Blowout (9 page)

“It's possible. Whenever Stewart wanted to be alone to think, to study a case or a contentious issue like this one, he went to the library. He simply felt an affinity for it. He enjoyed being among those thousands of books that give us the roots of what we are as a people. They helped focus his mind, he said, on the meaning of his work.”

“Do you have any idea who could have killed him?”

Justice Wallace began rubbing his hands together, like Lady MacBeth, Callie thought, and wasn't that a strange image to appear in her mind? He said finally, his voice slow and thoughtful, very much like a Justice rendering an opinion, “No, there was no one, either in his past or in the present, that I know of.”

“Do you know of anything on a more personal level that was bothering Justice Califano? Some disagreement he'd recently had? Some argument?”

“No, naturally not. Stewart was very well liked. He was happily married. He had a stepdaughter everybody likes.” He sent something close to a smile in Callie's direction.

“You were his best friend, sir?”

“For many years. We both went to Harvard Law. In those years, we drank too much, spent too much time in clubs.” He fell silent, sighed.

For the good old days? Ben had to remind himself that the Justices of the Supreme Court had once been young and that meant
doing stupid things, but it was still tough to believe. Justice Wallace was one of the Supremes, so high up he could call the President by his first name.

It was time to move on, time to go to the meat of the matter. He thought of what Savich had said to him. “Remember, Ben, any of the Justices could probably have you taken out and shot, so be diplomatic, be respectful.” Well, this wasn't going to be respectful at all. Ben could almost hear the firing squad readying their rifles, but he formed the words in his mind and managed to get them out of his mouth. “Would you tell me, sir, whether you've been personally involved with Margaret Califano?”

Justice Wallace's eyes flashed. What? Rage? Embarrassment? No, not embarrassment, but what? Astonishment that he'd been observed and was being called on it? That was probably it. His face paled a bit as he drew in a long, slow breath. Ben prepared himself to be lambasted, possibly threatened. He was aware that Callie was staring intently at Justice Wallace.

But all the Justice said was, “That's ridiculous.”

“Yes, of course it's ridiculous,” said Mrs. Wallace from the door. “How dare you, young man, intimate such a thing? You are speaking to a Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States.”

Ben wanted to apologize, but he held himself still. He looked briefly at Callie. She was still staring at Justice Wallace's face, not moving.

Beth Wallace wasn't through. “The thought that Sumner would ever do anything like that, it's nonsense. Both Stewart and Margaret were our friends, both of them. It is also an insult to me, Detective. My husband is faithful to me, always has been. And to ask such a thing at this time, in the context of Stewart's death—it's
reprehensible.” The silver tray she carried trembled in her hands. Callie quickly jumped to her feet and took the tray.

Ben wished Mrs. Wallace could have remained out of sight for two minutes more. Well, damn. Her timing couldn't have been worse. And that was all he was going to get—a denial. He nodded as he said, “Please let me apologize to both of you. There are some questions a policeman is forced to ask even though he doesn't want to. To return to Justice Califano's professional career. Can you think of anyone who hated Justice Califano enough to kill him?”

“Of course not,” Justice Wallace said without hesitation. “If there were ever such a question, any threatening correspondence, for example, it was forwarded to the FBI immediately. They always follow through on such things. Of all the Justices, Stewart was least likely to receive hate mail. Realize, Detective, that the nine of us spend most of our time in the Supreme Court Building. We're not out haranguing defense lawyers or sentencing criminals, haven't been for many years.”

There was a moment of tense silence, then Justice Wallace said, “You don't believe this was a terrorist act, do you, Detective?”

“I don't know, sir. And since we don't know, that's why you have two federal marshals assigned to guard you. They will remain until we've solved this case. Now, sir, for our information, and with my apologies, would you please tell me where you were last night?”

Justice Wallace raised an eyebrow and said, “Both my wife and I were home last night, playing bridge with our next-door neighbors, the Blairs. They left at around midnight. Isn't that right, Beth?”

Beth Wallace nodded. “Then we went to bed.” She looked down at the beautiful silver coffeepot no one had touched. “It does occur to me to mention Eliza Vickers. She was Stewart's senior law clerk. She isn't a very nice woman.”

