“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 about 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?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. It is painful, but I will tell you. Margaret had told Stewart I had tried to kiss her in the kitchen during a party some months ago. However, it was a lie on her part. The fact is Margaret wanted to sleep with me. I didn’t want it, mind you, but she was insistent. Understand, everyone got a little drunk, so she really wasn’t herself. She kissed me and I kissed her back. Stewart was understandably angry and confronted me outside the gift shop, as Bobby Fisher told you.”
“What were the papers he was waving against your chest?”
“Papers? I don’t remember any papers. Stewart always carried papers, his notes on whatever he was thinking about at any given time. Oh yes, I remember, he pulled them out of his pocket and began waving them around. I have no idea what they were, Agent Savich, no idea at all.”
“Did you tell him the truth about Margaret?”
“Certainly not. I accepted his anger and apologized.”
Savich thanked him. He wondered how much he’d just been told was the truth. It had been a very long day. He needed to go home and play with Sean before he went to bed. He wanted to give Lily a chance to be with Simon Russo and enjoy herself without having to worry about a little boy stuffing polenta in his nose.
They took their leave about five minutes later. Callie saw them to the front door.
“We’ll do a very quick detour to headquarters,” Savich said to Ben. “I’ll give you some of MAX’s data to look over tonight, then try to relax,” Savich said. “I want your brain fresh in the morning. Oh yes, there’s something else all of you need to hear.” But he didn’t tell them about his conversation with Justice Wallace until they were outside.
“Incredible,” Callie said. “He actually accused my mom of coming on to him?”
“You don’t believe him, do you?” Ben asked.
“At this point,” Savich said, “I have no idea what to believe, but your mother, Callie, she seems gold-plated to me.”
“She is.”
When Savich pulled his Porsche into the garage at home at just after eight-thirty, he said, “After we play with Sean until he’s snoring, I’m thinking some big fat hair rollers might be fun. What do you think?”