“You’re right. If it doesn’t happen today, it’ll happen tomorrow, if you know what I mean. The police are gonna get those boys soon enough.”
“What if we find them first?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet, Terry. To tell you the truth, right now I’m just goin’ on blind rage.”
Strange kept the needle above eighty on the Beltway. Quinn didn’t comment on the speed. He blew the steam off his coffee and took a long pull from the cup.
“You and Janine got some problems, huh?” said Quinn.
“Guess you heard that in my tone.”
“You two gonna make it?”
“Haven’t figured that one out yet, either,” said Strange. “Anyway, it’s not up to me.”
Strange parked the Caprice in the lot of Montgomery Mall, near an upscale retailer that anchored the shopping center. In contrast to Westfield, the parking lot here was clean, and the multiethnic people walking from their luxury cars and SUVs to the mall might as well have had dollar signs stamped right on their foreheads.
Strange and Quinn went up to the second floor of the department store. The sound of piano met them as they reached the top of the stairs. A man in a tuxedo played the keys of a Steinway set near the escalators adjacent to a menswear section and a large layout of men’s shoes. Middle-aged white men wearing pressed jeans and sweaters strolled the aisles. Strange wondered what they were doing here on a Monday, why they weren’t at work. Living off the interest, he reckoned.
They walked along the display tables of shoes. Several well-dressed salesmen eyed them as they passed.
“You need any kicks?” said Strange.
“I got a wide foot,” said Quinn, “and it’s hard to fit. There’s this salesman, though, at Mean Feets, down in Georgetown? Says he can fit me. Dude named Antoine.”
“Skinny cat, right? Always standin’ outside in the doorway there, hittin’ a cigarette.”
“That’s him.”
“I know him. They call him Spiderman.”
“You know everyone in town?”
“Not yet,” said Strange. “But it’s a long life.”
To the side of the shoe department was a shoe-shine stand, where a kneeling man in suspenders was buffing the cap-toes of a suited white man sitting in a chair above him, up on a kind of elevated platform.
Strange and Quinn waited in an alcove-type area beside the stand. They could hear the white man talking to the shoe-shine man about the Redskins/Ravens game, praising only the black players. They could hear the white man ending his sentences with “man” and they could hear him dropping his g’s, talking in a way that he thought would endear him to the black man kneeling at his feet. Talking in a way he would never talk at work and in a way he would forbid his children from talking at the dinner table at home. Strange looked over at Quinn, and Quinn looked away.
Soon the white man left, and they went out to the stand, where the shoe shiner was straightening the tools of his trade.
“Sequan Hawkins?” said Strange, getting a short nod in return. “I’m Derek Strange, and this is Terry Quinn, my partner. We phoned you a little while ago.”
Hawkins rubbed his hands clean with a rag that smelled of nail polish remover. He was a handsome, well-built man with a light sheen to his close-cropped hair and a careful hint of a mustache.
“Come on around here,” said Hawkins, indicating with his chin the alcove where they had stood.
They went back to the alcove and Strange said, “This is about Lorenze Wilder, like I explained.”
“Let me see some identification, you don’t mind,” said Hawkins.
Strange flipped open his leather case and produced his badge and license. Hawkins’s mouth turned up on the right, a lopsided grin.
“You two are, like, cops.”
“Investigators, D.C.,” said Strange. “We knew the young man who was murdered alongside Lorenze.”
“My sympathies,” said Hawkins, the grin disappearing at the mention of the boy. “I got two of my own.”
“You went to the funeral home for Lorenze’s wake,” said Quinn.
“That’s right.”
“You were friends with him?”
“A long time ago.”
“What made y’all stop being friends?” said Strange.
“Geography,” said Hawkins. “Ambition.”
“Geography?”
“I haven’t lived anywhere near the old neighborhood for the past ten years.”
“Don’t get back there much, huh?”
“Oh, I do. I drive over to the house I grew up in, like, once a month. Park outside of it at night sometimes and
