mind as well. The good Lord knows even I made him change it sometimes. Don’t get me wrong. He wouldn’t change his mind about an issue or a case because he loved me, it was always about his sense of justice and the best way to achieve it without stomping on the Constitution. He believed our Constitution should serve our world today, but he always tried to get into the Old Ones’ heads—that’s what he called them.
“He had weaknesses, too. He could take a lawyer into dislike—and I know at least a couple of times that it colored his decisions. But he helped me form my own ideas about how to balance justice and the law in each individual situation. We’d disagree, we’d fight.” Eliza stopped cold, looked down at her clenched hands. “And now he’s dead, and we don’t even know who killed him or why.”
She started sobbing, and Sherlock went to her and pulled her into her arms and gently rocked her back and forth. She whispered against her hair, “I know, Eliza. We’re so very sorry. We won’t be telling Mrs. Califano anything, only if it’s vital, which I can’t imagine right now that it would be. It’s all right, Eliza. Is there someone we can call for you?”
Eliza Vickers shook her head against Sherlock’s shoulder, and slowly straightened. “You’re so small, but you’re strong, aren’t you?”
Sherlock gave her face a gentle pat. “Yes, I am. But I can’t stand to see this pain. Listen to me now. It is right that you grieve, that you think of all you’ve lost, but you’re young and smart, and you will get over this. You will move on, and you will marry and you might be lucky enough to have a child. Agent Savich and I have Sean, and we would give our lives for him. So you see, things can change, and they will, for the better. We’ll be speaking to you again, Eliza.”
Before they left, Savich made an appointment to see Eliza Vickers on Monday afternoon at the Supreme Court Building.
“I wonder,” Savich said as he turned the ignition key, “if she expected to marry him.”
“I sure hope she’s too smart to have fallen into that trap.”
“Next time we see her, let’s be sure to ask. I want to hear what she has to say.”
CHAPTER
15
GEORGETOWN
WASHINGTON, D.C.
SUNDAY AFTERNOON/EVENING
L ILY S AVICH SERVED homemade vegetable soup and polenta, an unlikely combination except that Sean adored it, and a warm baguette with strawberry preserves, which Sean also liked. Sean floated his polenta in the soup and hummed while he spooned most of it down his throat.
Sherlock said as she tucked Sean’s napkin more firmly around his neck and wiped bits of polenta off his chin, “When’s Simon coming, Lily?”
“Simon got hung up, and won’t be here until this evening. Some big art acquisition for the Met. He’s pretty impressed with himself. You guys got home sooner than expected.”
“Yeah, well,” Sherlock said as she spooned in a bit of soup, “Justice Alto-Thorpe blasted us out of the water for allowing murder to happen in the Supreme Court, wouldn’t even let us in her house.”
“She lambasted us all right,” Savich said. “It was quite an experience.”
“Somehow I can’t imagine anyone lambasting either of you,” Lily added, her voice wistful. “I wish I could have seen that. Okay, despite her, how’s the case going?”
“We’ve got some interesting twists going.” Savich’s eyes nearly rolled back in his head at the taste of the soup. “You made the soup, Lily? It’s wonderful.”
And Lily said without missing a beat, “Sure, Sean and I sliced the veggies.” She winked at Sherlock and mouthed “Balducci’s,” naming a high-end deli over on M Street. She continued, “After Justice Alto-Thorpe, you guys sure don’t want to turn on the TV, it’ll give you heartburn. Goodness, I had no idea there were so many experts on exactly what the FBI should be doing and isn’t doing, on what the President should be doing and isn’t doing. It shows no sign of stopping.”
“The price of doing business in this town,” Savich said. “Now, don’t bother me, Lily. I’ve got a spiritual experience going with this soup. Sean? You liking it too?”
His boy sucked down a spoonful, most of it making its way down his throat, but some of the vegetables and broth dripping off his chin. He gave his father a huge grin and picked up a chunk of polenta out of his soup and squeezed it through his fingers.
“I was just waiting for him to do that,” Lily said, watching him flatten his palm against his open mouth. “I think he likes the way it feels squishing between his fingers.”
“Whatever works,” Savich said. “Thanks so much for coming over, Lily. Graciella needed some time off, her mom’s been ill.”
“Believe me, it’s my pleasure.” Savich heard the hitch in her voice. She’d lost her own little girl over a year before, but now there was a nephew in her life, and he knew it mattered. He wondered if being with Sean was keeping her in Washington rather than marrying Simon Russo and moving to New York. On the other hand,
“Yes, Lily, we really appreciate you feeding us and taking care of the little wild one here—” Sherlock was interrupted by her cell. “Excuse me,” she said and turned away. “Sherlock.”
“It’s Jimmy Maitland, Sherlock. You guys are needed, now. There’s been another murder.”
“Who?”
“Daniel O’Malley, one of Justice Califano’s law clerks.”
“Oh no,” Sherlock said. “Where did it happen?”
“His girlfriend found him in his apartment. Get over here as fast as you can. You got the address?”
“Oh yes. We’ll be right there.”
Both Savich and Lily were on their feet. “What is it, Sherlock?”
“Daniel O’Malley. Danny Boy. Someone killed him. Lily, can you—”
“If you’re thinking about asking Mom, hang it up. Sean’s mine. Go.”
Sean wanted to go too. It took a couple of minutes to convince him that rolling his red ball over his Aunt Lily’s stomach would be more fun.
D ANIEL O’M ALLEY HADN ’ T died easily. He’d fought, hard, but his killer had been stronger. He’d been strangled with his own St. Christopher medal.
He lay sprawled on his back in the narrow hallway that led from the living room to the bedroom of his apartment. His fingers were cut where he’d tried to get them beneath the heavy chain. The living room had been ripped apart—his one sofa, which looked like it had come from his parents, was turned facedown, a big TV chair ripped apart, the television smashed, all the dozen upon dozen of books pulled off the shelves, many of them ripped in two.
His apartment was on Biltmore Street N.E., near the middle of a long block in a blue-collar neighborhood that had undergone some recent gentrification. The apartment was small—a narrow living room, tiny kitchen, with everything in it smashed, the refrigerator open, milk pooled in the craters on the old linoleum floor. There was one bathroom, again with everything on the floor, a long skinny bedroom, three dead plants lined up on the windowsill, the only things that hadn’t been destroyed. The mattress was turned over and slashed open. All the drawers in the small dresser were pulled out, shorts, undershirts, socks, pullovers thrown on the floor. Everything in the small closet was shredded, including two pairs of shoes.
They heard quiet weeping from the kitchen.
Jimmy Maitland and the medical examiner nodded to them in the hallway. Savich and Sherlock went down on their haunches beside Detective Ben Raven. He looked over at them. “You can thank Mr. Maitland for getting me here. He also called the dozen task force team leaders. This place is going to fill up pretty soon. He thought it would be more efficient than calling everyone together again at FBI headquarters.”
