She got up and walked to him, and wrapped her arms around his back.
“Did I wake you?”
“No. You’re thinking about her, aren’t you, still trying to find logical reasons for what happened.”
“There aren’t any. It’s driving me nuts. Even though I’ve been over and over it, I guess I can’t get around the fact that I’ve experienced something, well, I guess you’d have to call it otherworldly.”
She kissed his shoulder. “Then perhaps it’s time to simply accept it.”
“But the reasonable part of my brain doesn’t want to.” He turned and pulled her into his arms, buried his face in her hair.
“There’s another thing, Sherlock, something I just remembered. I called you when I had the blowout. It wasn’t ten minutes later that she came running out of the woods. I insisted on calling for help, but I couldn’t get through on the cell phone. But then later, at the house, after she was gone, I called you and it worked just fine again.”
She held him more tightly. “It’s possible the signal was better there.” She paused a moment, touched her fingertips to his jaw. “I just remembered something else, Dillon.”
He wasn’t going to like this, he knew he wasn’t.
“You called me at about eight o’clock.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“The second time you called me, it was only about a quarter after eight.”
He sucked in his breath. “No,” he said, “no, that’s just not possible. That would mean that all of what happened—no, that’s ridiculous. I spent a lot of time with her, even more time just searching that house. No, I can’t accept that all that happened in fifteen minutes.”
“Maybe we’re both wrong about the time. That’s the most reasonable explanation.” She hugged him again, touched her fingertips to his cheek. “It’s very late. It’s snowing. Sean will be up and raring to go in less than four hours. We’ll have time to discuss this tomorrow; you can decide what to do then.
“There’s a reason she came to you, Dillon. You’ll have to act. But sleep is the best thing for you now.”
He came back to bed, held her close against him, and prepared to stew about it until morning. He knew he would have to investigate what happened to this woman, even if he never convinced himself that what had happened was real. But he didn’t lie there staring at the dark ceiling as he fully expected. He fell into a dreamless sleep in three minutes.
AT SIX-THIRTY Saturday morning, Savich’s cell phone played the opening of Chariots of Fire. His first thoughts were of Samantha Barrister and the strange events she’d put him through.
“Savich.” He listened a moment, then looked over at Sherlock, who whispered urgently, “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”
Savich flipped off his cell phone, then turned on the bedside lamp. “Mr. Maitland is sending a helicopter to take us back to Washington.”
Sherlock said, “Goodness, it’s something that big? Something so big we can’t even build one snowman with Sean?”
“Yeah. You’re not going to believe this.”
CHAPTER
3
SUPREME COURT BUILDING
FIRST STREET N.E. AND EAST CAPITOL STREET
WASHINGTON, D.C.
LATE FRIDAY NIGHT
ASSOCIATEJUSTICE Stewart Quinn Califano stepped out of the underground garage, bent his head against the cold wind blowing in his face, and walked around to the front of the Supreme Court Building. He paused to look up at the sixteen marble columns at the west entrance that supported the famous pediment and the words incised on the architrave above: Equal Justice Under Law. He loved the neoclassical style of this magnificent building, one that would be his home until he shucked off his mortal coil, or retired, something he couldn’t begin to imagine. Every time he entered, it was like walking into a Greek temple. Once inside, he greeted the three guards at the west entrance security checkpoint, making a point to ask about their wives, Amanda, Georgia, and Tommie, passed through the airport-like security gate, and stepped into the main corridor of the Great Hall. He paused a moment to give a little salute to the closed-circuit TV camera, not three feet above his head, and made his way through the Hall, his footsteps echoing loudly on the marble floors. He was well aware that every guard on duty tonight already knew he was here, alerted since he entered the garage. Not a single one would be surprised at his presence close on to midnight, even on a bone-cold Friday night in January. It was his habit to come here at all hours.
He paused a moment, as he always did, to admire the monolithic marble columns that rose to a coffered ceiling. The first time he’d visited the Supreme Court Building he’d been twenty-two years old, in his first year at Harvard Law School, and he’d stood there staring at the Great Hall’s incredible beauty and opulent detail, its acres of creamy Alabama marble.
