Blowout (15 page)

“He had weaknesses, too. He could take a lawyer into dislike—and I know at least a couple of times that it colored his decisions. But he helped me form my own ideas about how to balance justice and the law in each individual situation. We'd disagree, we'd fight.” Eliza stopped cold, looked down at her clenched hands. “And now he's dead, and we don't even know who killed him or why.”

She started sobbing, and Sherlock went to her and pulled her into her arms and gently rocked her back and forth. She whispered against her hair, “I know, Eliza. We're so very sorry. We won't be telling Mrs. Califano anything, only if it's vital, which I can't imagine right now that it would be. It's all right, Eliza. Is there someone we can call for you?”

Eliza Vickers shook her head against Sherlock's shoulder, and slowly straightened. “You're so small, but you're strong, aren't you?”

Sherlock gave her face a gentle pat. “Yes, I am. But I can't stand to see this pain. Listen to me now. It is right that you grieve, that you think of all you've lost, but you're young and smart, and you will get over this. You will move on, and you will marry and you might be lucky enough to have a child. Agent Savich and I have Sean, and we would give our lives for him. So you see, things can change, and they will, for the better. We'll be speaking to you again, Eliza.”

Before they left, Savich made an appointment to see Eliza Vickers on Monday afternoon at the Supreme Court Building.

“I wonder,” Savich said as he turned the ignition key, “if she expected to marry him.”

“I sure hope she's too smart to have fallen into that trap.”

“Next time we see her, let's be sure to ask. I want to hear what she has to say.”

G
EORGETOWN
W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.
S
UNDAY AFTERNOON/EVENING

L
ILY
S
AVICH SERVED
homemade vegetable soup and polenta, an unlikely combination except that Sean adored it, and a warm baguette with strawberry preserves, which Sean also liked. Sean floated his polenta in the soup and hummed while he spooned most of it down his throat.

Sherlock said as she tucked Sean's napkin more firmly around his neck and wiped bits of polenta off his chin, “When's Simon coming, Lily?”

“Simon got hung up, and won't be here until this evening. Some big art acquisition for the Met. He's pretty impressed with himself. You guys got home sooner than expected.”

“Yeah, well,” Sherlock said as she spooned in a bit of soup, “Justice Alto-Thorpe blasted us out of the water for allowing
murder to happen in the Supreme Court, wouldn't even let us in her house.”

“She lambasted us all right,” Savich said. “It was quite an experience.”

“Somehow I can't imagine anyone lambasting either of you,” Lily added, her voice wistful. “I wish I could have seen that. Okay, despite her, how's the case going?”

“We've got some interesting twists going.” Savich's eyes nearly rolled back in his head at the taste of the soup. “You made the soup, Lily? It's wonderful.”

And Lily said without missing a beat, “Sure, Sean and I sliced the veggies.” She winked at Sherlock and mouthed “Balducci's,” naming a high-end deli over on M Street. She continued, “After Justice Alto-Thorpe, you guys sure don't want to turn on the TV, it'll give you heartburn. Goodness, I had no idea there were so many experts on exactly what the FBI should be doing and isn't doing, on what the President should be doing and isn't doing. It shows no sign of stopping.”

“The price of doing business in this town,” Savich said. “Now, don't bother me, Lily. I've got a spiritual experience going with this soup. Sean? You liking it too?”

His boy sucked down a spoonful, most of it making its way down his throat, but some of the vegetables and broth dripping off his chin. He gave his father a huge grin and picked up a chunk of polenta out of his soup and squeezed it through his fingers.

“I was just waiting for him to do that,” Lily said, watching him flatten his palm against his open mouth. “I think he likes the way it feels squishing between his fingers.”

“Whatever works,” Savich said. “Thanks so much for coming over, Lily. Graciella needed some time off, her mom's been ill.”

“Believe me, it's my pleasure.” Savich heard the hitch in her voice. She'd lost her own little girl over a year before, but now there was a nephew in her life, and he knew it mattered. He wondered if being with Sean was keeping her in Washington rather than marrying Simon Russo and moving to New York. On the other hand,
The Washington Post
had picked up
No Wrinkles Remus,
her political cartoon series, and she was laughing more, looking better, happier.

“Yes, Lily, we really appreciate you feeding us and taking care of the little wild one here—” Sherlock was interrupted by her cell. “Excuse me,” she said and turned away. “Sherlock.”

