don’t mean diddly squat,” Ben said, “if this big-time enemy didn’t want to get blood on his own hands.”
“That’s about it.” Savich yawned. He was tired to his bones what with staying up half the night thinking about what happened in that house in the Poconos and getting called so early on Saturday morning to come back to Washington. He wondered if his father, FBI agent Buck Savich, had enjoyed sleeping in on a Saturday morning sometimes, at least once a decade.
SATURDAY AFTERNOON
J ED C OOMBES , editor for
The Washington Post
and Callie’s boss, could hardly contain himself. “What the hell do you mean you’re not coming in? Look here, Callie, I know it’s Saturday, I know you’re supposed to be in New York, but you’re back home now. I know the Justice was related to you, but that’s exactly why we really need you here—”
Callie held the phone to her ear but tuned him out. Jed always used six sentences to say what he could say in one. He was understandably pissed, since he saw her as his direct pipeline to the background on the story, and she let him rant, even toss in condolences when a tug of his long-forgotten manners kicked in. She waited for him to run down, like a wind-up toy. He said the words Pulitzer Prize at least three times. Finally, he was reduced to panting a bit because he hadn’t taken a single breath in his entire rant.
“I understand, Jed,” she said at last, “but the bottom line is that it was my stepfather, and my mother needs me. It doesn’t matter that I’m a reporter, I will not go against the FBI on this, and I’ve promised them I’d stay away from work for a while. Surely you don’t want to see this case compromised because I shot off my mouth.”
“It’s not my job to care about the FBI’s case. It’s my job to run a newspaper.”
She smiled into her cell. “I’ll speak to you again after the funeral, Jed. My mom’s in pretty bad shape, as you can imagine. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
“Callie, why don’t you speak to your mom, get me some personal stuff here—”
“No, Jed.”
She heard some ripe curses, then a deep sigh. “You’ll let me know the instant you have all the funeral details? Regardless of the specifics, you can be sure there’ll be a big service, probably with the President and everyone in line to be President. They’ll be up there saying how great a man Califano was even if they might have hated him. Come on, Callie, there’s a lot going on that has nothing to do with the investigation.”
“Okay, Jed, you’ve got a point on that one. The instant things get nailed down, I’ll call you.”
“But—”
“I don’t even know when the M.E. will release my stepfather’s body.” She swallowed, tears pooled in her eyes.
“Callie, you there? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, Jed. Look, I’ve got to go now. I’ll probably see you at the funeral. Thanks for authorizing a week’s leave of absence.”
“I don’t know, Callie, you’re a big part of the team here and you’ve got to realize that—”
Callie shut off her cell and slipped it back into her pocket. It began ringing within three seconds. She turned it off. She wondered what Jed Coombes would do if someone in his own family was murdered. He was such a news junkie, such a hard-ass when it came to getting a story, he’d probably give himself an exclusive.
Chapter 7
THE KETTERING HOME
COLFAX, VIRGINIA
C ALLIE WALKED INTO the living room of the lovely Colonial house in Colfax where she and her mother were stashed. One of her mother’s oldest friends, Anna Clifford, was with her. Poor Anna had a son in jail for dealing cocaine. Her other two children, however, were upright citizens and gainfully employed. Her husband was a quiet man who owned a large Virginia construction company. Anna was speaking quietly to her mother, holding her hand. Callie paused a moment, then went on upstairs. She’d gotten her clothes hung in the closet when she heard the
“That’s about it.” Savich yawned. He was tired to his bones what with staying up half the night thinking about what happened in that house in the Poconos and getting called so early on Saturday morning to come back to Washington. He wondered if his father, FBI agent Buck Savich, had enjoyed sleeping in on a Saturday morning sometimes, at least once a decade.
SATURDAY AFTERNOON
J ED C OOMBES , editor for
The Washington Post
and Callie’s boss, could hardly contain himself. “What the hell do you mean you’re not coming in? Look here, Callie, I know it’s Saturday, I know you’re supposed to be in New York, but you’re back home now. I know the Justice was related to you, but that’s exactly why we really need you here—”
Callie held the phone to her ear but tuned him out. Jed always used six sentences to say what he could say in one. He was understandably pissed, since he saw her as his direct pipeline to the background on the story, and she let him rant, even toss in condolences when a tug of his long-forgotten manners kicked in. She waited for him to run down, like a wind-up toy. He said the words Pulitzer Prize at least three times. Finally, he was reduced to panting a bit because he hadn’t taken a single breath in his entire rant.
“I understand, Jed,” she said at last, “but the bottom line is that it was my stepfather, and my mother needs me. It doesn’t matter that I’m a reporter, I will not go against the FBI on this, and I’ve promised them I’d stay away from work for a while. Surely you don’t want to see this case compromised because I shot off my mouth.”
“It’s not my job to care about the FBI’s case. It’s my job to run a newspaper.”
She smiled into her cell. “I’ll speak to you again after the funeral, Jed. My mom’s in pretty bad shape, as you can imagine. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
“Callie, why don’t you speak to your mom, get me some personal stuff here—”
“No, Jed.”
She heard some ripe curses, then a deep sigh. “You’ll let me know the instant you have all the funeral details? Regardless of the specifics, you can be sure there’ll be a big service, probably with the President and everyone in line to be President. They’ll be up there saying how great a man Califano was even if they might have hated him. Come on, Callie, there’s a lot going on that has nothing to do with the investigation.”
“Okay, Jed, you’ve got a point on that one. The instant things get nailed down, I’ll call you.”
“But—”
“I don’t even know when the M.E. will release my stepfather’s body.” She swallowed, tears pooled in her eyes.
“Callie, you there? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, Jed. Look, I’ve got to go now. I’ll probably see you at the funeral. Thanks for authorizing a week’s leave of absence.”
“I don’t know, Callie, you’re a big part of the team here and you’ve got to realize that—”
Callie shut off her cell and slipped it back into her pocket. It began ringing within three seconds. She turned it off. She wondered what Jed Coombes would do if someone in his own family was murdered. He was such a news junkie, such a hard-ass when it came to getting a story, he’d probably give himself an exclusive.
Chapter 7
THE KETTERING HOME
COLFAX, VIRGINIA
C ALLIE WALKED INTO the living room of the lovely Colonial house in Colfax where she and her mother were stashed. One of her mother’s oldest friends, Anna Clifford, was with her. Poor Anna had a son in jail for dealing cocaine. Her other two children, however, were upright citizens and gainfully employed. Her husband was a quiet man who owned a large Virginia construction company. Anna was speaking quietly to her mother, holding her hand. Callie paused a moment, then went on upstairs. She’d gotten her clothes hung in the closet when she heard the
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