The guards never dared ask him why he came long after closing hours. Truth be told, this was his refuge, a place he found utterly and completely private in the hours when most everyone was safely home. He could come here and be certain no one was listening or looking, the one place where he was safe from prying eyes, endless conversations, endless wrangling, and Eliza, he thought, smiling.
He quickened his pace, giving the Court Chamber at the end of the Great Hall only a cursory look. He walked to the right and paused in front of his chambers, his footsteps echoing loudly. He looked back at the romantic gloom and saw the shifting movements of the guards in their rubber-soled shoes. His hand was already on the doorknob, his eyes on the personalized placard that had been placed there seventeen years before, when he realized he would prefer to be in the library tonight. His inner office would feel too close, too full of recent conversations with Eliza, Fleurette, and Danny, his law clerks, and the tears of one of his secretaries, Mary, who was retiring come March.
Justice Califano turned and walked quickly to the elevators that took him to the third floor and the 500,000-volume library. He heaved a deep satisfied breath as he entered the main reading room. He loved this place, with its hand-carved oak-paneled walls, its soul-deep warmth that came not from the oak and mahogany but from all the books that surrounded him. Here there were no cameras, no electronic eyes to monitor his activities. He took off his coat, his cashmere scarf, and his leather gloves and laid them on a chair at his favorite study table. He took his time adjusting the old-fashioned lighting fixture. He paused a moment and looked toward the beautiful arches. He sat down, leaned back in his chair, and thought about Jackson v. Texas, a death penalty case the four liberal justices had voted to hear that was coming up on Tuesday. They wanted to revisit the Stanford v. Kentucky case of 1989 that allowed by a five-to-four decision the execution of juvenile offenders age sixteen and over. They were hoping to swing him and Justice Elizabeth Xavier-Foxx over to their side to gain a plurality and do away with the death penalty for all minors. It probably wasn’t the best case to push into the court, Stewart thought, since the sixteen-year-old boy had committed three particularly heinous murders. He was, according to his father during his original trial, a psychopath, exhibiting all the classic symptoms from the time he was eight years old. The father had tried to have him committed, but the boy was charming and intelligent, and the psychiatrists and social workers had failed to see through it. Then came the murders. Now he faced a death sentence in Bluff, Texas.
Stewart was interested in hearing the lawyers’ arguments about what had changed since 1989, both for and against. He hoped they would cover new ground, but chances weren’t good. Though he wasn’t certain which way he’d vote, he knew he was leaning toward the exclusion of all juveniles from death penalty eligibility, although by the time a juvenile offender actually faced the lethal injection, he’d be at least forty years old.
He stroked the soft leather arms of his chair, the one he’d first sat in when he’d walked into the library right after his confirmation. It was, he thought, rather cool to be one of the Supremes, so charmingly misleading, since all of them were grand
parents. It was time, he thought, time to make decisions, time to stop thinking about upcoming cases. His hand shook slightly as he pulled the sheaf of papers from his breast pocket and smoothed them out on the shiny table. He began to read.
He paused a moment, looked up. He thought he’d heard footsteps. It was the guards, making their rounds, he thought, and went back to his reading. Since 9/11, the number of guards protecting both the building and the personnel had been tripled, and more sophisticated equipment had been installed, but not in the library, thank God.
He read what he’d written earlier in the day, felt a shot of renewed anger, then paused yet again. More footsteps, soft, but closer. And moving slowly, very slowly. He didn’t know any of the guards to tiptoe around. It was probably someone new come up here to check on him, to make sure everything was all right.
He swiveled in his chair and looked toward the darkness. Then he looked through the row of arches. Finally, he turned to look toward the open library doorway. In all directions he saw only midnight shadows surrounding the small circle of light he’d provided for himself. Suddenly, he felt afraid.
He heard a voice, a deep voice, close yet somehow muffled, whispering something. To him? He half rose in his chair, his hands on the arms.
“Who’s there?”
Was that his voice, that thin whisper layered with fear?
