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The lights were on. He didn't remember leaving them on, but that wasn't at all unusual.
He walked to the fireplace, raised his left leg, and detached the Velcro fasteners that held his ankle holster in place on the inside of his leg and took it off. He took the pistol, a five-shot.38 caliber Smith amp; Wesson Chief's Special from it. He laid the holster on the fireplace mantel and then wiped off the pistol with a siliconeimpregnated cloth.
Jason Washington had told him about doing that; that anytime you touched the metal of a pistol, the body left minute traces of acidic fluid on it. Eventually it would eat away the bluing. Habitually wiping it once a day would preserve the bluing.
He laid the pistol on the mantel and, starting to take off his dinner jacket, turned away from the fireplace.
Amanda Spencer was standing by the elbow-high bookcase that separated the "dining area" from the "kitchen." Both, in Matt's opinion, were too small to be thought of without quotation marks.
"Welcome home," Amanda said.
Matt dismissed the first thought that came to his mind: that Amanda was here because she wanted to make the beast with two backs as wishful-to-the-nth-degree thinking.
"No rent-a-cop downstairs?" he asked. "I should have told you to look in the outer lobby. They can usually be found there, asleep."
"He was there. He let me in," Amanda said.
"I don't understand," Matt said.
"Either do I," she said. "What happened where you went with Peter Wohl?"
"There was a dead cop," Matt said. "A young one. Now that I think about it, I saw him around the academy. Somebody shot him."
"Why?"
"No one seems to know," Matt said. "Somebody called it in, a dead cop in the gutter. When they got there, there he was."
"How terrible."
"He had been to Vietnam. He was about to get married. He was a relative of Sergeant DeBenedito."
"Who?"
"He was at the garage," Matt said. "And then he was at Colombia and Clarion-where the dead cop was. Wohl had him drive me home."
"Oh."
"Amanda, I'll take you out to Merion. But first, would you mind if I made myself a drink?"
"I helped myself," she said. "I hope that's all right."
"Don't be silly."
He started for the kitchen. As he approached her, Amanda stepped out of the way, making it clear, he thought, that she didn't want to be embraced, or even patted, in the most friendly, big-brotherly manner.
In the kitchen he saw that she had found where he kept his liquor, in a cabinet over the refrigerator; a squat bottle of twenty-fouryear-old Scotch, a gift from his father, was on the sink.
He found a glass and put ice in it, and then Scotch, and then tap water. He was stirring it with his finger when Amanda came up behind him and wrapped her arms around him.
"I wanted to be with you tonight," she said softly, her head against his back. "I suppose th
at makes me sound like a slut."
"Not unless you announce those kind of urges more than, say, twice a week," he said.
Oh, shit, he thought, you and your fucking runaway mouth! What the hell is the matter with you?
Her arms dropped away from him and he sensed that she had stepped back. He turned around.
