TWELVE
In the morning, Lucas did a circuit workout in his apartment. He showered, changed into clothing that was suitable for a lunch date, got on his computer, and did some research on dc. gov. With time to kill before his lunch, he went out and hit a couple of used-book stores. At Silver Spring Books, in his old neighborhood, he found two nonfictions that he had read and enjoyed: Kings of the Bs, by McCarthy and Flynn, and Sergio Leone, the massive biography by Christopher Frayling.
He met Constance Kelly at My Brother’s Place, at 2nd and C, Northwest, a lunch-and-happy-hour spot not far from the courts and Tom Petersen’s office. The bar, dark wood and low lights, was one of the better down-home watering holes in town, a longtime haunt of cops, judges, federal marshals, Department of Labor employees, and college students. Lucas and Constance sat out on the enclosed porch, watching the sidewalk parade. Constance was studying the menu.
“You eat meat, don’t you?” said Lucas.
“So?”
“Get the burger. It’s Angus beef and they put it on a nice kaiser roll.”
“What are you having?”
“The Cubano. They got a kickin mojo sauce here, man.”
“What is it with you and food?”
“Part of my culture,” said Lucas. “It’s a way of life.”
“You’re not even Greek.”
“Want me to prove it?”
Constance looked up from the menu and blushed. The waiter, a young El Salvadoran, arrived and took their order. As he moved away, Lucas reached into his pocket and produced a plastic cell phone, which he placed on the table.
“What’s that?” said Constance.
“A gift.”
“I have a phone.”
“This one’s special. It’s a disposable.”
Constance picked up the phone, examined it, and placed it back on the table. “It’s got a drawing of a cartoon kangaroo on its face. And a special button for nine-one-one. Who makes this, Fisher-Price?”
“It’s made for kids. And seniors.”
“Which one do I look like?”
“I was hoping you’d use it to do me a favor.”
“You want me to make some kind of call that’s hard to trace or monitor.”
“Well…”
“You’re asking me to break the law.”
“Nope. But I am asking you to lie, a little.”
“Why can’t you lie?”
“This needs the distaff touch.”
“That’s an antiquated term. Tell you the truth, I’m not all that surprised you’re using it.”
Lucas pushed the phone in her direction. “I’m trying to find the name of a police officer who was driving a certain MPD squad car on a specific day and time.”
“How would a person do that?”
“Call the Office of Unified Communications and ask for a dispatcher. All the cars have a four-digit CAD, which is the Computer-Assisted Dispatcher number. Police officers are required to give the CAD to the dispatcher when they put a vehicle into service. This particular vehicle was a Ten Ninety-nine, meaning it was a one-man unit.”
“You want me to call the OUC.”
“Now you’re getting the hang of it.”
“I’m just trying to speak your language. Your knowledge of acronyms and ten-codes is very impressive.”
“Thank you,” said Lucas, ignoring her sarcasm. “So what I need you to do is give the dispatcher this information right here.” Lucas pulled a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to Constance. On it was written the number 4044, and a date and time. “Ask them who was driving that car on that particular day and shift.”
“And they’ll just give it to me.”
“They’re supposed to. But sometimes they don’t, for good reason. In that case you have to file a Freedom of Information Act request, which could take a lot of time.”
“And you’d have to put your name on the FOIA, which you don’t want to do.”
“In this instance, that wouldn’t work for me.”
“You’re not telling me much.”
“I don’t want you to get too involved.”
“But you want me involved just enough-”
“Yes.”
Constance sat back and stared at Lucas.
“Mo’ ice tea?” said the waiter, appearing like a sweaty apparition.
“Yes, please,” said Lucas.
“Are you going to give me some kind of instructions?” said Constance, after the waiter had poured and drifted.
“Tell the dispatcher that you had an Officer Friendly experience. That a certain police officer stopped to give you directions, or help change your tire, or whatever. That he showed an unexpected kindness to you and you’d like to send a thank-you note to the station, but you don’t recall his name. Or, you know, you wanna put him up for a commendation.”
“A laurel and hearty handshake.”
“Something like that.”
“So,” said Constance, “I do this and I get, what, a twenty-dollar lunch?”
“I was thinking dinner, too.”
“That sounds nice.”
“How about Mourayo on Connecticut? They bake a fish that you’ll dream about.”
“Always with the food, Spero.” She put the toy phone and slip of paper in her purse.
Constance and Lucas walked out of the restaurant and stopped on the 2nd Street sidewalk to say good- bye.
“I’ve got a full day,” said Constance. “Tom’s got me running on a case.”
“I’m headed over there right now,” said Lucas.
“To Petersen’s office?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re calling in all your chits today.”
“Thank you for doing this,” said Lucas. “I mean it.”
He bent forward to kiss her. She gave him her cheek instead of her mouth. Maybe she knew. Some women just did.
Tom Petersen was at his desk, eating a Potbelly sub from the shop on the first floor. Lucas was seated before the desk. His chair was wobbling on the rickety wood planks of the ancient floor.
“Where you been?” said Petersen. He was wearing a Ben Sherman shirt that looked as if it had been purchased in swinging London, circa 1967.
“Working.”
“I could use you if you’re free. The interns I have right now aren’t giving me what I need. There’s this one young guy, big guy, got a few inches on you, I ask him to go to Southeast to do a witness interview, he starts walking backwards.”
“Send Constance, if you don’t think it’s too dicey. She’s got backbone.”
