fruit filling.
'Do you read the newspaper?' I asked as I unfolded it. 'No.'
'How well do you read?'
'Not good.'
So I read it to her. We started with the front page, primarily because it had a large photo of the five caskets seemingly adrift above the mass of people. The story was headlined across the bottom half, and I read every word of it to Ruby, who listened intently. She had heard stories about the deaths of the Burton family; the details fascinated her.
'Could I die like that?' she asked.
'No. Not unless your car has an engine and you run the heater.'
'I wish it had a heater.'
'You could die from exposure.',
'What's that?'
'Freezing to death.'
She wiped her mouth with a napkin, and sipped her coffee. The temperature had been eleven degrees the night Ontario and his family died. How had Ruby survived?
'Where do you go when it gets real cold?' I asked.
'Don't go nowhere.'
'You stay in the car?'
'Yes.'
'How do you keep from freezing?'
'I got plenty of blankets. I just bury down in them.'
'You never go to a shelter?'
'Never.'
'Would you go to a shelter if it would help you see Terrence?'
She rolled her head to one side, and gave me a strange look. 'Say it again,' she said.
'You want to see Terrence, right?'
'Right.'
'Then you have to get clean. Right?'
'Right.'
'To get clean, you'll have to live in a detox center for a while. Is that something you're willing to do?'
'Maybe,' she said. 'Just maybe.'
It was a small step, but not an insignificant one.
'I can help you see Terrence again, and you can be a part of his life. But you have to get clean, and stay clean.'
'How do I do it?' she asked, her eyes unable to meet mine. She cradled her coffee, the steam rising to her face.
'Are you going to Naomi's today?'
'Yes.'
'I talked to the director over there. They have two meetings today, alcoholics and drug addicts together. They're called AA/NA. I want you to attend both of them. The director will call me.'
She nodded like a scolded child. I would push no further, not at that moment. She nibbled her doughnuts, sipped her coffee, and listened with rapt attention as I read one news story after another. She cared little for foreign affairs and sports, but the city news fascinated her. She had voted at one time, many years ago, and the politics of the District were easily digested. She understood the crime stories.
A long editorial blistered Congress and the city for their failure to fund services for the homeless. Other Lontaes would follow, it warned. Other children would die in our streets, in the shadows of the U.S. Capitol. I paraphrased this for Ruby, who concurred with every phrase.
A soft, freezing rain began falling, so I drove Ruby to her next stop for the day. Naomi's Women's Center was a four-level rowhouse on Tenth Street, NW, in a block of similar structures. It opened at seven, closed at four, and during each day provided food, showers, clothing, activities, and counseling for any homeless woman who could find the place. Ruby was a regular, and received a warm greeting from her friends when we entered.
I spoke quietly with the director, a young woman named Megan. We conspired to push Ruby toward sobriety. Half the women there were mentally ill, half were substance abusers, a third were HIV-positive. Ruby, as far as Megan knew, carried no infectious diseases.
When I left, the women were crowded into the main room, singing songs.
* * *
I was hard at work at my desk when Sofia knocked on my door and entered before I could answer.
'Mordecai says you're looking for someone,' she said. She held a legal pad, ready to take notes.
I thought for a second, then remembered Hector. 'Oh yes. I am.'
'I can help. Tell me everything you know about the person.' She sat down and began writing as I ratfled off his name, address, last known place of employment, physical description, and the fact that he had a wife and four kids. 'Age?'
'Maybe thirty.'
'Approximate salary?'
'Thirty-five thousand.'
'With four kids, it's safe to assume at least one was enrolled in school. With that salary, and living in Bethesda, I doubt if they'd go the private route. He's Hispanic, so he's probably Catholic. Anything else?'
I couldn't think of a thing. She left and returned to her desk where she opened a thick three-ring notebook and flipped pages. I kept my door open so I could watch and listen. The first call went to someone with the Postal Service. The conversation changed instantly to Spanish, and I was lost. One call followed another. She would say hello in English, ask for her contact, then switch to her native tongue. She called the Catholic diocese, which led to another series of rapid calls. I lost interest.
An hour later, she walked to my door and announced, 'They moved to Chicago. Do you need an address?'
'How did you . . . ?' My words trailed off as I stared at her in disbelief.
'Don't ask. A friend of a friend in their church. They moved over the weekend, in a hurry. Do you need their new address?'
'How long will it take?'
'It won't be easy. I can point you in the right direction.'
She had at least six clients sitting along the front window waiting to seek her advice.
'Not now,' I said. 'Maybe later. Thanks.'
'Don't mention it.'
Don't mention it. I'd planned to spend a few more hours after dark knocking on the doors of neighbors, in the cold, dodging security guards, hoping no one shot me. And she worked the phone for an hour and found the missing person.
Drake and Sweeney had more than a hundred lawyers in its Chicago branch. I had been there twice on anti trust cases. The offices were in a skyscraper near the lakefront. The building's foyer was several stories tall, with fountains and shops around the perimeter, escalators zigzagging upward. It was the perfect place to hide and watch for Hector Palma.
Twenty-six
The homeless are close to the streets, to the pavement, the curbs and gutters, the concrete, the litter, the sewer lids and fire hydrants and wastebaskets and bus stops and store-fronts. They move slowly over familiar
