give it up.
“I don’t know her,” said the girl. “But maybe I can hook you up with someone who does.”
“You work the middle,” said Quinn.
“When I can. It’s rough out here, you know; I’m talkin’ about the competition. My looks are, like, an acquired taste. Guys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses, and all that. My mother, when she was dolin’ out one of her famous pearls of wisdom, used to remind me all the time. But contacts hurt my eyes. So here I am, lookin’ like a magnet-school geek tryin’ to peddle her ass. And my tits are too little, too. White johns like that black pussy, and with this kiddie pelvis I got, the brothers just tear my shit up. So maybe I’m not cut out for the life. You think I am?”
Quinn gave the girl a chin nod. “What’s your name?”
“Stella. Yours?”
“Terry Quinn. You were gonna hook me up, Stella.”
“It’s gonna cost you fifty.”
“For a name?”
“It’s a good name.”
“How do I know?”
“’Cause I ga-ran-tee it, dude. Now how about that fifty?”
Quinn paid her discreetly. She finished her cigarette and dropped it to the concrete.
“There’s a girl dances over at Rick’s, on New York Avenue, on the way out of town, past North Capitol?”
“I know the place.”
“Black girl, goes by Eve. They call her All-Ass Eve; you see her, you’ll know why. She knows this girl.”
“How do you know that she knows her?”
For the first time, Stella’s confidence was visibly shaken. She recovered quickly, though, smiling crookedly like a child caught in a lie. And Quinn saw the little girl then, just for a moment, that someone had rocked to sleep, bought presents for, loved. Maybe not always — maybe the mother or the father had fucked up somewhere along the way. But he had to believe that this girl had been loved at one time.
“Okay, I don’t know for sure that Eve knows this girl right here, but listen to me: This is the
“For more money.”
Stella shrugged. “I’m strugglin’, dude.”
“How do I reach you?”
Stella gave Quinn her cell number. He used his to phone her right there at the table. Her cell rang in her shoulder bag. She fished it out and answered.
“Hellooo? Officer Quinn?”
“Okay.” He killed the call on his cell and gave her one of his cards. “You want to talk, you call me, hear?”
“Talkin’ don’t pay my bills.” She looked him over. “I’ll suck your dick for another fifty, though.”
“This pans out, there’s another fifty in it for you just for giving me the lead.”
“I’ll take it. But don’t use my name when you’re talking to Eve.”
“You don’t need to tell me that. Eight years on the force, I never once lost a snitch.”
“Knew you were a cop.”
“In another life,” said Quinn, getting up and stepping back from the table. “Let’s stay in touch, all right?”
chapter 9
CALHOUN Tucker was tall and lean and visibly muscled beneath a crisp beige shirt tucked into tailored black slacks. He had a thin Billy D mustache and some kind of pomade worked into his close black hair that gave it shine. He wore expensive- looking shades and a small, new-tech cell clipped to his waistband. All of this Strange could see through his 10?50 binoculars as he sat in his Chevy, surveilling Tucker across the street from his residence, a rental town house near a medical park between Wheaton and Silver Spring.
Tucker went down the sidewalk toward his car, a cherry red S4, Audi’s hopped-up model in the 4-series line, their version of the BMW M3. Tucker’s complexion was a deep brown, not so dark as to hide his features, not so light as to suggest white blood. He walked with confidence, chin up, like the handsome young man he undoubtedly knew he was. He had the package women liked; the confidence thing, they liked that, too. Strange could see right away why Alisha Hastings had been attracted, surface-wise, to Tucker.
Tucker fired up the Audi and pulled out of his space. Strange followed him south, making sure there were plenty of cars between them all the way. Just over the District line, Tucker shot right on Alaska, then another right up 13th, into the cluster of “flower-and-tree” streets, where he cut a left onto Iris. He was heading for George Hastings’s house. Strange went around the block, counter to the route Tucker had taken, and parked in the alley behind Juniper. He got out of his car and left the alley on foot, his binos in his hand.
By the time Strange made it to the intersection of Iris and 13th, Alisha Hastings had come out of her father’s house and was leaning into the driver’s-side window of Tucker’s ride, idling out front behind George’s Volvo. Alisha had on some kind of casual, wear-around-the-house hookup that looked spontaneous but had probably been planned. Tucker had probably called her from his cell and told her he would be stopping by on his way into town.
