that she did just that, in only a couple of minutes, and her sleep was deep and dreamless.
Sherlock didn’t know when Dillon came back to bed, only that he was holding her very tightly when the clock radio buzzed the following morning, and the early morning radio host began talking about a six-car pileup near the Tidal Basin.
GEORGE WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL
WASHINGTON, D.C.
MONDAY MORNING
ANNIE HARPER LOOKED about twelve years old. Her face was clean of makeup, her light brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, and her hospital gown hung off her left shoulder. Even that thin shoulder looked twelve.
She was pale, her skin pulled taut over her cheekbones, as if something deep and vital had been sucked out of her. But it was her eyes that held him, dark eyes that seemed old, not twelve at all.
“Hello, Ms. Harper,” Savich said, smiling as he walked to her bed, then immediately realized she wasn’t alone. Her parents were standing close by, looking at him with their arms crossed over their chests, looking defensive and angry.
He wished for a moment they weren’t here, but there was nothing to be done about it. She was, after all, only twenty-three, and it was good for her that her parents were with her, supporting her through this nightmare. “Do I know you?” Annie said, looking at him vacantly. She was probably still sedated to the gills.
“Not yet,” Savich said. “I’m FBI Agent Dillon Savich. I was at Danny O’Malley’s apartment.” For a moment, he lightly clasped one of her pale hands. Then he turned to her parents, who were now crowding next to their daughter’s bed, his hand extended. “Agent Dillon Savich.” Mr. Harper finally uncrossed his arms and shook his hand, as did Mrs. Harper. Savich was patient, hoping to show them that he cared about their feelings, and indeed, he did feel compassion for these people. “Mr. and Mrs. Harper, I don’t want to cause Annie any more pain than she’s already experienced. Feel free to stay, but I do need to speak to her. I’m sure that you, as well as Annie, want us to find the man who killed Danny.”
Mr. Harper opened his mouth, then shut it. He studied Savich’s face and slowly nodded. But when Mrs. Harper spoke, her tired voice was full of anger. “How could this have happened, Agent Savich? We knew Danny, we liked him. He was a fine young man—a law clerk for the United States Supreme Court for heaven’s sake—and you let a Supreme Court Justice get murdered in the Supreme Court Building itself where there must be a hundred police, and what did they do? Nothing. And now everyone is saying that Danny was killed because he was involved somehow in Justice Califano’s murder or knew something about it. I’m telling you, Danny liked Justice Califano, do you hear me? Liked him, respected him, and yet everyone is saying he did something wrong! This can’t be true.”
Annie Harper answered her mother, and Savich was pleased to hear some vitality in her voice. “Mom, I loved Danny, but the thing is, we don’t know what’s true. I want to know, don’t you see? No matter how it turns out, I’ve got to know.”
Savich said, “It’s possible the murderer assumed Danny knew something.”
Annie Harper shook her head, and looked down at her hands. “That’s kind of you to say, Agent Savich, but I know you don’t believe that.” Her voice was tired. There was no anger in it, only infinite weariness.
Savich said, “I understand your frustration, Mrs. Harper. We will find out who did this and we will find out exactly why it was done.” He held her eyes until finally Mrs. Harper sagged against her husband’s shoulder. Mr. Harper put his arm around her and hugged her close to him. “Speak to Annie, Agent Savich. Her mother and I would feel better staying, if that’s all right with you.”
“That’s not a problem.” Savich turned back to Annie, who’d pulled the nightgown back up over her shoulder. Perhaps her eyes were a little brighter now. He wanted to take her mind off her parents, who were standing only six feet away, get her to focus on him, so he took her hand to give her comfort with the feel of human contact. He saw from the corner of his eye that her mother was watching his hand, holding her daughter’s. He positioned himself between them and their daughter, and turned his back to them. There was another bed in the room. Thankfully it was empty.
“I understand you picked Danny up from the Supreme Court on Friday evening.”
