Ben wasn’t listening. He was staring at the display of automotive affluence, and grunted. He wasn’t a snob, dammit, but couldn’t any of them drive a plain old Ford? A truck, something useful, something that didn’t smack you in the face with dollar signs and twelve cylinders, something like his? The Crown Vic had plenty of muscle, but that was different.
He realized Callie was staring at him, and grunted again. “I drive a Beemer too,” she said, and gave him a shameless grin. “All right, so it’s one of the cheaper models. You’re a truck guy, right? Maybe you’ve got a dog hanging out the window?”
Savich and Sherlock joined them at that moment.
“I know it’s late, Callie,” Sherlock said, taking her arm, “but we’d like to see how your mom’s holding up, see if she’s remembered anything more. We won’t keep her long. Looks like she’s got lots of company in any case.”
Callie nodded. “All her longtime friends are here. There’s a couple of cars I don’t recognize.”
The snow was melting, the air was sweet and cold. The forecast predicted a dip below freezing tonight, turning what snow was left into ice. It was perfectly dark, not even a sliver of a moon. Callie felt colder than she should have, probably because she was stressed and tired, her stepfather was dead, and now Danny O’Malley was dead too. There was a monster out there, and she didn’t have a clue if they were getting any closer. Savich kept stuff to himself, she’d realized that soon enough. So did Sherlock, for that matter. How odd that a husband-and-wife team worked together for the FBI. They were so in tune with each other. She wondered how long they’d been together. She looked over at Ben and wondered if she could ever be in tune with him like that. That stopped her in her tracks. Good grief, she was letting Sonya’s remarks get to her.
She heard Savich laugh at something his wife said. Would they let her review all the interviews that Savich was putting on his laptop? She hoped so. She had a good eye. According to Savich, MAX was going to help highlight inconsistencies, red-flag interviews that were glaringly at odds with others, and do the analysis much more quickly than a person could. Evidently MAX was even going to suggest specific questions to ask. It sounded amazing, and she wanted to see it work.
She unlocked the front door and led them all in. When she went into the living room, she stopped cold.
In addition to Janette Weaverton, Juliette Trevor, Bitsy St. Pierre, and Anna Clifford, Justice Wallace and his wife were cozied up next to Justice Alto-Thorpe and her husband, both couples sitting on a sofa across from Margaret.
“This is an unexpected find,” Savich whispered, and strode in, drawing all eyes to him immediately. He wondered for a moment how the two Justices had found out where Margaret Califano was squirreled away, then remembered the federal marshals assigned to them. They were probably parked discreetly outside.
Savich walked directly to Margaret Califano and took her hand. He smiled down at her. “I hope you’re feeling better, ma’am.”
“Callie called me about poor Danny O’Malley. I didn’t know him well. It’s unbelievable that he’s dead too, just like Stewart. What is happening here, Agent Savich?”
Savich said loud enough for everyone in the big living room to hear, “We don’t know for sure, ma’am, but it would seem Danny O’Malley knew something and may have tried to blackmail the killer or the person who hired the killer.”
A loud voice, anger simmering just below the surface said, “Given the general incompetence of the people who are supposed to protect us, I am not at all surprised. It is a disgrace, and I shall see to it that Congress does something about it.”
He’d know that voice anywhere, Savich thought, and the words, and turned to Justice Alto-Thorpe, who was sitting on the edge of the sofa, mouth pinched, a cloud of disapproval hanging over her head. Her husband was looking off toward the windows, seemingly paying no attention.
Savich said easily, “I’m not surprised at your attitude, ma’am, given that you’ve already told Agent Sherlock and me your feelings on the subject at length.”
“I shall see to it that new laws are passed. Murder done in the highest Court in the land! It will go down as a disgraceful point in our history.”
“Yes, indeed,” Sherlock said. “As it should.” She proceeded to introduce all of them to the Justices and their spouses. She got the distinct impression that neither Justice was pleased to see them.
Callie moved to sit beside her mother. Bitsy St. Pierre quickly scooted over to give her room.
Savich said to Harry Thorpe, “I had wanted to meet you, sir. I’ve been told that you own and operate Harry’s.”
