I had a thought about Maria then. My wife was kind and courageous, a special woman who’d been shot in a mysterious drive-by incident in Southeast that I’d never been able to solve. I had never closed the file. Maybe something would turn up. It’s been known to happen. I still missed her almost every day. Sometimes I even said a little prayer. I hope you forgive me, Maria. I’m doing the best I can. It just doesn’t seem good enough sometimes; good enough to me, anyway. We love you dearly.

Jannie must have sensed I was there, watching her, talking to her mother. “I thought it was you,” she said.

“Why is that?” I asked.

She shrugged. “I just did. My sixth sense is working pretty good lately.”

“Were you waiting up for me?” I asked as I slipped into her room. It had been our one guest bedroom, but last year we had converted it to Jannie’s. I had built the shelving for the clay menagerie from her “Sojourner Truth period”: a stegosaurus, a whale, a black squirrel, a panhandler, a witch tied to a stake, as well as her favorite books.

“I wasn’t waiting up, no. I didn’t expect you home at all.”

I sat down on the edge of the bed. Framed over it was a copy of a Magritte painting of a pipe with the caption: this is not a pipe. “You’re going to torture me some, huh?” I said.

“Of course. Goes without saying. I looked forward to some pool time all day.”

“Fair enough.” I put my hand on top of hers. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, Jannie.”

“I know. You don’t have to say that, actually. You don’t have to be sorry. Really you don’t. I understand what you do is important. I get it. Even Damon does.”

I squeezed my girl’s hands in mine. She was so much like Maria. “Thank you, sweetie. I needed that tonight.”

“I know,” she whispered. “I could tell.”

Chapter 53

Chapter 53

THE WOLF WAS in Washington, D.C., on a business trip that night. He had a late dinner at the Ruth’s Chris Steak House on Connecticut Avenue near Dupont Circle.

Joining him was Franco Grimaldi, a stocky thirty-eight-year-old Italian capo from New York. They talked about a promising scheme to build Tahoe into a gambling mecca that would rival Vegas and Atlantic City; they also talked about pro hockey, the latest Vin Diesel movie, and a plan the Wolf had to make a billion dollars on a single job. Then the Wolfsaid he had to leave. He had another meeting in Washington. Business rather than pleasure.

“You seeing the president?” Grimaldi asked.

The Russian laughed. “No. He can’t get anything done. He’s all stronzate. Why should I see him? He should see me about Bin Laden and the terrorists. I get things done.”