The Survivors by Robert Palmer

on Scottie, but I was curious too. What were those phone calls my mother made all about? Did Russo remember her at all?
    Russo’s place was a wide brick Federal at the end of a cul-de-sac. It was set on a knoll so it looked down on the neighbors. There were four chimneys and a four-car garage. I came up the walk by a long row of rose bushes in full bloom. There wasn’t a single flower past its prime.
    There was no doorbell, so I used the nickel knocker. The door opened almost immediately, revealing a girl in her early teens. She had stick-straight dark hair and extra-heavy eyeliner, neon blue. “Hi,” I said, “I’m here to see Mr. Russo. Is he your father?”
    â€œCassie, I’ve got that,” someone called from behind her.
    She rolled her eyes and shut the door most of the way in my face.
    It opened again to reveal an old man with a narrow face and shovel-shaped jaw. His eyes were very pale gray, and he stared at me for a few seconds before he said, “Dr. Henderson?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œI’m Griffin O’Shea, Mr. Russo’s assistant.” Scottie had mentioned O’Shea. He didn’t look like what I’d expect for an assistant to a US Attorney, more like a butler.
    I put out my right hand, and, after a moment of awkwardness, he shook it with his left. His own right hand was missing, and he smiled slightly, as if he’d put a joke over on me. “Don’t worry. Happens all the time.” Then he recanted, pulling his sleeve up. “Snakebite when I was seven years old. A downside of being the son of a rancher.” He shut the door and led me down the hallway.
    The room we entered was a study, banked on three walls by floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The desk was antique, with dark wood and hand-carved legs. Three leather chairs were lined up in front of it, and O’Shea indicated I should take the one on the right.
    Eric Russo had one of those broad, jowly faces that play so well among aging Hollywood actors. I put him in his mid-fifties. His hair was a little too long and dyed too dark for someone that old. He was shuffling through some papers and waited for me to get seated before he looked up. He seemed to like what he saw and smiled. “Dr. Henderson, welcome.” He came around to shake my hand. Instead of introducing himself, he passed me a business card. “Sorry about meeting here. I know it’s kind of out of the way.”
    â€œThat’s all right,” I said. I fished one of my cards out of my wallet and handed it to him. “Thanks for seeing me.”
    He perched on the edge of the desk. “I hear from Jamie Weston at the FBI that you know something about this guy who’s been pestering me. What’s his name again?”
    Griffin O’Shea was ready with the answer. “Scott Glass.”
    â€œRight,” Russo said. He realized he had me at an uncomfortable angle, where I had to crane my neck to look up at him, so he shifted to the chair next to me.
    â€œWhat can you tell us about him?”
    â€œNot much,” I said. “But I think he’s harmless.”
    O’Shea spoke up again. “You think or you know?”
    Russo chuckled. “Let’s not put the doctor on the spot, Griffin.” He turned back to me. “We just don’t want this to turn into another John Hinckley situation.”
    Hinckley, who shot Ronald Reagan. A healthy dose of ego was necessary to get ahead in politics, but comparing himself to a president—that was outside the normal arc.
    â€œI don’t see Jodie Foster anywhere,” I said.
    Russo frowned, confused, but O’Shea laughed. “Jodie Foster, the actress,” O’Shea said. “Hinckley had a thing for her. Stalked her for a while. He thought killing Reagan would make her fall in love with him.”
    If Russo was embarrassed that he didn’t know this, he didn’t show it. He made a face—eyes