The FBI Thrillers Collection

by Catherine Coulter

  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.

  CHAPTER

  23

  ST. LUKE’S EPISCOPAL CHURCH

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  THURSDAY MORNING

  ST. LUKE’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.”

  The small, private interment went quickly and smoothly, with the media kept a good distance away from the gravesite by the same officers who had been at St. Luke’s.

  Savich, Sherlock, Ben, and a few more FBI agents accompanied Margaret Califano to the press conference she gave at her home on Beckhurst Lane. She answered every question patiently and politely.

  “We hear The Washington Post has the inside track on this because of you, Ms. Markham,” shouted one reporter. “Is that proper conduct for a major newspaper in an investigation of this stature?”

  Callie stepped forward. “No, it certainly wouldn’t be if such a thing were true, but it isn’t. I’m on a leave of absence from the Post. I’m helping the authorities as much as I can, but only as Justice Califano’s stepdaughter.”

  Jed Coombes, Callie’s editor, called out, a mixture of sarcasm and bitterness clear in his voice. “It’s true, she won’t give us the time of day.”

  This brought more laughter.

  “You’re gonna fire her?”

  A thoughtful frown. “Probably not.”

  When it was over, when finally all the TV vans and reporters had left, Sherlock went home to Sean, and Savich stopped in to see Jimmy Maitland at FBI headquarters.

  FBI HEADQUARTERS

  THURSDAY AFTERNOON

  IT WAS WINTER, dark at five-thirty. A cold drizzle slapped against the window in Jimmy Maitland’s office. Savich sat in front of his boss’s desk, his hands clasped between his legs, staring at his shoes.

  “MAX has come up dry, and so have we,” Savich said. “Günter seems to have completely disappeared in 1988.”

  “Anything at all useful about Günter before 1988?”

  Savich shook his head. “He could be an American, an Albanian, an Armenian. He left no clues. The guy’s a pro.

  “As for the rest of it, the local investigation—we haven’t turned up a fingerprint, a footprint, usable DNA, not even a vague description by a witness. The garrote leaves no trace, one of its advantages.

  “We’ve followed up on all the phone records, checked every deleted file on computers that could be connected to the Justice, but nothing has fallen out of that.

  “Some of what we’re looking at—further background checks on everyone who could be involved, review of both victims’ financial records, interviews with felons Justice Califano convicted and white-collar criminals he bankrupted, going back many years—these will take more time, but as you know, they’re a bit of a stab in the dark. So far, all we really have is the connection MAX gave us to Günter, and the fact that whatever it was that triggered Justice Califano’s murder, Danny O’Malley was somehow able to find out about it.

  “Our interviews have been useful, but nothing seems to tie into anything substantial yet. All the inconsistencies, even the downright lies don’t seem to matter. And Danny—the only person I can believe about Danny is Annie Harper, and that’s because Dr. Hicks hypnotized her and I questioned her myself.”

  Jimmy Maitland said, “Danny O’Malley sounded like an opportunistic little prick.”

  “Yes, unfortunately he was. And deep down, Annie knew it, but she was too young and too in love to admit it. She does now.”

  “You sound like her father, Savich.”

  “I felt ancient when I was speaking to her.”

  “Nothing on the briefcase, the black book, or the cell phone.” A statement, not a question.

  Savich shook his head.

  Jimmy Maitland said suddenly, “When was the last time you were at the gym?”

  Savich’s head whipped up. “Two, three days. Why?”

  “That’s your problem. You need to sweat this out of your system, have one of the guys bust your butt a little, let
this slide off you for a while. Go, Savich, go work out, you need it.”

  Savich slowly rose. “Maybe you’re right, sir.” He grinned. “Then I can get Sherlock to rub me down with BenGay.”

  “Hey, that woman Valerie Rapper still at the gym? The one who came on to you?”

  Savich was clearly startled. “How did you know about her?”

  Jimmy Maitland, father of four sons, all of them built like bulls—like their father—and all firmly in the control of his wife, whom he could tuck under his armpit, said, “I know everything, and it’s best you never forget that, boyo.”

  Savich was actually smiling when he left the Hoover Building to head to the gym. And when he walked through the front door of his house, so beat he could barely walk upright, Sherlock shoved him into the shower, then fed him a big plate of spinach lasagna. He fell asleep lying on his belly in the middle of the bed, Sean beside him, pressing his teddy bear’s nose in the BenGay as he followed the path of his mother’s massage.

