Blow Out
Page 109
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Savich studied his thumbnail a moment, then said, “I’d like you and Callie to go to a pretty nice restaurant in Georgetown this evening—how about Filomena’s on Wisconsin?”
“That’s a real fancy place, Dillon,” Callie said. “It’s one of my mom’s favorite restaurants. I can’t imagine we could get in on such short notice.”
“Who’s paying?” Ben asked.
Savich laughed. “The FBI will reimburse you. When you call, mention my name to the maître d’. He knew my grandmother, Sarah Elliott, and he’s still impressed that I’m her grandson. He’ll get you two a table, probably a really good one.
“Spend some time at the bar first. All I want you to do is listen to what’s being said. I want your opinions on whether or not people saw through Director Mueller’s fancy excuses. And if they’ve read the Post, does everyone believe that Fleurette is at Bethesda. Talk to people, see what they think. What you don’t want to hear is that Fleurette isn’t the one who was shot here at Quantico, or that she’s dead. We want speculation on that. What do you guys think?”
Callie shot a look at Ben, but nodded. “All right.”
When Savich met Sherlock a few minutes later, she said, “I ran into Ben and Callie. They said something about dining out on the FBI this evening, and then Callie sort of looked confused and said she really didn’t understand why this was so important to you.”
He grinned at her. “Yeah, well, we’ll see what comes of it. Now, I need to deal with Bethesda.”
FILOMENA’S
WISCONSIN AVENUE,
N.W. GEORGETOWN,
WASHINGTON, D.C.
SUNDAY EVENING CALLIE TOOK A BITE of her beautifully prepared swordfish, looked up, and saw Ben staring at her. “What?”
He shook his head, but didn’t look away. The fact was she didn’t look like he was used to seeing her, and he couldn’t quite get himself used to the transformation. She was wearing a little black dress that had long sleeves and no back to speak of, and high heels that put her nearly at six feet tall. He’d picked her up earlier at her mother’s house, she’d waltzed down the stairs, looking the way women always look when they’re going to drive a man crazy. He couldn’t stop staring at her. And she was wearing her hair differently, pulled back and up on her head with dangly little curls hanging over her ears. He said, “I was thinking you look pretty good tonight.”
“Why, thank you, sir. Your suit looks pretty good, too.”
“What? This old thing?”
She laughed. “Yes, that old thing—Italian, right? And you think my mom’s friends are snobs.”
“I picked you up in my Crown Vic. You can’t get more pedestrian than that.”
“Yes, you did. I wanted the truck, but I probably couldn’t have climbed in it anyway, not in these heels. You know, Ben, actually, I think you look hot.”
He stirred around the little pile of potato fritters, and kept his mouth shut.
“This dress does wonders for my butt, don’t you think?”
“Well, it sure is short. I’ve only seen you in pants, boots, and sweaters big enough to fit me. And your hair’s always stuffed under a cap.”
“No hat hair tonight.” Callie pulled off a piece of her dinner roll, and decided that what she really wanted to do was jump over the table and kiss him stupid. Instead, she cleared her throat and said, “I’m still wondering why Dillon sent us here. Does he think Günter is the type to eat at fancy restaurants?”
And in that instant, Ben saw the light. He and Callie had been maneuvered by an expert. It gave him a jolt to realize he probably wouldn’t have thought of it himself, although he should have. Regardless of how this lovely candlelit dinner had come about, he was sitting across from a beautiful woman who was wearing a short black dress, eating swordfish. What had she said? Oh yes, Günter. Ben said, “Who knows if this is Günter’s kind of place?”
“For all we know, he could own the joint.”
“That’s depressing and true. I think after dinner, we should walk to Barnes and Noble, it’s a good place to hang out and listen to people talk.”
As they walked down M Street, the frigid January air seeping under their collars and up Callie’s dress, Ben said, “In those stilts you’re wearing, you’re nearly to the bridge of my nose.”
