Blowout ft-9

by Catherine Coulter

  “The doors are pretty solid, so even if the door is open a bit, it’s still private enough inside the office. Of course there are people all over the place outside. There are the tours, not that they come all that close, but you can usually hear people talking. And the Supreme Court Police are everywhere. Always noise, but in his inner office, with the door completely closed, you’d feel like you were in another world. Several dark leather sofas and chairs arranged in small groupings. Of course, there’s a big conference table for himself and the three law clerks. Also, Margaret had given him a lovely Georgian silver set and he really got a kick out of serving coffee to any visitors. But you’ve seen his office, I’m sorry. You know exactly what it looks like.”

  Savich said, “True, but I didn’t live there, not like you did. Now, Eliza, keep going. His door is nearly completely closed. What are you doing? What is Danny doing?”

  “Agent Savich, part of my brain was always on Stewart, if he could possibly need me. I remember I was speaking to one of Justice Alto-Thorpe’s law clerks—Bobby Fisher—yeah, like that chess player. Bobby was Justice Alto-Thorpe’s clone, at least that’s the image he projected. I suppose he was serious and not just kissing up, and that’s why she loved him. It was really rather pathetic, and the other law clerks weren’t shy about showing their contempt for him. Anyway, Bobby was in our office, chewing the fat. Actually, he does that a lot, visits a good five minutes with the secretaries before coming to me, and all I could think about was how to get rid of the little jerk. He was usually after a date when he came visiting, but I always blew him off. I remember Danny was there, drafting a concurrence—that’s an opinion that agrees with the result reached by the majority but for different reasons. He was hunched over his desk, concentrating. Then Bobby looked down at his watch, yelped, and bolted out of the chambers. He didn’t bother to tell me why, the dork, probably because I turned him down again. But I looked up at our big clock right behind Fleurette’s desk and saw it was one minute until ten-thirty—time for the Friday meeting in the Chief Justice’s chambers. So I gave a fast knock on Stewart’s door and opened it.

  “He had the phone in his hand. He hung it up pretty fast when he looked at me and saw my urgency. ‘What?’ he asked, and I said in my usual shorthand to him, ‘Friday meeting, conference room,’ and he shook his head like who cared? He sat there, tapping his pen on the leather top of his beautiful desk, and he was frowning, looking off somewhere. Then he shook his head again, as if he still couldn’t decide on something, and got up. He didn’t say another word, just gave this big sigh, and walked off to that meeting.

  “I didn’t see him until I was eating a sandwich at my desk at a little after noon. Danny and Fleurette went out to a café down the street, anything to get out of the pressure cooker for a while, they said, and Stewart walked in, nodded, and went right back into his office. He shut the door this time, all the way.”

  Savich said, “Why didn’t you tell us this morning, Eliza?”

  “I didn’t think it was odd or out of character, just business as usual. When he was really thinking about something, he’d stay in his office by himself. When he wanted to discuss a topic, or he was ready for a good argument about it, he’d call me in.

  “Sometimes we liked to leave the building to talk. Walk up into the residential neighborhood behind us. Check out the construction, just to be outside. It helped him to focus his mind.”

  “But on Friday, it’s still lunchtime. What did he eat?”

  “I brought him a pita sandwich, roast lamb, his favorite.”

  “He ate alone? In his office?”

  She nodded.

  “He didn’t ask you to join him?”

  She shook her head.

  “Was this unusual?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Where’s Danny?”

  “Danny got back about a quarter of one and Fleurette a little after one. Danny fritzed around a bit, not really doing anything useful that I could see, then he said he had to ask Justice Califano something. I was busy so I didn’t ask him what it was, specifically, just tossed off something like, ‘It better be important. He’s got his brain wrapped around something.’ ”

  “And what did Danny say to that?”

  “He said, ‘Oh, he’ll make time for this, Eliza, he’ll give me a few minutes.’ Oh God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it seemed like business as usual, but now it looks so different. What did he mean by that? Danny already knew something, didn’t he?”