Harry Thorpe looked up at Savich, his mouth opening to reply when Justice Alto-Thorpe said, “He sells fish. What are you doing here, Agents?”
Savich said, “We wanted to see how Mrs. Califano was doing. I assume that’s why you are all here?” His question included Justice Wallace and his wife.
Justice Wallace said quickly, “Yes, of course. Beth and I are friends of the family, have been for many years. Naturally we’d want to see how Margaret is holding up.”
Thankfully, Justice Alto-Thorpe remained silent, but she continued to look at Savich, Sherlock, and Ben as if the murders were all their fault.
Savich said, “I assume your federal marshals brought you here?”
Justice Wallace nodded. “Fine fellows. We feel quite safe with them around.” Beth Wallace didn’t say a word. From her expression it was obvious she didn’t want to be here. Sherlock saw her look directly at Margaret, and there was something in those faded eyes of hers, something that bothered Sherlock, something that wasn’t quite right. Then it was clear. She knew, Sherlock realized, she knew very well that her husband had wanted to add another notch to his aging belt. Sherlock would wager she also knew that Stewart Califano knew about it as well and had been upset at her husband. But why was she looking at Margaret like that? Margaret wasn’t the one in the wrong. Then Beth Wallace looked at her husband, saw that he was staring at Margaret. Sherlock saw her wince, look down at her clasped hands, slumping her shoulders, as if in defeat. She’d said everything she felt and knew without speaking a word. She was dressed in lovely black wool trousers, a pink cashmere sweater, and a matching black wool blazer. She looked good on the outside. But her insides?
Margaret said, “Would you like some coffee? Tea? No, not you, Anna, you’ve done enough.”
“That would be lovely,” Sherlock said. Janette Weaverton quickly rose. Did the women have a rotation schedule? Sherlock could easily picture Janette in tennis whites, skillfully wielding a racket. Yes, Janette looked like she’d be a winner at tennis. Sherlock smiled. “Why don’t I help you fetch the goodies?”
The Kettering kitchen was large, the walls a pale yellow, the appliances sparkling new. A large pine table was set in the center, and Sherlock remembered the meal they’d had here with Miles and Katie and the children before they’d returned to Jessborough, Tennessee.
“This is a lovely home,” Janette Weaverton said, and went efficiently to the coffeepot. Was she staying here with Margaret? Actually sleeping here? Were the other friends as well?
There was really nothing for Sherlock to do, which didn’t surprise her. These women seemed so very organized. She leaned against the counter and said, “Margaret has more color in her cheeks. She’s very lucky she has such good friends.”
“She’s still pretty bad, just sits there, staring off, and the rest of us sit there with her and worry and try to distract her. But she’ll make it. Margaret’s very strong.”
“How did the five of you get together, Mrs. Weaverton?”
“Janette, please, Agent Sherlock. Incidentally, that’s an interesting name. I bet you get lots of jokes about it since you’re an FBI agent.”
“Endless numbers of comments, yes. My father is a federal judge in San Francisco, and he gets the jokes too. But not in his courtroom—oh no. I think the ‘Judge Sherlock’ scares some of the defendants to their toes. Please call me Sherloc
k.”
“Okay, Sherlock. The five of us got together in school. We all went to Bryn Mawr, outside Philadelphia, same place Callie went to school.”
“You’ve known each other that long?”
“Well, we didn’t all meet on the same day. I roomed with Margaret our freshman year, so I guess you’d call us the two originals. Actually, we called ourselves the two Eves. Then we picked up Bitsy in biology the second year, Juliette shared an off-campus suite in the third year, and Anna Clifford, a math whiz, was tutoring one of our boyfriends in our senior year. We came together and stayed together.”
“When did the duo set of Justices drop by? Were they unannounced?”
“They arrived maybe ten minutes before you did. And yes, neither couple called first. We’ve been talking about the Danny O’Malley murder.”
Janette paused a moment with the silver tray and cups. “I’ve met Justice Alto-Thorpe twice. I wonder if she’s always so disapproving of our federal police force?”