Justice Wallace frowned at his wife. “There's nothing to say about her, Beth.” When she attempted to open her mouth again, he said over her, “Eliza is one of the most effective law clerks at the Court. She was always locking horns with Stewart, always debating, especially when she really cared about something. She would nearly hold him prisoner in his office when she wanted to bring him around to her way of thinking.” He sighed. “She was with him nearly a year and a half. He could speak of nothing but keeping her on with him beyond two years, something that's very rare.”

Beth Wallace said, venom in her voice, “She disliked him, I know it for a fact.”

Now this exchange was peculiar, Callie thought. She said, “Mrs. Wallace, why do you think that?”

“It's nonsense,” Justice Wallace said, before his wife could speak. “You rarely visited the Court. How would you know?”

“Tai Curtis, one of your own law clerks, told me, Sumner.”

Justice Wallace looked embarrassed, but he managed a dry laugh, waved his hand in dismissal. “Ah, Tai dislikes her because she's a better law clerk than he is. Forget her, Beth.”

Mrs. Wallace looked at the coffeepot. She said nothing more.

They took a respectful leave of Justice Sumner Wallace and his wife, and shook hands with the federal marshals who were still standing near the front door. Ben was already plotting when he could speak to Mrs. Wallace alone. The reporters were still outside when they left, shouting questions, but all they got for it was
a quickly pressed-together snowball that Callie hurled at one of the reporters. She hit him in the head.

“I always say to make use of what's available to you,” Ben said. “Not a bad shot.”

Callie gave a quick bow to the laughing reporters, and got into the car. “Where are we going now?” She was staring through the veil of snow at the face of Bob Simpson of Fox, a man she'd turned down some months before, which hadn't made him very happy. She gave him a little finger wave. “Others will come to interview Justice Wallace?”

“Oh yeah,” he said, carefully easing the Crown Vic onto the street.

Callie hung on to the chicken strap, and watched the world slide by. Fortunately there weren't many cars out, Washingtonians evidently living up to their reputations for self-preservation.

“I'm taking you back to Colfax. Then I'm going to the Hoover Building. We're having our first big organizational meeting. I've never been involved in something this explosive, but—”

He shut up like a spigot.

“But what?”

“You're a civilian, Callie. You shouldn't even be in this car with me.”

“Get a grip here, Detective Raven—”

“Ben,” he said mildly. “You don't want to be formal after you've told me I have sexy hair.”

She wasn't even tempted to laugh. “Ben, we've already been through this with Agent Savich. Get used to it. It doesn't matter that you have sexy hair. I want to go with you to this meeting.”

He turned the Crown Vic toward Virginia.

Ben waited until Callie stomped into the Kettering house before he headed back to the Hoover Building. He wondered if Savich would ever tell her the main reason he'd let a civilian tag along on an official investigation was that, bottom line, he believed her threat to investigate on her own, and he knew that might put her in the sights of the murderer. He wanted her to keep safe. So, on top of everything else, Ben was a bodyguard for a big-mouthed reporter.

B
ETHESDA
N
AVAL
H
OSPITAL
M
ARYLAND

S
AVICH LOOKED DOWN
at the flaccid skin and grayish pallor of Supreme Court Police Officer Henry Biggs. His head was wrapped in a wide white bandage. Savich knew he was fifty, married, with three grown children. He was a man with a long stable career, a man who, unfortunately, hadn't kicked the smoking habit. He was lying perfectly still on his back, an IV drip in his arm, his eyes closed, his breathing a bit labored. He looked pretty bad, but Savich could see the rise and fall of his chest through the heating bag they'd put him in to regulate his temperature after he'd been left outside in the snow for so long. He could have frozen to death. Then his eyelashes fluttered as he became aware someone was there. He slowly opened his eyes. From behind Savich, Dr. Faraday said, “Mr. Biggs, two FBI agents are here to speak to you, but only for a moment. Do you feel up to it?”

“Track the bastard down,” Officer Biggs whispered. “Fry him.”

Sherlock touched her fingertips to his forearm. “You can count on that, Officer Biggs. We'll fry him to a crisp.”

Officer Biggs tried to smile, but couldn't quite manage it. “You FBI?”

