“Don’t forget, the murderer followed an extremely high-risk script. He actually struck down a Supreme Court police officer, he took his uniform and entered the building itself. Even in some fundamentalist mind, this was a huge risk. And then garroting Justice Califano and slipping away? That was not the act of a bomber, or a shooter in a crowd. That was the act of a single man, done in a very personal way.
“The chances are greater, as many of you have already concluded, that this murder was personal. It was up close and hands-on. Revenge, possibly. Justice Stewart Califano served as a DA, an Assistant Attorney General, and the Attorney General before he was named an Associate Justice of the New York Court of Appeals in 1979. He prosecuted drug dealers, mobsters—people who could have spent twenty years in jail planning to murder him. We will scour every high-profile case he was involved in throughout those years.
“At the same time, we can’t afford to take the chance that the murder wasn’t the work of terrorists or a madman for the simple reason that Justice Califano’s murder could be the opening assault with more to come. Extra security has been provided, not only to the Justices, but to a number of elected federal officials as well. As you know, federal marshals accompany the Justices only when they travel. They have temporarily extended their protection to twenty-four/seven.
“All of you, many through painful experience, know that the media will be following all these directives right along with us. When they find out which of you are involved in the case, they’ll hound you. We will expect your usual professionalism. You will refer all press questions to DAD Maitland for official comment.
“We’ve got all of Justice Califano’s phone logs and contacts, his computers, both from his chambers and his home, and those of his law clerks and secretaries. We have a list of all pending cases that the Supreme Court will be hearing, also cases handed down in the past years in which Justice Califano played a critical role in reversing decisions such as those involving race, abortion, individual death penalty cases, and the like. The list is daunting, but we’ll take them on.
“Investigation of the crime scene itself and preliminary interviews are already ongoing, as you know. We have divided you into twelve teams of four agents each. Ollie Hamish will be posting your names and handing out assignments to each team, hoping to key in to the strengths and experience of the members. We are fortunate to have the teams made up of agents from a wide variety of FBI divisions and units assigned to us. It is true what Director Mueller said. We are the best police force and intelligence community in the world, and we will solve this and do it quickly.
“By the way, you will have a unique resource available to you from my own unit that is new to many of you. We have developed a number of computer programs that allow us to combine data-mining capability with an artificial intelligence engine—we call the program MAX, after my laptop. We have found it extremely useful to us, though we haven’t made it available this broadly before, or in a case of this importance.
“I’ve assigned agents Drucker, Bruner, and Hart to instruct you about its capabilities. Some of you will be asked to work with them on this project. All of you will have the benefit of any information MAX provides. If you haven’t worked with these agents before, I’ll tell you they’re excellent detail people. They share with MAX an uncanny ability to help you when everything starts to look like chaos.”
Savich paused. “Now, before we split up, I’d like to hear ideas about directions any of you want to take that we haven’t covered.”
The agents were eager for open discussion, which quickly turned to the crime scene photos Savich had tacked to a large bulletin board. The meeting continued long after Maitland had left. Pots of coffee were consumed, and the snow blanketed the windows despite the warmth of the room. When sandwiches and pizzas were delivered from the cafeteria upstairs, everyone took a break.
Frank Halley saw Savich talking to a man he didn’t recognize, a big guy, a sharp dresser, standing near the door with his arms crossed over his chest. He was dressed in black slacks, white shirt, black tie, and black leather jacket. He looked like a smart-ass wiseguy with that hard face of his. Frank walked over and put himself in the guy’s face.
“And who the hell are you?”
“I’m Detective Benjamin Raven, Metro Police.”
Frank turned on Savich. “What’s a local cop doing here, Savich?”
“It so happens that the Supreme Court Building is in the Washington, D.C., jurisdiction, Frank. We’re leading the investigation, but Detective Raven is our local liaison with the police commissioner at the Henry J. Daly Building.”