Sherlock smiled. “I imagine she hates law enforcement in general, and this sent her right over the top. I can tell you from firsthand experience she’s been that way both times I’ve been near her.”
“It’s a wonder her lips don’t disappear completely into her face.”
Sherlock laughed, then sobered immediately. “I’m actually surprised that Justice Sumner Wallace came by, since he wanted to seduce Margaret and she told her husband about it. A lot of anger there. Why would he come?”
Sherlock calmly watched Janette Weaverton drop a coffee cup. Both women watched it hit the tile and shatter. That, Sherlock thought, was some payoff to the outrageous statement she’d just made.
“Oh dear, look what I’ve done. I’m so clumsy.” Janette Weaverton quickly fetched a broom and dustpan from the walk-in pantry, and started in on the mess.
Sherlock said as she watched her sweep up the broken cup and dump it into the garbage can beneath the sink, “Surely you know what happened, Mrs. Weaverton. Surely you aren’t at all surprised by this. Margaret told all of you about Justice Wallace and his unwanted antics.”
Janette Weaverton washed her hands, dried them, and said as she turned back to Sherlock, “Margaret said very little about it to us. When Anna brought it up, Margaret laughed it off. I never got the impression it disturbed her very much. She thought he was an old fool. He’s never hit on me.” Janette began to arrange cups on their saucers on the big silver tray.
“Are there teabags?”
“What? Oh certainly.”
She fetched a tea box, an early American piece divided into ten sections, each with a different tea. Sherlock picked out Earl Grey, Savich’s favorite. “My husband rarely drinks coffee.”
“Your husband is a lovely man. He obviously takes very good care of himself. You’re a lucky woman.”
Sherlock nodded in agreement. “Yes. We have a little boy, Sean is his name. Do you have children, Mrs. Weaverton?”
Janette shook her head as she poured cream into a small pitcher and set it on the tray. “No, my husband and I decided children weren’t for us. Then we divorced.” Ah, Sherlock thought, watching the woman, Janette Weaverton had wanted children, but why then hadn’t she remarried?
“I’ve heard Mrs. Califano’s boutiques are quite successful. I plan to buy my husband something for his birthday at the one in Georgetown. That’s where we live.”
A smooth eyebrow went up. “Georgetown?”
“My husband’s grandmother was Sarah Elliott, the painter. She willed her beautiful home to my husband.”
Janette Weaverton’s jaw dropped. “Really? Sarah Elliott was your husband’s grandmother? The Sarah Elliott? How very incredible that must be.”
Sherlock nodded, watched her put sugar packets and Equal in a small bowl, and set it next to the creamer.
Sherlock asked, “Do you work as well, Mrs. Weaverton?”
“No. I’m fortunate to have been born to very rich parents. I do, however, travel a lot. But things are different now with Stewart dead. Perhaps Margaret will need my help. I don’t know yet.”
“Would you want to join her in her business?”
“Unfortunately I have no business experience. And, the sad fact is, I don’t think I could sell a shoe addict a pair of Ferragamos.”
Sherlock laughed. “Well, who knows? Shall I carry this for you?”
“Thank you. Imagine being an FBI agent, working with your husband. Does it cause problems for you at home?”
Sherlock smiled, lifted the heavy tray, and said over her shoulder, “Not yet.” People, she thought, you never knew what was in their minds, in their hearts, but bottom line, Janette Weaverton was a loyal friend to Margaret Califano, and that counted for a lot.
Conversation was strained in the living room. Margaret had fallen silent, despite everyone’s best efforts, and sat clasping and unclasping her hands. Callie still sat beside her, her own hand on her mother’s forearm, squeezing gently, every once in a while, so she’d know she wasn’t alone.
Ben saw a strong resemblance between the two women, although Callie’s eyes were bluer, her brows and hair darker. Callie had a sharper chin, but there was no doubt that the same intelligence burned brightly in both mother and daughter. It still bugged him that Margaret hadn’t married Stewart Califano until Callie left for college. Being careful about protecting your daughter was one thing, but it seemed to Ben that Margaret had gone overboard.
