CHAPTER 20

THE KETTERING HOME
FAIRFAX, VIRGINIA
SUNDAY EVENING

BEN STOPPED OFF in Georgetown to let Savich get his Porsche, then led the way to the Kettering home in Fairfax. They pulled into the driveway just after seven o’clock that evening.

There weren’t any reporters or TV vans hanging around. The media hadn’t yet learned where the widow was stashed.

But there were four cars parked along the curb, two Mercedes, a Lexus, and a BMW. Callie said to Ben, “It looks like Mom’s friends are here.”

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.”