paid me well over the years. It
was sure a blessing for both of us that he
married a rich woman in Boston, since he has
no talent with money. His folks were right
about that.
“You know something else, Austin? Your grandparents
drowned in the lake, so drunk they couldn’t
even swim back to the frigging boat. I’ve
wondered if maybe your daddy made their martinis
really strong, or maybe added a little something
extra. You know, I think they were about ready
to acknowledge to the world that he wasn’t
quite right, that he was a real loser with
money. But who cares when all’s said and
done?”
“So you two planned to murder her the day
of my sixth birthday party.”
“Everybody was there. It was a really big
deal. There were so many people there, laughing,
eating. After I made sure your daddy was surrounded
by a dozen people so he’d have an alibi,
I followed your mama to the bathroom and stabbed
her in the heart. It was real easy.
“Only thing is, I looked up, and there you
were, standing there, eyes wide as an owl’s.”
Martin said slowly, “And then you took my
hands, told me Mommy would be all right, and
you took me up to the attic.”
“Fancy you remembering that. Your daddy
was really pissed that you’d witnessed the
murder, didn’t know how you’d managed
to slip away from all those kids you were
playing with. That’s when I put you in the
attic, told you to stay there or something
really bad would happen to you. We decided
to leave you up there in the attic, in a nice
dark corner, let you think about things. We
left you there for a good hour, until Old
Emily found your mother’s body. That’s
when I had to get you down, before people
started looking for you. You were so freaked
out I nearly had to drag you out of the attic.
You didn’t say a word, just gave me this
blank look.
“Your daddy got you out of there fast, right
after the funeral. I think he was afraid I
was planning how to kill you, and he was right
about that. I hate loose ends. Another accident,
I would have come up with something. You didn’t
speak for a month, and when you did, it was
obvious you didn’t remember anything, you
had amnesia and your daddy didn’t think
you’d ever remember. And after a while I
thought, Who’d believe a little kid anyway,
without any proof? Why take the chance of
another killing? So there’s your truth,
but don’t ever think you can do anything
with it. There wasn’t ever a lick of proof,
I made sure of that since I was the sheriff,
responsible for investigating Samantha’s
murder. No murder weapon, no witnesses, no
suspects. Well, the husband, there’s always
the husband, but he was pouring drinks for
a dozen party guests, a great alibi. Who killed
her? Hey, I tried my best, but I couldn’t
find the killer.”
Martin’s hands were tight fists at his sides.
“I hope you got an ulcer worrying about
me over the years.”
“Nah, you became ancient history. So you’ve
found out what you wanted to know. Why not
do us both a favor, get lost, and get over
it. You’ve been someone else for nearly
twenty years anyway. If I were you, I’d
stay that person, and I’d stay away from
your daddy. No telling what he’d do if you
confronted him now he’s got that nice, rich
wife and two daughters. He’d want to protect
them from you. Hell, he might even kill you
himself if you went to him and told him that
you knew what he’d done.”
“Are you planning to kill me, Sheriff Harms?
Not here, you wouldn’t be that stupid. But
you’re afraid I’ll tell someone, aren’t
you? You wouldn’t like that, it would mean
a scandal, wouldn’t it, open everything
up again? And there’s my father. You think
I’d let him off the hook? Because of my
half-sisters?” Martin walked up, grabbed
the sheriff’s shirt collar in his fists,
and shouted right in his face, “For the
love of God, you crazy hick, he hired you
to kill my mother! My mother!”
Sheriff Harms said very quietly, “Step away
from me, boy, or I’ll heave you out the
door. Believe me now. If you do ever say anything,
ever lay your hands on me again, I’ll kill
you and your wife. Count on it. Now get out,
Austin.”
Martin stepped back, lifted his right arm,
and unbuttoned his cuff. He shook his wrist,
and Sheriff Harms saw the small gold medical
alert bracelet. “This is my wire, Sheriff.
Things have progressed, haven’t they? Everything
you’ve said is crystal clear, for the future
jury, on a tiny recorder in here. You’ve
been had, Sheriff.”
