They pulled into the driveway just after seven o’clock that evening. There weren’t any reporters or TV vans hanging around. The media hadn’t yet learned where the widow was stashed. But there were four cars parked along the curb, two Mercedes, a Lexus, and a BMW. Callie said to Ben, “It looks like Mom’s friends are here.” Ben wasn’t listening. He was staring at the display of automotive affluence, and grunted. He wasn’t a snob, dammit, but couldn’t any of them drive a plain old Ford? A truck, something useful, something that didn’t smack you in the face with dollar signs and twelve cylinders, something like his? The Crown Vic had plenty of muscle, but that was different. He realized Callie was staring at him, and grunted again. “I drive a Beemer too,” she said, and gave him a shameless grin. “All right, so it’s one of the cheaper models. You’re a truck guy, right? Maybe you’ve got a dog hanging out the window?” Savich and Sherlock joined them at that moment.