  Sherlock said, “Probably. You’re doing great. Okay, Danny knocks on the door?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Justice Califano say anything you could hear?”

  “Something like, ‘Yes, Danny? Come on in, but not for long, I’m really busy.’ Something like that.”

  “How long was Danny with Justice Califano?”

  “I’m not sure, not long, maybe ten minutes. But I’m not sure. I got a call from a lawyer about procedure, then another call from the Solicitor General’s office, more procedural questions. People were in and out, a good half-dozen.

  “When Danny came out, he was quiet,” Eliza continued. “He sat down at his desk, and he was quiet. I told you he wasn’t stand-offish, maybe a little reserved with people he didn’t know well, but with Fleurette and me, he’d usually yak up a storm. But Danny sat there, not saying a word. I remember that I started to ask him about a cert. Justice Califano was concerned about. Oh, that’s a formal request that the Supremes hear a case. I can see Danny sitting there, and now I can see something was on his mind. Then I got busy again, and ended up not saying anything. The rest of the day passed like all Fridays do. Everyone talked about their weekend plans. I think there was some sort of children’s book festival going on over at Dupont Circle.”

  “Danny interested in books?”

  “Yes. He said he was going to go see the storytellers with his girlfriend.”

  “Did he mention that he and his girlfriend were going to the movies Friday night?”

  “I don’t remember. I just don’t.”

  Sherlock said, “When was the party Mrs. Califano was planning?”

  “Not until next weekend. Poor Margaret.”

  “She’ll be all right. She’s got lots of friends with her, and her daughter.”

  “Yes, the famous five friends. I always thought that was wonderful—five women staying together all those years, sharing their lives, always there for each other.”

  Sherlock said, “Was Justice Califano carrying anything around with him on Friday—papers, anything like that?”

  “He did have a habit of keeping some papers with him inside his breast pocket, usually whatever he was working on. Agent Sherlock, I can see him now, patting his chest to be sure he’d remembered, to be sure whatever he wanted was safe and sound with him. But I can’t be sure if that meant he had any papers with him on Friday. Poor Danny, do you think he knew? Oh, Annie Harper. I’ve got to call her.”

  She was starting to lose focus, but that was all right. Savich rose. “You probably can’t reach Ann Harper for a while, Eliza. After you’ve rested, I want you to go for a walk. I want you to review the day again, every moment of it, starting at the time you walked into your office. If you think of anything, doesn’t matter if you think it has any importance at all, call me immediately.”

  Savich gave her his card with his cell number on it. “Keep Danny O’Malley at the front of your mind. Follow his footsteps. Sherlock and I are going to speak with Fleurette.”

  “So you’ll tell her about Danny. Fleurette called me this morning, devastated, in shock really, about Justice Califano. At least her dad is flying in. He’ll probably take her home, after Justice Califano’s funeral. Now Danny’s dead too. He’ll be here for both funerals. Oh God. This is all so horrible.”

  “Yes, Eliza,” Sherlock said, “yes, it is.”

  “Please prove Danny wasn’t a blackmailer.”

  Neither Savich nor Sherlock said anything. It didn’t look good.
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  CHAPTER

  17

  E LAINE L A F LEURETTE ’ S DADDY had money, Savich already knew that. Big Ed LaFleurette was a major player in commercial New Orleans real estate development. He was tight with the local police, not only for protection but also for enforcement, and was ensconced in the local political scene as well. Fleurette lacked motivation until she was accepted to law school, but now “driven” was the word usually used to describe her. She wanted to do things on her own, without her father’s help. Well, except for where she lived. Why live like Danny when it wasn’t necessary? She lived in a lovely quiet upper-class neighborhood, about as far removed from Danny O’Malley’s digs as a dock bar from the Oak Room at the Plaza. It was a beautiful, well-tended brownstone, and it was hers, in her own name, a gift from Daddy after she passed the bar.

  They found Ben Raven and Callie Markham in his Crown Vic parked down the block. The four of them walked together to the brownstone.

