“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 MET them 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 w
ild 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.
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