SUNDAY EVENING
CALLIE TOOK A BITE of her beautifully prepared swordfish, looked up, and saw Ben staring at her. “What?”
He shook his head, but didn’t look away. The fact was she didn’t look like he was used to seeing her, and he couldn’t quite get himself used to the transformation. She was wearing a little black dress that had long sleeves and no back to speak of, and high heels that put her nearly at six feet tall. He’d picked her up earlier at her mother’s house, she’d waltzed down the stairs, looking the way women always look when they’re going to drive a man crazy. He couldn’t stop staring at her. And she was wearing her hair differently, pulled back and up on her head with dangly little curls hanging over her ears. He said, “I was thinking you look pretty good tonight.”
“Why, thank you, sir. Your suit looks pretty good, too.”
“What? This old thing?”
She laughed. “Yes, that old thing—Italian, right? And you think my mom’s friends are snobs.”
“I picked you up in my Crown Vic. You can’t get more pedestrian than that.”
“Yes, you did. I wanted the truck, but I probably couldn’t have climbed in it anyway, not in these heels. You know, Ben, actually, I think you look hot.”
He stirred around the little pile of potato fritters, and kept his mouth shut.
“This dress does wonders for my butt, don’t you think?”
“Well, it sure is short. I’ve only seen you in pants, boots, and sweaters big enough to fit me. And your hair’s always stuffed under a cap.”
“No hat hair tonight.” Callie pulled off a piece of her dinner roll, and decided that what she really wanted to do was jump over the table and kiss him stupid. Instead, she cleared her throat and said, “I’m still wondering why Dillon sent us here. Does he think Gunter is the type to eat at fancy restaurants?”
And in that instant, Ben saw the light. He and Callie had been maneuvered by an expert. It gave him a jolt to realize he probably wouldn’t have thought of it himself, although he should have. Regardless of how this lovely candlelit dinner had come about, he was sitting across from a beautiful woman who was wearing a short black dress, eating swordfish. What had she said? Oh yes, Gunter. Ben said, “Who knows if this is Gunter’s kind of place?”
“For all we know, he could own the joint.”
“That’s depressing and true. I think after dinner, we should walk to Barnes and Noble, it’s a good place to hang out and listen to people talk.”
As they walked down M Street, the frigid January air seeping under their collars and up Callie’s dress, Ben said, “In those stilts you’re wearing, you’re nearly to the bridge of my nose.”
“Nah, I’m above your eyebrows, admit it.”
It seemed natural to take her hand, even more natural for her to move closer.
In every Barnes & Noble aisle, like at Filomena’s, nearly everyone had believed Director Mueller was covering up the shooting of another law clerk, read the
Callie said, “Jed was fast, as well as going the extra ten yards beyond what I told him.”
They heard a man say, “I sure wouldn’t apply there if I was fresh out of law school. I wonder if there’ll be a shortage next year.”
“All three of the law clerks who worked for Justice Califano—dead in a week.”
“The
“Who knows?”
They walked through the aisles, pausing to listen when they hit a new group of people.
“I sure hope they protect that poor law clerk this time. If she’s still alive.”
“Bingo,” Ben said.
When Ben and Callie left, he found himself driving back toward Savich’s house. He said, “I spoke to Savich when you went to the bathroom. I told him what we’d heard, and he said okay, good, that was what he’d hoped. I got the impression that he feels like shit about Giffey. I heard it in his voice. He blames himself.”
“Yes, he would. And given what happened, I’d blame myself too. Where are we going?”
Ben slowed down in front of the house, then pulled to the curb and put the car in park. “I wanted to check on them. Everything looks quiet. I know Savich has a state-of-the-art security system, protection for his grandmother’s painting, of course. But still—”
“You wanted to make sure. No problem.”
“One more stop?” Ben pressed the turn signal, went right toward the house where old Mr. Avery lived. “I remember it being 2371 Lombard Street. It’s not too late. Let’s stop in and talk to him. You game?”
CHAPTER
35
NATHANIEL AVERY ANSWERED the door almost immediately. He was decked out in a tatty pale blue chenille bathrobe that fell nearly to his bony feet. It looked like it belonged to his wife. Ben felt his optimism sinking fast. Truth was, Mr. Avery looked like a batty old codger who wouldn’t know a Toyota if it had its name printed across the windshield.
At least Mr. Avery wasn’t wearing fuzzy house slippers, or Ben might have turned right back around and left. No, his house slippers were a manly dark brown leather.
“Who’re you, sonny?”
Ben pulled out his badge, held it out for Mr. Avery to study, which he did, pushing his glasses up on his nose and looking at Ben’s badge for a long time, silent the whole while. He finally looked up. “Okay, you’re really a cop. And you?”
“I’m Callie Markham. I’m with him.”
“What are you two doing here all duded up?”
“We had dinner at Filomena’s,” Ben said smoothly. “The swordfish was excellent.”
“I never cared none for swordfish.”
Callie said, “Do you think we could speak to you about last night, and the man you saw jump into that car and drive off?”
“I already spoke to a good half-dozen local cops. I was hoping maybe the FBI would call, but they haven’t checked in yet. You think they might?”
“Nah. I think we’re the best you’re going to get,” Ben said. “It’s been twenty-four hours since you spoke to anyone, and I’ll bet that you, Mr. Avery, have thought and thought about it, replayed the scene a lot in your mind.”
“Well, yeah, that’s true enough. I know all about that agent’s house getting shot up—we haven’t ever had anything that exciting happen in this neighborhood.”
“Maybe, sir, if we all discuss it together, you might remember something new that could help us.”
Mr. Avery’s glasses were sliding down his nose as he waved them into a dark living room where the TV was on, but there was no sound. “Marylee, don’t worry, it’s the cops!”
An old woman with lots of beautiful silver hair, wearing an identical pale pink chenille bathrobe and fluffy pale pink slippers, was sitting in a La-Z-Boy chair, feet up, staring at them. “What did you say, dear?”
Mr. Avery raised his own voice to a yell. “It’s the police! Go back to your knitting, Marylee. Everything’s okay. Where’s Luciano?”
There was a surprisingly robust bark, and then a tiny black dog pranced out, tail wagging like a fast metronome. “That’s Luciano, my little boy. He’s only two, my happy little camper, always on the go. I have to walk him six times a day. He loves to waggle around, walks right up to big dogs and barks at them, tries to lick them.” Mr. Avery leaned over, knees creaking, and picked up Luciano, who licked him all over his face, barked, and then paused, cocked his little head, and stared at Ben and Callie.
“Now Luciano is a seriously cute dog,” Callie said. “What’s his breed?”
Mr. Avery leaned close, whispered, “He’s a miniature poodle, but he doesn’t know it. If you asked him, he’d
