“Peter Olange.”
“I swear I don’t know him. Ain’t never heard that name before. I swear to God.”
The sound of local police sirens echo through the parking lot beyond the door as their cruisers roll in, and I give Astra a nod. She heads back out to run interference. We’ll let them take Zane into custody on drug and gun charges without mention of Ashley Barlow. They should be happy with the easiest collar they’ll ever get. Unfortunately for us, this is another dry hole.
“Dammit,” I mutter.
“Blake.”
The alarm in Mo’s voice sends a chill through me. I look up to see her with her phone in her hand and a severe expression on her face. Whatever she just read, it’s not good.
“What is it?” I ask.
“There’s been another one.”
Berenthal Residence, Hayfield Farm District; Alexandria, VA
“Now this is more like it,” Astra says as we pull into the large, circular drive. “Think we’ll run into the same smells as the motel here?”
“Really hope not,” I say with a laugh. “But let’s not pretend like neighborhoods like this don’t have their own distinct… aromas.”
“True that.”
Built in the 1960s, Hayfield Farm is an exclusive neighborhood with most of the homes being on large parcels of land. It’s quiet and feels isolated despite being a short drive from the nightlife of Alexandria as well as Washington DC. It’s the perfect place for an affluent family to raise their children, especially if they have business in the Capitol but don’t want to live in the heart of the national zoo. I don’t blame anybody for wanting to live here.
The homes in this insular little community are all magnificent. The Berenthal residence is a three-story, red-brick, colonial-style mansion that sits on an acre and a half of land. Dark shutters frame every window, the trim is gleaming white, and the tall, white portico and dark door tucked within its recess is imposing. There are horse stalls and a riding ring on the lower grounds, and the upper grounds are all expertly landscaped. For being as large and ornate as it is, the Berenthal home somehow manages to escape looking ostentatious.
It’s an idyllic little place to live, but the swarm of police cruisers, unmarked vehicles, and mob of uniformed police officers and suited detectives pops that bubble, breaking the illusion and bringing the reality of the world crashing down. We head up the brick steps, and by the time we reach the porch, the front door is already open; a woman in a black uniform is standing there waiting for us.
“Good afternoon, Agents,” she says crisply as we step into the marble foyer. “Judge Berenthal is waiting for you in his office. Please, follow me.”
She closes the door behind us, and without waiting for a response, turns and walks through a doorway to the right. We hurry to catch up, trailing behind her as she leads us down a long hallway, dodging local cops on the way. The décor within the home is tasteful and understated. Though there are plenty of original art pieces and antiques on display, it avoids being garish.
“Just this way please,” the maid intones to keep us on track.
Photos of the family line the walls of the hallway we walk. Judge Patrick Berenthal, his wife Molly, and their two children, Angelica and Matthew. I study the photos quickly as we pass by them and note that their smiles and body language suggest they’re a warm and loving family. Though they’re nicely dressed, the family, like the décor in the house, aren’t given to overt displays of wealth. They look pleasantly normal.
She slides open a door and stands aside, motioning for us to enter. The room is large and, unlike the rest of the house, has a very distinct air of wealth blended with the faded aroma of cigar smoke. Built-in shelves line the walls to our left and right and are filled with books, photos of the family as well as with Judge Berenthal himself with various dignitaries, and very expensive-looking knickknacks. A large, ornately carved desk that has to be more than a hundred years old and crafted from the same rich, dark wood as the shelving, sits in front of us with a wall of glass behind it, offering a view of the expansive grounds beyond.
And sitting behind the desk is Patrick Berenthal himself, a very well-respected federal judge with the fourth circuit appellate courts. Though he’s earned his own reputation, the fact that his mother helped pave the way for him certainly didn’t hurt when he was first getting started. The Berenthal name was already revered. His mother, Leslie, was a legal titan. Fierce, intelligent, and passionate, she blazed a trail that led to her being considered for a seat on the Supreme Court of the United States. She ultimately didn’t get it, but that didn’t diminish her esteem in the legal community. And by all accounts, Patrick is cut from the same cloth.
The door behind us slides closed with a sound that reminds me of a prison cell door. Thankfully, though, it blocks out the crackle of the police radios and the voices of the men and women filling the judge’s house. We stand in front of his desk, and with the man’s light blue eyes assessing me, I suddenly feel like a kid standing in front of the school principal after acting up.
“Judge Berenthal,” I say. “Unit Chief Wilder and SSA Russo.”
His face is grim, and anger burns in his eyes. “I didn’t know the FBI was already involved.”
“We happened to be in the area working another case,” I reply.
“What case is that?”
“Right now, we’d like to talk to you about your daughter,” I tell him.
He hesitates for a moment, eyeing us closely. The corners of his mouth turn down, and he looks like he might press me on my non-answer but then seems to put it on the back burner. For the moment anyway.
“Please. Sit,” he says. “May I offer you a drink?”
“No, we’re fine. Thank you.”
“I hope you don’t mind if I do?” he asks, though it’s not really a question.
I shake my head. “By all means.”
Berenthal gets to his feet and walks over to a sideboard, quickly lifting the stopper out of a crystal decanter and pouring himself a couple fingers worth of what I assume is a really fine scotch. Berenthal considers for a moment, then pours another splash into the glass before returning to his chair. I suppose I can’t blame him too much for self-medicating. Of course, if I did, that would make me a flaming hypocrite.
I glance at what I assume is the most recent family portrait that sits in a silver frame on the corner of his desk, my eyes lingering on his daughter. She’s a tall girl. Maybe an inch taller than my five-nine frame. But she’s got a curvy model’s physique. Like her father, Angelica has a strong jawline, hair blacker than coal, and piercing light blue eyes that, even in a photograph, seem capable of seeing right through me.
From the quick and dirty background workup that Nina sent over, I know that Angelica is at the top of her class and on track to be the valedictorian at the Brookside Academy, a very prestigious prep school. She’s already been accepted to Harvard and seems to be taking the same career trajectory as her father. In her personal statement to Harvard, she declared that she wants to earn the seat on the Supreme Court her grandmother didn’t get. The girl is intelligent and ambitious. And from the cursory glance at her life I’ve taken, she has a lot in common with her grandmother.
“Judge Berenthal, may I ask where your wife and son are?” I begin.
“Molly took Matthew to her sister’s place in Bethesda. We felt he didn’t need to be here to see this whole circus,” he replies.
“That’s probably wise.”
