Inside Outt

was a pretty woman, mid-forties, hair highlighted, teeth artificially white. The shorts and tank top revealed a toned body. Ben noted in mental shorthand that despite the modest house, despite being a single mother, she still spent on the hair, the teeth, maybe on a personal trainer or yoga or Pilates courses. Her appearance was important to her. He was aware this might be useful, but he didn’t yet see how.
    “Yes, ma’am,” Ben said, producing the FBI ID. “I’m Dan Froomkin, Special Agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’d like to ask you a few questions about your late husband, Daniel Larison. It should only take a few minutes, if you don’t mind.”
    Her pupils dilated slightly, the result, no doubt, of an adrenal surge. But she seemed more surprised than afraid. “My late husband… what? Why?”
    “We’re investigating a crime, ma’am. Your husband wasn’t involved, but his behavior in the time before his death might prove helpful.”
    Ben waited while she absorbed that potentially ominous
we.
After a moment, she said, “All right, but I don’t really think I’ll be able to help, Mr. Froomkin.”
    Ben gave her a friendly smile, a lower-wattage version of the one that had always made it easy for him to hook up in high school and in various port cities after. “Well, it can’t hurt to try and find out. And please, call me Dan if you like. Sometimes I hate having to be so official with people.”
    “All right, Dan,” she said, returning his smile with a slightly nervous-looking one of her own. “Come in, I guess. Would you like a cup of coffee? I just put some on.”
    Ben nodded. “I’d love one. Thanks.”
    He followed her through a small foyer to an equally small kitchen. The furniture was sparse and eclectic and looked like it had been handed down. The way she took care of herself suggested Wheeler wasn’t exceptionally frugal, so from the furnishings Ben surmised Larison hadn’t carried an impressive life insurance policy and hadn’t left behind much of anything else. Again, he wasn’t sure what this might mean, but filed it away as something potentially useful.
    The kitchen smelled like waffles or pancakes. Clearing a pair of plates and glasses from the table, she said, “Sorry about the mess. Here, have a seat.”
    Ben noted that she made breakfast and ate it with her son. Watched him at the bus stop until he was gone. A devoted parent. He thought of Ami again, and was irritated at himself for letting the thought intrude. Ami had nothing to do with this.
    He sat and considered. She was nervous, that was clear. But who wouldn’t be, when the government shows up at the door flashing ID and asking about dead relatives? The nervousness felt normal. She was wary, not scared. And regardless, she’d taken him to the kitchen. That was good. People did business in the kitchen, it was where they opened up. The living room was a façade, the place for putting people off.
    She brought him coffee in a plain white mug that looked like it came from Pottery Barn or the like. “Milk? Sugar?”
    “No, black is good.” He took a sip. “This is great. Thanks.”
    She smiled again, warmed up her own cup, and sat across from him.
    He took another sip of the coffee. It really was good—nothing fancy, just strong and dark, the way he liked it. “Sorry to intrude like this,” he said. “Probably not your idea of an ideal morning. I’ll try to make it quick.”
    She shook her head. “That’s okay. I just don’t know what I could tell you. My husband died a long time ago.”
    The phrase “a long time ago” intrigued him. Not a date, not a number of years… just something vague, a reference to the indeterminate, irrelevant past. He had the sense that she had severed her memories of Larison from her life, that she now held them at a distance. Why?
    “I apologize if my presence here is stirring up any sad memories. I understand your husband died in the course of service to the nation.”
    She smiled a tight, uncomfortable smile. “Well, he always lived for that service. Not a huge surprise he would die for it.”
    Ben hadn’t expected her to know anything about the blackmail, if indeed Larison was the guy behind the blackmail. If he was even alive at all. And nothing about her demeanor suggested otherwise. Just the normal amount of discomfort.
    He gave her a sad smile that wasn’t exactly a forgery. Just being in this homey kitchen was like some silent condemnation of his own role as