Blowout (16 page)

“We'll take his bills apart, strip his computer down to the hard drive. If he used them, we'll know. As to who's going to do what, Mr. Maitland's already made up assignments.” He paused a moment, looked out over the devastation, then finally at the men and women who were packed into the small living room. “None of us want Danny O'Malley involved in some sort of blackmail, but the fact is that it's a possibility, and we've got to face it head-on.” He turned to Agent Michaels. “When you interviewed him, Pete, did you get any impression he was keeping something back? Was there any hint that he wasn't being straightforward?”

Agent Michaels said immediately, “He acted like a choirboy, Savich, playing the hand-wringing innocent, tears in his eyes the entire interview. I should have realized—” Pete cursed under his breath.

Savich said, “Forget it, Pete. We'll hope it turns out he wasn't acting. We'll push harder on everyone else now. As Mr. Maitland
said, we're close. Trust me on this, people. We will get this monster, and we'll get him soon. First, we have to pin down exactly why he murdered one of Califano's law clerks.”

Sherlock said, “If it turns out Danny was a blackmailer, what could he possibly have known? He wasn't anywhere near the Supreme Court Building on Friday night.” She paused a moment, stared around at all the agents. “I hope Danny wasn't that stupid.”

A
FTER
S
AVICH TOLD
Ben Raven to meet them at Elaine LaFleurette's place in two hours, he and Sherlock drove again to Eliza Vickers's McLean condo.

Savich said, “I want to tell her myself, look her in the face and tell her about Danny. I want to see how she reacts for myself.” She and Fleurette are our best leads now.”

When Eliza answered the knock, he said without preamble, “Hello, Eliza. I'm sorry to tell you this, but Danny O'Malley is dead.”

Eliza Vickers took the news like a body blow. She turned white, whispered, “No, no,” and stumbled back from the front door. Savich grabbed her arm to keep her from crashing into the small side table in the entry hall.

“No,” she said again, staring at them, shaking her head back and forth, rubbing her hands frantically over her arms. “This can't be true. It can't. Oh God. Not Danny, not him.” She covered her face with her hands and stood there sobbing, rocking on her feet.

“Let's sit down, Eliza,” Sherlock said. Together, they led her
into the living room. Sherlock got her a glass of water. Eliza didn't seem to notice the glass at her mouth, but when she took a drink, it seemed to help.

It was several more minutes before Eliza raised her ravaged face. Her eyes were shocked, uncomprehending. “Has everyone gone mad? For God's sake, why would anyone want to kill Danny?”

“We're not certain yet,” Sherlock said, “but Danny's apartment had been torn apart.”

Eliza looked baffled. “But why? That doesn't make any sense. Danny didn't have any valuables hidden away.”

Sherlock said, “It's possible Daniel O'Malley was trying his hand at blackmail and that's why his apartment was torn up. The killer was looking for whatever it was that Danny was holding over his head. If Danny was attempting blackmail, it cost him his life.

“We're dealing with someone utterly ruthless, someone who doesn't hesitate when he sees something has to be done to save himself. And very possibly save the person who hired him to kill Justice Califano.”

“You believe there are two people?”

“Yes. Someone hired the killer. He's very professional, Eliza, except for the risks he chooses to take, and I get the feeling that's how he likes it. He's an adrenaline junkie. The bigger the risk the better.”

Eliza looked perfectly blank. “No, I can't believe Danny would do that. Besides, what could he have known? What? He was so sweet, but he worked hard because he saw this year as the servitude that would eventually land him the big bucks. He wasn't stupid. A blackmailer? Danny? I swear to you I never saw such a side
to him—you know, actually making the decision to use what he knew to blackmail a killer? Why didn't he come to me? Why didn't he call you? I know money was important to him, but this? I just don't understand it.” Her voice dropped off. “It's got to be another reason, it's got to be.”

Sherlock said, “We're looking into everything, Eliza, but there aren't all that many ways to interpret this. It's possible that someone wants to kill everyone in Justice Califano's chambers. In case that's the goal, there'll be an agent here to guard you.”

Eliza couldn't get her mind around this, they both saw it, and waited. “That's crazy.”

“Yes, it is,” Sherlock said.

Eliza sighed, paced from one end of her living room and back again. “Maybe the killer believed that Danny knew something, that Danny didn't try to blackmail him at all.”