There was dead silence, but it was no longer comforting. He called out louder, “Who’s there? Say something or I’ll call the guard.”
Califano stood, reached for his coat, only to remember he didn’t have his cell phone. He looked toward the internal call phone on the wall not ten feet away from him. Guards could be here in a matter of seconds.
He wasn’t a coward, but it didn’t matter. Fear had him by the throat, hurling him into a race toward that phone, his hand outstretched when something thin and sharp went around his neck. “Now, isn’t this nice?” a voice whispered against his ear.
Califano pulled at the wire. Tight, so tight. He couldn’t breathe, even though his shirt collar was between the wire and his skin.
The low quiet voice said near his left ear, “Now, this won’t get it done, will it?” Something struck him on the head. Pain and white lights fired through his brain, and he felt himself falling. His hands fell away and his shirt collar was ripped downward, exposing his bare skin.
He was hurled to his knees, his attacker behind him. He felt the wire digging into his flesh, felt the welling sticky blood, felt such pain he wept. The wire loosened a bit and somehow he managed to get his fingers beneath it, and that low, intimate voice laughed. “Well now, a fighter, are you?”
Slowly, inexorably, the wire tightened, sliced right through his fingers. His brain was crystal clear in that instant when he knew he would die if he didn’t do something. Now. The wire cut smoothly into the bones of his fingers, and his brain exploded with pain. Still, he managed to push outward enough to scream. It wasn’t loud, but surely a guard would hear him, hear that strange sound and come running.
“That was pathetic, Mr. Justice, but I think that’s enough now.”
Had he heard that voice before, or was it the intimacy of death making the voice sound familiar? The wire jerked tighter. The explosion of agony made tears spurt from his eyes. He felt the wire cut through the last of his finger bones. It was inside his throat now, and soon it would cut all the way through his neck. He couldn’t breathe now, couldn’t think.
The god-awful pain was easing, his brain was blurring, his thoughts breaking apart, scattering, but amazingly, his last thought before death was, I would vote the death penalty for that psychopath boy.
When the wire loosened and was pulled back up over his head, Justice Stewart Quinn Califano fell over onto the floor of the Supreme Court library, the quiet air now filled with the smells of death’s final insults.
CHAPTER
4
WASHINGTON, D.C.
SATURDAY MORNING
CALLIEMARKHAM PUT one boot in front of the other, bent her head into the wind and the lightly blowing snow, wished she was roasting herself under an electric blanket, and kept walking. One foot in front of the other.
Her teeth were ready to chatter, and her toes were wet despite her expensive leather boots and the lovely thick wool ski socks Jonah the jerk had given her for Christmas. Okay, she’d been stupid to walk the eight blocks, but she was still so angry that she’d chosen not to drive or take a cab. She’d intended to walk off her mad before she sat down at the breakfast table with her mother and stepfather. Now she rather thought the mad was the only thing keeping her going. It was cold and getting even colder, if that was possible.
It was just after nine o’clock, enough time for them to catch up on everything. Maybe she’d even tell them about the jerk Jonah Blazer, a journalist for The New York Times. She really didn’t want to admit that she’d been so wrong about him, but of course if they asked, she’d have to tell them about that lying moron.
Everywhere she looked, the feathering snow was stark white, soft and romantic in spite of the cold wind. She wondered how long it would stay so achingly clean. But she didn’t want to freeze to death in a winter wonderland. She finally turned the corner onto Beckhurst Lane, old, rich, and beautiful, its big houses set way back from the quiet, tree-lined street.
She came to an abrupt halt. There were three strange cars, mongrels all, at odds with the Beemers and Benzes and the occasional sexy Jaguar. These sedans were pedestrian, nondescript, and they’d been parked here awhile, given the amount of snow on their hoods. What was this? She paused a moment, frowning, watching the silent snow cascade like lace from the leaden sky.
Oh good heavens, was she ever slow. They were cop cars, and that meant something was wrong. She ran to the front door, nearly tripping, and panting because she was so scared. She tried to find her keys in her leather bag, but her hands were cold and shaking and she couldn’t find them. She pounded on the front door. “Let me in! Somebody, let me in!”