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock said. “Both of us. We'd like to go over what happened to you, have you give us every detail you can remember. If you become too tired, we'll let you rest. But we do need your help as quickly as we can get it, Officer.” She heard the doctor move restlessly behind her. She turned, gave him a sunny smile, and said, “We're not going to put him on the rack. When he tires, Doctor, we will go. May we ask you to leave now?”

No one, Savich thought, bucked Sherlock when she used that sweet iron voice.

Officer Biggs studied Savich for a moment. “You heading this investigation, Agent Savich?”

“The FBI is heading it, Officer Biggs.”

“So the marshal of the Supreme Court Police isn't coordinating everything?”

How could Biggs ever have thought that, Savich wondered. “Marshal Alice Halpern and her people will be involved, certainly. You're really a lucky man, Officer Biggs. One of your friends, Officer Clendenning, wondered about you, and went looking. The man who struck you down had thrown a tarp over you, left you right there beside the wall.”

“And nobody realized when he came in that he wasn't me.”

Savich said, “No, but we're still speaking to all of the officers on that shift. Maybe someone noticed something, felt something wasn't right. By the time the alarm was raised, the killer was gone.

“All right now, Officer Biggs.” Savich leaned close to his gray face, where so much pain and rage flickered in his faded eyes. “I
need you to think back to this past week, particularly yesterday. Did you notice anyone who seemed to be hanging around, watching, waiting, perhaps leaving, then returning, anyone who didn't look right, who gave you pause?”

Officer Biggs closed his eyes. Slowly, he shook his head. “We've got a residential neighborhood not a block behind us, and there are people hanging around all the time. I didn't notice anyone in particular, and they'd be more noticeable at night when I'm on duty.”

“I want you to think about this after we leave. If you recall anything, call us. Now, sir, it's a quarter of twelve last night. You haven't had a smoke for two hours. You're antsy, hurting. You want to skip this break since you're trying to stop, but you had an argument with your wife, and it's eating at you. You don't want to go outside because it's cold and beginning to snow, but you've got to have that cigarette. Tell us exactly what you did.”

“How did you know about that fight with my wife?”

“She told us,” Sherlock said. “She's really worried about you. She wants you to forgive her.”

Those pain-faded eyes burned a bit. “It was about our oldest son. It doesn't seem like much now. But she really made me mad,” said Officer Biggs. “Okay, so, I have my area, right there on the first floor, through the Great Hall and into the courtroom. I keep watch, always listen for any noise that shouldn't be there, make my rounds, watch and listen. Dear God, Justice Califano is dead, he's dead, such a nice man, and it's all my fault.”

Sherlock put her hand on his forearm again and left it there. “Did you see Justice Califano come in?”

“No, but I heard some of the guys talking. Justice Califano was a regular, coming in at all hours of the evening. It was kind of a
joke, you know? We'd lay bets on when he'd come in, laugh about fights with his old lady, about her driving him off.”

“But you have no idea why he came in last night?”

“A couple of the guys were talking—something Justice Califano said at the entrance, something about having a lot to think about. But no one knew for sure. Jerry Quincy thought it could be about that death penalty case they were hearing on Tuesday. That sixteen-year-old kid killing three people. Of course he isn't sixteen now, he's closer to thirty. Jerry saw him head up to the library. That was one of his favorite places. It's really beautiful up there, all those arches, all those books.”

Savich paused when Officer Biggs closed his eyes, licked his dry lips. He watched Sherlock lightly stroke the man's forearm, soothing him.

“Anyway, it was about a quarter of twelve, like you said, Agent Savich, and I was ready to chew off my elbows I wanted a smoke so bad. So I tell my supervisor, that's Mrs. Parks, and she tells me to step out and do the deed. I get my coat and gloves out of the locker—we're down in the basement, you know?”

“Yes, we know.”

“And I went out from there, out the side door that's next to the information desk. There's lots of construction going on, and it looked like an unfinished Hollywood set out there, what with the piles of raw wood, the row of Porta Potties, temporary construction buildings, all covered with a sprinkling of white. It was pretty, but cold, real cold. Not much wind, which was good. I lit up. Ah—you can't imagine how deep I sucked it in, the taste got me over my anger at Glyna.” He paused, and Savich imagined he was remembering the feeling of drawing that smoke deep into his lungs.