“Nah, I’m above your eyebrows, admit it.”
It seemed natural to take her hand, even more natural for her to move closer.
“That’s a real fancy place, Dillon,” Callie said. “It’s one of my mom’s favorite restaurants. I can’t imagine we could get in on such short notice.”
“Who’s paying?” Ben asked.
Savich laughed. “The FBI will reimburse you. When you call, mention my name to the maître d’. He knew my grandmother, Sarah Elliott, and he’s still impressed that I’m her grandson. He’ll get you two a table, probably a really good one.
“Spend some time at the bar first. All I want you to do is listen to what’s being said. I want your opinions on whether or not people saw through Director Mueller’s fancy excuses. And if they’ve read the Post, does everyone believe that Fleurette is at Bethesda. Talk to people, see what they think. What you don’t want to hear is that Fleurette isn’t the one who was shot here at Quantico, or that she’s dead. We want speculation on that. What do you guys think?”
Callie shot a look at Ben, but nodded. “All right.”
When Savich met Sherlock a few minutes later, she said, “I ran into Ben and Callie. They said something about dining out on the FBI this evening, and then Callie sort of looked confused and said she really didn’t understand why this was so important to you.”
He grinned at her. “Yeah, well, we’ll see what comes of it. Now, I need to deal with Bethesda.”
FILOMENA’S
WISCONSIN AVENUE,
N.W. GEORGETOWN,
WASHINGTON, D.C.
SUNDAY EVENING CALLIE TOOK A BITE of her beautifully prepared swordfish, looked up, and saw Ben staring at her. “What?”
He shook his head, but didn’t look away. The fact was she didn’t look like he was used to seeing her, and he couldn’t quite get himself used to the transformation. She was wearing a little black dress that had long sleeves and no back to speak of, and high heels that put her nearly at six feet tall. He’d picked her up earlier at her mother’s house, she’d waltzed down the stairs, looking the way women always look when they’re going to drive a man crazy. He couldn’t stop staring at her. And she was wearing her hair differently, pulled back and up on her head with dangly little curls hanging over her ears. He said, “I was thinking you look pretty good tonight.”
“Why, thank you, sir. Your suit looks pretty good, too.”
“What? This old thing?”
She laughed. “Yes, that old thing—Italian, right? And you think my mom’s friends are snobs.”
“I picked you up in my Crown Vic. You can’t get more pedestrian than that.”
“Yes, you did. I wanted the truck, but I probably couldn’t have climbed in it anyway, not in these heels. You know, Ben, actually, I think you look hot.”
He stirred around the little pile of potato fritters, and kept his mouth shut.
“This dress does wonders for my butt, don’t you think?”
“Well, it sure is short. I’ve only seen you in pants, boots, and sweaters big enough to fit me. And your hair’s always stuffed under a cap.”
“No hat hair tonight.” Callie pulled off a piece of her dinner roll, and decided that what she really wanted to do was jump over the table and kiss him stupid. Instead, she cleared her throat and said, “I’m still wondering why Dillon sent us here. Does he think Günter is the type to eat at fancy restaurants?”
And in that instant, Ben saw the light. He and Callie had been maneuvered by an expert. It gave him a jolt to realize he probably wouldn’t have thought of it himself, although he should have. Regardless of how this lovely candlelit dinner had come about, he was sitting across from a beautiful woman who was wearing a short black dress, eating swordfish. What had she said? Oh yes, Günter. Ben said, “Who knows if this is Günter’s kind of place?”
“For all we know, he could own the joint.”
“That’s depressing and true. I think after dinner, we should walk to Barnes and Noble, it’s a good place to hang out and listen to people talk.”
As they walked down M Street, the frigid January air seeping under their collars and up Callie’s dress, Ben said, “In those stilts you’re wearing, you’re nearly to the bridge of my nose.”
“Nah, I’m above your eyebrows, admit it.”
It seemed natural to take her hand, even more natural for her to move closer.