Frank gave Ben one final look, then took himself off to the table where there were still two unopened pizza boxes.
Savich said, “Don’t mind Frank. He’s a good agent, just protective of the Bureau and somewhat territorial. Now, how did you manage to ditch Ms. Markham? I would have sworn she’d have been hanging on to your coattails to get herself in here.”
Ben ran his fingers through his thick hair, causing it to stand on end. “I didn’t ditch her until she was safe back at the house in Colfax. I’m lucky she didn’t follow me in. I’ll bet she could have talked her way past the guards.”
Savich laughed. “She seems like a pistol, Ben, smart and insightful.”
“Well, maybe. Who knows? All I know so far is that she’s a pain in the butt. She wanted to smack a reporter at Justice Wallace’s house. Can you believe that? She’s one of them.”
“Yes, well, don’t forget, Justice Califano was her stepfather, and the shoe’s on the other foot now. But the thing is, she’s on the inside. Use her, get her talking. I’ll bet she knows things she can’t even put together right now, things that are in her brain waiting for you to get them out.”
“Actually, she’s already started to earn her keep.” And then he told Savich about Justice Sumner Wallace hitting on Margaret Califano. “Doesn’t that boggle the mind? The guy’s a grandfather.”
Savich said, “This is going to take some thought. You’re right, Callie did good, give her a medal. I guess after she told you that, you can trust her not to feed stuff to the Post.”
“Okay, yeah, so she’s a straight shooter, at least so far. Like I said, I dropped her off at the Kettering home before I drove back in. Nearly landed myself in a ditch a couple of times. The roads are a mess.”
“The snow’s supposed to lighten up tonight, be gone by tomorrow. Hopefully it won’t freeze, the ice would really make it tough for us to get around.”
“At least the pizza’s pretty good here.”
“Yeah, agents are often stuck here for meals during an investigation, so the cafeteria keeps the food coming, about anything you like. The only section Sherlock doesn’t approve of is the Mexican wagon. Ah, I see Agent Halley looking over here at you again. He’s not a happy camper since he thinks Director Mueller should have appointed him to run the show, so ignore the attitude.”
“Not a problem. Everyone at Metro is hyped about this. I’m lucky to be heading up the field assignments. I’ve got maybe a dozen cops ready to do whatever you need.”
“I’ll give you the assignments, don’t worry.”
“Oh, by the way, Savich, I meant to ask you. How is Sheriff Kettering doing?”
Savich gave him a big smile. “That’s how we met, isn’t it? They’ve moved back to Jessborough, Tennessee. Miles is building a new helicopter facility there, and Katie’s the sheriff of Jessborough again.”
Ben shook his head. “Talk about a pistol, that sheriff sure qualifies.”
“Do keep our own pistol in the loop. I don’t want Callie calling me at midnight, frothing at the mouth. And thank her for the information about Justice Wallace. It sure opens up some interesting possibilities.”
“Yeah, it sure does. Did I remember to thank you for sticking me with her?”
“No, come to think of it, I don’t think you thanked me at all. There’s a couple of slices of vegetarian pizza left. Why don’t you tell me al
l the details of your interview with Justice and Mrs. Wallace while we chow down.”
CHAPTER
11
SHE RAN RIGHT in front of him, her long straight hair flying, frantically waving her arms, her eyes wild. He could tell she was yelling, but he couldn’t hear her voice even though she was right in front of him, yelling in his face. She was close, so close, and he could feel her terror as though it were his own.
And then he was in that lovely big house on the rise, all the lights on, looking back to see her sitting on the living room sofa, rocking back and forth, her thick veil of hair hiding her profile, the fire blazing behind her in the fireplace. He looked up at the ceiling when he heard a noise, the sound of quiet footsteps overhead.
Then he was climbing slowly up the ladder into the attic, every sense on full alert, but there wasn’t a man there. Something flew at him, hard and fast, swooping like a bat, or something else, something his brain couldn’t accept, and slammed him back through the ceiling door, knocking the breath out of him.
