Blowout

with her, all of them about the same age, all wearing subdued colors, all of their attention on the new widow who’d just hung up the phone. When he spoke, they looked up at him.
    Ben said, “I hope you’re all right.”
    She nodded. “It’s difficult, Detective, but yes.”
    He nodded toward the phone on the end table beside her.
    “Another condolence call?”
    “Yes, so many people, so kind. You remember Anna Clifford?”
    Ben nodded to the woman he’d seen briefly yesterday. The other women, waiting to be introduced, inclined graceful heads as Callie called out their names. “Janette Weaverton, Bitsy St. Pierre, and Juliette Trevor.” Elegant names all, rich names, trust-fund money kind of names. He’d met all sorts in his nine years on the force, but working primarily in the bowels of D.C., it wasn’t often he met society types.
    They were gracious and attentive, and clearly concerned about Mrs. Califano. The team already had their addresses and phone numbers. He wasn’t certain yet if he would be the one interviewing them and their families. He asked to speak to Mrs. Califano alone. Callie gave him a look, but ushered the four women out of the living room.
    Ben sat down beside Mrs. Califano. He looked for several moments at her beautiful profile, similar to Callie’s, he realized, with her clean, straight nose and high cheekbones. He supposed he could understand Justice Wallace being attracted to her even though she was his mom’s age, and when he thought of his mom, he thought of Wheaties and big laughter, not sex, for God’s sake.
    “There are a whole lot of people working around the clock to find out who killed your husband, Mrs. Califano.”
    “Yes, I would imagine so.” Her voice was quite without emotion, as if she’d simply put a cork in the bottle.
    “When Justice Califano went to the Supreme Court Building on Friday night, he said he had something to think about. Please, try to remember, Mrs. Califano. What could it have been? Did you have an argument? Was he worried about some business deal? Something like that?”
    She sighed, clasped her hands in her lap. She was very pale. “I’ve already told you three or four times that I can’t think of anything other than that case coming up, the death penalty case in Texas. Also, before you ask again, we didn’t have an argument Friday evening. Sure, we fought occasionally. All couples do, Detective. Aren’t you married?”
    “No, ma’am.”
    “You should be. You’re old enough.”
    “The guards at the Supreme Court thought Justice Califano seemed preoccupied Friday night, something weighing heavily on his mind.” This was a stretch, but worth a try. “You were closer to him than anyone in the world. What was eating at him, ma’am? Please, think.”
    She sighed again, fanned her hands in front of her. “Oh, all right. I knew he was upset at Sumner Wallace for, well, for being inappropriate with me, but you already know that, Detective. Yes, my daughter told me that she’d passed it on to you when you were going to interview Justice Wallace. I hope it won’t come out since it has nothing to do with anything, but now I suppose you want to know the rest of it. My husband knew about what Sumner had done as well because I myself told him just last week. He was singing Sumner’s praises about something. I just couldn’t bear the hypocrisy of it, so I told him what Sumner had tried with me.”
    “How did he take it?”
    “He was angry, as you’d expect. I don’t know if he confronted Sumner about it since he never mentioned it to me again, which surprised me. But I wasn’t about to bring it up. Was he thinking about that on Friday night? I don’t know, Detective Raven.”
    “Justice Sumner Wallace denied this, ma’am.”
    “Well, naturally. Wouldn’t you?”
    “I suppose I would. His wife did as well.”
    She shook her head. “Poor Beth. She puts up with a lot from Sumner, and has all their married life. How was he dealing with this?”
    “Not well, neither of them were. Two federal marshals were there in the house with them, reassuring I’m sure, but still an invasion of their privacy, and a constant reminder that they might be in danger. Also, since reporters were camped out in their front yard, they felt like prisoners.”
    “I so wish Callie weren’t a reporter,” she said. “Doing that to people when they’re in such obvious distress, and then trying to justify it with that idiotic refrain they so quickly