“It's Jimmy Maitland, Sherlock. You guys are needed, now. There's been another murder.”

“Who?”

“Daniel O'Malley, one of Justice Califano's law clerks.”

“Oh no,” Sherlock said. “Where did it happen?”

“His girlfriend found him in his apartment. Get over here as fast as you can. You got the address?”

“Oh yes. We'll be right there.”

Both Savich and Lily were on their feet. “What is it, Sherlock?”

“Daniel O'Malley. Danny Boy. Someone killed him. Lily, can you—”

“If you're thinking about asking Mom, hang it up. Sean's mine. Go.”

Sean wanted to go too. It took a couple of minutes to convince him that rolling his red ball over his Aunt Lily's stomach would be more fun.

D
ANIEL
O'M
ALLEY HADN
'
T
died easily. He'd fought, hard, but his killer had been stronger. He'd been strangled with his own St. Christopher medal.

He lay sprawled on his back in the narrow hallway that led from the living room to the bedroom of his apartment. His fingers were cut where he'd tried to get them beneath the heavy chain. The living room had been ripped apart—his one sofa, which looked like it had come from his parents, was turned facedown, a big TV chair ripped apart, the television smashed, all the dozen upon dozen of books pulled off the shelves, many of them ripped in two.

His apartment was on Biltmore Street N.E., near the middle of a long block in a blue-collar neighborhood that had undergone some recent gentrification. The apartment was small—a narrow living room, tiny kitchen, with everything in it smashed, the refrigerator open, milk pooled in the craters on the old linoleum floor. There was one bathroom, again with everything on the floor, a long skinny bedroom, three dead plants lined up on the windowsill, the only things that hadn't been destroyed. The mattress was turned over and slashed open. All the drawers in the small dresser were pulled out, shorts, undershirts, socks, pullovers thrown on the floor. Everything in the small closet was shredded, including two pairs of shoes.

They heard quiet weeping from the kitchen.

Jimmy Maitland and the medical examiner nodded to them in the hallway. Savich and Sherlock went down on their haunches beside Detective Ben Raven. He looked over at them. “You can
thank Mr. Maitland for getting me here. He also called the dozen task force team leaders. This place is going to fill up pretty soon. He thought it would be more efficient than calling everyone together again at FBI headquarters.”

“Is Callie with you, Ben?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, she's downstairs in the car. I ordered her on pain of dismemberment to stay there.”

Savich said, “Good, no one wants her to see this.”

They studied Danny O'Malley's body. “It's like Justice Califano,” Sherlock said. “He really fought, but in the end, the murderer toyed with him, let him think he could pull the chain free, but he couldn't, of course. The killer is strong, guys, he's very strong.”

“And sadistic,” Ben said. “He enjoyed this as much as he did strangling Justice Califano, got a real kick out of Danny's struggles, gave him a whiff of hope, then strangled him right through his fingers.”

Sherlock said, “I wonder if he brought his own wire, then saw Danny's chain and decided that would do the job just as well.”

Savich nodded slowly. “Yeah, that's probably right. He would have come prepared. He knew he was going to kill him, no doubt in my mind.”

Jimmy Maitland crowded in beside them. “There's got to be some useful physical evidence this time. The guy was looking for something. Even the bathroom, it looks like a hurricane went through. The killer didn't care, just destroyed, even the mirror and the medicine cabinet, glass everywhere, all the pill bottles open, pills scattered on the floor. He even ripped up the shower curtain. Still, we'll go over this place thoroughly, just maybe he didn't find what he was looking for.”

“Or maybe he wasn't looking for anything. He was enraged and wanted to destroy everything,” Ben said.

“That's possible,” Maitland said. “But I hope you're wrong, and the murderer was looking for something.” Jimmy Maitland rose and went off toward the kitchen.

Savich and Sherlock continued to examine Daniel O'Malley's body. “Do you smell that? It's like the Fantastik we use to clean the counters and bathrooms at home.” She raised Daniel O'Malley's fingers and sniffed. “The bastard scrubbed under his nails, cleaned away any skin and blood, any evidence of a struggle.”

Savich said, “Dr. Conrad is good. If there's anything to find, he and the forensic guys will find it.”

