“Only if I could ever go a full day without screwing up. So tell me about the boyfriend. And tell me why you haven’t arrested him.”
“We’re keeping his name under wraps until we can find enough evidence to make it public. You’ve got to keep this under your hat, Savich. The boyfriend is Eric Hainny’s son, Saxon Hainny.”
“You mean President Gilbert’s chief of staff? That Eric Hainny?”
“The very one. As you can imagine, that makes our case a political land mine. I was allowed to speak to Mr. Hainny at his home in Chevy Chase. He told me, yes, Saxon had dated this girl and brought her over a couple of times. He said she was beautiful and admitted to me that had worried him. When I asked him why, he sort of smiled, said his son was something of a nerd without a lot of social skills. But he alibied his son, said the night Mia Prevost was murdered he and his son were at the Lorenzo Café in Alexandria—you know it, the old Italian place, run by the Lorenzo family? It’s a local landmark, always swarmed at dinnertime. When I interviewed the staff who were there that night, no one could be sure whether Hainny and his son were there. They said Hainny does come in often, and he always pays in cash. One waiter couldn’t be located, so maybe he was the one who waited on Hainny and his son.
“With Mr. Hainny’s permission, I spoke to his son, Saxon, in his presence. Saxon’s twenty-four years old, a doctoral student in computer science, a nerd right down to his white socks and pocket protector. My gut said the young guy wouldn’t kill a fly. Still, I was ready to snap the cuffs on him, but he started crying. He was distraught over her murder, barely coherent, blamed himself that he hadn’t been there to help her. His grief wasn’t faked, no one’s that good an actor, especially not him. Primo cynic though I am, I couldn’t help but believe him. So I was stuck. Until we got this name—Cortina Alvarez. But who knows? Maybe Prevost had just bought the address book and Alvarez was the first name she’d entered. I don’t know. So this morning, I drove out to see her and saw your people leaving. Now it’s your turn.”
“The first thing I’ll tell you is Cortina Alvarez doesn’t exist.”
37
WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
WEDNESDAY MORNING
Chief of Staff Eric Hainny sat in his office, staring out his window at the beautiful summer morning. Tourists in their shorts, tugging their kids along, were already stopped in front of the boundary fence, looking, pointing. Did they expect to see President Gilbert in his shorts?
His cell phone sounded out an old-fashioned ringtone. He didn’t recognize the number. “Hainny here. Who is this, and how did you get my cell?”
“Mr. Hainny, this is Agent Dillon Savich, FBI. We last met four weeks ago in former Secretary of State Abbott’s office.”
“I know you, Agent Savich. What is this about?”
Savich had never cared for Eric Hainny, saw him as a power-mongering bulldog in Ralph Lauren suits, overly protective of President Gilbert, a man who luxuriated in the control he wielded over access to the king. He liked to be thought of as a man you underestimated at your own peril. Savich had no doubt he knew the whereabouts of every skeleton in every closet in Washington, and enjoyed using the information whenever it suited him.
“I would like to speak to you about your son, Saxon.”
A moment of silence, then Hainny said, “Saxon has already spoken with Detective Ben Raven. There is nothing more to say. How does this involve the FBI? This is a Metro case.”
“I have Detective Raven’s permission to speak to you, sir. When would it be convenient?”
Hainny drummed his fingers on the paper-strewn desktop his assistant dealt with every afternoon. “This is about my son, Saxon, nothing else?”
“Yes.”
“Very well. But not here at the White House. I’ll meet you at Rock Creek Park in an hour.”
He hung up.
It took Savich fifteen minutes to navigate the traffic on Sixteenth Street N.W. to Rock Creek Park. He parked his Porsche, looked down at his watch. Only ten thirty in the morning, but the park was already thick with families, probably tourists, their kids playing football, throwing Frisbees, enjoying the morning weather before it turned hot and muggy. Savich caught a Frisbee that soared his way, tossed it back to a boy hopping up and down, his friends laughing their heads off when he splatted bubble gum all over his face.
