“It is about Ben,” said Chris. “I know who killed him.”
“ How do you know?” said Katherine carefully.
“It was two men. They came to visit me, right here in my backyard. They killed Ben over the money that we left in that house. It was theirs. They must have tried to get Ben to talk about who took it.”
“Do you know who took it?”
“A guy named Lawrence. We were locked up with him at Pine Ridge. Ben got drunk and told Lawrence about the money, and Lawrence went back and stole it. The two men strong-armed the lady who owns the house. That led them to Ben, and me.”
“And this Lawrence. He still has the money.”
“Yes.”
“If you know who these men are, why haven’t you called the police?”
Chris looked away.
“Chris.”
“I’m not gonna do that,” said Chris, his voice hoarse. “Me and Lawrence, we’re gonna take care of this ourselves.”
Katherine got up abruptly and went to the kitchen. She stood over the sink and cupped her hand and ran water into it, drank while the other hand held her strawberry blonde hair back behind her head. Chris watched her splash her face with water. She reentered the room, walking with purpose. Her cheeks were flushed and brightly freckled, and her green eyes were wildly flared. She sat beside him and grasped his hand.
“Say what you’re going to do, Chris. Not that jailhouse bullshit talk, either. When you say you’re going to take care of it, what are you talking about? Murder?”
“It’s the only way.”
“What about an arrest and conviction? The right way. The way that doesn’t make you a killer and a candidate for prison.”
“I can’t. Ben didn’t give me or Lawrence up. Ben stood tall-”
“ Stop it.” Katherine squeezed his hand tightly. “Listen to what you’re saying. This isn’t you, Chris.”
“There’s two of me,” said Chris. “There’s the person you think you know, and the one who’s still inside me. The boy who did dirt and got schooled in that jail. The one you never met.”
“I’m in love with the one I met. I could never love someone who deliberately took a life, not when there was a more reasonable option. I couldn’t be with him or have his child. Do you understand that?”
“Yes. But I got to do this.” He held her hand tightly. “Stay with me tonight.”
Katherine pulled her hand back and stood out of the chair. She looked down at him and her lip quivered, but she held on and turned and stepped away. She headed for the door.
“Don’t tell my father,” said Chris.
Katherine left the apartment, shutting the door behind her without another word.
She drove straight to the Flynn home on Livingston Street. She cried on the way there but put herself back together before she arrived. After Flynn opened the door, Django bumped against her excitedly and followed her steps closely as she came into the house. Flynn was talking to her, but she was not responding, and he could only go with her, out the back door, onto the deck overlooking the yard. Flynn shut the door, leaving Django on the other side of the glass.
“What is it, honey?” said Flynn, joining Katherine at the rail. “Did you and Chris have a fight?”
She told him of their conversation in the apartment. By now Amanda had come downstairs, but as she moved toward the back door, Flynn raised his palm and she saw the look on his face and stayed inside.
“I knew he was mixed up in something,” said Flynn, when Katherine was done.
“But he wasn’t,” said Katherine. “Someone else stole that money. A guy named Lawrence. Not Chris, and not Ben. The trouble came to them after. They were trying to do right and walk away from it. It came to them. Chris hasn’t done anything wrong. Not yet.”
Flynn pushed a shock of black hair off his forehead. He recalled the day at Mindy Kramer’s house, when he’d accused Chris and Ben of botching the job. Whoever had taken the money, that Lawrence fellow, had messed up the good work they’d done. It wasn’t them being lazy or sloppy. Chris had been telling the truth that day. As he tended to do, Flynn had assumed the worst about his son.
“Well, it’s simple,” said Flynn. “I’ve got to stop him. What he’s saying he’s gonna do, that’s not him. It never was him. He was a stupid, selfish teenager, and he made mistakes. But he couldn’t kill anyone. He won’t.”
“You should call the police, Mr. Flynn.”
“I can’t do that. Not until I speak to him. I don’t know how far he’s gone down the road. If anyone’s going to call the police, it has to be him. I’ll speak to him and talk him down. I can do that.”
“If you think that’s the way.”
“I know it is. Yes.”
Flynn hugged Katherine. He was perspiring, and she could smell the alcohol on his breath and in his sweat.
“He won’t answer your phone call,” said Katherine.
“I’m going to go over there,” said Flynn, stepping back. “Stay here with Amanda for now.”
“Okay.”
“Thanks for coming here, Kate.”
“It’s Katherine,” she said gently.
“Katherine. Right.”
They walked into the house where Amanda was waiting.
“Chris is all right,” said Flynn. “I just need to speak with him. Katherine will explain.”
Amanda started to say something, but Flynn embraced her clumsily and kissed her on the mouth.
“Don’t worry.”
“Call me,” said Amanda.
He nodded, grabbed his keys from a bowl on the kitchen counter, and headed out the door.
Romario Knight lived in a middle-class home in Hillcrest Heights, across Southern Avenue, which ran between the District and Prince George’s County, Maryland. Knight’s street was quiet and he kept to himself. He was a bachelor who occasionally brought women home and had friends over on Redskins Sundays. He looked like any man in his thirties who went to work and made a modest living. By day, Knight wore a uniform as a meter man for the gas company. He was also a gun dealer who serviced the Southeast trade. Knight’s clients came to his place of residence after being screened by third parties.
Lawrence Newhouse stood with Knight in the downstairs rec room of the Hillcrest home. A huge television set, couches and chairs, and a wet bar filled the room, and Redskins memorabilia covered the walls. Knight wore a Sean Taylor jersey and he filled it out. He was a huge man who, even when in shape, had always been fat. In the years he played high school ball in PG, he was known, alternately and randomly, as Papa Doc and Baby Doc. He had the curious distinction of carrying the nicknames of both the father and the son.
Lawrence had put the word out with a boy at Parkchester he reckoned would have such connections, and soon Lawrence got a call on his cell and then was met by another young man, who checked him out, issued some barely veiled threats, and gave him instructions. In the course of a few hours, Lawrence was here, purchasing guns.
A large and a small revolver, a couple of semiautomatics, and boxes of ammunition were laid out on a card table. The weapons still had serial numbers and if confiscated would be traced back to legitimate gun stores in Virginia, where they had been originally purchased by straw buyers.
Lawrence stood beside Knight, looking down at the weapons, experiencing that curious sensation of excitement and dread some men feel in the presence of guns.
Lawrence had shot a boy many years ago. Had he killed the young man, Lawrence’s punishment would have been more severe, but the wound was not fatal. Lawrence could barely remember why he had done the thing. Some slight, real or imagined, had sent him after the boy with a Taurus. 38, a true Saturday night special, because Lawrence knew he couldn’t settle it with his hands.
“What’s that?” said Lawrence, pointing to a small auto pistol with a chrome finish and a laminated wood stock.
“Davis thirty-two,” said Knight.
