misunderstood, and all people were fundamentally rational and could be reasoned with-that was the illusion, the pretty veneer. He knew the truth. He knew what things looked like from the inside. And he liked the view.
He thought about how he'd handle Wheeler. He knew subtlety wasn't his forte-never had been, never would be. He was better at kicking in doors than at persuading people to open them, and this was a persuasion job, no doubt. But he'd had the elicitation training at the Farm, and over the course of various ops, he'd managed to put that training to good use. It was like Hort said, he just needed to exercise a little more control. He'd be okay.
At just past eight o'clock, Wheeler's front door opened. A small boy, eight years old if Hort's information was correct, stepped outside, Wheeler just behind him, blond hair tied back, gray shorts and a navy tank top. She helped the boy struggle into a backpack, kissed him, and waved him off, then watched while he waited at the curb with a few other kids similarly outfitted. A few minutes later, a yellow school bus pulled up. There was a hiss of hydraulic brakes, a red stop sign sprouted from its side, and then it was gone, the children along with it. Wheeler watched it go, looking somehow deflated in its wake. Ben thought of Ami in Manila, another child of a dead father.
Come on, forget it. It's better like this. Put it away.
He got out of the car and started walking toward Wheeler's house, his head sweeping left and right, keying on the hot spots. He detected no problems. He was wearing an olive poplin suit, white shirt, wine-colored tie, and black wing tips, all courtesy of a Brooks Brothers in Orlando, all practically government-issue. A standard Bureau Glock 23, spare magazines, pocket litter, and FBI ID and passport in the name of special agent Daniel Froomkin had been waiting for him in a dead drop near Orlando. Hort had explained that there actually was a Froomkin on the payroll in the J. Edgar Hoover Building in Washington, D.C., that the legend was fully backstopped. They couldn't expect Wheeler to cooperate with someone who had no colorable legal authority.
The air was humid and smelled of cut grass. A thin, Mexican-looking guy was pushing a buzzing mower across one of the lawns on the other side of the street. Ben paused and watched him for a moment. The guy's T-shirt was soaked with sweat and he was wearing earplugs against the noise. His arms were weathered and brown from too much sun. A beat-up pickup loaded with gardening equipment sat at the curb. The guy felt legit.
He headed up a short riser of cement steps, the Glock creating a reassuring weight and pressure under his left armpit, reminding himself one last time that he was Dan Froomkin, FBI, investigating a crime. Even a civilian could sometimes spot the incongruity in the vibe between an operator and an investigator. One of the things they'd taught him at the Farm was that to make a cover work, you had to submerge your true self inside it. The key was to believe your cover, to feel it like it was the truth.
He knocked on the door, an authoritative knock, confident, but not so loud as to be intimidating or aggressive. And he kept a respectful distance from the threshold. The trick would be to make her want to cooperate in part by making her afraid of what might happen if she didn't. But she couldn't be consciously aware of the fear. It had to be in the background, obscured by a demeanor just friendly enough to enable her to believe she was volunteering and ignore that she was being subtly coerced.
A moment later, Wheeler opened the door. Either Kissimmee enjoyed a low crime rate, or she was trusting. Or maybe her mind was still on her son.
'Can I help you?' she asked, her expression uncertain. Up close he could see she was a pretty woman, mid- forties, hair highlighted, teeth artificially white. The shorts and tank top revealed a toned body. Ben noted in mental shorthand that despite the modest house, despite being a single mother, she still spent on the hair, the teeth, maybe on a personal trainer or yoga or Pilates courses. Her appearance was important to her. He was aware this might be useful, but he didn't yet see how.
'Yes, ma'am,' Ben said, producing the FBI ID. 'I'm Dan Froomkin, special agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I'd like to ask you a few questions about your late husband, Daniel Larison. It should only take a few minutes, if you don't mind.'
Her pupils dilated slightly, the result, no doubt, of an adrenal surge. But she seemed more surprised than afraid. 'My late husband… what? Why?'
'We're investigating a crime, ma'am. Your husband wasn't involved, but his behavior in the time before his death might prove helpful.'
Ben waited while she absorbed that potentially ominous we. After a moment, she said, 'All right, but I don't really think I'll be able to help, Mr. Froomkin.'
Ben gave her a friendly smile, a lower-wattage version of the one that had always made it easy for him to hook up in high school and in various port cities after. 'Well, it can't hurt to try and find out. And please, you can call me Dan if you like. Sometimes I hate having to be so official with people.'
'All right, Dan,' she said, returning the smile with a slightly nervous-looking one of her own. 'Come in, I guess. Would you like a cup of coffee? I just put some on.'
Ben nodded. 'I'd love one. Thanks.'
He followed her through a small foyer to an equally small kitchen. The furniture was sparse and eclectic and looked like it had been handed down. The way she took care of herself suggested Wheeler wasn't exceptionally frugal, so from the furnishings Ben surmised Larison hadn't carried an impressive life insurance policy and hadn't left behind much of anything else. Again, he wasn't sure what this might mean, but filed it away as something potentially useful.
The kitchen smelled like waffles or pancakes. Clearing a pair of plates and glasses from the table, she said, 'Sorry about the mess. Here, have a seat.'
Ben noted that she made breakfast and ate it with her son. Watched him at the bus stop until he was gone. A devoted parent. He thought of Ami again, and was irritated at himself for letting the thought intrude. Ami had nothing to do with this.
He sat and considered. She was nervous, that was clear. But who wouldn't be, when the government shows up at the door flashing ID and asking about dead relatives? The nervousness felt normal. She was wary, not scared. And regardless, she'd taken him to the kitchen. That was good. People did business in the kitchen, it was where they opened up. The living room was a facade, the place for putting people off.
She brought him coffee in a plain white mug that looked like it came from Pottery Barn or the like. 'Milk? Sugar?'
'No, black is good.' He took a sip. 'This is great. Thanks.'
She smiled again, warmed up her own cup, and sat across from him.
He took another sip of the coffee. It really was good-nothing fancy, just strong and dark, the way he liked it. 'Sorry to intrude like this,' he said. 'Probably not your idea of an ideal morning. I'll try to make it quick.'
She shook her head. 'That's okay. I just don't know what I could tell you. My husband died a long time ago.'
The phrase 'a long time ago' intrigued him. Not a date, not a number of years… just something vague, a reference to the indeterminate, irrelevant past. He had the sense that she had severed her memories of Larison from her life, that she now held them at a distance. Why?
'I apologize if my presence here is stirring up any sad memories. I understand your husband died in the course of service to the nation.'
She smiled a tight, uncomfortable smile. 'Well, he always lived for that service. Not a huge surprise he would die for it.'
Ben hadn't expected her to know anything about the blackmail, if indeed Larison was the guy behind the blackmail. If he was even alive at all. And nothing about her demeanor suggested otherwise. Just the normal amount of discomfort.
He gave her a sad smile that wasn't exactly a forgery. Just being in this homey kitchen was like some silent condemnation of his own role as a father. 'Well, I know a little about that. Hard not to let the job… overwhelm you.'
She glanced at his left hand. 'Are you married?'
He shook his head. 'Divorced.'
He realized this was a single mom in her mid-forties, devoted to bringing up her son. What were her dating prospects in a small Florida suburb? When was the last time she'd been with a man?
He hadn't anticipated this angle before, but sensed now it might present an opening. Maybe make her more cooperative, more talkative than would otherwise have been the case. The thought helped him push back his awareness of Ami and refocus.
