Point Blank

jacket?
    ”
    Ruth looked at him, bemused. “You really think I’m tough?”
    “Maybe. Though I wouldn’t mind being caught in a dark alley with you.” He laughed. “When you get through with your jacket, you want to help me whip up a salad and save us all from a frozen pizza?”

CHAPTER 31
    WASHINGTON, D.C. FRIDAY NIGHT
    SAVICH’S CELL PHONE played the opening lines of Bolero at 9:15 that evening. He was tucking Sean in for the night, reminding him again about what it was like to take care of a puppy. He kissed him good night, then walked into the hallway.
    “Savich.”
    “Savich, Quinlan here. An explosion just rocked the Bonhomie Club—might be the boiler, we don’t know yet. There’s lots of smoke, people are hurt, and panic’s going to hurt more.”
    “Is Ms. Lilly all right?”
    “Yes, but she’s not about to let a fire burn all her jazz records. I don’t know yet about Marvin and Fuzz.”
    “Keep her out of the club, Quinlan. I’m on my way.”
    Savich forced himself to be calm. He looked back into Sean’s room, saw that he was well tucked in under his favorite blanket, Robocop next to him. He quickly walked back in, kissed his boy again. Sean gave a little snort in his sleep.
    Savich found Graciella and Sherlock in the kitchen eating popcorn and drinking Diet Dr Pepper. When Sherlock saw him, she jumped to her feet. “What happened, Dillon?”
    “James Quinlan just called from the Bonhomie Club. There’s been an explosion. Maybe the boiler blew, he didn’t know, but people are hurt. It sounds like a mess. Ms. Lilly’s all right, just really mad, I bet. I’ve got to go down and help.”
    “It might not be the boiler, Dillon, and you know it. It might be Moses Grace.”
    “It might be, but it doesn’t matter. Those are our friends there, Sherlock.”
    “We’ll both go. And we’ll keep our eyes open. Graciella, we’ll be back when we can.”
    They heard Graciella yell from behind them, “Be careful!”
    They heard the sirens two blocks from Houtton Street, a “border” neighborhood five years before, now slowly gentrifying.
    Emergency lights flashed, lighting the sky like Bat signals. They saw fire trucks parked sideways on the street and up on the sidewalks, firemen running toward the club, hoses and axes in hand. A media van screeched to a stop close to the police cars and fire trucks, hoping the cops wouldn’t have time to order them out. Houtton Street was blocked off, as well as the side streets. The first line of police was trying to hold back gawkers, reporters, and cameramen. Behind them, others were helping patrons streaming out of the club, stumbling, dirty, coughing, yelling for their boyfriends, their wives, whomever. Reporters stuck microphones in any face that came close enough. They blurted out their questions, happy and eager to ask about the disaster, maybe get their spot on the late news. There were a good hundred people jostling about, many of them dressed for a Friday night at the club, many of them bystanders who had gathered to look or to help. Savich pulled the Porsche directly in front of the club, where six cops had kept a space clear, probably for the chief of police, or maybe some politician who’d called ahead to do a sound bite showing his interest in and compassion for this largely black area. Before the cops could yell at him to move, Savich jumped out and flipped out his shield. “Agent Dillon Savich. What’s happening?”
    Officer Greenberg, one meaty fist aimed at a reporter who’d managed to break through his line, panted,
    “An explosion of some kind in the club. Not a big one, I don’t think, but there’s lots of thick black smoke, which helped feed the panic. You know what happens when folks try to stampede out of a club like this. So far I’ve counted maybe a dozen injured. Almost everyone is out, but there’s still the fire to contend with and making sure no one is trapped in all that poisonous smoke. Hey, get that guy with the microphone back! Sorry. It’s taking a while, Agent Savich, but we’re getting things under control. I know it still looks like pandemonium but you should have been here ten minutes ago. Stay back!” he yelled at three reporters who’d seen Savich and were trying to get to him.
    “Blowhard sharks,” he added when their flashes went off. “You’ll probably be on the news, Agent Savich, everyone knows who you are. You need to talk to Detective Millbray. He’s in charge along with Detective