“Does that include financials? Bank stuff?”
Savich merely shrugged. “MAX went platinum a good while ago. He can find out almost anything at all. If he’s in the mood, he can data-mine in Siberia.”
“Okay, okay, I get it. You cut corners.”
Ben said, “You aren’t going to call that into your editor at the Post, are you, Ms. Markham? Do an exposé about misuse of federal power?”
Callie struck a pose that Sherlock thought was very effective. It nearly put Ben Raven right under the Formica table. “I hadn’t really thought about it, but now that you bring it up—ah, so many possibilities.”
“To think I told this woman what an excellent butt she has,” Ben remarked to the café at large.
Sherlock laughed and tapped Ben on the shoulder. Before she could say anything, Ben added, “She also thinks your husband is cute. What do you think of that, Sherlock?”
“A woman of excellent eyesight and taste,” Sherlock said. “Hmm. Dillon, what do you think?”
“I’d be stupid to disagree with you,” Savich said.
“You know what I think, Ms. Markham?”
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me within the next three seconds, Detective Raven.”
“I think I’ll take you to the Tidal Basin and throw your black-belt ass in the snow. No one would hear your yells over the waterfalls at the Roosevelt Memorial.”
“You could try, Detective Raven, you could try.” She gave him a salute with her empty coffee mug.
“You guys put on a pretty good show,” Savich said, peeling bills out of his wallet. “If you’re through sniping, we’re outta here. I want to stop off to talk to Dr. Conrad and to forensics again. Then it’s back to headquarters and MAX.”
“You’ll want to see what MAX has turned up on Samantha Barrister’s husband and son,” Sherlock said.
“Who is Samantha Barrister?” Callie asked, her reporter’s ears on alert.
“Oh,” Sherlock said, and smiled at her. “She’s a ghost who desperately needs Dillon to find out who killed her thirty years ago.”
“Yeah, okay. Right. I got that.” Callie stared from Savich back to Sherlock. But they were putting on their coats and gloves, and didn’t say anything else. Callie touched Sherlock’s sleeve. “Do you know what? I think I believe you.”
CHAPTER 18
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, the four of them drove in Ben’s Crown Vic to Bobby Fisher’s apartment on Hinton Avenue. “I wanted us to stay together today,” Savich said. “Sorry about the Porsche, Ben, but it only holds me and Sherlock.”
“I’m trying to be philosophical about this,” Ben said. “A red Porsche classic 911. I’ll bet your son’s going to go nuts when he’s old enough to drive it.”
Savich grinned. “Possibly so, but thankfully, I can’t imagine Sean doing anything right now but pulling spaghetti apart and wrapping it around his ears.”
They found Bobby with three other Supreme Court law clerks in his apartment, part of a big complex near George Washington University, all eating pizza and drinking Heineken. The place wasn’t a mess, but it wasn’t all that large and there were four young bodies sprawled everywhere. There were nice pieces of furniture, and that surprised Savich.
The law clerks jumped to their feet when Bobby brought the four of them into the living room. They were all mid-twenties, dressed casually, and from their expressions it looked like they’d been talking nonstop about Justice Califano’s murder. No surprise there. Bobby Fisher stood in the archway a moment, as if uncertain what he was supposed to do.
Savich said, “I’m Agent Savich and this is Agent Sherlock. We’re FBI—this is Detective Ben Raven, Metro, and Callie Markham. Since all of you are here, it’ll save us time.”
“But, sir, we’ve already talked—”
“I don’t know anything, Agent, I work for Justice Gutierrez who loved Justice Califano, loved him—”
“I’ve been in the bathroom all day with diarrhea.”
Savich looked impartially at the group. They looked both scared and excited, and on the buzzed side. There were a good dozen beer cans on newspaper-littered surfaces. All those empty beer cans, well, that could work in his favor. Everyone was introduced, voices subdued. Savich said, “I know all of you have already spoken to the FBI, but we’re here to tell you something you might not know yet.”
All four of them, three men and one woman, leaned forward, their eyes glued on Savich’s face.