  BECKHURST LANE WASHINGTON, D.C. THURSDAY EVENING

  BEN AND CALLIE followed Margaret Califano into her house. Her friends were waiting inside the front door—Janette, Anna, Juliette, and Bitsy. Their families had evidently gone home.

  Ben said, eyebrow up, “Are they going to move in?”

  Callie said, “I’ll assume that was an attempt at a joke. I guess they’ll be here for her as long as they believe she needs them.” Callie watched the women surround her mother as the group walked back into the living room. At least her mother was home again. Callie paused a moment more, watching them from the living room doorway. “They’ve always been around. For each other, and for all the kids. I grew up with these women. Each of them taught me something special—”

  “Like what?” Ben asked.

  Callie looked toward Janette Weaverton, who was laying the fire in the fireplace. “Janette taught me how to knit. Anna taught me how to play the piano. Juliette taught me tennis, and Bitsy, well, she taught me how to make the best pizza crust in the world. And that gives me a great idea.”

  She headed into the living room, Ben on her heels. She smiled as she clapped her hands. “Hey, everyone, I’m calling in for pizza. It’s on me. Mom’s home again, you’re all here, we got through the day and the media. We’ve got champagne to celebrate Stewart’s life and being here together, and we’ve got beer for our guy here. What does everyone think?”

  For a moment, there was silence. Then Margaret smiled at her daughter. “Do you know, I think Stewart would like that.”

  “Good. It’s done.”

  It was pretty clear to Ben that the women would as soon see the back of him, but they were all nodding and smiling, polite to their undoubtedly beautifully polished toenails. It was Bitsy who said, “Anchovies for me, Callie.”

  “As if I didn’t know,” Callie said.

  Janette said, “I want double pepperoni.”

  Ben nodded. “A woman after my own heart—make that two.”

  Callie ended up ordering seven pizzas, including a large caper and olive for herself.

  It was Margaret’s first night home. Callie was going to stay with her for a while, but Ben got the distinct impression that her mother really didn’t need her to stay or particularly wanted her to stay either. She had her four friends. Were her friends closer to her than her own daughter? They were all of an age, all of them had shared so many years of their lives together, each other’s pain as well as happiness. He supposed they knew each other as well as old married couples must.

  He turned to Janette Weaverton, who’d gone to open the drapes a bit to look out. “No more media,” she said over her shoulder. “Margaret did an excellent job with them.”

  Ben joined her at the window. “Yes, she did. I understand from Callie that you taught her how to knit.”

  Janette didn’t look at him. “She’d be quite good if she applied herself, but Callie’s young, she’s got so much stuff to do—and her career is really taking off. I think a Pulitzer might mean more to her than a knitted afghan.” She turned to face him, her arms folded over her chest. “She knit me a sweater—her very first effort. I still have it.”

  “Does it look like a sweater, or is it one of those stereotypical things you see that goes on for yards and yards?”

  “Nope, it’s a sweater. She was good when she was twelve. Haven’t you been to her apartment?”

  He shook his head. “She’s a civilian, ma’am. She was assigned to me. None of this is social.”

  “What a waste that seems, Detective. Callie’s a special girl, always has been.”

  “So special that Mrs. Califano didn’t marry Justice Califano until Callie went off to college?”

  Janette Weaverton shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. What happened to her sister’s girl really affected her, affected all of us. None of us encouraged Margaret to change her mind about it. The thing is, though, Callie has gumption—she would have kicked her stepfather’s ass if he’d ever tried anything with her. And she really liked Stewart, admired him tremendously.”

  Hearing a blueblood like Janette Weaverton talk about kicking ass made Ben choke. He coughed into his hand.

  She laughed. “Oh, I see. You think I should speak more demurely, to match my St. John suit?”

  “What’s a St. John’s suit?”

  Janette smiled. “That’s what I’m wearing. It’s a designer label. Did you know Callie has a black belt in karate?”

  “Yeah, she might have mentioned it once when she wanted to boot me out the car window.”

  “The first thing Margaret did after her sister’s daughter was molested was to enroll Callie with an excellent instructor, to be sure that Callie would never be a victim.