“I was standing there, leaning my shoulder against the wall, thinking about stuff, you know? My son is in law school, but he's having some trouble with it, and the fight with Glyna—then I heard something, something I shouldn't have heard. We're trained, you know, to tell sounds apart, to know which ones are the usual sounds of the building or the wind, which ones shouldn't be there, even the sound of someone or something brushing against all that marble. I swear I can hear someone running a finger over the marble, you get real sensitive to stuff like that. Anyway, I was reaching for my gun as I turned, and something crashed down on my head. I was gone, Agent Savich. Just gone. I don't even remember hitting the ground. I woke up here with a nurse leaning over me.”

“That's excellent, Officer Biggs. Now, relax and think back again. You're smoking, thinking about your son. Then you hear something. What is it exactly?”

“Like someone was there, behind one of the temporary buildings, real close, not more than a half dozen feet away. I remember thinking, now what the hell is that? I even called out, ‘Who's there?' ”

“The sound was only six feet away?”

“Not more than ten feet, that's for sure. You saw the construction there, right? Nearly right against the building. Yeah, real close.”

“How long was it after you heard the noise that you were struck on the head?”

“Not more than a couple of seconds. Like I said, I turned really fast when I heard it, came right to attention, you know? Drew my gun and everything. And just when I turned, I got smashed on the back of my head.”

Sherlock said, “Do you think there were two people there, Officer Biggs? One to distract you, make you turn toward the noise, the other person behind you?”

The man's eyes closed again. Savich said, “That's right, try to feel it again, try to remember exactly what you were thinking, hearing. Okay, you're standing there, Officer Biggs, you're alert, you're listening. You're at attention.”

In a defeated voice filled with despair, Officer Biggs whispered, “Now that I really concentrate on it, I think it was one guy, Agent Savich. Maybe he tossed something to make me look in one direction, to distract me.”

Sherlock stroked her fingers down to close them over his hand.

“I think I would have felt it if there'd been two of them—I've got real good instincts for stuff like that, real sharp senses. But he still got me, still laid me flat.”

“Thank you, Officer Biggs. We'll be speaking to you again, but not until you're feeling better. You rest. You've given us excellent information.”

“Did Marshal Halpern know anything? What does she think of all this?”

Sherlock said, “She hopes that you're better soon. She asked us to tell you she'll be coming to see you shortly. Special Agent Frank Halley is speaking with her now. She'll let you know if she has any other ideas about this.”

“She's been a good boss, doesn't take grief from any of the guards. I hope she doesn't fire my ass.”

Sherlock nodded to the guard stationed outside Officer Biggs's room. She said as they walked down the quiet hospital corridor, “He'll have to live with this for the rest of his life.”

“Yes. And I'll bet you he'll never smoke another cigarette.”

They passed Glyna Biggs in the waiting room, nodded to her, tried to look reassuring, and continued on their way.

“Now,” Savich said, “it's back to headquarters. I have no doubt that Agent Frank Halley will be ready to take my head off for being assigned over him on this.”

They left the huge complex, heads down against the blowing snow, and walked to the parking lot. Once in his Porsche, Savich turned the heater on high. Sherlock said, as she pulled off her gloves, “Frank will get over it. It's what Director Mueller wants.” She grinned, patted his arm. “I'll tell him that we're the best. Then you can invite him to the gym.”

Savich grinned at her, controlled a sudden skid in the snow that would have slid them into a fire hydrant. “The thing is, Frank is good. I'm counting on him for his input. But he's old school, believes in rank and seniority, regardless.”

Sherlock eyed an SUV negotiating a corner some twenty feet ahead of them, and thought about the turf wars. Most of the old guard had retired in recent years. Under the leadership of Director Mueller, the FBI had reevaluated, reassigned, and refocused itself, placing anti-terrorism and homeland security squarely at the top of its priorities. All agencies had been ordered by the President to communicate, to work together and share information—a concept that was finally catching on. But there were egos and old rivalries at play, so the going could still be tough.

Director Mueller was overseeing this extraordinary case himself, with his second in command, Jimmy Maitland, who was Savich's boss. Both would keep the waters calm, at least on the surface.