“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 DOWN at 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 KNOW why 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.
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