  “Callie, I’m glad to see you,” Sherlock said. “You twist Ben’s arm here?”

  “Actually, I had to threaten him again, you know, calling my editor at the Post, offering up goodies.” She lowered her voice, close to Sherlock, “I really don’t think he minds so much today. He’s a tough guy, but I’m making inroads.”

  Sherlock patted her arm. “I’m just glad you stayed in the car at Danny O’Malley’s apartment, like Ben told you to.”

  “Actually, I cuffed her to the door handle,” Ben said. “All right, I didn’t manhandle her. She obeyed me this time.”

  “Ben told me Danny and my stepfather were killed by the same man. I knew Danny, not well, mind you, but he always smiled when I visited. It’s horrible.”

  “I agree,” Sherlock said. “Now, I think it’s good to have someone who knows Fleurette in on this interview, and your reporter’s trained eye makes it even better.”

  Ben was looking at the two women. He didn’t look very happy, more resigned. He’d found Callie on his doorstep when he’d gotten the call from Mr. Maitland about Danny O’Malley. He’d tried to get rid of her, but the woman was ruthless. Before they’d come here to Fleurette’s house, she’d talked him into having lunch, said she really liked Chinese, spicy hot Szechuan, a good thing since it was a staple for him when he wasn’t eating pizza, and she knew two places he hadn’t eaten at before.

  The four of them heard a man and a woman yelling at each other as they climbed up the six red brick front steps to the bright red front door with a lion-head knocker at its center.

  They paused a moment, listening.

  “You bastard! You used me because you wanted me to convince Justice Califano to vote to hear your damned case! You’re despicable, you—”

  “Get over it, Fleurette, it’s all irrelevant. I’m a lawyer, you knew that going in. You knew there was a case I was involved in, so don’t whine about it now. Hey, the old guy’s dead, so we’re not going anywhere, now are we?”

  The four of them stepped back as the front door swung open and a man in his mid-thirties, with impeccably styled light brown hair, a handsome face, and a runner’s body, came out, whistling, even as she continued to yell after him.

  “I hope you rot and die! I hope your dick falls off!”

  The guy looked at the four strangers, arched an eyebrow, gave them a cocky grin as he rolled his eyes back toward Elaine LaFleurette, and continued on his way to a dark green Jaguar parked in front of the house. He tossed his car keys in the air, caught them, and opened the door with the remote.

  Savich flipped out his I.D. to the young woman standing in the doorway. “Agents Savich and Sherlock, Detectives Raven and Markham. Are you Elaine LaFleurette?”

  “Yes. Look, I’ve already talked to you guys. I don’t know anything. What now?”

  Sherlock simply walked right up to her, pressing her back. “May we come in? It’s sort of cold out here.”

  Fleurette stepped back automatically. She was still flushed, her breath still hot with anger.

  Sherlock pointed back to the man who was revving up the Jag. “I agree with you, he’s a jerk,” she said. “We couldn’t help but overhear. You want me to go punch out his lights?”

  Fleurette stared at the lovely woman with her curly red hair who stood a good four inches shorter than she was, and laughed. “Nah, he’s not worth you breaking a fingernail. But you’re right about him. He just dumped me because Justice Califano is dead, and so I can’t help him now, not that I would have in any case. Thank God I didn’t sleep with him.

  “Callie? What are you doing with them? Oh God, I’m so sorry about your stepfather.”

  Callie said, “Thank you, Fleurette. I’m with them because I’m trying to help. About that jerk, you’re lucky to be rid of him so quickly. Why’d you hook up with him in the first place?”

  “Well, he is cute. And smart. But thank God it hadn’t gotten serious.”

  Savich and Ben followed the two women into the living room, saying nothing at all. It was a gorgeous place, with highly buffed floors and an occasional Persian carpet. The living room was filled with high-quality Early American antiques, giving the living room a cozy feel. A fire blazed in the fireplace.

  Fleurette obviously hadn’t been expecting company. She was wearing old gray sweats, with only socks on her feet, and no makeup. Her blond hair was in a ponytail. Her features were sharp, her green eyes full of intelligence.

