Blowout

Callie said to Ben as they drove away, “I wonder if her father makes the pilgrimage here every year like Fleurette does.”

“Somehow I don’t think so. After all, he wasn’t six years old when he first came here.”

“She’s scared, even though she denies it.”

“Yes, I think you’re right.”

CHAPTER

26

GEORGETOWN WASHINGTON, D.C.

FRIDAY EVENING

“SEAN ATE MORE spaghetti than you, Callie,” Savich said, eyeing her plate. “You need more Parmesan? Garlic bread? How about more of Sherlock’s Caesar salad? It’s the best. I taught her how to make it myself.”

“No, I’m fine, truly. It’s so nice to go off our pizza diet. It’s been a very long week.”

“Your mom is having her potluck tonight with her friends?”

Callie nodded to Sherlock, who was cutting into a beautiful apple pie.

Simon Russo, Lily’s art broker fiance from New York, was sitting back in his chair, hands over his lean stomach. He was looking at Savich’s sister, and there was such sweetness in his look that Callie gulped. She had listened to them talk about No Wrinkles Remus, Lily’s political cartoon series that The Washington Post had picked up, about Sarah Elliott’s paintings, one of which hung over the fireplace in the living room, but of course, the conversation always returned to Justice Califano and Danny O’Malley.

Savich served the warm apple pie with a big scoop of French vanilla ice cream on top. “Oh goodness,” Callie said. “This is wonderful. Just smell that. Were you a chef in a former life, Dillon?”

“He was probably a sculptor and a chef,” Sherlock said. “He’s still both in this lifetime. When we go back into the living room I’ll show you some of his work—”

Savich’s cell phone rang. He answered, jumped to his feet. “Eliza? What is it, what’s wrong?”

He listened, everyone else at the table focused on him.

Suddenly he yelled into the phone, “No! Eliza, fight him!”

He was already running for the front door. “He’s there, attacking her, right now! Lily, Simon, stay here with Sean. Ben, get your siren out, we’re going to McLean. That bastard is there! Hurry!” He clamped the phone back to his ear. “Eliza? Please, say something. Fight! You can do it, fight!”

Ben slammed the siren down on top of the Crown Vic in a second, already on his radio as he pulled out of the driveway, calling to control to report a murder in progress at Number 102, The Oaks condo complex in McLean.

In the Porsche, Sherlock was on her cell to Jimmy Maitland. “He’s got Eliza Vickers right now. Get the SWAT team out there, sir, a helicopter, the local police. We can’t let him get away. Oh God, Dillon heard him attacking her!”

Savich was still holding his own cell phone to his ear as the Porsche hit eighty miles an hour, heading for the highway to McLean. There were no voices now, no noise of any kind, just silence.

Eighteen minutes later, they barreled into the driveway, barely missing a squad car that was parked halfway on the drive, halfway on the front yard. There were a good dozen blue-and-whites all over the block, cops everywhere. The front door of Eliza Vickers’s condo was open, uniformed men and women streaming in and out.

Savich was at the door in an instant, his I.D. out. “Agent Savich. Where is she?”

A woman stepped forward. “I’m Detective Orinda Chamber, McLean PD, Agent Savich. We just got here. There was an initial charge into the place, so the scene’s a mess. I’ve tried to keep everyone out after I saw she was dead. She’s in the kitchen. I hear she was on the phone to you and you heard him attacking her?”

Savich nodded. “Please get all your people combing the woods, look for his car. Agents will be here very soon to help you, along with a helicopter and the Washington SWAT team. He’s a big guy, probably in his fifties, white. He has to have had some sort of transportation, so let’s get everyone on it.” He paused a moment. “Detective Chamber, this is the man who murdered Justice Califano.”

Orinda Chamber reeled back, then steadied and nodded. “Yes, sir. I’m on it.”

Sherlock had run past him, pushed past the three men who were standing in the kitchen looking down at Eliza Vickers. She was lying on her side, her long straight hair tangled over her face, but Sherlock saw her eyes through the veil of hair, still bulging wide. Terror and surprise no longer filled them. They were empty now, empty even of the memory of life. Sherlock fell to her knees beside her, gently pulled her hair away from her face. “Eliza, I’m sorry. Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, lady, who the hell are you? What is—”

Savich shoved his I.D. in the officer’s face. “She’s FBI. Back off. Go outside and help find this bastard.”

“Yes, sir,” one of the other officers said, and pulled the officer away.

Sherlock was leaning over Eliza, her hands shaking her shoulders, trying to awaken her, trying to make her empty eyes fill with life again. Tears streamed down her face. “Oh no, Eliza. I’m sorry, I’m so very sorry.” Sherlock pressed her face against Eliza’s hair, sobbing.

Savich came down on his haunches beside his wife. He rubbed her shoulders, didn’t say anything, just gave her what comfort he could. He felt like crying himself. This bastard, this Gunter freak, had killed her, knowing she was on the phone to him. Savich would never forget as long as he lived what the man said in the background after the phone had crashed to the kitchen floor: “Well, she’s dead now, isn’t she? You hear me, Agent Savich? This will be the only time. You’ve got nada, rien, nichts.” And he laughed. Savich had heard him still laughing as he’d picked the phone up off the kitchen floor and thrown it across the room, and walked out of there, the sound of his footsteps clear for Savich to hear. Savich had continued to listen, for the sound of a door opening, a window, anything. But there was only silence. And he’d known Eliza Vickers was dead and that he’d been helpless to do anything about it.

Gunter had sounded as American as the apple pie they’d baked for dinner. American. No regional accent. Savich was aware of Ben and Callie standing in the kitchen doorway, keeping the other officers out.

Of course Gunter was long gone. Savich knew in his gut they wouldn’t find him, not this time. Too much cover in all the maples and oaks behind the condo complex, too many places to hide a car, a motorcycle, or even to run a mile to someplace near the highway.

He closed his eyes against the pain of Eliza’s death, realizing he could hardly bear it either. He’d never seen Sherlock like this. She looked beaten down, crushed. Eliza Vickers, so smart, so very real, and he’d heard her die on his damned cell phone. He knew he would live with that forever. He lowered his head, holding both his sobbing wife and Eliza Vickers, who wasn’t there anymore to care.

Suddenly, Savich reared up and yelled, “Ben, Callie, we’ve got to get over to Fleurette’s house. Call her, tell her to hide. Call 911, have as many squad cars there as fast as possible to canvas the area, stop everyone who’s alone in a car. Take her to my house. Hurry!”

Ben didn’t hesitate. Both he and Callie were out the door. Ben tossed Callie his address book as he jumped into the car. “Fleurette’s number, quick!”

She read it out, and he dialed. The phone rang once, twice, three times. Finally, Ben heard her voice. “Hello?”

“Fleurette?”

“Yes, who’s this? It’s after midnight, who—”

“This is Detective Ben Raven. No, be quiet and listen to me. Is your house alarm set?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a gun?”

A slight pause, then, “Yes, a twenty-two revolver.”

“Loaded?”

“Yes.”