Blowout (20 page)

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.

S
AVICH 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.

G
EORGE
W
ASHINGTON
U
NIVERSITY
H
OSPITAL
W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.
M
ONDAY MORNING

A
NNIE
H
ARPER LOOKED
about 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.”