Five minutes later Savich found Hainny seated on a bench in a quiet corner of the park. The area was lined with thick oaks, a small winding creek flowing through them. He was alone, looking straight ahead at the easy-flowing creek. He was dressed in one of his signature Ralph Lauren pin-striped summer suits, this one gray, beautifully cut to hide some of his bulk, with a blue shirt and red power tie. For as long as Savich had known him, Hainny had carried an extra thirty pounds. He was wearing dark sunglasses and Savich doubted anyone else would recognize him as the president’s powerful chief of staff sitting in a tourist mecca.
Hainny looked up as he took off his sunglasses, and Savich saw the haggard face of a man who’d lived with something painful for too long and was being forced to face it again. Savich felt sorry for him for a second until the haggard look left his face, replaced by the controlled, cold look of the cunning politician Savich knew him to be. Savich had witnessed firsthand how dictatorial and ruthless Hainny could be, ready to drop-kick anyone who got in his way. He was the president’s right-hand man. He saw himself as inviolate.
“Mr. Hainny.”
Hainny nodded. “Thank you for coming here, Agent Savich. I think you understand why I would rather not involve any of my staff in this matter or raise any questions.” He didn’t shake Savich’s hand, merely waved for him to sit down.
Hainny looked at the man President Gilbert believed would be the director of the FBI in fifteen years or so. Hainny had to admit he’d been impressed when he’d seen Savich in action the month before. He recognized Savich as a man who would do whatever was necessary if he thought the end was righteous. Hainny didn’t trust men like him. “You informed me you wished to speak to me about my son. I do not understand why, Agent Savich. You said Detective Raven gave you permission to speak to me. However, Mia Prevost’s murder is a local police matter, not FBI. What role are you playing?”
“I want your permission to speak to your son, Saxon.”
“Again, why are you involved?” He waved a big hand, showing off the Harvard class ring on his pinkie finger.
Savich said deliberately, “You know I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation, Mr. Hainny. Detective Raven has held off indicting Saxon, but as it stands, he might be forced to. I believe I can help your son. I want you to tell me everything you can about Mia Prevost and your son’s involvement with her.”
Hainny looked frozen for a moment. Fear for his son? Savich added, “If it were my son, I would welcome any help you could give me.”
Hainny studied Savich, seemed to come to a decision and said slowly, “Very well, although I doubt you can help him. Let me be blunt about my son. Even as a boy Saxon had a brilliant and incisive mind. He often surprised me with some of the uncanny connections he saw in the world around him, and he has applied his talent admirably to his studies. He also likes to talk about Comic-Con to anyone who will listen, he’s a die-hard Star Trek fan, he speaks Klingon, and, needless to say, he spends a great deal of his time on computers.
“Three months ago, my son asked me to meet his new girlfriend, a psychology major at George Washington. When he walked in with this gorgeous girl I nearly fell off my chair. She was, frankly, completely unlike the very few girls Saxon has managed to date in the past.
“Agent Savich, I’ve dealt with many kinds of people in my years of public service. Most of them have their own agendas, sometimes laudable, sometimes not. It didn’t take me long to wonder about this girl. The second time he brought her over, she showed a great deal of interest in what I do. Of course people consider my job fascinating, and to be honest, many women think it’s sexy because I’m
the president’s gatekeeper, but in her case, I thought perhaps she was simply curious. Still, I wondered if it was because of me she was with Saxon.” He shrugged. “It’s in my genes to be distrustful. In fact, I’ll readily admit I’ve learned to be paranoid. I’d be stupid if I weren’t, in this town. So I ran a check, found she was indeed enrolled in George Washington, in her third year, at the age of twenty-five—a little old for a college third year, I thought—as a psych major. I said nothing about my concerns to my son, but I worried. My son was nuts about her, and she appeared very fond of him as well. I was delighted to see him so happy, but still I worried, something didn’t seem to add up.” Hainny stopped. Savich saw he’d closed his eyes and was taking a deep, calming breath.
Savich said, “What happened, Mr. Hainny? What did your son tell you?”
