Blowout (35 page)

“I’ll talk to her parents too. They need to get to Bethesda.” Mr. Maitland looked down at his watch. “I’ve got to speak to Director Mueller right away, tell him about your plan. I’ll bet the media are calling already.”

Savich was grateful to his boss for dealing with Giffey’s parents and Luther’s family. One phone call, and your world, as you knew it, was gone. Just gone. He thought that if he had to speak to them, he’d start crying.

S
AVICH FOUND*
F*
LEURETTE
in his office, sobbing in her father’s arms, her mother standing by looking helpless. Sherlock was watching them, sitting on the edge of the desk.

Sherlock looked up. “Giffey?”

“She’s on her way by helicopter to Bethesda.” And then he saw Fleurette’s white face and lied clean. “She’ll be all right. She’s fit and strong. Giffey will be all right. They’re going to be in touch with us constantly. I’ll let you know immediately if something happens. Okay?”

Mr. Malcolm LaFleurette, a tall, handsome man dressed like a diplomat in a gray cashmere Italian suit, looked up over his daughter’s head. “How did this happen, Agent Savich?”

“It shouldn’t have, Mr. LaFleurette. It shouldn’t have.”

“The shot the guy made—I can’t imagine shooting that far and actually hitting someone.”

“It was over three thousand feet.” Savich paused a moment, saw that they were all trying to make sense of the distance, and said, “That’s more than ten football fields.”

Elaine’s head snapped up. “Ten football fields? I don’t think I can even see that far.”

“He had a very powerful scope, the very best of everything.” Savich looked toward Sherlock, even managed a small smile. “Excuse me a moment,” he said to Fleurette, nodding solemnly to her mother, Norma Lee, who was looking at him as if he were their savior, and how could that be? He took Sherlock outside and leaned his forehead against hers.

Sherlock smiled up at him, gave him a hug, and cupped his face between her palms. “Giffey will make it, Dillon. No, don’t shake your head at me. Stop looking like you’re going to fold in on yourself with guilt. You made the right decision based on what you knew. She’ll pull through this.”

At that moment, Savich simply couldn’t believe how very lucky he was that she’d come into his life. “You know, for the first time, I think she just might.” He hugged her again. “Where’s Sean?”

“Lily took him over to your mom’s. Your mom, Lily told me, begged so pathetically that she had simply no choice. I think Simon wanted to score points, so he went with them. You know Simon always charms your mom’s socks off.”

“He’ll ooze charm. He wants Lily powerfully bad. Listen now, and tell me what you think of this.”

When he walked back into his office, Savich felt like a hundred pounds had been lifted off his back. “Fleurette, let me tell you what’s going to happen. I’m going to ask Callie Markham to release to the press that you were actually the one shot, not an FBI agent. It will help us keep you safe. But you’re staying right here, inside at least for a few days. You can go to classes, work out in the gym, stuff pizza down your gullet, but you’ll have to remain indoors. There’ll always be two agents with you.”

“What are you going to do, Agent Savich?”

Savich gave Mr. LaFleurette a big smile. “I’m going to get Günter, but believe me, my first priority is to keep Fleurette safe. What do you say, Fleurette? Will you do as I ask?”

Fleurette pulled herself together, straightened her shoulders, and, for the first time since Savich had come into his office, she turned back into an adult. She stepped away from her father, hugged her arms around herself, and nodded at her mother. “Yes, Agent Savich, I’ll do exactly what you say. You know something? I’m finally thinking straight, and I realize that Günter must have seen Danny talking to me, and believed he was telling me secrets. Obviously, he didn’t see me ditch Danny after a block or so. What I don’t understand is why he didn’t kill me right away.”

Savich said, “For whatever reason, the person who hired him believed Danny O’Malley and Eliza Vickers were greater and more immediate threats.”

“All of this is quite terrifying, Agent Savich,” said Mrs. LaFleurette. She looked young enough to be Fleurette’s older sister, with the same hair, the same eyes, same tilt of the head. “You know as well as we do that Elaine won’t be safe until the assassin is caught or dead.”

Sherlock said, “That’s right. And we have a lot of people hunting him right now. There are witnesses, there always are. We’ll find them, just like we found Mr. Avery last night. But you’re right, Fleurette isn’t safe until we take him down, and that’s why she’s staying right here. Inside.”

