Blow Out

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 Post, that’s where the real scoop was.

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 Post didn’t say she was dead. She’s in Bethesda.”

“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.