“Don’t you know it,” said Petersen, not looking in Lucas’s eyes.
“I’ll be around. But I need a little time.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for a contact over at Internal Affairs. I remembered that you have someone over there who you speak to.”
“I do.”
Petersen, unlike many other defense attorneys, had a decent relationship with the police. He occasionally defended them, successfully, in misconduct cases and alleged wrongful shootings. Unlike others, he did not take high-profile civil suits against the department. He kept himself in reasonable good graces with both criminals and police. He was a forward-thinking man.
“What happened?” said Petersen. “A police officer fondle you at a traffic stop or something?”
“Nothing that exciting. I just want to know what they have on a certain someone, if anything.”
“You’re fishing.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m not even gonna ask.”
Petersen wiped his mouth with a napkin and reached across the desk. He flipped through the cards of his Rolodex. He was one of a dwindling number of professionals who still used one.
“You ready?” said Petersen.
“Yeah.”
“Guy’s name is Tim McCarthy.”
Lucas typed it into the Contacts section of his iPhone. “Number?”
Petersen gave it to him. “Don’t call him, though. Let me. I owe him a phone call on something else anyway. There’s no way he’s gonna talk to you unless I ask him to. And even with that, frankly, I don’t think he’s gonna give you jack. Even though he is one of your stripe.”
“He served?”
“McCarthy, I put him at about fifty-four. He missed Vietnam but served in the Corps stateside. Was a patrol cop in the late seventies through the eighties, then did a long stint as an investigator in Six-D. Here’s the kicker: when we invaded Iraq-what was that? two thousand three-he takes a leave of absence from the force and goes over there as a chaplain. He was too old to fight but said he wanted to be with the men. Can you believe it?”
Yes, thought Lucas.
“He’s got this photograph of him over there in the desert, got a Bible in one hand and an M-Sixteen in the other, the butt resting on his thigh. McCarthy’s the Burt Lancaster of chaplains.”
“Why don’t you think he’ll talk to me?” said Lucas. “He doesn’t like investigators?”
“He likes his job. Man’s a couple of years from retirement. He could get fired if he gives out classified information to a civilian.” Petersen took a last bite of his sub and balled up the white paper on his desk, shoving it into a cylindrical brown bag. “But I’ll call him. Most likely, he’ll get in touch with you. You’ll probably have to meet him somewhere outside of Indiana Avenue.”
“Thanks.” Lucas got up out of his chair and stretched. “What’s going on with the Hawkins case?”
“Preparing to go to trial.”
“Sounds like the Feds have him dead to rights.”
Petersen said, “We’ll see.”
Lucas bought two bunches of roses from a street vendor, then drove up to 12th Street and parked his Jeep. He crossed the street with a plastic bag in one hand and one bouquet of roses in the other. He went up the steps to Lisa Weitzman’s home and laid the roses, heavily wetted, on her doorstep, along with a note he had written in childish scrawl before getting out of his vehicle. The note was corny and obvious, something about how nice it was to hang out with her. He had no plans to try and see her again, but he wanted to do something respectful for her, at least. Flowers had come to mind. He was a resourceful but not particularly original young man.
Lucas then went to the Lindsay residence and knocked on its front door. The door soon opened, and a middle-aged man with a sour face and alcohol breath appeared in the frame.
“What you want?” he said, looking Lucas over in a way that no man likes.
“I’ve got something for Ernest.”
“Who are you?”
“Spero Lucas. I’m the brother of Ernest’s English teacher over at Cardozo.”
The man closed the door without a word. It wasn’t quite a slam but had a similar effect.
“Dick,” said Lucas.
A short while later Ernest came outside. He had an Oreo cookie in his hand, dripping with milk, and he popped what was left of it into his mouth. Lucas waited for him to chew and swallow.
“Spero.”
“Got you a couple of books.”
Lucas handed the bag to Ernest, who took it and pulled out its contents. “Cool.”
“Thought you’d like them. I know you’re into Leone, and Kings of the Bs is one of the best film books I’ve ever read. I was lucky to find it. It’s been out of print for a while.”
“That’s what’s up,” said Ernest, genuinely touched.
“Read ’em in good health.”
“Was that man rude to you?” said Ernest, jerking a finger over his shoulder.
“Who is he?”
“My mother’s boyfriend,” said Ernest, with unmasked disgust.
“Is your mom home?”
“She’s still at work. That man’s tryin to stay here all the time.”
“If you need me for anything,” said Lucas, “you call me, hear?”
Lucas gave him his number and Ernest entered it into his own phone.
“Thanks for these.”
“My pleasure.”
Lucas walked to his Jeep. Ernest sat on the porch glider and began to look through the books.
On the way home, Lucas stopped at Glenwood Cemetery to see his father. He laid a bouquet of red roses on his grave, did his stavro, and said a silent prayer.
Late that night, the phone rang in Lucas’s apartment. He crossed the room and turned down the Ernest Ranglin CD he was listening to on the box. He’d smoked a little weed, and the sinewy instrumentals had been doing it to his head.
Constance was on the line. He asked her if she wanted to come over, and she said that she was tired and was looking at an early day. He reminded her that they had a dinner date in the future, and she said that she hadn’t forgotten. She’d phoned him because she had made the call they had discussed. She’d found the name of the police officer who had driven car number 4044 on the day and time Lucas had given her.
“What’s the name?” said Lucas.
“Lawrence Holley,” she said, and spelled it. “I imagine he goes by Larry.”
The name meant nothing to Lucas. But it would.
THIRTEEN
Larry Holley, in street clothes, drove his personal vehicle, a black Escalade tricked out with aftermarket rims, over the District line into Prince George’s County, Maryland. He was on Bladensburg Road, Fort Lincoln Cemetery on either side of him. Then he passed through a low-slung retail strip of barbers, beauty salons, pawnshops, independent eateries, and the usual fast-food death-houses, the town of Cottage City on his right, Colmar Manor on his left. He went over the upper Anacostia River, the Peace Cross monument in sight, and where Bladensburg became 450, which most called Annapolis Road, Holley hung a left onto an industrial-commercial road in an area known as Edmonston. He passed the famous Crossroads nightclub and drove on.
The radio was set on a hip-hop station that often played go-go at night. Because it was lunchtime and an