“I see you think you’ve been pretty smart
about this, don’t you,” Sheriff Harms
said, eyes hot and dark. “But it won’t
do you any good, you fucker. Your little wife
either, if there even is a wife.” He looked
again into the deserted street outside and
raised his gun. “Okay, Austin, I don’t
want to do it here, but it looks like I have
to. What could I do, what with you coming
in here and going crazy on me?”
A man’s deep voice said from behind him,
“I don’t think so, Sheriff Harms.”
The sheriff whirled around to face the man
he’d worried himself nearly sick over since
that snowy night two and a half weeks before,
the man who’d claimed to have seen Samantha
Barrister. “You!” He started to raise
the pistol, but Savich was faster. He turned,
kicked out his leg so fast it was a blur,
and sent the pistol flying into the front
window with such force it shattered the glass
and skidded on the sidewalk in front of the
sheriff’s office.
Sheriff Harms yelled from the pain in his
wrist, at the unfairness of it all, and lunged
toward Savich.
Martin grabbed the sheriff’s injured arm,
jerked him around, and sent his fist into
his jaw. The sheriff staggered, but didn’t
go down. Martin hit him against the side of
his head, then landed a punch in his belly.
The sheriff fell hard against his desk, landing
facedown on the floor.
Savich stepped over him and tapped Martin’s
shoulder. “Looks like you laid him right
out. Good job.” He was grinning as he shook
Martin’s hand. “Well done, Martin. Do
you feel you got everything we came for?”
Martin grinned back as he rubbed his knuckles.
“Yeah, I do.”
A Pennsylvania state trooper, Sergeant Ellis
Wilkes, stepped in from the back of the office
where a door led to three jail cells, then
three more state troopers crowded in behind
him. He stared down at the sheriff. “Imagine,”
he said, “this man has been the sheriff
of Blessed Creek for more than half of his
life, and all of it because of a vicious,
cold-blooded murder.”
Martin said, “Are you sure we’ve got enough
on him?” He handed the small gold bracelet
to Sergeant Wilkes.
“With the witnesses we have here today and
that recorder, Sheriff Harms is toast. Oh
yeah, he’s going down big time.”
“Good,” Martin said. “Good.” There
was more relief in his voice than satisfaction.
Finally, for him, it was over. Except for
his dad.
He and Savich watched the state troopers haul
out Sheriff Harms’s unconscious body. When
they were alone, Savich laid his hand on Martin’s
shoulder. “Your father, Martin. I spoke
to the Boston police yesterday. In addition
to everything else, they also have the evidence
of over twenty years of payments to the sheriff.
You can bet that Sheriff Harms will roll hard
on him.
“The Boston police are waiting for me to
call again before they pick him up.”
“You knew my father had to be in on it,
didn’t you, Dillon?”
“Yes, it was the only thing that made sense.
I have to call them, Martin.”
“But you didn’t say anything about it
to me.”
“No.”
“Because you didn’t think I could handle
it.”
“No, I didn’t tell you because I knew
you’d have doubts. It had to come from Sheriff
Harms.”
Martin Thornton nodded as he said without
hesitation, “He paid this man to murder
my mother. Make the call, Agent Savich.”
Martin heard Janet’s voice, and turned to
see her running ahead of Sherlock into the
sheriff’s office. He was smiling as he caught
her up in his arms.
EPILOGUE
GEORGETOWN WASHINGTON, D.C.
END OF JANUARY
SAVICH SAID, “Who was that on the phone?”
“Lily. She and Simon have decided to get
married in March.”
“Why March, for heaven’s sake?”
Sherlock shook her head, smiling. “She said
it just felt right and besides, she’s made
him suffer enough. She laughed, said Simon’s
agreed they’ll live here in Washington for
six months and New York for six months. We’ll
see how long that lasts. Oh yes, No Wrinkles
Remus has been picked up by Newsday.”
“Good. Someone there’s got a brain. It’s
one of the best political cartoons I’ve
ever seen. And what a relief. She’s finally
picked the right man, thank the good Lord.”
Sherlock handed him a sleeping Sean, who gave
a little snort when he felt his father’s
big hand stroke his back.