Savich jerked awake, wheezing, heart pounding so hard he thought he was dying. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but sit there trying to suck in air.
“Dillon? Are you all right? You’re here with me. It’s okay now, you were having a nightmare.”
He still couldn’t talk. He felt her hands rubbing his chest, his arms. “Samantha Barrister,” he managed at last. “I saw her, felt her right here, in my face. And then I was back in the house, going up those ladder steps after I heard the footsteps overhead. That bat, or whatever it was, knocked me back down to the corridor floor.”
“It’s all right now, you’re awake. Come here.” She pushed him back down, her palm rubbed over his chest, felt his pounding heart. She turned and pressed herself over him, kissed his neck, and whispered, “It will be all right. You probably had the nightmare because you can’t deal with Samantha’s murder right now. What happened to Samantha was thirty years ago, Dillon. It has to wait. Let it go for now.” She continued to rub her palm over his chest until she felt his heart slow and his breathing steady.
“I saw her in the road, Sherlock, saw her terror, I knew she was screaming, but I couldn’t hear her. Then she was right here, probably yelling for me to help her to stop him, only I couldn’t hear her.”
Sherlock was silent for a moment. He could practically hear her thinking. “Perhaps she was, for you. I said it had been thirty years, but the fact is, Samantha came to you—just you—in the Poconos. Maybe something’s happened to make her frantic, to make her come here to Washington. Something bad.”
“What could it be? Now, after thirty years? And what can I do about it? I can’t leave Washington and go ghost chasing right now.”
She kissed his nose, his mouth, his throat. “We could call the closest field office to do some checking.”
He thought about that a moment, then shook his head. “No, this is personal. I want to deal with it, I have to deal with it, no one else. I know it sounds weird, but I know she wants me to be the one.”
“All right then. When MAX is freed up, we can put him on it. He can scour databases, find out about the Barrister family, see what happened to her son and her husband.”
“But it’s going to be days before we can free MAX up to do that.”
“I know, but I think Samantha will understand.”
She felt a measure of calm flow through him. He turned on his side and drew her close. He said against her left temple, “Do you know something?”
She shook her head against his. Her curly hair brushed against his ear.
“Some people would think I’ve flipped out over this, want me to lie down on a shrink’s couch.”
“You’re the sanest person I’ve ever known. If I ever doubt you about anything, I’ll stretch out on a shrink’s couch myself.” She kissed him hard on the mouth, and eased down to tuck her head against his neck. “It’s nearly three o’clock. Sean will give us until seven o’clock. Let’s use the time wisely. We’ve got to sleep.”
When he fell asleep, Samantha Barrister wasn’t with him.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
SUNDAY
BENRAVEN FLIPPED the channel on his TV from national to local news while he ate his bowl of Wheaties. It was his mom’s favorite cereal, and she’d fed it to him every morning, which explained, he supposed, a great deal. Director Mueller’s face was everywhere on TV, as well as sound bites from the Attorney General, the President, even the Director of Homeland Security. Anyone the media could get to, which was just about every politician inside the Beltway. And they all had something important to say. The politicians and the talking heads led the charge, blaming the FBI, the Supreme Court Police, even the President for not providing the nation with enough security from terrorists. Of course Director Mueller laid out why he didn’t believe terrorists were responsible, but no one liked that. It had to be either a terrorist or a madman, like the Washington snipers of a few years ago, that was the theory everyone wanted to run with.
Not even a day had passed since Justice Califano’s murder before speculation began on who would be on the President’s short list for appointment to the Supreme Court to take Justice Califano’s place.
Ben put his cereal bowl in the sink and filled it with water. He had thirty-five minutes to pick up Callie Markham, and then they were off to interview Justice Elizabeth Xavier-Foxx, one of two female Justices on the High Court.
