Blowout (15 page)

“We understand that Justice Califano didn’t want to lose you when your second year comes to a close in July, either as his law clerk or his lover.” Savich paused a fraction of a second. “He was your lover, wasn’t he, Eliza?”

Her mouth opened, shut, and then she sighed. “I don’t know why I’m surprised you found out. It’s just that I didn’t think anyone knew. Actually I’m not certain that Stewart believed me as good a lover as a law clerk.” She tried to smile, but this time she couldn’t. “I didn’t want to leave him and he certainly didn’t want me to leave, but I was leaving, in July. I’d made up my mind. I would very much appreciate it if you wouldn’t say anything about my relationship with Stewart to anyone, particularly to Margaret.”

Sherlock said, “How long had you been lovers?”

“Four months now. Please, I don’t want Margaret to know. Why hurt her needlessly? It would be cruel.”

Sherlock said, “She’ll have to know if it turns out your affair had anything to do with Justice Califano’s murder.”

That knocked her back against the colorful pillows that lined the back of the white sofa. “How could I have anything to do with Stewart’s murder? He was the finest man I’ve ever known in my life. He was brilliant, he was kind, he was gentle, he was unfailingly thoughtful. He loved being a Supreme Court Justice, and best of all, he was very good at it. We all needed him; the country needed him; justice needed him.”

Such fine, idealistic words, Savich thought, and they came out of her so easily. Was she that good an actress? Or was she sincere? Fact was, she was a lawyer, a good one. Best not to forget that. He saw tears swimming in her eyes again and changed his direction for the moment. “Tell us about your law clerks, Eliza. What are their names?”

Sherlock didn’t bat an eyelash. Of course Dillon knew everything about both the other clerks, how much they drank at parties, what sports they liked, but his look was very open and straightforward. She would have believed it instantly if she hadn’t known better.

“There’s Danny Boy, that’s what we call him. Daniel O’Malley. I kid him about seeing him standing on the shores of Ireland, a bugle under his arm, ready to transport to France and join the Brits in the ditches. Daniel O’Malley, he’s got that idealistic look, the burning fervor sort of thing. Fact is, though, that idealistic look isn’t real. There isn’t an idealistic bone in Danny’s body. He doesn’t come from money and he’s grown up wanting it, desperately, and to him that means working for a big law firm in New York City. Danny is twenty-six, younger than his years should make him, eager to get his work done well because he wanted a glowing recommendation from Stewart to fire him off to the big time.” She paused a moment, twisted the hem of her sweater. “I don’t suppose he’ll get one now.” She cleared her throat. “I remember one time when I had to swat him down.”

Savich said, “May I ask how you slapped him down?”

“I told him his grandmother, God rest her beloved soul, would turn over in her grave if she heard him advocate that ‘under God’ violates the separation of church and state in the Pledge of Allegiance. He tried to tell me she was Irish, not American, and she didn’t really understand. I told him his grandmother was likely cheering when they added it in 1954, long before he was even born. Then I picked up the St. Christopher medal he always wears around his neck, pulled it tight, watched his face turn red, and laughed at him. He folded. End of story.”

Since Savich agreed with her about that argument, he nodded. “Did Danny have a girlfriend?”

“Yes, only recently. He’s very shy with women. She’s a clerk over at the Department of the Interior, a computer geek, to tell you the truth, but it seems they are getting along, and that’s good. Don’t get the wrong idea here, Agents. Danny is law review, graduated Loyola with superior grades, and has a recommendation from a professor who was a former clerk, and still plugged into the clerk network. Naturally, this is true of just about every one of the thirty-six law clerks here. Danny never had enough money, which was par for the course with most of the law clerks, but he managed.” She paused a moment, and this time she did manage to smile. “Do you know that in 1922 Congress first appropriated money for Justices to hire one law clerk each? Their salary was thirty-six hundred dollars a year. That’s about a tenth of what the salaries are today. Given inflation, I don’t think we’ve made much progress.” She smiled again, looked around her lovely living room. “My uncle owns a law firm in Boston. I worked for him before I came here.”

Savich smiled back at her. “Thank you. And the other clerk?”

“Stewart elected to have only three law clerks this year instead of the typical four. Why, I don’t know. I didn’t ask him. So the other clerk is Elaine LaFleurette. A ridiculous name, and she hates it. She was considering changing it, but she said her father would have a conniption fit and disown her, so she’s sticking with it. But since she hates to be called Elaine, we all call her Fleurette. She went to Tulane, a big party school that she aced without really even trying, then went to Stanford where she found what she needed—more focus and less beer—and she did very well. She’s not strong enough yet to take on the world, but she’ll get there. She’s a good woman, very good. She also admired Stew—Justice Califano. Actually, she worshiped the ground he walked on, like a substitute for her father, who is evidently something of a controlling son of a bitch. Stewart always listened to her, always showed her respect, even when he wanted to put duct tape over her mouth. She came running into his office once when she heard us yelling at each other. She thought she needed to protect him from me. It was a close call.”

She’d brought it back to her relationship with Justice Califano without them having to push her. Savich said, “What do you mean close?”

“Well, if she hadn’t come bursting in, I’m afraid that Stewart and I might have been tearing each other’s clothes off in the next five minutes. We liked arguing, it stimulated us, made us a little wild. We never made love in his office, but that time it would have been close, I’ll admit it.

“And Stewart could argue, believe me. He could execute a 360 on the head of a pin just for fun, and argue the opposite side. He was that good. He had this ability to see both sides of an issue very clearly, and he could argue either side so well, he could talk nearly anyone over. It was a gift he had. But he was willing to change his mind as well. The good Lord knows even I made him change it sometimes. Don’t get me wrong. He wouldn’t change his mind about an issue or a case because he loved me, it was always about his sense of justice and the best way to achieve it without stomping on the Constitution. He believed our Constitution should serve our world today, but he always tried to get into the Old Ones’ heads—that’s what he called them.

“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.”

GEORGETOWN

WASHINGTON, D.C.

SUNDAY 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.”