Annie nodded. “Yes, he was stuffing some things into his briefcase—it was a Gucci, I gave it to him for Christmas, just last month.” Her breath hitched, and she fell silent. Savich wondered how many drugs were still in her system. But her words had seemed coherent, so he waited.
“Danny loved that briefcase, always carried it around with him even though usually he’d have nothing of any importance in it. We took my car, and he locked the briefcase in the trunk. We laughed about how he shouldn’t take it into the movie theater with him—you know, a bomb, something like that.”
Savich saw Mrs. Harper make a move toward her daughter, but Mr. Harper held her in place.
“We went to dinner first, at Angelo’s over on Spreckels Street. Danny loved the olive, onion, and anchovy pizza there. Angelo’s was his favorite restaurant in Washington.”
“Where was the movie playing?”
“At the Consortium, over in Georgetown, you know, that arty theater that’s usually half empty.” She looked at her hands, and he felt hers move in his, burrow in a bit. “Whenever I said that, Danny would say no, it’s half full.” Good, she’d given him a small joke, and that meant she was beginning to trust him. Her other hand lay open on her lap on top of the thin sheet that covered her, her fingers curved inward, a bit like claws. “I didn’t want to see the film. I didn’t share his enthusiasm for them, but—” She sighed. “Danny had been talking about it for a week and a half. I kept putting him off, hoping the thing would close, but it was still playing and I couldn’t put him off any longer. We went to the nine o’clock show. The film was in Croatian, with subtitles, and the translation was so bad the dozen or so people in the theater were laughing. Danny didn’t, though. It was like he was watching a different film, sitting forward, his eyes glued to the screen. It was filmed in Split, that city on the Dalmatian Coast where that Roman emperor built this huge palace that’s still used today.”
“When you were at Angelo’s, did you talk about your day?”
“Not really. Danny didn’t want to. He was always talking about Justice Califano, about Eliza and Fleurette, but Friday night, he just ate, listened to me talk mostly, or so I thought. You know what? I was jealous. I was thinking about Fleurette and how he thought she was so cool, and I was jealous. I wasn’t very nice to him. I was going through the motions. I wanted to drive away with that Gucci briefcase I spent nearly a week’s salary on, and throw it in a dumpster.”
“But he wasn’t thinking about Fleurette.”
She shook her head. “No. When we got back to his apartment, he—” She looked over at her parents. Thankfully they were still six feet away, facing the window now, their backs to Savich and their daughter.
She lowered her voice and Savich had to lean down to hear her. “He jumped on me the instant we got through the door. Danny was always horny, but this time it was different. He was excited, not just about sex, but about something else. And it wasn’t Fleurette. How could it be?”
Savich’s heart began to pound slow steady beats.
“We made love on the living room floor.” She said this in an even lower whisper, her eyes on her mother’s back. “Then Danny got up and ran to the kitchen, opened a bottle of wine, and poured us each a glass. He toasted me, grinning like a loon. I’ll never forget the look on his face. He said, ‘Annie, I’m going to be rich.’ And I said, well, sure, Danny, you’re smart and blah blah blah—I don’t remember the rest of it. I said something about was he going to take a client on the side. Truth is, I was cold and wanted to put my clothes back on. But there he was, expecting me to drink the wine, and so I did.”
She might be twenty-three, Savich thought, but she was still so very young, so insecure in her youth.
“Danny shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘this is something else entirely.’ But he wouldn’t say what. And he grabbed my hand and dragged me into the bedroom.” Again, her voice was a whisper. “We did it again before he finally fell asleep.”
“He said nothing about what this something else might be? No hints? Nothing else at all?”
Annie shook her head. “No, I was lying there listening to him snore. When I woke up the next morning, it was late. I put on one of his T-shirts and went into the kitchen. He was standing there, looking at the TV, and he was saying, ‘My God, my God, my God’—over and over. We stood there and watched the news about Justice Califano’s murder. I couldn’t believe it. Danny looked like he’d been kicked in the gut, like his world had ended. But then
