Blowout (22 page)

Unfortunately, Savich thought, when he finally managed to get away from Quantico, Danny O'Malley's Gucci briefcase, his cell phone with its memory chip, a throwaway cell phone, and the skinny little black book were gone.

FBI H
EADQUARTERS
E
ARLY
T
UESDAY MORNING

S
AVICH STOOD
at the head of the conference table, looked out at the sea of faces.

“MAX has found an assassin who is a high-probability fit for our murderer. He has used the alias Günter Grass, middle name
listed as Wilhelm. He has used the same M.O. as our killer on a number of victims—a garrote, up close and personal, and mostly in high-risk settings. The two have always gone together for him.”

“Hey, that name sounds familiar,” said another agent.

“Yes,” Savich said. “The real Günter Wilhelm Grass won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1999. Maybe some of you have read his first novel,
The Tin Drum.
He's also a poet, novelist, playwright, even a sculptor. He has described himself as a
‘ Spätaufklärer,'
a belated apostle of enlightenment in an era that has grown tired of reason.

“No one knows why the killer selected this name as his primary alias. I'd imagine he admires something about Günter Grass, or about something he wrote. Steve and the behavioral sciences group at Quantico will be telling us more about that. No one knows his real name. He only goes by the name Günter.

“Last night I spoke to our local Interpol guy here in Washington, Johnny Baines, to Jacques Ramie in Lyons, and to Hans Claus in Berlin. Günter Grass isn't on their current radar because he hasn't been active in well over ten years, at least not that anyone knows of. That's why it took MAX a little while to find him.

“The German and French authorities are certain that no such person or anyone similar is connected to any known terrorist cell.

“So the question is, where has the guy been? What's he been doing? Where is he now? Still in Washington or long gone? And how did the person behind the two murders even know about a guy like this, a professional assassin?”

Jimmy Maitland said, “Of course, there is no one by this name currently here in the U.S., no passports or visas issued in that name. Bottom line, we know who he is, but we have no clue where he is.”

Ben Raven asked, “No old photos? Nothing?”

Savich nodded. “I'm passing out a grainy old photo that Jacques Ramie sent over. They tried to clean it up digitally, but it's still not good. You'll see that it's a photo of a much younger man. He's big, you can tell that much, and looking at the clothes, it would put the photo in the mid- to late eighties. Even though he's older now, he's still got to be pretty strong to take out Justice Califano and Danny O'Malley.”

Jimmy Maitland shook his head. “The thing about picking high-risk places—it's very rare for a professional. A professional is in and out, clean and fast, gets the job done. But our guy's got to have this adrenaline shot. We've never run into anything like that before.”

“Calling himself Günter Grass, that's just nuts,” said another agent.

“He's giving everyone the finger,” Jimmy Maitland said. “Done it for years; unfortunately, he's gotten away with it. He's still free. Estimates on how many people he's killed, Savich?”

“Jacques believes it to be around twenty. Günter was active until the late eighties, none of them high-profile killings—drug dealers, international mafia, those sorts of hits. Then nothing. Until Justice Califano.”

“He probably made himself a big bundle and retired,” said Jimmy Maitland. “Changed his name. He could be living anywhere in the world, or he could be living down the block from one of us, as far as we know.”

“And that brings up another thing,” Savich said, and sighed. “According to Interpol, the man is fluent in four languages—German, French, Italian, and, naturally, English.”

“Does he sound American or English?”

“American, I'm told. The person behind these murders knows Günter on a personal, business, or social level. And somehow, he found out exactly who and what Günter was and still is.”

“Hey, Günter could be somebody's plumber,” called out one agent.

“With what they charge, he wouldn't have had to take the job,” said another agent.

S
T
. L
UKE
'
S
E
PISCOPAL
C
HURCH
W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.
T
HURSDAY MORNING

S
T
. L
UKE
'
S WAS
far too small for the throng of mourners there to witness Justice Stewart Califano's funeral. The media were kept milling about outside the small Episcopal church, trying to catch a brief interview with all the notables who were invited.

There was room for only one hundred and fifty mourners inside St. Luke's. Friends and family only, other judges, members of Congress, and the President and Vice President and their families. The President himself delivered the eulogy.

Margaret Califano sat with Callie, holding her hand, both of them covered from head to foot in black. Margaret's friends, their husbands and families flanked her. Like the Swiss Guard protecting the kings of France, Savich whispered to Sherlock.

Director Mueller, DAD Jimmy Maitland, Sherlock, Savich, and Ben Raven sat two pews behind Margaret Califano, and behind
them were several Supreme Court police officers, including Henry Biggs, who still looked frail, but at least was alive. Savich wondered why Mrs. Califano had invited him. She was, he decided, a class act.

