Blowout (6 page)

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.”

T
HE FLAMBOYANT WHITE
marble 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.

S
ATURDAY AFTERNOON

J
ED
C
OOMBES
, 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.