Sherlock paused a moment, then pulled two photos out of her shirt pocket. “I know we already showed you these photos, Fleurette, but would you look at them again?”

Fleurette took the photos, walked over to the window, and studied them in the bright light, for a very long time. Finally, she shook her head. “No, I’m sorry.”

“Think back to Friday when you were walking with Danny. Did you see anyone looking at you?”

Again, she shook her head. “No, if he was there, I wasn’t aware of him at all.”

Sherlock said, “Okay, why don’t we go downstairs to a conference room where there’s a TV. Dillon, it’s been thirty minutes. Okay, let’s all go see if Director Mueller is on yet.”

Director Mueller was just coming on. Fox TV had mobilized fast. Director Mueller looked stoic, grave and solemn. His eyes sheened with tears when he spoke of Luther Lindsay, the dead SWAT team member from the Washington, D.C., field office. He was tremendously apologetic to everyone. As for any other casualties, and who was behind the assault, he promised full disclosure as the information became available. Even though he took responsibility, he managed to convey the impression that he was doing his best under trying circumstances. He took no questions. As far as Savich could see, it was a flawless performance of bureaucratic cover-up. There wasn’t a word about Fleurette. And Günter would start to wonder why.

As for Savich, he wondered whether Director Mueller’s mother would be on the phone to him right after the press conference demanding to know what was really going on. He wondered if Director Mueller would tell her.

Savich’s cell phone rang. His first thought was Giffey. But it was Callie, who said immediately, “How is Giffey?”

“I don’t know anything yet. Did you do it?”

“Oh yeah. I just faxed Coombes a note about how badly the FBI screwed up in trying to protect Fleurette, how Director Mueller was trying to keep it all quiet. I told him I thought Fleurette was the one shot and they’d taken her to Bethesda. Old Jed will eat it up, bet he’s claiming he knew Director Mueller was covering his ass by not admitting she’d been shot at Quantico. Made me sick to give that slant, but I did it, as you asked. Jed will write it up as a scoop and make it really contemptuous of the FBI. He and I will both be in trouble when Fleurette shows herself safe and in one piece. So I hope this was worth it to you.”

“I hope so too. I owe you one, Callie.”

Not three minutes later, his cell rang again, and this time he knew it was about Giffey. He didn’t want to answer it. He stared down at it like it was a snake about to bite him. Sherlock’s hand suddenly covered his. She didn’t say anything, smiled up at him, and nodded.

“Savich here.” He listened for some time, then said, “Great news. Thank you, Dr. Peterson. We’ll be here.”

There was silence in the conference room, only the movement on TV, muted now, by Sherlock.

Savich said, “That was Dr. Peterson. He said that Giffey’s got Dr. Edward Bricker operating on her. He’s one of the best thoracic surgeons in the world. They’ve got the bleeding stopped, and Giffey’s hanging in there. Dr. Peterson thinks she’s going to make it. She still has to pull through surgery, and the next twenty-four hours will be critical, but I could hear the optimism in his voice. She’s got a good chance.”

“Thank God,” Fleurette said. “Oh, thank you, God.”

An hour later, Savich walked back into his office to see Ben and Callie in close conversation. When they saw him, they stepped quickly apart, and looked embarrassed. Well, well, Savich thought, and smiled at them. He could think fast on his feet, and he did so now. “I’ve got a favor to ask of you guys, that is, if you’re both free tonight.”

“Sure, no problem,” Ben said. Callie nodded.

Savich studied his thumbnail a moment, then said, “I’d like you and Callie to go to a pretty nice restaurant in Georgetown this evening—how about Filomena’s on Wisconsin?”

“That’s a real fancy place, Dillon,” Callie said. “It’s one of my mom’s favorite restaurants. I can’t imagine we could get in on such short notice.”

“Who’s paying?” Ben asked.

Savich laughed. “The FBI will reimburse you. When you call, mention my name to the maître d’. He knew my grandmother, Sarah Elliott, and he’s still impressed that I’m her grandson. He’ll get you two a table, probably a really good one.

“Spend some time at the bar first. All I want you to do is listen to what’s being said. I want your opinions on whether or not people saw through Director Mueller’s fancy excuses. And if they’ve read the
Post,
does everyone believe that Fleurette is at Bethesda. Talk to people, see what they think. What you don’t want to hear is that Fleurette isn’t the one who was shot here at Quantico, or that she’s dead. We want speculation on that. What do you guys think?”