She heard footsteps coming, not her mother’s light high-heeled step. The door swung open. A woman in a black pantsuit stood there. “Yes? May I help you?”
“I’m Callie Markham, Mrs. Califano’s daughter. What’s going on here? Who are you? Oh God, has something happened to my mother?”
A man’s voice called out, “She’s the daughter? Bring her in here, Nancy.”
It was then that Callie heard a woman weeping, quietly, hopelessly. It was her mother.
Callie ran into the living room, only to stop cold. There were three men there, two in dark suits, the third in a leather jacket, white shirt, black tie, and black slacks, black half boots on his feet. Mr. Leather Jacket rose from where he’d been sitting close to her mother, and walked to her. He was a big guy, tall and tough-looking, out of place in this soft cream-and-blue room. The two suits with him didn’t look all that tame either, but their clothes didn’t fit as well as his. “Ms. Markham?”
“Yes. What’s going on here? Who are you?” She tried to get around him, to go to her mother, but he blocked her path. “Just a moment, ma’am. You’re Mrs. Califano’s daughter, the one who is supposed to be in New York?”
“Yes, yes, I came back early because I found my boyfriend in bed with another woman, if you can believe that. Now move, before I deck you.”
The man smiled down at her, and even though it was the meanest excuse for a smile she’d ever seen, there was also a bit of humor in it.
“Excuse me?”
She shoved hard against his chest. “Move, dammit!”
Margaret Califano raised her head. Her face was ravaged, eyes swollen, her mascara smeared around her eyes.
“Callie? Please, Detective Raven, it’s my daughter. She’s not here to hurt me.”
“Mama? What’s going on here? Why would anyone want to hurt you?”
She watched her mother rise and weave a bit until she steadied herself. Her strong, self-assured mother looked fragile, terrifyingly fragile. She held out her hand,
her mouth worked, but nothing came out. She sent a look toward the man, fanned her hands out in front of her, and fell back onto the sofa, her face in her hands.
Detective Raven. Of course the man was a cop.
He said, “I’m very sorry, Ms. Markham, but it’s your stepfather. He’s dead.”
She slowly turned to face Detective Raven again. “That is ridiculous. It’s a beautiful Saturday morning, and here you are saying things like that? What kind of a sadistic creep are you?” She tried to shove him away, but he didn’t move.
He said, “Look, Ms. Markham, I’m sorry I didn’t ease into it better, but I’m telling the truth. Someone murdered your stepfather last night. I’m very sorry.”
Callie was shaking her head, back and forth, unable to accept what the words meant. “I want to talk to my mother. Go away, all of you. Mama? What happened? Was there an accident?”
“No, Callie,” Margaret whispered, her breath only a whisper against Callie’s cheek when she held her tight, “no accident. What Detective Raven said is true. Stewart is dead. Someone murdered him in the Supreme Court library last night.”
Callie still couldn’t accept what she was hearing. “A Supreme Court Justice doesn’t get killed in the library, for God’s sake. It can’t happen. All of you must be wrong about this.”
“I’ll agree it’s a shock, Ms. Markham,” Detective Raven said, “but we’re not wrong.”
She shook her head as she said, “All right, all right, who killed him? How? Why? I know that he enjoyed visiting the Supreme Court Building after hours, that he liked the solitude and the privacy, but what was he doing there last night, for heaven’s sake?”
Detective Raven said, “We don’t know much of anything yet. An FBI forensic team is at the Supreme Court Building, along with about six of our guys and a gazillion or so Feds. Judge Califano was garroted. We don’t know who did this as yet, but we will find out, Ms. Markham.
“The media will have found out about this by now, even though we laid down a temporary blackout until we got security under control and reached your mother. The media have as many grubs as we do. I expect both the print media and TV reporters to roll up here any moment. I’m to get the two of you down to the Daly Building before the vultures light and start coming down the chimney.”
The FBI Thrillers Collection Page 94
