Blowout

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 Günter 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, Günter. Ben said, “Who knows if this is Günter’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 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
    N ATHANIEL A VERY 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