When the service ended, the President and First Lady were escorted out of St. Luke's, surrounded by the Secret Service, then the Vice President and Mrs. Chartly. Margaret stood beside her husband's flag-draped coffin, shaking hands, speaking in her low quiet voice, thanking people for coming. When it was time, she looked toward the doors, saw the media held back by the Metro police. She drew a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and walked out with Callie to speak to them, the coffin wheeled slowly after her by the eight remaining Justices, an incredibly stirring sight Savich knew would be immortalized around the world.

The shouted questions stopped the instant she opened her mouth. Margaret spoke quietly, and graciously thanked everyone for their warmth and support for her family. Concerning the investigation, she said only that she was confident the FBI would find the man who had killed her husband. She also said that after her husband's interment at St. Martin of the Fields, she would speak to the media, at her own home. She politely declined to answer any questions, only repeated, “I will speak to you again later at my home.”

The small, private interment went quickly and smoothly, with the media kept a good distance away from the gravesite by the same officers who had been at St. Luke's.

Savich, Sherlock, Ben, and a few more FBI agents accompanied Margaret Califano to the press conference she gave at her home on Beckhurst Lane. She answered every question patiently and politely.

“We hear
The Washington Post
has the inside track on this because of you, Ms. Markham,” shouted one reporter. “Is that proper conduct for a major newspaper in an investigation of this stature?”

Callie stepped forward. “No, it certainly wouldn't be if such a thing were true, but it isn't. I'm on a leave of absence from the
Post.
I'm helping the authorities as much as I can, but only as Justice Califano's stepdaughter.”

Jed Coombes, Callie's editor, called out, a mixture of sarcasm and bitterness clear in his voice. “It's true, she won't give us the time of day.”

This brought more laughter.

“You're gonna fire her?”

A thoughtful frown. “Probably not.”

When it was over, when finally all the TV vans and reporters had left, Sherlock went home to Sean, and Savich stopped in to see Jimmy Maitland at FBI headquarters.

FBI H
EADQUARTERS
T
HURSDAY AFTERNOON

I
T WAS WINTER
, dark at five-thirty. A cold drizzle slapped against the window in Jimmy Maitland's office. Savich sat in front of his boss's desk, his hands clasped between his legs, staring at his shoes.

“MAX has come up dry, and so have we,” Savich said. “Günter seems to have completely disappeared in 1988.”

“Anything at all useful about Günter before 1988?”

Savich shook his head. “He could be an American, an Albanian, an Armenian. He left no clues. The guy's a pro.

“As for the rest of it, the local investigation—we haven't turned up a fingerprint, a footprint, usable DNA, not even a vague description by a witness. The garrote leaves no trace, one of its advantages.

“We've followed up on all the phone records, checked every deleted file on computers that could be connected to the Justice, but nothing has fallen out of that.

“Some of what we're looking at—further background checks on everyone who could be involved, review of both victims' financial records, interviews with felons Justice Califano convicted and white-collar criminals he bankrupted, going back many years—these will take more time, but as you know, they're a bit of a stab in the dark. So far, all we really have is the connection MAX gave us to Günter, and the fact that whatever it was that triggered Justice Califano's murder, Danny O'Malley was somehow able to find out about it.

“Our interviews have been useful, but nothing seems to tie into anything substantial yet. All the inconsistencies, even the downright lies don't seem to matter. And Danny—the only person I can believe about Danny is Annie Harper, and that's because Dr. Hicks hypnotized her and I questioned her myself.”

Jimmy Maitland said, “Danny O'Malley sounded like an opportunistic little prick.”

“Yes, unfortunately he was. And deep down, Annie knew it, but she was too young and too in love to admit it. She does now.”

“You sound like her father, Savich.”

“I felt ancient when I was speaking to her.”

“Nothing on the briefcase, the black book, or the cell phone.” A statement, not a question.

Savich shook his head.

Jimmy Maitland said suddenly, “When was the last time you were at the gym?”

Savich's head whipped up. “Two, three days. Why?”

“That's your problem. You need to sweat this out of your system, have one of the guys bust your butt a little, let this slide off you for a while. Go, Savich, go work out, you need it.”

Savich slowly rose. “Maybe you're right, sir.” He grinned. “Then I can get Sherlock to rub me down with BenGay.”

“Hey, that woman Valerie Rapper still at the gym? The one who came on to you?”

Savich was clearly startled. “How did you know about her?”

Jimmy Maitland, father of four sons, all of them built like bulls—like their father—and all firmly in the control of his wife, whom he could tuck under his armpit, said, “I know everything, and it's best you never forget that, boyo.”

Savich was actually smiling when he left the Hoover Building to head to the gym. And when he walked through the front door of his house, so beat he could barely walk upright, Sherlock shoved him into the shower, then fed him a big plate of spinach lasagna. He fell asleep lying on his belly in the middle of the bed, Sean beside him, pressing his teddy bear's nose in the BenGay as he followed the path of his mother's massage.