Callie shot a look at Ben, but nodded. “All right.”

When Savich met Sherlock a few minutes later, she said, “I ran into Ben and Callie. They said something about dining out on the FBI this evening, and then Callie sort of looked confused and said she really didn’t understand why this was so important to you.”

He grinned at her. “Yeah, well, we’ll see what comes of it. Now, I need to deal with Bethesda.”

FILOMENA’S

WISCONSIN AVENUE,

N.W. GEORGETOWN,

WASHINGTON, D.C.

SUNDAY EVENING

C
ALLIE TOOK A BITE
of her beautifully prepared swordfish, looked up, and saw Ben staring at her. “What?”

He shook his head, but didn’t look away. The fact was she didn’t look like he was used to seeing her, and he couldn’t quite get himself used to the transformation. She was wearing a little black dress that had long sleeves and no back to speak of, and high heels that put her nearly at six feet tall. He’d picked her up earlier at her mother’s house, she’d waltzed down the stairs, looking the way women always look when they’re going to drive a man crazy. He couldn’t stop staring at her. And she was wearing her hair differently, pulled back and up on her head with dangly little curls hanging over her ears. He said, “I was thinking you look pretty good tonight.”

“Why, thank you, sir. Your suit looks pretty good, too.”

“What? This old thing?”

She laughed. “Yes, that old thing—Italian, right? And you think my mom’s friends are snobs.”

“I picked you up in my Crown Vic. You can’t get more pedestrian than that.”

“Yes, you did. I wanted the truck, but I probably couldn’t have climbed in it anyway, not in these heels. You know, Ben, actually, I think you look hot.”

He stirred around the little pile of potato fritters, and kept his mouth shut.

“This dress does wonders for my butt, don’t you think?”

“Well, it sure is short. I’ve only seen you in pants, boots, and sweaters big enough to fit me. And your hair’s always stuffed under a cap.”

“No hat hair tonight.” Callie pulled off a piece of her dinner roll, and decided that what she really wanted to do was jump over the table and kiss him stupid. Instead, she cleared her throat and said, “I’m still wondering why Dillon sent us here. Does he think Günter is the type to eat at fancy restaurants?”

And in that instant, Ben saw the light. He and Callie had been maneuvered by an expert. It gave him a jolt to realize he probably wouldn’t have thought of it himself, although he should have. Regardless of how this lovely candlelit dinner had come about, he was sitting across from a beautiful woman who was wearing a short black dress, eating swordfish. What had she said? Oh yes, Günter. Ben said, “Who knows if this is Günter’s kind of place?”

“For all we know, he could own the joint.”

“That’s depressing and true. I think after dinner, we should walk to Barnes and Noble, it’s a good place to hang out and listen to people talk.”

As they walked down M Street, the frigid January air seeping under their collars and up Callie’s dress, Ben said, “In those stilts you’re wearing, you’re nearly to the bridge of my nose.”

“Nah, I’m above your eyebrows, admit it.”

It seemed natural to take her hand, even more natural for her to move closer.

In every Barnes & Noble aisle, like at Filomena’s, nearly everyone had believed Director Mueller was covering up the shooting of another law clerk, read the
Post,
that’s where the real scoop was.

Callie said, “Jed was fast, as well as going the extra ten yards beyond what I told him.”

They heard a man say, “I sure wouldn’t apply there if I was fresh out of law school. I wonder if there’ll be a shortage next year.”

“All three of the law clerks who worked for Justice Califano—dead in a week.”

“The
Post
didn’t say she was dead. She’s in Bethesda.”

“Who knows?”

They walked through the aisles, pausing to listen when they hit a new group of people.

“I sure hope they protect that poor law clerk this time. If she’s still alive.”

“Bingo,” Ben said.

When Ben and Callie left, he found himself driving back toward Savich’s house. He said, “I spoke to Savich when you went to the bathroom. I told him what we’d heard, and he said okay, good, that was what he’d hoped. I got the impression that he feels like shit about Giffey. I heard it in his voice. He blames himself.”

“Yes, he would. And given what happened, I’d blame myself too. Where are we going?”

Ben slowed down in front of the house, then pulled to the curb and put the car in park. “I wanted to check on them. Everything looks quiet. I know Savich has a state-of-the-art security system, protection for his grandmother’s painting, of course. But still—”