Double Take

to the rules, you got that?”
    Rob was sixteen, nearly as tall as Dix and filling out, growing into manhood. Dix gave him the Eye. Rob took it in and didn’t even squirm, just nodded solemnly. He was growing up, Dix thought, and that both depressed him and made him proud. Where had the years gone? “You’re in charge, Rob. Don’t give him grief, Rafe, okay? If Ruth comes, you guys take good care of her. There’s some spinach and sausage lasagna in the freezer. Feed her that, not pizza. She’ll probably make up a salad for all of you. And you’ll eat it without complaint.”
    “Sure, Dad,” Rob said, and Dix immediately knew Ruth would be surrounded with pizza from the instant she walked into the house, Brewster panting at her heels. He knew she’d laugh and fetch the lasagna out of the freezer, and the boys would get both, and a salad.
    Rob said, “Dad, have you seen Ruth’s fastball now that I’ve been working with her?”
    Dix nodded. Ah, Christie, we did good with our boys, and Ruth does well with them too. Dix had spoken to Christie a lot over the years. His memory of her, the feeling of her presence, would always be with him, easing the bad times and making the good times better. But he knew all the way to his soul that Christie was dead, more than three years dead.
    This was an entirely different woman in San Francisco, he had no doubt. But he still had to make the trip, had to make sure, for all of them. If he didn’t go he knew Chappy would, and who knew what kind of grief that would cause? And in the back of his mind, a voice softly asked, If she is Christie, what then?
    Brewster was gnawing on his trouser leg. Dix leaned down and picked up the well-fed furball whose eyes would melt Scrooge’s heart, straightened his dark blue collar, and hugged him close. “Don’t you get too excited when you see Ruth, okay, Brewster? She doesn’t need you to pee on her again.”
    The boys laughed. “Brewster loves her leather jacket,” Rafe said. “She told me Brewster supports her dry cleaners.”
    The boys moved on to talking about school. They’d bought his story. Good. The last thing they needed to know was the real reason he was flying to the West Coast.

CHAPTER 9
    WASHINGTON, D.C. THE HOOVER BUILDING
    Friday morning

    When Special Agent Ruth Warnecki bent down to pull the bottom of her slacks out of her boot she heard Dillon Savich say to his boss, Jimmy Maitland, “Take a gander at this. This sketch is excellent.”
    “I was thinking maybe it’s too good,” Maitland said. “Is Cheney sure the witness didn’t embellish?”
    “Cheney said the reason it’s so detailed is that the guy didn’t mind showing her his face up close and personal, because he planned to kill her. He ended up throwing her into San Francisco Bay, where she would probably have drowned if Cheney hadn’t gotten her out in time.”
    “Good for Agent Stone,” Maitland said, “and a remarkable chunk of good luck for the victim. It was a coincidence, right, Savich? He isn’t dating her, is he, or surveilling her, something like that?”
    Ruth couldn’t help listening in. She knew Cheney. She leaned closer to the door and heard Dillon say, “Nope, I asked him about that. Cheney said he’d never seen her before in his life. The thing about Cheney Stone is he’s got great instincts and this karma sort of thing that seems to put him in the right places at critical times. Weirdest thing I’ve ever heard of. But even without the woo-woo—as an agent, Cheney’s good, very good. This Julia is lucky he was there.”
    Maitland nodded, started pacing in front of Savich’s desk. “I’ve read some of his reports. He’s got good recall. Did you know he’s got a law degree?”
    Savich grinned. “I say thank the Lord he crossed over to the side of the angels.”
    Maitland grunted, unconsciously flexed an impressive bicep. “Yep, we need him more than the world needs another damned lawyer.”
    “He started out as a prosecutor, but couldn’t accept all the plea bargains they have to make to keep the system from imploding—he couldn’t see a whole lot of justice in that, didn’t think he was making much of a difference.”
    Maitland nodded. “You know the SAC out in San Francisco— Bert Cartwright? He’s one smart guy, but he bitches about Stone being a hot dog—not covering other people’s butts is how I translate that.”
    “You think?” Savich grinned.
    “Of course you and Sherlock are the original hot