more newsworthy than they had been in the past. Certain high-profile murders, like the recent shoot-into-the-crowd drive-by that had claimed several victims, and the killing of a DCPS principal in Montgomery County, might have left the impression that little had changed since the dark days of late-eighties Washington. The reality was that homicides were down to a forty-five-year low in the city. The implementation of community policing and more foot patrols under Chief Lanier, the closing and relocation of troubled public-housing units under former mayor Tony Williams, and a genuine shift in the culture caused in part by activist groups within the community had all contributed to the positive developments in the atmosphere and the stats. The Post continued to routinely bury the violent deaths of D.C.’s young black citizens inside the paper, telling its readership implicitly that black life was worth less than that of whites, and that policy, apparently, was never going to change. Had Tavon Lynch and Edwin Davis been raised in Bethesda or Cleveland Park, their demise would have been reported on A1. As it was, they made B2, which felt something like progress to Lucas.
When the subject came up at the Lucas family dinner table, as it surely would, Eleni Lucas would say, “Those young men deserve the same memorial in the newspaper that anyone does,” and Spero Lucas would respond, “You’re right, Ma.” He did agree with her, but he was not a crusader, leaving those kinds of conversations to his mother and others who were more conscientious than he was.
Lucas took a shower and dressed in Carhartt. He had work to do.
Lucas drove down to the holding facility, signed the logbook, and gave the DOC woman his driver’s license. He was still on an official visitors list per Petersen’s letter. The woman handed him a pass that would allow him entrance to the next step of security. Lucas looked her over in her uniform, a tall woman, broad shouldered and full in the back, like many females who worked security at the jail. They were union, and he assumed their income and benefits package had been well negotiated, but still, for the atmosphere they endured, for the risk, they had to be underpaid. The woman’s badge plate read Cecelia Edwards. She had buttery skin, large eyes, and a lot of muscle coupled with femininity. Lucas wondered.
“Have a good one,” he said, looking at her the way a man does.
“You have a blessed day,” she said, holding the look for the one extra moment that spoke many words. He would remember her name and write it down after he left the jail.
Lucas met Anwan Hawkins in the visiting room. The glass between them was filmy and smudged, their chairs low and hard. Hawkins wore an orange jumpsuit with slip-on sneaks. His braided hair was pulled back, exposing neck tats, Japanese characters in a vertical formation. His facial expression was serious, his posture all business.
“Talk about it,” said Hawkins, speaking into the phone, his voice gravelly and distant. Their connection was as weak as it had been the last time they’d met. “Tell me what happened.”
“It was straight murder,” said Lucas.
“By who?”
“I know what you know. Less than you, if you’re holding out on me.”
“Why would I?”
“It’s safe to say that their killing was related to your business. Maybe it was a power grab by someone beneath them.”
“Wasn’t anyone below ’em who knew shit.”
“Were you aware that they lost a third package?”
Hawkins did not speak right away. Lucas studied his reaction.
“When was that?” said Hawkins.
“I don’t know when, exactly. Tavon told me about it the night he and Edwin were murdered. But I’m guessing it was stolen the day before. I was surveilling the street of the second theft, and they left me to do some business.”
“Where was it stole at?”
“East of the Hill. Tavon didn’t give me the address. Maybe you can tell me.”
“I don’t know it. Those boys were on their own.”
“So I’ll just keep working the theft on Twelfth.”
“But I don’t want you workin it, Spero. What I want is for you to drop this.”
“Why?”
“This shit’s got to stop,” said Hawkins. “I don’t care about the cash no more. If I get off, then I walk out of here and start new. If I do more time, so be it. Either way, I’m done. I wanna be with my son again, like a regular father. I want to live a long life. ”
“That’s a lot of money to leave on the table.”
“It’s mine to leave.”
“We had a deal.”
“Not the kind you take to court.”
Lucas and Hawkins stared at each other without malice.
“You speak to the police?” said Hawkins.
“No,” said Lucas.
“You were in contact with the boys by phone, weren’t you?”
“I was.”
“If the police got hold of their cells, there’d be a record of that.”
“Which tells me their cells weren’t found,” said Lucas. “Otherwise the homicide detectives would have contacted me by now.”
“Did the boys, you know, leave you any kind of clue as to what was about to go down?”
Lucas thought of the last text message he received from Tavon Lynch. “No.”
“What do you think happened?”
“No idea. The police are conducting an investigation. If an arrest is made, I’ll hear about it, same as you.”
“What about their funerals?”
“They haven’t been announced. There’ve been no obits yet in the Post.”
“You gonna pay your respects?”
“No. The police will be there. Could be they’ll be shooting video footage from vans, taking still shots like they do. I’m not trying to put myself in the mix. Anyway, I barely knew those guys.”
“You don’t seem too interested.”
“And you don’t seem all that shook.”
“I’m sorry for what happened to them.”
“So am I,” said Lucas. “But I’m not getting involved in those murders. You hired me to retrieve your property or your cash. That’s it.”
“You’re not even curious?” said Hawkins.
“Homicide police close murder cases. Private investigators never do. I took this on to make money. With this third theft, the pot just grew. I still intend to honor our agreement.”
“I guess I can’t stop you.”
“What do I do if I’m successful?”
“Take your cut,” said Hawkins. “What’s left, get it to my son’s mother.”
“Right.”
“Watch yourself out there,” said Hawkins, looking hard into Lucas’s eyes.
“I will.” Lucas cradled the phone.
Lucas was not far from Capitol Hill and Lincoln Park. He left the jail and drove west on Massachusetts Avenue, turning to explore the neighborhoods and the streets, doing the same past Lincoln Park proper, the dividing line of sorts that brought him into the eastern portion of the Hill, where the homes were noticeably nicer and the income levels rose. He was looking for a 4044 address. He assumed the text from Tavon was meant to indicate the number on the house where the second drop had been made and lost. He found nothing to match the number, and if he had, he wouldn’t have known what to do. He felt lost.
Continuing west, toward his home, he suddenly said, “Yeah,” and pulled over to the side of the road, near the St. James Episcopal Church. Something had come to him. He remembered from the newspaper accounts that Tavon and Edwin had been found shot to death in their car, parked on Hayes Street, Northeast. More accurately, upper
