“But if he had been, then the Republicans would have blown a fit.”

“True. Ain’t politics fun?” She grinned over at his profile.

“Yeah, right.”

“Savich,” she said, then frowned, paused.

He arched an eyebrow.

“He’s cute. Whenever I see him, I think of that actor James Denton.”

Ben rolled his eyes. “I’ll be sure to tell him that, it’ll make his day.”

“As for his butt—”

“Get yourself together, Ms. Markham. We’re here at Foxx Farm. Oh yeah, happy birthday.”

She gave him a perfectly blank look.

“You’re twenty-eight today.”

“Oh my, imagine that. Yeah, I guess you’re right. I forgot. Isn’t that something? Thank you.”

CHAPTER 13

SUMMERTON, VIRGINIA

FOXXFARM WAS HUGE, judging by the miles of white fence that bordered it, a score of white paddocks, rolling hills and forests. There was a huge barn, two big stables, all dusted white with snow, looking still and impossibly beautiful on a Sunday morning. It looked magical to Ben, and utterly alien.

A lone media van idled outside a gated entrance.

When Ben pulled up to the intercom, a reporter jumped out of the van and ran over.

“Hey, you FBI? Can you get us in? They won’t even let us through the gate.”

“Sorry,” Ben said. “Why don’t you head back to Washington? I hear it’s really pretty about now, a nice Sunday morning. You can go to a park for a picnic.”

“That’s what we told him,” said a tall man in a thick black wool coat, a federal marshal’s hat on his head. He stood behind the gated driveway, his arms crossed over his chest. Good, they were here protecting Justice Xavier-Foxx. “We figure as long as the media is camped out all over the place, ain’t no assassin going to get to the Justice. All we’ve got to do is protect her from these baboons.”

“Probably true,” Ben said as he handed over his badge. “We’re here to interview the Justice.”

The federal marshal studied the badge, raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. “Go on through. I’ll keep this charming gentleman out here.”

“Hey, you’re Callie Markham, The Washington Post. What are you doing here? What—”

The gate buzzed open, and Ben gave a small wave to the guy. He ran back toward the van, trying to make it through the open gate after him, despite the fact that two federal marshals were standing in front of the gate, guns at their belts, legs spread. They could hear him shouting after them, probably something about the freedom of the press. The gate closed smoothly behind them. Still, the guy stood there, shaking his fist at the exhaust of the Crown Vic.

Ben parked in front of a sprawling white one-story house with a porch all along the front. He could imagine sitting on this porch in the summer, maybe drinking a beer, listening to his hair grow. Justice Xavier-Foxx answered the front door herself, greeted them politely, gave a cursory look at Ben’s I.D., then ushered them into a long narrow entrance hall, where they removed their coats and scarves. Then she led them into the living room. Ben sighed with pleasure as he paused in the arched doorway. It was a long, deep room with a very old floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace, beamed ceilings, lots of homey, oversized furniture that looked like you’d sink to China when you sat down, and Persian carpets scattered over the shining wide oak-planked floor.

“You have a beautiful home, ma’am.”

“Thank you. Callie, what a pleasure to see you. I’m so very sorry about Stewart.” She pulled Callie into her deep bosom and patted the back of her head. Callie nearly burst into tears. It was close, but she held it in. She felt Justice Xavier-Foxx’s steady strong heartbeat, felt the warmth from her solid body, breathed in her rose scent. She was well into her sixties now, but solid and fit, her hair flat against her head, in her signature tight thick chignon. Callie slowly pulled back in her arms and looked into her beautiful dark eyes, liquid with tears.

“Thank you,” she said, and knew tears were thick in her own voice. “It’s difficult.”

“I know. It is for all of us. This has been such a shock, such a terrible thing. Come along and sit down. We’ll all talk, try to figure something out about this madness.”

She gave them mugs of coffee and pointed to a tray. Ben saw a covered plate on the tray beside the coffee. The Justice made no move to uncover it. It had been a long time since his bowl of Wheaties.

“You’re not an FBI agent. That surprises me, Detective Raven.”