Barbara came back into the room. “There’s just too much crying going on in this house,” she said, sitting down next to Fiona. “It’s going to be alright.” She threw her arm around Fiona’s shoulders. “You just wait and see.”
“Okay,” said Robert. “I’ll do it, but it won’t be full time. I have another case that’s important, so Thorne and I will want to set up at Judge Patrick’s house and coordinate with the authorities involved.
We’ll have to clear it with the Secret Service and Justice Department.
We’ll be in and out, but we’ll be there.”
“Good enough,” Barbara cried, slapping her knee.
Fiona ran over to Robert. “Thank you,” she said. “It means a lot to me.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek, and for the first time he noticed how good she smelled.
“You’re welcome,” he said. “Now go tell Jessica.” Fiona left the room. Robert glared at Barbara. “Mother.”
“I don’t want to hear it Robert,” she snapped. “I don’t know what you’re working on, but whatever it is can wait.” Barbara walked over and stroked his cheek. “Thanks son, this means a lot to me. You’re doing the right thing.”
“You should’ve given me more warning than this. Next time…”
“You’re always Lord knows where, doing God knows what. Just do this for me. Take good care of her, please.” Robert kissed the palm of his mother’s hand, then her cheek, and headed toward the door. He caught a glimpse of his father in a photo hanging next to the door, and stopped. After all the years, it still bothered him.
“If he were alive he’d be proud of you son. You’re just like him.
Tough as nails outside. Good heart inside.” Robert ran his fingers across his father’s face. He remembered what it was like growing up without a father, and thought of Jessica.
The front door closed behind him, the night still and quiet, he heard Thorne cursing in his ears.
13
Robert parked in front of Crossroads and called Thorne. He tried the office, then her cell. No answer. She wouldn’t like it at first, but watching over Judge Patrick gave them an edge. They knew the next victim. A break.
He examined the note Fiona gave him. White copier paper and a red felt pen. Different from the typewritten letter left at the Weiss murder scene. Could be a hoax. I’ll have Thorne run it against the prints in our files.
Robert decided to keep the note between him and Thorne, at least for the time being. The boys at Quantico can get their two cents in later. He didn’t want some over-anxious federal flunky in their way fucking things up.
He stepped out of the car, his eyes fixed on a distinguished bronze plaque next to the mission’s front entrance. The plaque read: In Memory of
Patrick Orlando Miller
1949-2002
'I have come to believe that the whole world is an enigma, a harmless enigma that is made terrible by our own mad attempt to interpret it as though it had an underlying truth.'
Umberto Eco
We’ll miss you Patrick. From those who call the streets home. A large, impressive carving of Patrick Miller’s smiling face hung just above it. Robert remembered the quote. The same Charlie mumbled when they videotaped him. Too obscure to be coincidence, it said Patrick Miller knew more than he told. I have a hunch Popeye knows more too.
It took thirty minutes to find the old vet. At liquor store number three, Robert watched the tarnished wheelchair glide out onto the sidewalk. Popeye spotted him and almost lost control of the brown paper sack balanced on his lap. He tossed his stringy wet hair back out of his face, gave a rueful sneer, and rolled away.
Robert jogged after him. The wheelchair sped up and disappeared around a corner. When Robert caught sight of him again, Popeye was nearly a block away. He quickened his steps, maneuvering in and out of tattered men, women, and children, some pushing grocery carts, others lugging garbage bag suitcases filled with all they owned.
A few feet from the wheelchair, he caught a whiff of Popeye’s cologne-cheap wine and salty urine. Robert opened his mouth. The wheelchair jerked into an alley before he could speak. He followed, but could barely get a fix on Popeye among bodies, some standing, most sleeping next to piles of garbage.
“Ten bucks’ll get ya a real good time honey,” said a hoarse smoker’s voice.
Robert looked down at a smiling heavyset black woman wrapped in a filthy, faded blanket; most of her teeth rotted, her feet plastered with sores.
“I used to suck a mean one in my day, still can honey. Step up!”
“Not today,” said Robert, pulling out a twenty. “Maybe next time.” The woman looked at the money. Her eyes widened. “I’ll be right here honey, jus’ ask for Mona, I’ll hook you up.”
“I bet you would Mona,” he whispered, peering down the alley.
He spotted Popeye swigging away at a bottle snuggled in a paper sack. Robert stood behind him.
“I wondered how long it would take you,” said Popeye, without turning around. “Where’s Charlie?”
Robert hesitated. “He’s dead.”
Popeye took a long swig and said nothing.
“I’m sorry about Charlie and Miller,” said Robert. “But I had nothing to do with either death.”
“Sounds like a crock to me,” said Popeye, in a raspy voice. He swigged again, his hand quivering. “They were my only friends. As much as you can have friends in this place.” Robert took a deep breath and looked around the alley, searching for nothing in particular. “I understand, and again, I’m sorry,” he said, his voice sincere and steady. “I’m sorry I couldn’t prevent their deaths. All I can do now is go after the ones who did it.”
“Why did they kill Charlie?” Popeye asked. “What’s so important Charlie and Miller had to die? We live on the streets. What could anybody possibly want with a hobo and the director of a homeless shelter?”
“I can’t go much into detail. Let’s just say it’s big and very complicated.”
“How big?” Popeye pressed. “My friends are dead. I have a right to know. It’s the least you can do.”
“I can’t say, but I promise I’ll catch these people. You have my word.”
Popeye took another drink, placed the bottle in his lap, and swung the wheelchair around. “What makes you think you can, and not get somebody else killed?”
“I don’t,” said Robert. “These people play for keeps. You’ve been in a war. You know how cheap life can get when the stakes are high.”
“I want to know what’s going on,” Popeye repeated.
Robert’s patience thinned. “I don’t have time to go back and forth with you. I need to know where Charlie spent most of his time. Where he laid his head.”
Popeye glared. “Does this have anything to do with the C-I-A?” His eyes narrowed, cat-like, sly.
“Maybe,” Robert answered. “What makes you think that?” Popeye pulled a crumpled pack of Newports from his jacket and lit one, the bottle snuggled firmly between his stumps. “Charlie used to mumble things sometimes,” he said. “CIA, FBI. It really seemed to upset him, gave him nightmares. We’d get drunk and he’d say he’d fucked with history.”
“Did he ever go into detail?”
“No, he just said he’d done some pretty fucked up things in his lifetime. I told him we all did. He just shook his head and walked off.”
“I need to know where Charlie hid out Popeye. It’s important.”
“On the street with the rest of us,” fired Popeye, squirming in his chair.
“I need direction, clues, something, anything. I need you to come clean. Where did Charlie hole up?”
Popeye took a deep drag on the Newport. Smoke streamed from his mouth and nose. “The Shaw Hotel over on R Street NW,” he said. “It’s about ten minutes from here.”