When he pulled his Crown Vic in front of the Kettering house in Colfax, he saw Callie Markham looking out at him through one of the living room windows. She had the door open when he was still a good six feet away.
“It stopped snowing. Is it icy?”
“Nope, it isn’t bad at all. I gather you’re ready to hit the road?”
“Oh yeah, but you said you wanted to speak to Mom some more. Oh, Ben, here are our guards, federal marshals Dennis Morgan and Howie Bentley. Gentlemen, Detective Ben Raven from Metro.”
He shook hands with the federal marshals, asked if they’d seen any reporters, to which they said all had been quiet, thank God. Screened condolence calls were coming through for Mrs. Califano, so many of them that her four women friends, who seemed to be here all the time since she’d moved in, were assisting her in dealing with them.
Things sounded under control. Ben wiped his boots off on the front step, and followed Callie into the warm living room. A restful house, he thought, full of light and high ceilings. He’d lived in condos all his adult life after graduating from the police academy, and he liked the space, the openness of the house.
“Mrs. Califano,” he said, stepping into the living room.
There were four women seated with her, all of them about the same age, all wearing subdued colors, all of their attention on the new widow who’d just hung up the phone. When he spoke, they looked up at him.
Ben said, “I hope you’re all right.”
She nodded. “It’s difficult, Detective, but yes.”
He nodded toward the phone on the end table beside her.
“Another condolence call?”
“Yes, so many people, so kind. You remember Anna Clifford?”
Ben nodded to the woman he’d seen briefly yesterday. The other women, waiting to be introduced, inclined graceful heads as Callie called out their names. “Janette Weaverton, Bitsy St. Pierre, and Juliette Trevor.” Elegant names all, rich names, trust-fund money kind of names. He’d met all sorts in his nine years on the force, but working primarily in the bowels of D.C., it wasn’t often he met society types.
They were gracious and attentive, and clearly concerned about Mrs. Califano. The team already had their addresses and phone numbers. He wasn’t certain yet if he would be the one interviewing them and their families. He asked to speak to Mrs. Califano alone. Callie gave him a look, but ushered the four women out of the living room.
Ben sat down beside Mrs. Califano. He looked for several moments at her beautiful profile, similar to Callie’s, he realized, with her clean
, straight nose and high cheekbones. He supposed he could understand Justice Wallace being attracted to her even though she was his mom’s age, and when he thought of his mom, he thought of Wheaties and big laughter, not sex, for God’s sake.
“There are a whole lot of people working around the clock to find out who killed your husband, Mrs. Califano.”
“Yes, I would imagine so.” Her voice was quite without emotion, as if she’d simply put a cork in the bottle.
“When Justice Califano went to the Supreme Court Building on Friday night, he said he had something to think about. Please, try to remember, Mrs. Califano. What could it have been? Did you have an argument? Was he worried about some business deal? Something like that?”
She sighed, clasped her hands in her lap. She was very pale. “I’ve already told you three or four times that I can’t think of anything other than that case coming up, the death penalty case in Texas. Also, before you ask again, we didn’t have an argument Friday evening. Sure, we fought occasionally. All couples do, Detective. Aren’t you married?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You should be. You’re old enough.”
“The guards at the Supreme Court thought Justice Califano seemed preoccupied Friday night, something weighing heavily on his mind.” This was a stretch, but worth a try. “You were closer to him than anyone in the world. What was eating at him, ma’am? Please, think.”
She sighed again, fanned her hands in front of her. “Oh, all right. I knew he was upset at Sumner Wallace for, well, for being inappropriate with me, but you already know that, Detective. Yes, my daughter told me that she’d passed it on to you when you were going to interview Justice Wallace. I hope it won’t come out since it has nothing to do with anything, but now I suppose you want to know the rest of it. My husband knew about what Sumner had done as well because I myself told him just last week. He was singing Sumner’s praises about something. I just couldn’t bear the hypocrisy of it, so I told him what Sumner had tried with me.”
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