“That's possible,” Sherlock said, “but not all that likely. Look, we're hoping that Danny's girlfriend will have information for us, but until then, let's assume Danny tried his hand at blackmail.”

“It's tough, really tough. All right. If Danny was a blackmailer, then I was obviously wrong about him. Money was an obsession with him, and I never realized it. I wonder how long it takes to really know what's going on inside a person.”

Sherlock said, “Do you know if Danny was in trouble financially?”

She shook her head. “Not that I know of. We're not paid princely wages at the Court, as you know, but he had his own apartment, though it was pretty spartan. I always got the impression that he was pretty careful with his money. He was just out of law school. And you know, he wanted desperately to have a year
at the Supreme Court because he knew it would open doors for him. He told me he danced his mother around the room when he found out Justice Califano selected him.”

“No gambling, nothing he was obsessed about having—cars, a boat, whatever? No expensive hobbies? Not a big clotheshorse?”

She shook her head.

“Then why would he do this, Eliza?” Sherlock asked.

“It doesn't say much for his morals, does it?” Eliza jumped up, began pacing, then whirled about. “Oh, Danny, you little pecker-head.” And her eyes filmed with tears again. She began rubbing her face, not looking at either of them, probably looking inward to a young man she'd liked, a young man she'd believed she'd known, a young man she'd like to punch out, if only he wasn't already dead. She would never see him again to yell at him.

Sherlock said, “He was killed within twenty-four hours of Justice Califano. That means that when he heard about the murder Saturday morning, he realized that what he knew was worth a lot of money. And he managed to notify the person who hired the killer. What could he have known, Eliza?”

“Oh God, I don't know. All right? How would I know what Danny knew and didn't know?”

“You knew Justice Califano,” Savich said. “Danny must have overheard him talking with someone, or he may have read something Justice Califano left lying on his desk by accident. Something. Think back, Eliza.”

She sat back down on the sofa, clasped her hands between her blue-jeaned knees, and rocked a bit.

Savich's voice deepened slowly, and he stretched his words out evenly. It was his interview voice, deep and soothing. “I want you to think back to Friday. You've just come in. I want you to
tell us exactly what Danny did on Friday morning. Don't leave out a thing. Think particularly about when he had the opportunity to speak privately with Justice Califano. Just relax and think back, Eliza.”

But she wasn't ready, and said instead, “Danny's mom, dad, and three brothers live in New Jersey.”

“Yes, they've been notified.”

“You didn't tell them why you think he was murdered, did you?”

“No,” Savich said. “They'd spoken to him yesterday when the news of Justice Califano's murder hit the airwaves. They wanted to make sure Danny was all right. He reassured them and told them not to worry. Now, it's time, Eliza. We need you. Danny needs you. You've been thinking about Friday for the last three hours. Talk to us.”

“I have, yes,” she said, still distracted. But Eliza Vickers was smart. She turned her eyes to Savich. Sherlock knew what she was seeing—dark fathomless eyes, eyes that held no threat at all, but an invitation to trust, and the unspoken promise of understanding. Sherlock recognized the concentration on Eliza's face. She sat forward a bit, all her own attention on Justice Califano's lover and senior law clerk, a woman she wished she could have met under different circumstances, a woman who could have been a friend.

Eliza spoke slowly, her voice cool and steady now. “Friday morning, all the Justices meet alone in the Chief Justice's conference room, at exactly ten-thirty. Like clockwork. But Stewart seemed to have forgotten about it. I reminded him. He went flying out of his chambers at exactly ten-thirty a.m.”

“When did he arrive that morning?”

“At a quarter of eight. Always the same time. Stewart was very punctual. On Friday, we arrived at the same time, as usual, and had
coffee together. He ate his morning sesame bagel while we reviewed several cases before the Eighth Circuit. Every Justice is responsible for supervising one or more of the thirteen Federal Appellate Courts. Stewart supervised the Eighth. We went over the majority opinion Fleurette had drafted for
Winters v. Kentucky,
reviewed several bench memos Danny had prepared and a postoral argument memo I'd written. Stewart moved through all of this very quickly. Then he said he had some things he needed to do and wanted to be alone for a while.”

“This was unusual?”

“No, not at all. That's why I didn't mention it to you this morning. I left him about a quarter to nine.”

