Blowout (26 page)

“Very well indeed.”

Ben said, “You said that we hadn’t gotten much done, ma’am. Well, actually that’s not true. The FBI think they know who the assassin is. He calls himself Günter Grass, or just Günter.”

Margaret said, puzzled, “The writer? The man who murdered Stewart is a German?”

“We don’t know what nationality he is. Günter Grass is the name he uses. He’s been inactive, supposedly for at least fifteen years now, until this. He’s known to speak four languages fluently, including English. He could very well live among us. He could even be living locally, and the person who wanted Justice Califano murdered very possibly knew about Günter and his profession.

“This man killed twenty people in Europe in the seventies and eighties. We don’t know why he stopped.” Ben pulled two photos out of his shirt pocket. “Here’s a grainy photo, digitally enhanced—Interpol is about ninety percent sure it’s him—and here’s one that’s been aged to show how he’d probably look today, unless, of course, he’s taken pains to change his appearance, which is possible.” He handed both photos to the women and waited until each one had looked at them.

“Does this man look familiar to any of you?”

Juliette said, “He looks like a contractor my neighbor hired to gut her house.”

Margaret said, “Detective Raven, if this Günter Grass hasn’t killed anyone for at least fifteen years, doesn’t that mean he made enough money to retire in style?”

“One could assume that, yes.”

“Then why would he kill my husband and poor Danny O’Malley?”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Califano.”

Bitsy St. Pierre said, “Maybe the person who hired him found out about him, blackmailed him into doing this.”

Janette said, “That’s stupid, Bitsy. Look what he did to Danny O’Malley—killed him within twenty-four hours of a blackmail attempt.”

“Yes,” Margaret said. “It must be something else. Maybe there’s a tie between this Günter and the person who wanted Stewart dead.”

“It’s possible.” Ben had watched each woman study the photos, watched for any sign of recognition on their faces. He hadn’t seen any.

“Callie,” Margaret said. “Does he look at all familiar to you?”

“Actually,” Callie said, “I thought he looked a bit like one of our investigative reporters. No, no, just kidding.”

Ben said, “If Günter’s not an American, chances are he came here maybe fifteen years ago. He’s physically strong, and he seems to like taking risks. Since he’s well into his fifties, maybe even sixties, I doubt he’s into any extreme sports, but he’s still very strong and fit.”

“But if he is an American,” Anna Clifford said, “he could have lived here all his life and who would be the wiser for it?”

“That’s true,” Callie said. “And the thing with Danny, that was a big risk, right in the middle of the morning, anyone could have seen him go into Danny’s apartment, heard him.”

“But no one did, apparently,” said Juliette Trevor.

Ben’s eyes swung to her. She said, “There would have been some news about that, wouldn’t there? A witness saying something, right? But there’s been nothing reported at all.”

“You’re right. No one saw anything, and you can believe that everyone within a several block radius has been interviewed by experts.” Ben put the photos in his pocket, and finished off his last slice of pizza. He looked from one woman to the next. All of them seemed to blur together, forming one image in his mind. They seemed united, and in that moment, he had no doubt they would pull Margaret Califano through this tragedy by sheer force of will.

He looked at his watch, saw that it was after ten o’clock. He rose, nodded to all the women. “Callie, I believe you and I are going to be having dinner with Savich and Sherlock tomorrow evening.”

She rose to stand beside him. “Yes. I understand Savich is a great cook. Is that okay with you, Mom?” In her question she included all her mother’s friends as well.

“Certainly,” said Janette. “We’ll all be here tomorrow night. We’re going to have a potluck dinner; our families will be here as well. We’re very pleased that you’re working with the FBI and the local police, Callie.” She patted her arm. “It also helps keep your mind occupied, doesn’t it?”

“Actually, it helps me focus on who killed my stepfather and Danny. If it’s Günter, I want him caught as badly as all of you do. Ben, I’ll walk you out.”

He shrugged on his black leather jacket, pulled on his black leather gloves. His hand was on the doorknob when he turned back. “My mom has only one close woman friend. This is new to me. They’re quite a unit, aren’t they?”

“A unit—yes, that’s a good word for them. All of them are incredible women.”