They rose, stood looking down at the young man's body, the gray pallor, the bulging eyes, the smell of waste his body had expelled—no, Sherlock couldn't see him with a bugle now, uniform sharply pressed, standing on the shore of Ireland. Twenty-six years old and he was dead. “He was so young, so—new. Maybe Eliza was wrong, maybe he would have turned out to be Danny Boy, a bugle under his arm, fighting for justice, maybe he wouldn't have turned into a money-grubbing kind of lawyer. Why was he murdered?”

Savich said, “I don't know, but it doesn't feel good.”

“No,” Ben said. “It doesn't. Why was the place torn apart?”

Sherlock said, “The killer was looking for something. But what? What could a law clerk for Justice Califano have that was so important for him to find?”

Savich said, “There's lots to consider here, but like I said, I have a bad feeling about this. And about Danny. Let's speak to Danny's girlfriend. Hopefully she'll know what was going on with him.”

Jimmy Maitland was looking both pale and furious when he walked back from the kitchen. “Damnation, this makes me mad, a young kid like this, why the hell did this maniac kill him?” He looked down at Danny O'Malley's body. “He was so damned young. It burns me to the ground.”

Sherlock said, “You find out anything from the girlfriend?”

“His girlfriend—her name's Annie Harper—said she and Danny went to a movie Friday night, couldn't tell me what it was. She said Danny loved Italian flicks, the ones with subtitles. She spent the night with him. She said he was really upset about Justice Califano's murder when he heard it on the news Saturday morning. I'm going to shut up now. I want you guys to speak to her, form your own opinions, but I'll tell you, she's a mess right now, incoherent really. Came over here, had a key, let herself in and found him.”

“It sounds like she belongs in the hospital right now,” Sherlock said. “They'll probably want to sedate her. And we've got to call her family.”

Jimmy Maitland nodded. “Yeah, I think that's the way to go. Hope to God she'll know what was on his mind. I don't mind telling you, I really don't like this.

“Okay, let me get Annie Harper to the hospital. I'm going to leave it to Dr. Conrad and the two forensic teams. We've got people out canvassing the neighborhood. The twelve team leaders are here. Come into the living room when you're done.”

“Oh yeah, best to put a guard on her, just in case,” Savich said.

Maitland nodded.

Five minutes later, twelve agents stood amidst the wreckage of the small living room. When Maitland spoke, everyone fell silent. “We want every person who knew Danny O'Malley interviewed
again as quickly as possible. Check alibis and phone records. The canvassing of Danny O'Malley's neighborhood hasn't turned up anything yet, but we'll continue pounding the pavement, speaking to every neighbor—and you can believe we'll get all the warrants we ask for.

“You all know the drill. Our murderer worked fast. What was he looking for when he tore up Danny's apartment? We need to find that out.

“Danny was killed within twenty-four hours of Justice Califano, according to Dr. Conrad's preliminary examination, which means he was killed early this morning or very late Saturday night. Annie Harper, his girlfriend, didn't spend the night on Saturday.”

“That was her good luck,” said Agent Ollie Hamish. “She'll realize that soon enough.”

Maitland said, “Yes, she will, and then she'll have to live with it. Danny's murder brings us so close I can taste it. It's someone in this bloody loop, someone we've already met and interviewed, not some deranged stranger, not someone on the outside. Let's get it done, today, all of it.”

Savich said, “We're going to focus on the following scenarios. First, there's some connection between Danny O'Malley and Justice Califano, something in Danny's background that ties them together. If this is the case, we'll find out what it is.”

Savich drew a deep breath. “The only other scenario that makes any sense is that when Danny found out about Justice Califano's murder, he either knew immediately who the killer was, or he'd seen or heard something he shouldn't have, probably in Justice Califano's office. And he acted on it.”

Jimmy Maitland said, “I was hoping I was the only one thinking that.”

Ollie Hamish said, “You hate it when young could go hand and glove with stupid. Well, we'll hope there was another reason, that maybe the two of them were tied together somehow in the killer's mind.”

Savich nodded. “I simply can't think of another reason why the killer ransacked the apartment. He had to be looking for whatever it was that Danny was holding over his head. Danny could have also been involved in something with the killer, and not realized that part of the plan was to kill him as well. If it turns out that Danny did know something and tried his hand at blackmail, we've got to find out what he knew and how he knew it. So that means we've got to track every move Danny O'Malley made.