“Can’t say, I never stayed awake to listen to myself.”
“Har har. I wonder about Sean. Okay, time to get our brains back to the matter at hand.”
Jack said, “Of course you’ve already read every single one of the initial interviews with the safe-deposit box owners.”
She gave him a fat smile. “Sure. And when you’re lying in bed alone tonight, you can review Cortina Alvarez’s interview. Sleep well, Jack. I sure hope we do something to earn our pay tomorrow.”
He stayed on the front porch until she’d backed her white Mazda out of the driveway and disappeared down the street. He walked back into the Savich living room and saw Sean in blue Transformer pajamas, standing next to Savich, his iPad clutched to his chest. He gave a jaw-cracking yawn.
“Papa says I should call you Uncle Jack.”
“Sounds good. I already have three nephews. You can be my fourth. It’s late, why’d you leave dreamland?”
“I dreamed a big green dragon flew so close to me he nearly burned my ears off and I woke up.” Sean yawned again.
Savich lifted his boy into his arms. “Sean wants to challenge you to Lethal Demon Force—naturally, it’s the advanced version—but I told him he’d have to be at the top of his game to take you on, and that means a solid night of sleep.”
Jack smiled at the little boy, his face pressed against his father’s neck, nearly asleep again. He could already see the man in the boy. Jack patted Sean’s thick black hair. “That’s right, a solid nine hours or I’ll zing you good.”
Sean gave a little sleep snort.
Sherlock came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. “All cleaned up. Hey, I hear Astro.” She added to Jack, “Astro’s Sean’s terrier, a right frightening guard dog, that one. He rarely lets Sean out of his sight here at home. It’s late, we should all get some sleep.” Astro came tearing into the room, jumped up, and Sherlock caught him in her arms.
Jack looked down at his boots. “Yes, of course. Ah, about the fiasco today, Savich, I—”
“Jack, I’m sure you’ve played everything over and over in your head already. Tell me the truth—would you have done anything different?”
“No.”
“There you go,” Savich said. “Do me a favor and take Sean back to bed.” He handed Sean to Jack. “I’ll take Astro out, lock up and turn on security.”
Ten minutes later, Jack was settled on his back in the middle of a very comfortable bed, reading Cortina Alvarez’s interview. When he finished, he turned off the light, stared up at the dark ceiling, and listened to the silence of the night. He saw Jacobson falling again, falling until he smashed onto the dirt road a dozen feet from where he and Cam stood. Jack doubted he’d forget that sound for a very long time.
36
HOOVER BUILDING
WASHINGTON, D.C.
WEDNESDAY MORNING
Savich was reading Russell Bauer’s prison records when his cell belted out Kenny Chesney’s “Noise.”
“Savich.”
“Raven here. It appears we’ve got ourselves a full-on Metro/Federal law enforcement overlap.”
A black eyebrow went up. “I hope we played nice. Talk to me, Ben.”
“I drove over to the Satterleigh Condominium complex this morning to speak to a Cortina Alvarez. Lo and behold what should I see but two of your people driving away. I recognized Cam Wittier. Cortina Alvarez wasn’t there. She was traveling again, I was told. One of her neighbors verified your two FBI agents were asking questions about Cortina Alvarez as well. So what’s up, Savich? How are we connected? What’s the FBI’s interest in Cortina Alvarez?”
Had the list of the six safe-deposit owners gotten out? Savich didn’t think so. “Ben, could you tell me first why you went to see Cortina Alvarez?”
“And if I do, you’ll tell me why your nose is under my tent?”
“Yes, as much as I can.”
“All right, I know you won’t screw around with me.”
“No, I won’t, but I can’t tell you all of it; things are at too sensitive a point right now.”
He heard Ben sigh. “You remember that George Washington student who was murdered six weeks ago? Her name was Mia Prevost.”
“Yes, I remember. She was found in her bed, half a dozen savage stab wounds, right?”
“Yes. She was found in her apartment by a girlfriend. We searched her apartment, found fingerprints and some men’s clothes in the closet, and thought bingo.”
“The boyfriend.”
“You got it. But there’s more to it, lots more. I’ll have to back up. Yesterday, I got a call from the George Washington gym facility, the volleyball coach. They’d gotten around to cleaning out her locker, found some of Mia Prevost’s clothes, sneakers, cosmetics, and a small address book. There was only one name in the notebook—Cortina Alvarez and a phone number.”
Out of left field. Savich didn’t say anything.
Ben continued. “We hadn’t known about this particular locker because Mia Prevost used another gym—Five Points Fitness—near her apartment in Carlan Heights. We found everything we expected there, workout clothes, sneakers, hair products. It didn’t occur to me she’d have two gym lockers. Yes, I’m an idiot, kick me.”
“Only if I could ever go a full day without screwing up. So tell me about the boyfriend. And tell me why you haven’t arrested him.”
“We’re keeping his name under wraps until we can find enough evidence to make it public. You’ve got to keep this under your hat, Savich. The boyfriend is Eric Hainny’s son, Saxon Hainny.”
“You mean President Gilbert’s chief of staff? That Eric Hainny?”
“The very one. As you can imagine, that makes our case a political land mine. I was allowed to speak to Mr. Hainny at his home in Chevy Chase. He told me, yes, Saxon had dated this girl and brought her over a couple of times. He said she was beautiful and admitted to me that had worried him. When I asked him why, he sort of smiled, said his son was something of a nerd without a lot of social skills. But he alibied his son, said the night Mia Prevost was murdered he and his son were at the Lorenzo Café in Alexandria—you know it, the old Italian place, run by the Lorenzo family? It’s a local landmark, always swarmed at dinnertime. When I interviewed the staff who were there that night, no one could be sure whether Hainny and his son were there. They said Hainny does come in often, and he always pays in cash. One waiter couldn’t be located, so maybe he was the one who waited on Hainny and his son.
“With Mr. Hainny’s permission, I spoke to his son, Saxon, in his presence. Saxon’s twenty-four years old, a doctoral student in computer science, a nerd right down to his white socks and pocket protector. My gut said the young guy wouldn’t kill a fly. Still, I was ready to snap the cuffs on him, but he started crying. He was distraught over her murder, barely coherent, blamed himself that he hadn’t been there to help her. His grief wasn’t faked, no one’s that good an actor, especially not him. Primo cynic though I am, I couldn’t help but believe him. So I was stuck. Until we got this name—Cortina Alvarez. But who knows? Maybe Prevost had just bought the address book and Alvarez was the first name she’d entered. I don’t know. So this morning, I drove out to see her and saw your people leaving. Now it’s your turn.”
“The first thing I’ll tell you is Cortina Alvarez doesn’t exist.”
37
WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
WEDNESDAY MORNING
Chief of Staff Eric Hainny sat in his office, staring out his window at the beautiful summer morning. Tourists in their shorts, tugging their kids along, were already stopped in front of the boundary fence, looking, pointing. Did they expect to see President Gilbert in his shorts?
His cell phone sounded out an old-fashioned ringtone. He didn’t recognize the number. “Hainny here. Who is this, and how did you get my cell?”
“Mr. Hainny, this is Agent Dillon Savich, FBI. We last met four weeks ago in former Secretary of State Abbott’s office.”