Blowout (11 page)

“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 all the details of your interview with Justice and Mrs. Wallace while we chow down.”

S
HE 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.

W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.
S
UNDAY

B
EN
R
AVEN 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.”

“How did he take it?”

“He was angry, as you'd expect. I don't know if he confronted Sumner about it since he never mentioned it to me again, which surprised me. But I wasn't about to bring it up. Was he thinking about that on Friday night? I don't know, Detective Raven.”

“Justice Sumner Wallace denied this, ma'am.”

“Well, naturally. Wouldn't you?”

“I suppose I would. His wife did as well.”

She shook her head. “Poor Beth. She puts up with a lot from Sumner, and has all their married life. How was he dealing with this?”

“Not well, neither of them were. Two federal marshals were there in the house with them, reassuring I'm sure, but still an invasion of their privacy, and a constant reminder that they might be in danger. Also, since reporters were camped out in their front yard, they felt like prisoners.”

“I so wish Callie weren't a reporter,” she said. “Doing that to people when they're in such obvious distress, and then trying to justify it with that idiotic refrain they so quickly toss out—‘the public's right to know.' It's only an excuse, of course.”

Since he agreed with that assessment wholeheartedly, he nodded. “Let me ask you this, Mrs. Califano. Sumner Wallace is not only of an age when he should be settled, he's a Justice of the Supreme Court. This reputation you're attributing to him, it seems so unexpected and surprising, so very incompatible with what he's supposed to be—a reasoned brilliant legal mind, deciding huge issues for our country.”

“Yes, I suppose it would come as an unpleasant surprise, but the fact remains he's still a man, a man who's carried on a number of affairs all his adult life. In my experience, particularly in politics, it's not at all uncommon for men who hold a great deal of power to exploit the women who are drawn to it.”

Ben couldn't disagree with that, too much evidence to the contrary. He wanted to point out that Justice Wallace also had six grandchildren, but he kept his mouth shut.

“You had no hint that your husband might confront him on Friday, Mrs. Califano?”

“No, no hint at all, like I've already told you, Detective. No, wait a moment. Now that I think about it, I did hear Stewart on the phone—not on Friday, but last Wednesday, I think. He wasn't happy. On the other hand, he wasn't screaming either. Whether or not he was speaking to Sumner, I can't say.”

“What did you hear your husband say?”

She was quiet a moment, hands clenching and unclenching in her lap.

“Something about ‘You will stop this immediately, do you hear me?'—along those lines. That's all I really remember, Detective. His voice, as I said, wasn't particularly angry.”

“Did he pause then? For the other person to answer him?”

“Yes, I believe he did. Then he sort of nodded into the phone,
didn't say anything more, and hung up. When he turned to see me standing there, he shrugged. ‘Nothing to worry about. It's done,' that's what he said. I suppose he wanted to cut off any questions from me, and it did. In many ways, Stewart was a very private man. His first wife had died some years ago, you knew that, and in the intervening years before we met and eventually married, he became used to being alone, to keeping his own counsel. That isn't a good thing, Detective. People shouldn't be alone.