“What sort of things, in your experience, would occupy him in the mornings? Matters of the Court, personal things, outside business?”

Eliza's eyes remained locked on Savich's. “All of those things. The Court was revisiting the death penalty in the upcoming case on Tuesday. I knew he was chewing on that one, trying to determine if they should overturn the opinion they rendered in 1989.

“Now that I think of it, since we'd been talking about this case for several days, I don't think he needed more private thinking time about it. No, this had to be something else. Maybe it was about the party Margaret gives every year. She invites all the A-list people, and Stewart has to approve the list. The A-list gets turned on its head whenever there's a change of party after an election. As both of you know, it's a crazy town. Only the Justices get to be carried out in coffins, or choose to retire, depending on their personal political leanings, and who is in office at the time.

“Most of the Justices don't socialize much with politicians, or
with the big society hostesses in Washington. They tend to be private. Those who are like-minded or enjoy each other's company spend some time together socially, but not all that often. They have such different interests, like Justice Xavier-Foxx's family horse farm. Justice Gutierrez has this incredible instinct for finance. Rich and very private, is Justice Gutierrez. Happily married, lots of kids and grandkids. Good man. Good brain. He loves sailing and crabbing, knows every square inch of the Chesapeake.”

Savich drew her back. “So Justice Califano is in his office thinking about something. From a quarter of nine until ten-thirty a.m.—that's a long time for him to be alone, isn't it?”

“Yes, now that I think about it. Usually I'd be in and out, as would Danny and Fleurette, or the secretaries, but no, the door to his inner office was shut tight.”

“Why, Eliza? You knew him well, what could it be?”

She paused, stared down at the thick gray socks on her feet, and said finally, “I would never mention such a private thing to anyone, but I suspect you already know. I think it could have involved Justice Sumner Wallace. Stewart wasn't happy about having Justice Wallace in his home, even though he knew Margaret had to invite both him and his wife to this party, but you see, Justice Wallace hit on Margaret, and she finally told Stewart about it last week. It pissed Stewart off, which, when you think about it, is pretty ironic since he was sleeping with me.” Eliza shrugged, looked away from Savich a moment—was it out of guilt, embarrassment, resentment? “The fact is that Stewart loved his wife, loved his stepdaughter, Callie Markham. I was in third place, and I knew it, but it didn't matter.”

“You sound very philosophical about this, Eliza. You loved him, he loved you, but there was no future for you.”

She shrugged, her eyes still on Savich's face. “I think he loved my brain as much as my youth, if you would know the truth. Did I love him? A man old enough to be my father? Well, there was an allure in sleeping with a Justice of the Supreme Court, at least I know myself well enough to have realized that from the beginning. He was a powerful man, it nearly came out of his pores. And confidence, he was loaded with it. But yes, I did love him. I tried to help him, to protect him, to smooth things out for him. Did he love me enough to leave Margaret? There was no way that would happen. No, it would have ended when I left. In my saner moments, I realized it, accepted it. I love the high-pressure life in the Court, and I loved learning from him. He helped me see the law as a tool of the nation. I hope to God that I gave him my best in return.”

“Back up to Friday morning, Eliza. You haven't gotten him off to the meeting yet. Okay, his door was closed, and that was pretty rare, having the door closed that long, right?”

“Well, at some point he stuck his head out, asked Fleurette something. I know, it was an ‘I Join' memo from Justice Spiros. It was a bussing issue in Alabama, and Justice Spiros wanted Stewart on board. Then he just nodded to us and went back into his inner office. He didn't close the door all the way this time. He must have left it cracked open, like he did most of the time, because I heard him speaking on the phone. It was after ten, must have been. I don't know who he was talking to. He didn't ask either of the secretaries to call anyone for him.

“The doors are pretty solid, so even if the door is open a bit, it's still private enough inside the office. Of course there are people all over the place outside. There are the tours, not that they come all that close, but you can usually hear people talking. And
the Supreme Court Police are everywhere. Always noise, but in his inner office, with the door completely closed, you'd feel like you were in another world. Several dark leather sofas and chairs arranged in small groupings. Of course, there's a big conference table for himself and the three law clerks. Also, Margaret had given him a lovely Georgian silver set and he really got a kick out of serving coffee to any visitors. But you've seen his office, I'm sorry. You know exactly what it looks like.”