“I heard from Janet and Martin Thornton
today. They’re doing fine. Martin’s on
some meds, as you know, but he said his shrink
doesn’t think he’ll need them for much
longer, given what’s happened. I think he’s
smart and insightful. Best of all, he’s
got Janet. She’s working on getting him
to contact his stepmother and his two half-sisters.
Maybe they can help each other. Hey, sweetheart,
you ready for bed?”
“Well,” Sherlock said, “Sean certainly
is. I was thinking about a nice hot shower.
You know, I haven’t scrubbed your back in
a while. Not since Wednesday night when you
came in all sweaty from the gym. What do you
think?”
Savich kissed her ear. He was whistling quietly
as they walked upstairs. In the shower, Sherlock
soaped up her hands and washed his back. He
was leaning against the tiled wall, feeling
almost relaxed enough to collapse and drown,
when she said, “Are you satisfied we did
the right thing about Günter?”
Savich stilled a moment. “Yes. I’m very
glad you suggested we discuss what happened
before we talked to anyone else. We saved
Margaret Califano and Callie endless pain,
and protected Justice Califano from a scandal
that would have destroyed his name and harmed
the Supreme Court itself.”
She nodded against his shoulder. “I still
wonder, though, if Günter acted alone.”
“Remember Günter said he’d tell us a
bit of truth? And so, I think, he did. Let
it go, sweetheart. I have.”
He turned around to face her. Hot water cascaded
down over them. “I decided to label that
file Pandora’s box to remind me that Mr.
Maitland is satisfied that Günter acted alone.
So, yes, I’m going to keep that box tightly
closed.”
She let the water pulse against her back as
she lathered her hands to scrub down his chest.
She raised her face. “I sure don’t want
the key to that box. Let’s forget there
is one, Dillon, okay?”
IT WAS LATE, deep in the night, when Savich
shook his wife’s shoulder. “Wake up, Sherlock,
wake up. You’re dreaming.”
Sherlock jerked awake, blinked at his face
above hers. “What? Dillon? What’s the
matter?”
“You were moving around, dreaming. A nightmare?”
Sherlock shook her head back and forth on
the pillow. “No, no nightmare. Actually,
for the very first time, I dreamed about Samantha.”
He pulled her tightly against him, and said
against her hair, “I dreamed about her as
well. Did she say or do anything in your dream?”
“No, she was there, in my line of sight,
and she was smiling. What was your dream about
Dillon?”
He turned over on his back, his arms crossed
under his head. “She gave me a beautiful
smile, too, and then nodded to me and patted
my arm. I felt this wonderful feeling of warmth
and contentment come over me. Then she was
gone, and I woke up to hear you thrashing
about.”
“Do you think you’ll tell Sean about her
someday?”
Savich laughed. “Doubtful, but who knows?”
“I wonder if there were things your father
never told you that happened to him.”
“I’d bet the bank on it.”
Sherlock settled back down for sleep, her
head on her husband’s shoulder. “The oddest
thing, Dillon, I think I smell jasmine.”
Savich didn’t say anything. He wasn’t
about to say the words out loud. He breathed
in the subtle scent, and closed his eyes.
CALLIE MARKHAM’S APARTMENT
GEORGETOWN
THAT SAME EVENING
BEN RANG the doorbell.
A good three minutes later the front door
opened and Callie stood there, wearing old
sweats and thick socks on her feet. Her hair
was uncombed, and her face was scrubbed clean.
She squeaked. “I should have known you’d
catch me looking like the rag queen. You’re
early. I haven’t put on the little black
dress yet.”
He stepped in, pulled her against him, and
kissed her. “I don’t care. I wrapped up
a case early and I wanted to see you, maybe
celebrate with a good-quality beer.”
“I’ve got some Coors stashed in the fridge
for our Super Bowl party.”
As he followed her through the living room
and into the kitchen, he was struck, as he
usually was, by the number of books. They
were everywhere, on every surface, overflowing
every bookshelf, even though three entire
walls of the living room were covered with
built-ins. And there were flowers, three vases
of them, Christmas cacti blooming wildly,
and at least half a dozen different kinds
of ivy, all trailing happily over surfaces
to the floor. A good dozen bright pillows
were tossed on every chair and sofa. Even
the rugs that covered the wooden floor were
bright, each a different style. It was warm
and inviting. He liked being in the room,
watching TV, reading, making love with Callie.
