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“Mom, whatever it was—”

“Stewart wanted to be cremated. I didn’t follow his wishes. It was the President, you see, and all the protocol experts. Everyone expected a big church service, Stewart in a coffin in front of celebrity mourners. I ignored his wishes and buried him.” Margaret put her face in her hands and wept. “I buried him.”

“Oh, Mom, don’t.” Callie put her arms around her mother and rocked her. The women gathered around, patting her hair, her shoulders, her arms. “It doesn’t matter, Mom. Stewart wasn’t there. That magnificent service was for all his friends, for the President, for all those people who admired him. It was for everyone there to say their farewells to him. And the burial itself was so beautifully done. He wouldn’t have minded, truly.”

Ben had never felt so useless in his life. If he could have disappeared in that instant, he would have.

Then the storm of tears was over. Margaret gave a small laugh. “Poor Detective Raven. I’m sorry for that. You poor boy, stuck among all us women, but you’re doing very well, isn’t he, Juliette?”

“Very well indeed.”

Ben said, “You said that we hadn’t gotten much done, ma’am. Well, actually that’s not true. The FBI think they know who the assassin is. He calls himself Günter Grass, or just Günter.”

Margaret said, puzzled, “The writer? The man who murdered Stewart is a German?”

“We don’t know what nationality he is. Günter Grass is the name he uses. He’s been inactive, supposedly for at least fifteen years now, until this. He’s known to speak four languages fluently, including English. He could very well live among us. He could even be living locally, and the person who wanted Justice Califano murdered very possibly knew about Günter and his profession.

“This man killed twenty people in Europe in the seventies and eighties. We don’t know why he stopped.” Ben pulled two photos out of his shirt pocket. “Here’s a grainy photo, digitally enhanced—Interpol is about ninety percent sure it’s him—and here’s one that’s been aged to show how he’d probably look today, unless, of course, he’s taken pains to change his appearance, which is possible.” He handed both photos to the women and waited until each one had looked at them.

“Does this man look familiar to any of you?”

Juliette said, “He looks like a contractor my neighbor hired to gut her house.”

Margaret said, “Detective Raven, if this Günter Grass hasn’t killed anyone for at least fifteen years, doesn’t that mean he made enough money to retire in style?”

“One could assume that, yes.”

“Then why would he kill my husband and poor Danny O’Malley?”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Califano.”

Bitsy St. Pierre said, “Maybe the person who hired him found out about him, blackmailed him into doing this.”

Janette said, “That’s stupid, Bitsy. Look what he did to Danny O’Malley—killed him within twenty-four hours of a blackmail attempt.”

“Yes,” Margaret said. “It must be something else. Maybe there’s a tie between this Günter and the person who wanted Stewart dead.”

“It’s possible.” Ben had watched each woman study the photos, watched for any sign of recognition on their faces. He hadn’t seen any.

“Callie,” Margaret said. “Does he look at all familiar to you?”

“Actually,” Callie said, “I thought he looked a bit like one of our investigative reporters. No, no, just kidding.”

Ben said, “If Günter’s not an American, chances are he came here maybe fifteen years ago. He’s physically strong, and he seems to like taking risks. Since he’s well into his fifties, maybe even sixties, I doubt he’s into any extreme sports, but he’s still very strong and fit.”

“But if he is an American,” Anna Clifford said, “he could have lived here all his life and who would be the wiser for it?”

“That’s true,” Callie said. “And the thing with Danny, that was a big risk, right in the middle of the morning, anyone could have seen him go into Danny’s apartment, heard him.”

“But no one did, apparently,” said Juliette Trevor.

Ben’s eyes swung to her. She said, “There would have