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. Savich wants us to see Fleurette. He said four other agents have already spoken with her, but he wants us to focus on her lunch with Danny on Friday. He says his gut is dancing, and tells him there’s got to be something more there. He wants us to take a crack at it.” Ben paused, grinned. “He wants to know exactly where they sat in the sandwich shop, what they ate, and the color of Fleurette’s toenail polish, everything about that lunch until they got back to the Supreme Court.”

“Sure, we can give it a shot. Do you know, it feels weird to be sleeping here. I never did very much since they bought the house after I went to college. I’d like to go back to my apartment, but I can’t yet.”

“Be patient, Callie. Now, tomorrow evening, dinner will be about six. Savich said he’ll have Sean fed by then. I think his sister and her fiancé will be there too. Savich doesn’t want to talk shop, but I’ll just bet you we will.” He reached out and lightly cupped her cheek in his gloved hand. “You okay?”

Callie didn’t think, leaned into his hand, and stared up at him. “Sonya said you wanted to sleep with me.”

He didn’t move his hand. “That’s what you two were talking about in the kitchen?”

“For just a couple of minutes.”

“Sonya really said that?”

“Yes. She said you never looked below her face. She couldn’t believe it.”

Ben grinned at that. “The woman’s built, but I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“She said I was blind, she said you were interested.”

“Is this a roundabout way to ask me if I am?”

“Truth is, I’ve never been very good at the man-woman thing. Yeah, tell me, I’d like to know.”

“The answer’s yes.” Slowly, he moved his hand from her cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“It’ll be Friday. A week anniversary.”

“Yes.”

“Does Savich want to hypnotize Fleurette like he did Annie Harper?”

“He hasn’t said. Let’s take a crack at her first.”

She smiled up at him. “Isn’t it odd, Detective Raven? Here you are with this bird name, and you’re not such a bad guy after all. You haven’t bitched about taking me along with you in at least forty-eight hours.”

“That long? Hmm. Well, the thing is,” he said simply, “you’ve got a good brain.”

Callie flushed. “I—thank you. Yes, thank you, Ben.”

GEORGETOWN WASHINGTON, D.C. THURSDAY EVENING

“I’
M COMING
.”

A few minutes later, Savich walked into their shared office, holding Sean over his shoulder, lightly rubbing his boy’s back in light soothing circles. “He had a nightmare. What’s going on?”

“I’ve got a surprise for you.” She was grinning even as she patted Sean’s cheek. “He okay now?”

“I think so. What are you up to? What surprise?”

“I know you wanted to get to work on Samantha Barrister, but you’ve been too busy to do much, so I contacted both the Boston and the Pittsburgh field offices on Tuesday. I massaged a few egos, and when that didn’t work, I called in a couple of favors, convinced them this was important and required immediate attention.”

“Why the Boston field office?”

“I’ll tell you in a few minutes. I’ve had MAX working on everything too, but so far he hasn’t found much since all this happened in the early seventies.” Sherlock waved a nice thick folder at him. “But no matter, we’re in business. Sit down, Dillon, just you listen, my man, to what I’ve found out.”

Savich stared down at his wife. “Have I told you lately that my Porsche isn’t in the same ballpark with you? You’re amazing.”

She stood up and hugged him and Sean to her. “I like hearing that. After you chew over what I’ve got, I’ll bet you’ll even agree to give me the Porsche if I ask you.”

“That could be pushing it, sweetheart, but I’m open.” He sat down next to her and settled Sean against his chest.

Sherlock sat next to him and opened the folder. “Let’s begin with Blessed Creek, Pennsylvania, 1973, population of about three thousand seven hundred and eighty-five souls. The Barristers were the big cheeses, no one else remotely close to them in influence and wealth. They owned the only tourist facilities around Lake Klister, the six gas stations in the area, and Mr. Barrister was the mayor, had been for twenty years. He also owned the local bank and the two biggest grocery stores. It was the senior Barrister who built the big house on that knoll outside Blessed Creek.

“They had three sons. Townsend Barrister, the eldest, married a woman named Samantha Cooper, in 1964. It was a really big bash that included nearly all the townspeople. It was in the middle of the summer, a big barbecue at the house. The Barristers brought in all kinds of help. They really did it up right.”

Savich, still rubbing Sean’s back, said, “So they approved of their firstborn son’s marriage?”