It felt like home. He lightly touched his
hand to her shoulder. “Have I told you how
much I like your apartment?”
“Sounds to me like you’re laying down
some pretty broad hints here, Ben.”
“It’s bigger than my place. You’ve got
a guestroom, and your office is really too
big for you. You need another body in there
to make it feel like home.”
“You mean like Dillon and Sherlock’s?”
“Something like that. Remember you told
me I was a natural?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“What did you mean by that?”
She looked at the white curtains splotched
with red poppies covering the kitchen windows
that Janette had sewn for her. She closed
her eyes a moment, drew a deep breath, and
looked down at her nails. She needed a manicure.
“Well? What do you say? You want to marry
me?”
Very slowly, she turned back and stepped against
him, wrapped her arms around his back. She
said against his neck, “For such a guy,
that wasn’t a bad proposal at all. I’ll
think about it.”
“Fair enough. Then I’ll tell you I love
you if you’ll say it at the same time. On
three?”
“I’m counting,” she said, and clicked
off her fingers. They were both laughing when
they shouted out at the same time, “I love
you!”
Later, when they were sitting on the sofa,
Callie on his lap, leaning against his shoulder,
Ben said, “I know you’re grieving for
your stepfather, but I was wondering if there
was something else, Callie.”
“What do you mean—?”
He talked right over her. “Sometimes you
look a million miles away, like you’re thinking
about something that’s taking you elsewhere.”
She was silent.
“I hope you feel you can tell me anything,
Callie.”
She raised her head and looked him squarely
in the eyes. “What happened, Ben—Günter
dying like he did—it was for the best. I
know that.”
He nodded, waited.
“I guess I mean that it’s over. All of
it, and there’s only the aftermath to deal
with and I’m doing that.” She kissed him
on the cheek. “Did I tell you that I am
very happy you’re in my life?”
She watched his expression lighten, saw humor
come back into his eyes. He was grinning as
he said, “Tell me every day, okay. You want
to know something?”
“Since I’m maybe even practically engaged
to you, I guess I can handle anything you
want to tell me.”
“I think you’re a natural too.”
Blowout
by Catherine Coulter
Book Jacket
Series: FBI Thriller [9]
Married FBI agents Savich and Sherlock work
and play hard: devoted to their jobs, their
son, and each other, they approach each new
case with gusto, and appreciate every moment
of downtime they can grab. But a long weekend
getaway at a secluded cabin in the Pennsylvania
woods is cut short when the agents are summoned
back to Washington, where a nightmare awaits
them: The night before the Supreme Court is
to hear opening arguments in a highly controversial
death-penalty case, a prominent judge is murdered
in the court's third-floor library. Savich
and Sherlock are charged with heading the
investigation but when the killings continue,
each targeting another brilliant, successful
Washington power broker, the agents are faced
with their most baffling and shocking case
of their lives.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, and incidents are either the product
of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, business establishments,
events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Blowout
A Putnam Book / published by arrangement with
the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2004 by Catherine Coulter
This book may not be reproduced in whole or
part, by mimeograph or any other means, without
permission. Making or distributing electronic
copies of this book constitutes copyright
infringement and could subject the infringer
to criminal and civil liability.
For information address:
The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of
Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site
address is
http://www.penguinputnam.com
ISBN: 0-7865-4729-4
A PUTNAM BOOK®
Putnam Books first published by The Putnam
Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam
Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
PUTNAM and the “P” design are trademarks
belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
Electronic edition: June, 2004
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, and incidents are either the product
of the author’s Imagination or are used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, business establishments,
events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site
address is
http://www.penguinputnam.com
ALSO BY CATHERINE COULTER
THE FBI THRILLERS
Blindside (2003)
Eleventh Hour (2002)
Hemlock Bay (2001)
Riptide (2000)
The Edge (1999)
The Target (1998)
The Maze (1997)
The Cove (1996)
To my doctor in the house:
You are an incredible man.
CATHERINE