B
ECKHURST
L
ANE
W
ASHINGTON
, D.C. T
HURSDAY EVENING

B
EN AND
C
ALLIE
followed Margaret Califano into her house. Her friends were waiting inside the front door—Janette, Anna, Juliette, and Bitsy. Their families had evidently gone home.

Ben said, eyebrow up, “Are they going to move in?”

Callie said, “I'll assume that was an attempt at a joke. I guess they'll be here for her as long as they believe she needs them.” Callie watched the women surround her mother as the group walked back into the living room. At least her mother was home again. Callie paused a moment more, watching them from the living room doorway. “They've always been around. For each other, and for all the kids. I grew up with these women. Each of them taught me something special—”

“Like what?” Ben asked.

Callie looked toward Janette Weaverton, who was laying the fire in the fireplace. “Janette taught me how to knit. Anna taught me how to play the piano. Juliette taught me tennis, and Bitsy, well, she taught me how to make the best pizza crust in the world. And that gives me a great idea.”

She headed into the living room, Ben on her heels. She smiled as she clapped her hands. “Hey, everyone, I'm calling in for pizza. It's on me. Mom's home again, you're all here, we got through the day and the media. We've got champagne to celebrate Stewart's life and being here together, and we've got beer for our guy here. What does everyone think?”

For a moment, there was silence. Then Margaret smiled at her daughter. “Do you know, I think Stewart would like that.”

“Good. It's done.”

It was pretty clear to Ben that the women would as soon see the back of him, but they were all nodding and smiling, polite to their undoubtedly beautifully polished toenails. It was Bitsy who said, “Anchovies for me, Callie.”

“As if I didn't know,” Callie said.

Janette said, “I want double pepperoni.”

Ben nodded. “A woman after my own heart—make that two.”

Callie ended up ordering seven pizzas, including a large caper and olive for herself.

It was Margaret's first night home. Callie was going to stay with her for a while, but Ben got the distinct impression that her mother really didn't need her to stay or particularly wanted her to stay either. She had her four friends. Were her friends closer to her than her own daughter? They were all of an age, all of them had shared so many years of their lives together, each other's pain as well as happiness. He supposed they knew each other as well as old married couples must.

He turned to Janette Weaverton, who'd gone to open the drapes a bit to look out. “No more media,” she said over her shoulder. “Margaret did an excellent job with them.”

Ben joined her at the window. “Yes, she did. I understand from Callie that you taught her how to knit.”

Janette didn't look at him. “She'd be quite good if she applied herself, but Callie's young, she's got so much stuff to do—and her career is really taking off. I think a Pulitzer might mean more to her than a knitted afghan.” She turned to face him, her arms folded over her chest. “She knit me a sweater—her very first effort. I still have it.”

“Does it look like a sweater, or is it one of those stereotypical things you see that goes on for yards and yards?”

“Nope, it's a sweater. She was good when she was twelve. Haven't you been to her apartment?”

He shook his head. “She's a civilian, ma'am. She was assigned to me. None of this is social.”

“What a waste that seems, Detective. Callie's a special girl, always has been.”

“So special that Mrs. Califano didn't marry Justice Califano until Callie went off to college?”

Janette Weaverton shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. What happened to her sister's girl really affected her, affected all of us. None of us encouraged Margaret to change her mind about it. The thing is, though, Callie has gumption—she would have kicked her stepfather's ass if he'd ever tried anything with her. And she really liked Stewart, admired him tremendously.”

Hearing a blueblood like Janette Weaverton talk about kicking ass made Ben choke. He coughed into his hand.

She laughed. “Oh, I see. You think I should speak more demurely, to match my St. John suit?”

“What's a St. John's suit?”

Janette smiled. “That's what I'm wearing. It's a designer label. Did you know Callie has a black belt in karate?”

“Yeah, she might have mentioned it once when she wanted to boot me out the car window.”

“The first thing Margaret did after her sister's daughter was molested was to enroll Callie with an excellent instructor, to be sure that Callie would never be a victim.

“You seem like a good man, Detective Raven. You're interesting, you're also an excellent listener. I'll bet you manage to get information out of the most obdurate of perpetrators, don't you?”

“I try, ma'am. Actually, I hear it's Agent Savich who's the master at it. They give lots of classes on interviewing at Quantico. One day I might go see what it's all about.”

“You really think Agent Savich is all that good? It's been nearly a week since Stewart's murder and nearly four days since Danny O'Malley's murder, yet he doesn't seem to have turned up anything.”

“He will. Justice Califano interacted with a great many people, so many it makes your head ache, and everyone has something quite different to say. Lies? Just differences of perception? Sheer perversity?”