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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.”
“I know you, Agent Savich. What is this about?”
Savich had never cared for Eric Hainny, saw him as a power-mongering bulldog in Ralph Lauren suits, overly protective of President Gilbert, a man who luxuriated in the control he wielded over access to the king. He liked to be thought of as a man you underestimated at your own peril. Savich had no doubt he knew the whereabouts of every skeleton in every closet in Washington, and enjoyed using the information whenever it suited him.
“I would like to speak to you about your son, Saxon.”
A moment of silence, then Hainny said, “Saxon has already spoken with Detective Ben Raven. There is nothing more to say. How does this involve the FBI? This is a Metro case.”
“I have Detective Raven’s permission to speak to you, sir. When would it be convenient?”
Hainny drummed his fingers on the paper-strewn desktop his assistant dealt with every afternoon. “This is about my son, Saxon, nothing else?”
“Yes.”
“Very well. But not here at the White House. I’ll meet you at Rock Creek Park in an hour.”
He hung up.
It took Savich fifteen minutes to navigate the traffic on Sixteenth Street N.W. to Rock Creek Park. He parked his Porsche, looked down at his watch. Only ten thirty in the morning, but the park was already thick with families, probably tourists, their kids playing football, throwing Frisbees, enjoying the morning weather before it turned hot and muggy. Savich caught a Frisbee that soared his way, tossed it back to a boy hopping up and down, his friends laughing their heads off when he splatted bubble gum all over his face.