“When I heard the news of Mia’s murder, I drove immediately to my son’s apartment. He’d just heard about it himself on the local news. He was devastated, out of his mind with rage at what had happened to her, and terrible grief. He said over and over he didn’t understand how anyone could hurt Mia. She wouldn’t hurt a soul; she had no enemies.
“Saxon told me he woke up in his own bed that morning, but he had been in her apartment the night before. As for anything else, his memory is blank. He didn’t know what had happened. He wanted to go to the police right away, but I managed to talk him down, explained he should wait until they contacted him. I knew the media would savage him because of who I am, manufacture a scandal to hurt both of us, and if they could, the president.
“I knew the police would quickly connect him to Mia; he was her boyfriend. They’d been sleeping together, and he’d stayed overnight at her apartment many times. He was in a bad position. He told me he couldn’t remember drinking enough to make him pass out. And what would the police think? He’d had a psychotic break? Of course it was my duty to inform the president of what had happened. He was very worried about Saxon. He instructed me to keep him informed but so long as Saxon was not charged, we would have no comment and take no action. I also spoke to Police Commissioner Sturgis, asked him to keep any discussions with my son private if he could.
“Detective Ben Raven, who interviewed Saxon, didn’t believe at first that Saxon couldn’t remember anything, that he’d blanked out, but a blind man could see Saxon’s grief, his depth of feeling for Prevost. We were informed there was no physical evidence that linked him directly to the crime.
“I assume they’re now looking at her former associates but not the ex-boyfriend Saxon told me about. It seems she made him up; why, I don’t know. So far as I know, they haven’t found anyone to build a case against except Saxon. As you can imagine, I’m very worried about my son.”
“Tell me, Mr. Hainny, has anyone approached you?”
Hainny gave a snort. “Of course you’d immediately see everything clearly.” He looked away from Savich, his hands now fisted on his legs. “I wouldn’t be surprised at a demand for money perhaps, but no one has approached me, and it’s been six weeks.” He looked back. “I don’t know what this is all about. All I know is that my son is innocent.”
Hainny stood, looked around the park with unseeing eyes, then gave Savich the barest nod. “Here is his cell number and address. I will tell him to expect you.”
38
CAU
HOOVER BUILDING
WASHINGTON, D.C.
WEDNESDAY MORNING
Sherlock studied the passport photo of a pretty young woman with hair, same color as her eyes, as dark as night hanging loose around her sharp-featured, intelligent face. Brenda Love was twenty-eight and Kara Moody’s other best friend, currently on vacation in Spain. Sherlock had called and introduced herself, told her Kara’s baby had been born, then kidnapped out of the hospital, and asked if she could answer questions.
Brenda Love fell silent. Sherlock heard only street noise in the background, alas, no flamenco music. Love said finally, “How do I know you are who you say you are?”
“I can have Kara call your cell and vouch for me. How’s that?”
Brenda Love agreed. Sherlock had to admit it was exactly what she would have done. She didn’t have to wait long before she was back on her cell with Ms. Love, who told her she was at a sidewalk café across from the Prado Museum drinking a latte. Sherlock envied her. She and Dillon had managed to walk all over the Prado two years before, taking in the power of Goya’s paintings with three-year-old Sean in tow. Sherlock said, “I’m going to email you a photo of a young man. Tell me if you’ve ever seen him before.”
In a moment, Love said, “Got it. He’s good-looking, maybe a bit younger than Kara, younger than me. No, I’ve never seen him before. Why? You think he kidnapped Kara’s baby?”
Sherlock cast her rod into the water. “No, that wouldn’t be possible, he’s currently lying in a coma in the hospital. He’s also the baby’s father.”
Stark silence. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Kara didn’t say anything to me about him.” She sighed. “In fact, she said she couldn’t talk to me, could only confirm you were FBI and she was working with you and it was okay to speak to you.”
Sherlock said, “When we’re done here, feel free to speak to her again, Ms. Love. She needs a good friend right now. The first time Kara ever saw this man was on Sunday, but we’ll get to that later. Ms. Love, do you know Sylvie Vaughn?”
“Well, yes, of course.”
“Do you know many of Sylvie and Josh Vaughn’s friends?”
