“A sea duck?” Wesley frowned. “The down is used in what, ski jackets, gloves?”

“Rarely. Eiderdown is extremely expensive. Your average person is not going to own anything filled with it.”

I proceeded to inform Wesley of the events of the day, sparing no details as I confessed that I had spent several hours: with Nicholas Grueman and did not believe he was even remotely involved in anything sinister.

“I’m glad you went to see him,” Wesley said. “I was hoping you would”

“Are you surprised by how it turned out?’

“No. It makes sense the way it turned out: Grueman’s predicament is somewhat similar to your own. He gets a fax from Jennifer Deighton and it looks suspicious just as it looks suspicious that your prints were found on an envelope in Susan’s dresser drawer. When violence hits close to you, you get splashed. You get dirty.”

“I’m more than splashed. I feel as if I’m about to drown.”

“At the moment, it seems that way. Maybe you ought to be talking to Grueman about that ” I did not reply.

“I’d want him on my side.”

“I wasn’t aware that you knew him.”

Ice rattled quietly as Wesley sipped his drink. Brass on the hearth gleamed in the firelight Wood popped, sending sparks swarming up the chimney.

“I know about Grueman,” he said. “I know that he graduated number one from Harvard Law School, was the editor of the Law Review, and was offered a teaching position there but turned it down. That broke his heart. But his wife, Beverly, did not want to move from the D.C. area. Apparently, she had a lot of problems, not the least of which was a young daughter, from a first marriage who was institutionalized at Saint Elizabeths at the time Grueman and Beverly met. He moved to D.C. The daughter died several years later.”

“You’ve been running a background check on him,” I said.

“Sort of”

“Since when?”

“Since I learned he had received a fax from Jennifer Deighton. By all accounts, it appears he’s Mr. Clean, but someone still had to talk to him.”

“That’s not the only reason you suggested it to me, is it?”

“An important reason but not the only one. I thought you should go back there.”

I took a deep breath. “Thank you, Benton. You are good man with the best of intentions.”

He lifted his glass to his lips and stared into the fire.

“Please don’t interfere,” I added.

“It’s not my style.”

“Of course it is. You’re a pro at it. If you want to quietly steer, propel, or unplug someone from behind the scenes, you know how to do it. You know how to throw up so many obstacles and blow out so many bridges that someone like me would be lucky to find her way home.”