“It appears so, but I can’t be sure. I’ll need to go deeper. The couple moved into the big house with the two brothers and the parents.”

“Ouch.”

“Wasn’t so bad. As you know from firsthand experience, that house is huge.”

“You got any feel for how she got along with her brothers-in-law?”

Sherlock turned to see him rocking slightly in his chair, Sean held tightly against him. She smiled. Such a familiar sight, it made her want to grin like a loon. She cleared her throat. “I’m reading between the lines in all this stuff—articles on the family, biographical info on the brother, everything the Pittsburgh office could pull together. The second brother, Derek was his name, was two years older than Samantha. He unexpectedly left home three months after Townsend and Samantha married. He joined the army, went to Vietnam and was killed within three months. The family was devastated.”

“Do you think he had the hots for his brother’s wife?”

“There’s no hint of anything like that, naturally, but it could explain his abrupt and unexpected departure. He was twenty-two, had just graduated from Penn State, was going to start training in his father’s bank, but he up and left and joined the army.”

“How about the youngest brother?”

“Jonathan. He was seventeen at the time, a senior in high school when Samantha and Townsend were married, and he remained living there until he went to Dartmouth that fall. He was a wild one, big into drugs—well, but a lot of people were back then.”

Savich rose. “Give me a moment. Our boy is out. Let me go put him down.”

When Savich came back, he leaned down and kissed the back of her neck. “What happened to Jonathan?”

“He lives in Boston now. He’s very well-off, has three boys of his own, all married with children, and he’s still married to his first wife. He seems fine financially and psychologically, as in no public fits or aberrant behavior.”

“Okay, the parents. What happened to the senior Barristers?”

“Now that’s really strange. Both of them drowned in a boating accident on Lake Klister. That was one year to the day after Townsend married Samantha.”

“Was there any suspicion at all of foul play?”

“None that I’ve been able to see. One day they were there, hale and hearty, then the next day they were gone—there was no sudden storm or squall, nothing to explain why both of them fell out of their boat, other than talk of lots of booze. Evidently the senior Barristers liked their martinis, and they liked to be on the lake fishing while they drank—so it could be that simple. The belief is that one of them went overboard, the other went in to make a save, and both drowned.

“Townsend took over everything. Problem is that Townsend wasn’t the businessman his father was. But Samantha was. She began taking over very quickly. Then she got pregnant in 1966 and gave birth to Austin Douglas Barrister on August 14, 1967. Within a year she was running the whole show. It appears from the records that Townsend Barrister became something of a drunk, was arrested a couple of times on DUIs—out of the local area, so it couldn’t be kept out of the regional press, but still he had enough influence to have the charges quashed.

“It wasn’t in the local paper, naturally. Townsend also took up gambling, went to Las Vegas every two or three weeks.

“On August 14, 1973, on the very same day that they’d been married, the same day the senior Barristers drowned, the same day Austin Douglas Barrister was born, Samantha died as well. There was a huge party for Austin on the grounds of the house, a big barbecue for his sixth birthday. Samantha was running around seeing to everything. Townsend was manning the bar, probably drinking pretty steadily, and everyone seemed to be having a good old time, until they found Samantha. Here’s a quote from the
Blessed Creek Weekly Journal:
‘Samantha Barrister’s body was discovered on the floor of her second-floor bathroom at three o’clock in the afternoon by one of the guests, Mrs. Emmy Hodges, who said she’d wanted to use the facilities and thought that Samantha’s bathroom would be free. “She was lying in blood,” said Mrs. Hodges, “it was under her, seeping all around her. It was horrible. I knew she was dead, knew it right away.” ’

“Then there’s the quote from newly elected Sheriff Doozer Harms, the sheriff we met in Blessed Creek just last Friday. He said, ‘Mrs. Barrister was stabbed through the heart by a person unknown.’ ”

“You’ve got a gleam in your eye, Sherlock. What else did you find out?”

“First thing I did was locate the widower, Townsend Barrister, same as you did. He’s in Boston. I managed to actually speak to him. He wasn’t real happy to hear from the FBI, but I kept after him until he opened up. Turns out he’s remarried to a woman who brought in lots of money that he hasn’t managed to go through yet. He has a new family, two daughters.