“Wait a minute, did you show Sylvie his photo? Does she know him?”
Sherlock said, “Yes, I showed Mrs. Vaughn his photo, and she said she’d never seen him before. I understand you weren’t at Mr. Vaughn’s birthday party nine months ago?”
Love gave a rude snort. “I remember that party. I wasn’t about to go, and I remember I told Kara she shouldn’t, either, but she said Sylvie begged her to come so she’d have her own special friend there to support her. Support her, ha! Besides, Josh is a pig. You couldn’t pay me to get near him.”
Sherlock cast a wider net. “Sounds like you don’t much care for Sylvie Vaughn. Or the pig.”
“The pig is a pig and doesn’t try to hide it, but Sylvie’s a phony who lucked into a very lucrative business. Look, Agent Sherlock, I’m not bad-mouthing her for the fun of it. I heard her YouTube phenom—Cycling Madness—was all another woman’s idea, even that cool title, and Sylvie stole it. And no, she can’t prove it, nothing was written down. And yes, that woman is a friend of mine, and that’s why she told me about it.” Sherlock heard a sigh. “I believe her because it fits Sylvie more than not. She’s never been at all pleasant to me.”
“Does Kara know how you feel?”
There was a slight pause. “Well, no, I never thought it was right to lay that crap on Kara, even after my friend told me what she’d done. I wanted Kara to be free to make her own choices, not to have to pick between us. The thing is, Kara’s so wholesome, you know what I mean? She’s serious and always wants to see the good in people, and, well, she’s very nice. I knew it would hurt her. And Sylvie treated her well, so I left it alone.”
Sherlock said slowly, feeling her way, “It seems Kara and Sylvie met by chance at the gallery where Kara worked in Baltimore, that they hit it off right away?”
Love snorted. “Yeah, that’s what Kara told me, and I bought the kismet deal until maybe a month or so after the birthday party, I overheard Sylvie tell one of her satellite friends—you know, one of her social media buddies—that she’d asked this no-style prude who sold her paintings in a third-rate gallery to be on her YouTube fashion show, but she’d turned her down. She laughed, said she’d been relieved. What would you think of a friend who said that?”
Not much. “You didn’t tell Kara what you’d overheard?”
“I probably should have, I mean, this was out of Sylvie’s mouth, so it wasn’t gossip. I’d almost worked myself up to tell her when out of the blue Kara told me she was pregnant. That sidetracked me,
to say the least. I asked her who the father was, but she only shook her head, begged me to leave it alone. I wasn’t about to pile on by telling her what a two-faced bitch Sylvie was. And when she made up her mind to leave Baltimore, I couldn’t see the point, it would only add more misery to her situation. Whatever Sylvie was about, you know, being nice to Kara’s face, but talking about her behind her back, she’d be out of Kara’s life.”
Sherlock said, “This is where I need your help, Ms. Love. Kara was drugged at the party. The father is a man she never saw before, a man who doesn’t seem to have been there. Sylvie Vaughn said she didn’t know him, and you don’t know him, either. Kara never said anything to you about it?”
A moment of silence as Brenda Love took it all in. “No, I spoke to her a couple of days later, at lunch. I remember asking her about the party and was really surprised when she told me she must have drank too much and blacked out. Let me be perfectly clear here, Agent Sherlock. I have never seen Kara drunk. And enough booze to black out? She told me she couldn’t remember anything. I should have followed up, but I didn’t. I was breaking up with my boyfriend, and all into myself. I’m an idiot.”
Sherlock cut that off. “Hindsight is always an amazing thing, so don’t beat yourself up. Tell me, was there anyone else you remember in Kara’s life around that time? Before the party?”
“Not really. She didn’t have a steady boyfriend. She occasionally went out, but nothing serious. She led a quiet life. She was really into her painting, of course, and she’s good. Have you seen her landscapes? They’re like stepping into a dream, the colors all wreathed in a misty light.”
“I haven’t had a chance yet to see her work, but I will. Ms. Love, I need you to think back. Can you remember anything unusual that happened to Kara before the party? Any men she might have met, any offer of drugs she told you about?”