Blowout (4 page)

W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.
S
ATURDAY MORNING

C
ALLIE
M
ARKHAM PUT
one 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?”