Strange looked into Oliver’s eyes. “I knew your father.”
“Say it again.”
“They always say that D.C.’s a small town. Well, it’s true. I knew your father, over thirty years ago.”
“You got one up on me, then, chief. ’Cause I never did get to meet the man. He died in sixty-eight, during the riots. Right around the time I was born.”
“He had light eyes, just like you.”
Oliver cocked his head. “Y’all were tight?”
“He knew my brother,” said Strange. “My brother passed about the same time as your father.”
“So?”
“Cycles,” said Strange, leaving it at that.
Strange got up out of his chair. Granville Oliver handed him a business card. It was for his record company, GO Entertainment. Under the logo, Oliver’s cell number was printed.
“You call me,” said Oliver, “you find anything out. And somethin’ else: Sandra says you got a white boy, helps you coach that football team. Says he works with you, too. Well, I don’t want him workin’ on none of this, hear?”
Strange slipped the business card into his suit pocket.
“My sympathies on the death of your uncle,” said Strange.
“Yeah,” said Oliver. “That was a real tragedy right there.”
Strange walked out of the house. He nodded to the boy raking leaves and received only a scowl. Phillip Wood and partner were leaning against their Mercedes in the circular drive. Strange passed them without a word, got into his Cadillac, and drove back into D.C.
chapter 24
THE Park Morton complex looked different during the day. There were children using the playground equipment, and mothers, aunts, and grandmothers watching over them. A group of girls was doing double Dutch by the entrance, and the ones sitting on the brick wall nearby were actually smiling. Strange knew that Sundays were quiet time, even in the worst neighborhoods, and the fact that the sun was full in a clear blue sky, its rays highlighting the turning leaves, added to the illusion of peace. Also, most all the men around town, even the bad ones, were indoors watching the Redskins game.
Strange had been listening to it on the radio, the pregame and then the play-by-play, Sonny, Sam, and Frank on WJFK. The Ravens were in the house at FedEx, and the contest had just gotten under way.
Strange got the list Lydell Blue had given him out of his trunk and locked down the Brougham. He walked across the brown grass of the courtyard to the stairwell leading to Sandra Wilder’s apartment. He noticed flyers with the likenesses of the shooters taped on the stairwell wall.
Strange knocked on the door of the Wilder residence. He waited patiently for a while and did not knock again. Then the door opened and Sandra Wilder stood in its frame. She gave Strange warm eyes.
“Sandra.”
“Derek.” She reached out and touched his arm. “Come on in.”
They settled in a kind of living room the size of a den, at the end of a hall broken by an open entrance to a galley-style kitchen. The couch Strange sat on was marked with food stains and its piping was torn away from the fabric. A television sat on a stand past the rectangular table set before the couch; it was on and showing the game at a very low volume. On the wall behind the set were photographs torn from magazines and newspapers, taped crookedly, of Keyshawn Johnson and Randy Moss, along with a close-up of Deion wearing a do-rag. Tellingly, a poster of Darrell Green at the ready was the largest and most prominently displayed. It would be like Joe to honor the tireless workhorse above the flash. Strange could see him sitting on this couch, eating a snack or a microwaved dinner prepared by his mom, watching the game on a Sunday afternoon. He guessed that that was how the stains had gotten on the couch.
Strange drank a glass of instant iced tea, quietly watching the ’Skins move the ball upfield. Sandra sat beside him, leaning forward and making marks on the list Strange had given her, which she had placed on the table. Her lips moved as she read the names.
Though Sandra Wilder was in her mid-twenties, she appeared at first glance to be ten years older. She was heavy in the hips and waist, and her movements were labored. She had big brown eyes, freckles, a full mouth, and straight teeth. She was pretty when she smiled. Strange guessed she had given birth to Joe when she was about sixteen.
Today Sandra wore a pair of jeans with an untucked T-shirt showing a computer-generated photograph of a grinning Joe. The words “We will not forget you” were printed beneath his image. Entrepreneurs offered T-shirts like this at the wakes and funerals of young people citywide, usually in the form of bulk sales to the grieving families. It had become a cottage industry in D.C.
“Here you go,” said Sandra, handing Strange the sheet of paper. “Why are those Social Security numbers next to the names?”
“My friend hooked me up. I’ll be using those numbers in my computer to get addresses, job histories, like that.”
“I circled the ones still come to mind.”
Strange studied the list. Sandra had highlighted three names: Walter Lee, Edward Diggs, and Sequan Hawkins.
“These your brother’s closest friends?”
“The ones I recall. The ones who used to be around our house most when we were coming up.”
“Were they still tight with Lorenze?”
“I have no idea. I didn’t have much contact with my brother these past few years. But you say these names came off the funeral home list, that book you sign when you pay your respects? So I figure, at least they’re still
