Shattered (Michael Bennett #14)(14)

I waited until after she’d finished speaking. Three of the six people brought copies of the book up for her to sign. I hung back until the others finished and then moved forward hesitantly with a copy of her book, The Best Hundred Years of the Supreme Court. She smiled warmly and opened the book to its title page, where she signed her name with a flourish.

I said, “I didn’t want to cut in front of the other people in the seats.”

Ms. Raz laughed. “One of them is my niece, one of them is my publicist, and another is my publicist’s sister she brought along to make the crowd look bigger.”

I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to laugh or if she was making light of a bad situation. I said, “It’s the middle of the week. I wouldn’t expect many people to be free.”

She laughed and placed her hand on my forearm. “You’re just being nice. And I absolutely appreciate it. But these are the realities of being an author. It matters a lot more how many books I sell on Amazon than it does how many people come to my book signings. This was fine. I live right in Georgetown so it’s not even a long ride home.”

“I’m anxious to read your book.”

“Is there anything in particular you’re interested in? I’m happy to answer questions for anyone who ventured out for my signing.”

“I had a few questions about Justice Robert Steinberg. But I don’t want to keep you from your friends.”

“Don’t worry. They know how to keep themselves occupied for a few minutes. Besides, I could use a cup of coffee. Can we take this to the café?”

A few minutes later, I had learned that Julia Raz had been an attorney for twenty years and appeared in front of the Supreme Court on a regular basis.

I had to ask, “Do you still practice or just write books?”

“I love the law, but lawyers were starting to annoy me. After I was part of a big tobacco settlement, I decided to retire and do exactly what I wanted. This is my second book on the Supreme Court.”

I asked about Justice Steinberg, and she told me a lot of what I’d already read. He was considered a great legal mind. He was somewhat nonpartisan, especially considering who his father-in-law was. And he was private. He rarely gave interviews, and when he did, his chief of staff always sat in with him. Blah, blah, blah.

I asked, “Do you know his chief of staff?” I downplayed my knowledge of the justice.

“Everyone knows his sister, Beth.”

“His sister is on the payroll?”

“She doesn’t take a salary but acts in a purely administrative role. She’s very bright. Went to Stanford. But she’s not an attorney.”

“If she’s not an attorney, is she that much help to the justice?”

“She’s everything for him. Mostly, she protects his privacy. She could be a bouncer at a high-end nightclub. Athletic, no-nonsense. I think she’s the perfect chief of staff for a town like Washington.”

“So Beth is the key to the justice?”

“That’s a good way to put it. Why so interested?”

“Just curious. The fact that he’s married to my senator’s daughter is one thing. We have some other people in common.”

“Justice Steinberg’s wife is also very bright. She may not be as tough as his sister, but she got her law degree from Columbia.”

“Is she going to get one in the US as well?” That made Ms. Raz guffaw, and I had another lead: Justice Steinberg’s sister, Beth.





Chapter 18



When I came to DC to find Emily Parker, I realized that I might run into some roadblocks. I anticipated petty FBI people wanting to keep the investigation to themselves. DC police could do a lot to discourage me. Now I’d been told in no uncertain terms that they didn’t want me here.

And I still had no idea what had happened to Emily. I had some background information. I had no real leads. And no matter what Bobby Patel was telling me, the FBI had no decent leads either. I was going to talk to people they had already talked to. Maybe stir things up a little bit.

I endured a snicker from the valet when he brought my little purple Prius around in front of the hotel. Two other valets joined him to watch me get into the tiny car. I took a moment to gather my thoughts before I wedged myself into the driver’s seat. I must’ve looked like one of my kids when they would drive the little electric cars I bought them when they were little.

I took the John Hanson Highway out to Bowie, Maryland. This was one of the nicer suburbs that served DC. Very neat and orderly. I found the subdivision where Emily Parker’s mother had a nice three-bedroom, two-bath. It matched virtually every other house on the street. A single tree shed a few leaves in the otherwise tidy front yard.

This was not an interview I was looking forward to. No one wants to bother the mother of a missing person. The FBI report I’d read indicated that she had no usable information but hadn’t mentioned anything about her demeanor, so I had no idea what state of mind she was in. I pictured a lot of cats.

When I rang the front doorbell, I realized how wrong I was. It started with one bark. A deeper, resonant bark. Then it was like a floodgate had opened. The cascade of different woofs rushed toward the door. I could hear bodies of various sizes slamming against the door. Mrs. Parker was a dog person.

The door opened, and I was prepared to be mobbed by dogs. Instead, an attractive woman with auburn hair and glasses sitting at the top of her head said, “You must be Michael Bennett. Emily says you’re a bulldog. As you can see, I appreciate any kind of dog.”