Savich couldn’t figure out Harry Thorpe. He sat there, silent and hunched over, saying not a word. He wasn’t small or insignificant, he looked fit, he was a very successful businessman, rich in his own right, so why then did he look somehow beleaguered? Savich realized then that Harry had probably thrown in the towel long ago, had handed over the reins to this inflexible woman seated beside him with her intolerant spirit, her seamed lips, her extraordinary disapproval. How could he love her? What need could she possibly fulfill? A stupid question, Savich supposed. She was a Justice of the Supreme Court. She would be in the history books.
Savich said to Justice Alto-Thorpe, “Do you have children?”
The lips didn’t unseam, but she finally nodded. “Yes, two girls. They’re both lawyers, both practicing in Denver, Colorado. Harry is their stepfather. Their real father died eleven years ago in a boating accident.”
Harry Thorpe didn’t say anything.
“It’s a lovely state,” Justice Alto-Thorpe said.
Sherlock said, “I understand that a lot of Californians have moved to Colorado, driven up the home prices.”
Bitsy St. Pierre said, “Everyone has signs that say ‘Go west again.’ ”
Once everyone had coffee and Savich had his tea, Ben Raven said, “We spoke to Bobby Fisher today, and three other law clerks as well at his apartment—Sonya McGivens, Tai Curtis, Dennis Palmer. We told them about Danny O’Malley’s murder.”
The silence was sudden and acute.
“Bobby is a talented clerk,” said Justice Alto-Thorpe. “As for Danny O’Malley, he was all right, too, despite being in a conservative Justice’s chambers. You could change his mind. He had a good brain.”
“Unfortunately, ma’am,” Ben said, saluting her with his coffee cup, a cup so feminine and delicate he was afraid he was going to inadvertently crush the damned thing, “our working assumption is that his final decisions were stupid enough to get him killed.”
Bitsy St. Pierre said, “I met Danny once. He was quite polite, actually insisted on taking the package I was hefting.”
Savich settled into the dynamics of this strange group, knowing there were undercurrents he didn’t understand, maybe secrets.
It was time, he thought. He looked over at Justice Sumner Wallace. “Sir, may I speak to you a moment, in private?”
Justice Wallace didn’t particularly want to speak to Savich, it was clear on his face, but he rose and followed Savich into the front entrance hall. “What is it you wish to talk to me about, Agent Savich?”
“Please tell me abou
t the argument you had with Justice Califano on Friday afternoon.”
Two gray bushy eyebrows shot up. “Argument? I don’t recall having an argument with Stewart on Friday. What is this all about, Agent?”
“You argued with Justice Califano in a public place, sir. Bobby Fisher saw you and told us about it. Since this argument occurred only hours before Justice Califano was murdered, I would really appreciate you telling me about it. It goes to his emotional state, might tell me what he was thinking or worrying about. You see?”
Justice Wallace no longer looked confused. “The discussion Stewart and I had on Friday,” he said finally, “isn’t at all pertinent to any of this. I will admit, however, that the timing was certainly unfortunate. Stewart was my friend. It is painful to remember it, Agent Savich.”
“I understand that, sir, and I’m very sorry. What did you argue about, Justice Wallace?”
“As I said, it was a personal disagreement, nothing more, and it had nothing to do with any of this.”
“Sir, I must tell you that we know about the situation with Margaret Califano. We know that Justice Califano confronted you about it. Was that what the argument was about?”
“Do you realize who I am, Agent Savich?” Justice Wallace’s voice was very soft, pitched low so there was no chance anyone else could hear him. Savich felt the very real threat of him, heard the absolute knowledge in his voice that he knew he was powerful, and nobody should screw with him.
Savich said in an equally soft voice, “Oh yes, I know. However, I hope you will understand that we must follow every lead we get, we must know every scrap of information even peripherally related to this. As a Justice of the Supreme Court, surely you must demand every pertinent fact from your law clerks on any given case. Surely you question all the lawyers who try cases before you as closely as you need to. Surely you must understand that I must operate in the same way.”
Justice Wallace gave Savich a long look. Then he shrugged. “Very well. This will not go beyond the two of us, Agent. Do you understand me?”