Blowout (24 page)

Now this was interesting, Savich thought. He kept stroking her hands, which were becoming warmer by the minute.

He waited until Dr. Hicks nodded to him, then said, “Annie, did you realize Danny was an opportunistic jerk only yesterday, or some time before?”

“I guess I’ve always known, Agent Savich. He played a good game, what with his sweet Irish lad act. He liked me, don’t get me wrong; I know he did. But he didn’t love me, not like I talked myself into thinking I loved him. Can you believe I even did his laundry because he told me he loved the way I folded his clothes? What an idiot.”

“What did Danny do to make you question his integrity?”

“Well, he lied to Eliza, told her he’d done stuff when he really hadn’t, but not that much because Eliza’s really smart, and he knew he couldn’t get away with it. Then he’d kiss up to her big time because he knew she had real power over his life. She could get him fired if she wanted. Justice Califano really listened to her, at least that’s what Danny was always telling me.”

“Eliza never noticed when Danny didn’t follow through? That he lied?”

“Not that he ever told me. He’d laugh about it, you know, like a little kid in grade school who’d pulled something over on the teacher. Eliza was always really nice to me. I think I could have been a close friend to her, only there wasn’t time in her life, and I understood that. As for Fleurette, I don’t think she knew Danny all that well, but I could be wrong.”

“What about Justice Califano? Did he ever catch Danny in a lie that you know of? Catch him doing something he shouldn’t have been doing?”

Slowly, Annie shook her head. “I don’t know. I wasn’t part of the inner circle. All my information came from Danny. If Justice Califano had caught him in a lie, he sure wouldn’t tell me about it, would he? And the fact is, Danny wanted Justice Califano to like him. He wanted a great recommendation from him when the year was up. So it seems to me the last thing Danny would want to do is lie to Justice Califano.”

“Okay, I want you to tell me about Friday. You picked Danny up at the Supreme Court Building. What sort of mood was he in?”

“The fact is I’d never know which Danny I’d see. The happy Danny or the brooding Danny. He wasn’t either one on Friday. He was distracted, like there was really something on his mind. But he wouldn’t talk about it, just kept eating those disgusting anchovies. I hate anchovies.”

“Do you think he put something important in his briefcase?”

She looked thoughtful, then shook her head. “I don’t know. Where is his briefcase?”

“We couldn’t find it. It wasn’t in his apartment.”

“That’s too bad. Danny would like to be buried with that briefcase. Oh, God, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I understand. That’s all right, Annie.”

“I know he took it out of the trunk, I watched him carry it into his apartment. When I bought it for him I never thought the stupid thing would become some sort of icon to him.”

“Let’s move forward to Saturday morning. There wasn’t any talk between you during the night, right?”

“No, he was snoring.”

“You said he was saying ‘Oh God, oh God,’ when he saw that Justice Califano was dead.”

“Yes, over and over. I couldn’t believe it either. It didn’t seem real, like one of Danny’s stupid foreign flicks that doesn’t make any sense at all.”

“But then he changed. Right before your eyes, he changed.”

“Yes, completely.”

“I want you to picture Danny in your mind, Annie. You’re right there, watching the TV, then looking at him. What do you see?”

“He’s acting like he just hit a really big jackpot in Las Vegas. He looks like he’s conquered the world. Smug, that’s it, he looks smug.”

“So he might be thinking about what he knows? And that something could make him rich?”

“Yes, that’s exactly it. It’s so clear to me now. He thought about it for maybe three seconds, and then he decided to go for the money.”

“What did he say?”

“He had stuff to do. I went to the bedroom, got dressed, and slammed out.”

“But you heard him on his cell.”

“Oh yes.”

“Okay, Annie, you’re standing there, you don’t want to see him, but you hear him on the phone. Where are you standing?”

“In the front entrance.”

“How far away is Danny?”

“The kitchen isn’t more than fifteen feet away from where I’m standing.”

“He’s on a cell phone.”

“Yes.”

“Did the phone ring or did he initiate the call?”

“I never heard it ring, so he must have made the call.”

“Just a moment, Annie. We checked his cell phone records and there was no outgoing call made on Saturday morning.”

“I’m sure he was using a cell.”

“Do you think it could have been a throwaway cell phone? Did he own one?”

“Yes, he had several of them, got them really cheap from a guy on the street.”

Interesting, Savich thought, and dropped it. “Does he carry an address book in his pocket, along with his cell?”

“Yes, it’s just a skinny little black book.”

“So he pulled out the black book, looked up a number, and called it?” But not using his own cell phone, Savich thought, and realized Danny knew exactly what he was doing and wasn’t about to take any chances on it coming back to bite him.

“Yes, that’s what he would have done.”

“Okay, you’re standing there, angry, wanting to leave, but you pause. Because he’s on the phone and you want to know what’s going on, right?”

“Yes, that’s exactly right. I wanted to know what he was planning on doing.”

“You’re listening. What is he saying?”

“I can’t—”

He squeezed her hands, and began to lightly stroke his fingers over the now-warm flesh. “You’re standing there, Annie. You’re listening. What is he saying?”

She sucked in a deep breath, fell silent for a good minute. Savich didn’t say a word, just kept holding her hands, waiting.

“He said ‘I think we can come to some sort of agreement here.’ ”

There was a sharp cry of anguish from Mrs. Harper. Savich heard the soothing voices of both Mr. Harper and Sherlock.

“Anything else, Annie? You’re still there, right?”

“No, I’m out the door.”

“What were you thinking?”

“That I was pissed. That he was an idiot for thinking I loved him. Nothing, I don’t know. Really, I didn’t hear anything more. I didn’t know what he even meant, but I knew in my gut he was doing something bad.”

“But you didn’t want to know what it was.”

“Not then.”

“Is that why you came back on Sunday?”

She nodded. “Yes. I wanted the truth. And, I’ll admit it—I was worried about him. I thought he was going to do something, I didn’t know what.” She stopped and looked toward her parents. “I’m lying to myself. Yes, I knew he was doing something wrong, I didn’t want to admit it to myself.”

Savich nodded to Dr. Hicks. Slowly, Dr. Hicks brought her out of hypnosis. He told her she was a very brave woman, that what had happened was going to fade from her mind in time, and that she was strong enough to see things the way they’d really been, and would be able to put them in perspective. Savich smiled a bit as Dr. Hicks engaged in some therapy. He felt compassion for this waif, this young woman who’d fallen for a man who’d used her and then had died. Dr. Hicks went on to tell her that she would feel good about herself now, that she was hungry. A pepperoni pizza at the Quantico restaurant, The Boardroom, was what she wanted, and Savich would buy it for her. He looked over at her parents, who were listening to every word and nodding. He told Annie her parents would like the pepperoni pizza, too, that they were here for her, that they loved her and would stand by her.

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 HEADQUARTERS

EARLY TUESDAY 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.

ST. LUKE’S EPISCOPAL CHURCH

WASHINGTON, D.C.

THURSDAY 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.”