  “The guy just showed up to kiss you off?” Sherlock asked.

  “Yeah, you’d think he’d at least call first, give me a chance to do my face, but here he is, standing on my doorstep, wanting to tell me he’s seeing another woman now. I wouldn’t be surprised if it isn’t Sonya McGivens, Justice Wallace’s clerk.” Sonya McGivens, Savich thought, unable to recall any specifics on her. But he would find out as soon as they got back to MAX and he opened his data port.

  Sherlock said, “I’m sorry to tell you this, Miss LaFleurette—”

  “Oh please, Agent Sherlock, you’ve heard me screaming at my former boyfriend, seen what a mess I am, please call me Fleurette, everyone does.”

  “Okay, Fleurette. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Daniel O’Malley was murdered, very likely by the same man who murdered Justice Califano.”

  Fleurette froze like a deer in the headlights. She stood there, staring at Sherlock, uncomprehending, her eyes blank, her face slack. Finally, she moistened her dry lips. “Danny—our Danny— is dead?”

  “Yes, within the past twenty-four hours. Now, you’re a smart person, Fleurette, you must see immediately that Justice Califano’s murder and Danny’s are somehow connected.”

  “But how?”

  “We have to consider that Danny may have known something, maybe even tried to blackmail the murderer. We very much need your help, and we need it right now to find out who killed him.”

  “Why would you think Danny would do such a thing?”

  Sherlock said, “His apartment was torn apart, Fleurette. Someone had been looking for something.”

  “And you think this something was some damning document that Danny had on the murderer?”

  Sherlock shrugged. “Very possibly.”

  Fleurette looked over at Savich, who was standing leaning against the wall next to the fireplace, then at Detective Raven and Callie. She said, “I—I don’t understand this. What could Danny possibly know about Justice Califano’s killer?”

  “Sit down, Fleurette. Let’s talk about Friday.”

  Fleurette sat, took several deep breaths, and nodded. “I remember Danny going into Justice Califano’s office. I remember he shut the door when he went in. None of us ever did that. If the door was cracked open, it stayed cracked open, but Danny closed it. Yes, that’s what he did.”

  “So he wanted to speak to Justice Califano privately? With no one interrupting.”

  “Now that you put it that way, yes, okay.”

  “Who came in first Friday morning? You or Danny?”

  “Me. It varied who was in first, depende
d on what each of us had to do on any given day. For the next couple of months things won’t be so bad. It’s the dog days—that’s what they’re called—April and May—when everyone puts in ninety-hour weeks. It’s when the major decisions pile up and—”

  Sherlock brought her back. “When did Danny get in on Friday?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Around a quarter of nine, I think.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He drank some coffee, ate one of those rolls from the downstairs cafeteria. He was reading something, jotting down notes. I didn’t ask because I had my own stuff to do. I remember being a bit surprised that Eliza wasn’t in with Justice Califano. They always met first thing every morning. The Justice always had his bagel. But Eliza was working at her desk that morning. When I came in, we had a bit of a chat, like usual, same with Danny.”

  “Do you know what Eliza was working on?”

  “No, again, I had my own work to worry about. I was drafting a dissent.”

  “So you’re all working. Then Bobby Fisher comes in to shoot the breeze?”

  “Yeah, he’s got a thing for Eliza, but she never gives him the time of day. He’s kind of creepy, the way he worships Justice Alto-Thorpe. None of us like him. Then he left.”

  “And Eliza went into Justice Califano’s office?”

  “Yeah, it was time for the Friday morning meeting in Chief Justice Abrams’s chambers. Good ole Bobby had a stick up his—well, he hadn’t said a word. He’s awful, no manners, you know what I mean?”

  Sherlock moved on. “So Eliza comes back out, followed by Justice Califano, who runs off to the meeting?”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t right away. She was in there maybe three, four minutes. I remember looking up at the clock, knowing how Chief Justice Abrams hated a meeting to start late.”