Perry said, “What a fun thought. I don’t have a will. If I were to die tomorrow, I suppose Mom would get my money, what there is of it. If she were dead, I suppose it would go to my grandparents, who, believe me, don’t need it. But if Uncle Milton was willing to kill someone for money, why wouldn’t he go after my grandparents? They’re swimming in it, and he’d inherit half of it if they died, wouldn’t he, Mom?” She paused. “That’s a gruesome thought.”

Natalie cleared her throat. “My mother told me their will gives Milton a set amount, a goodly amount, don’t get me wrong, but the bulk of their estate comes to me.”

This was a kicker. Savich said, “Why? He’s their son, the first born.”

“I believe,” Natalie said, “that he’s disappointed them too often and they want the estate preserved for the family.”

Perry said, “Mom is being too nice. My grandparents don’t want their estate flushed down the political rat hole.”

Savich sat back and drank his tea. When he and Sherlock left, he knew what he was going to set MAX to do.

Washington Post offices

Wednesday afternoon

Bennett John Bennett looked at Perry over the top of his glasses. “Lolita tells me you’re a mess, what with all this talk surrounding your mother. Care to explain this to me?”

Note to self: punch out Lolita. She didn’t want to punch Bennett out because he was sincerely unaware of the world outside of sports. What had bigmouthed Lolita told him? “I’m not a mess. I don’t know where Lolita gets her information. Nothing to worry about, Boss.”

“Whatever that means—all right, here’s the deal: I’m only asking because I can’t have you distracted by all your mother’s troubles.”

“You don’t have to worry about anything like that. I’ve got two different brain compartments. The football compartment has a locked-door policy.”

“Look, Perry, maybe Lolita’s right. I read your blog this morning and I gotta tell you, you wrote way too many lines praising John Clayton. Three words, not three sentences. I’m hoping you did it because Clayton shot off firecrackers to you on ESPN about the Tebow scoop, your setting everything straight. A little tit for tat is always a good thing, but if you did it because you’re off your game, well, I can’t have you twisted up. You’ve got to keep on top of your story. I don’t want to get beat out by those two big scoopers Shefter and Mortensen. You know they’re working this around the clock, trying to find another angle on what you wrote or found something you got wrong.”

Had she praised Clayton because he’d credited her? Well, yeah, probably so. He’d commented on her acumen. What a fine word that was. Had she really given Clayton three whole sentences? She hadn’t realized—not good. “I promise, sir. No more than three glowing words about any competitors, even if they tell me I’m the greatest sportswriter born in the last century.”

Bennett grunted. “I heard it really pissed Walt off when Clayton blew your horn. I thought you’d appreciate knowing that. You got anything else on the burner besides what’s in your blog? Something new, another perspective? Some doomsayer predicting Toronto will lose all its upcoming games with a QB who should really be playing tight end?”

“I’m exchanging texts with an Argonaut assistant coach who tells me they’re going to find the perfect coach for Tebow, train him up and watch him fly. In short, nothing but enthusiasm about him. However, as everyone knows, this is all still only talk, since they haven’t signed him yet. It’s all so obvious I didn’t bother to mention it in my post.”

“Even though you’ve gotten a gazillion tweets? Everyone wants more, obvious or not. Dig deeper, Perry, question everyone. And fast. You’ve got the markers, call ’em in.

“Oh, by the way, you’re going to get an offer from ESPN, maybe a sideline job on the Sunday-night game, maybe a part-time anchor. Heard that at the sports bar from a reliable source.”

Perry shook her head. “TV? You know I’m not interested, not in this lifetime. Can you imagine suffering all that crap female sports announcers have to go through to get camera-ready? And then they get to spend all their time on the sidelines no matter what kind of weather? No, thank you. I’d probably also be as wooden as a chair leg as an anchor and get booed off the set.

“Listen, sir, about my mother. Things are all tangled up, that’s true, but I’ll keep it away from my job.”

“I know, in your other compartment.” Then Bennett asked, sounding as if the words were being pulled forcibly out of his mouth, “Do you need time off to take care of this?”