  “You seem like a good man, Detective Raven. You’re interesting, you’re also an excellent listener. I’ll bet you manage to get information out of the most obdurate of perpetrators, don’t you?”

  “I try, ma’am. Actually, I hear it’s Agent Savich who’s the master at it. They give lots of classes on interviewing at Quantico. One day I might go see what it’s all about.”

  “You really think Agent Savich is all that good? It’s been nearly a week since Stewart’s murder and nearly four days since Danny O’Malley’s murder, yet he doesn’t seem to have turned up anything.”

  “He will. Justice Califano interacted with a great many people, so many it makes your head ache, and everyone has something quite different to say. Lies? Just differences of perception? Sheer perversity?”

  “I see what you mean. Well, you’d expect that, wouldn’t you? It would be like Bitsy and me being married to the same man. We’d both experience him as very different men.”

  “I never thought of it like that. Do we change our behaviors so much with each different person we know?”

  “I’d rather eat pizza than think about that,” Janette said.

  CHAPTER

  24

  THE DOORBELL RANG, and the delivery boy stood grinning from ear to ear with seven pizza boxes piled up to his nose. Callie, charmed by that grin, gave him a big tip.

  Bitsy St. Pierre said between mouthfuls of her anchovy pizza, “This is delicious. Eat, Margaret, I don’t want to have to tell you again.” The other three women nodded. Ben watched them, his head cocked to the side. He was eating with six women, five of them his mother’s age, something he couldn’t remember ever doing before in his life. He decided he liked it.

  Margaret took a small bite, chewed on it forever before finally swallowing it. Bitsy said matter-of-factly, “We buried Stewart today. It was a grand send-off. The President spoke, the Vice President spoke. You dealt magnificently with the media, Margaret. We’ve given Stewart a wonderful toast with his favorite champagne. He would have made one of his decision matrixes and concluded he was proud of you. Now, eat.”

  He’d heard them say such things to Margaret at least three or four times that evening. Did it help? Evidently so. Margaret Califano took a bigger bite of pizza and actually looked like she m
ight be enjoying it.

  Janette Weaverton appeared to be the quietest of the five women, although he hadn’t found her reticent or shy at all. It was just that the others seemed more forceful in their opinions, bigger in their laughter. She seemed preoccupied. Yes, that was it.

  Ben said, “Will you ladies be staying here tonight?”

  Five sets of eyes turned to him. “Oh no,” said Anna Clifford. “Our families are patient, they understand, but they want us back home. Since Callie’s here now, we’ll leave when it’s time for Margaret to go to bed.”

  “Your husband, Mrs. Clifford, what does he do?”

  “He used to be a banker, but now he’s a venture capitalist.” She paused a moment, chewed some pizza. “Most people don’t really understand what that means, exactly, but to me it sounds mysterious, maybe dangerous, like laundering Mafia money.”

  That drew a round of laughter, but Margaret said, in a serious voice, “There’s nothing illegal in what Clayton does, Anna. He simply invests his own and other people’s money in individual entrepreneurs or start-up companies that interest him. He’s good at analyzing their growth potential, their planning skills, and deciding if they’re worth the risk.”

  Anna smiled as she said, “Come on, Margaret, you know very well Clayton says it’s like deciding whether or not to buy Boardwalk in Monopoly.”

  Bitsy said, “Eat more pizza, Margaret. Those chunks of pepper will bring back your sense of humor.”

  Margaret dropped her slice of pizza back on her paper plate. She looked like she was about to burst into tears. “You don’t know what I did!”

  “Mom, whatever it was—”

  “Stewart wanted to be cremated. I didn’t follow his wishes. It was the President, you see, and all the protocol experts. Everyone expected a big church service, Stewart in a coffin in front of celebrity mourners. I ignored his wishes and buried him.” Margaret put her face in her hands and wept. “I buried him.”

  “Oh, Mom, don’t.” Callie put her arms around her mother and rocked her. The women gathered around, patting her hair, her shoulders, her arms. “It doesn’t matter, Mom. Stewart wasn’t there. That magnificent service was for all his friends, for the President, for all those people who admired him. It was for everyone there to say their farewells to him. And the burial itself was so beautifully done. He wouldn’t have minded, truly.”