“You know I’ve searched and searched for any clue to help us find out what happened to her but there haven’t been any. I’m more sorry than I can say about that. Something bad happened to your mom, and I wish I’d been this straight with you sooner. I was dead wrong. I see now that we have been trying to keep the truth buried deep because it hurts so badly. We won’t do that anymore. It’s not fair to any of us. You’ve both been very brave, and I am so very proud of you.”

Dix straightened, looked over at Ruth, then down at his sons. “You saw me kissing Ruth and it upset you. I understand that. Truth is, I like Ruth very much. I have no idea what she thinks of me, but I do know she’s smart and nice and she really likes you delinquents. Can we keep things loose? Is that good enough for the time being?”

“Ruth isn’t Mom,” Rafe said.

“Of course not. Ruth isn’t anything like your mother, but the thing is, she doesn’t take a thing away from your mother, doesn’t make her any less special to you or me or anyone who knew her and loved her. Do you understand?”

The boys looked stony.

“Actually, Ruth is exactly like your mom in a couple of important ways. She’s tough and she’s good all the way through.” Dix handed Brewster to Rafe. “You don’t need to study right now. Here, take the Doberman out for a walk until I call you for dinner.”

Dix and Ruth watched them toe off their sneakers, put on boots, jackets, and gloves, and head out. The front door slammed behind them. At least that was normal for them. They heard them yelling to Brewster, and that was normal, too. He turned to Ruth. “Do you want to go sponge off that beautiful leather 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?”