Lucas pulled over and put the transmission into Park. As always, the map of the city was in his head. It helped that he’d done surveillance work in this neighborhood many times. He guessed that Malone had cut into the alley past the rec center field, at 6th, then made a left into the alley that ran between the backyards of Princeton and Otis. This would take him down to a sharp left turn and another short alley that would open back up to Otis, close to Georgia Avenue. Malone was “walking his smoke.” There was no need to follow in his Jeep, as the alley was narrow, sometimes clogged with trash cans, and hard to navigate by vehicle. Next time, Lucas would bring his bike.
Malone soon appeared at the bottom of Otis and headed for Georgia, where he crossed to the west side of the Avenue. Lucas drove down there and watched him enter a surprisingly upscale liquor and wine store.
Lucas waited. Malone reappeared ten minutes later with a long brown bag in hand and walked up Georgia toward Princeton. He was headed back to his spot. Lucas had seen enough. He drove home.
Back at his crib, Lucas smoked a joint, drank a couple of beers, and listened to some dub. He phoned Charlotte Rivers and fell asleep on his couch, waiting for her to return his call.
Early the next morning, he was woken by a phone call from Amanda Brand, his bartender friend, telling him that Grace Kinkaid had been stabbed in a street assault the previous day. Lucas fired down a cup of coffee and drove over to the Washington Hospital Center on Irving Street, where Grace had been taken for treatment. Amanda had said she’d meet him there.
He talked his way into the ER. Amanda was sitting in a chair outside one of the recovery rooms. Her eyes were shadowed, but she looked like she’d recently freshened up. She stood as Lucas came into the space. Standing nearby was a man in a suit and tie who had the look of MPD. He eyed Lucas as he and Amanda hugged.
“How is she?” said Lucas.
“Unconscious right now. Two deep cuts, one that severely damaged her breast. The blade collapsed her lung. They’ve catheterized her chest.”
“Is she going to make it?”
“They’re trying to reinflate her lung. They’ve done the irrigation and suturing, but there’s the risk of infection. Spero, I saw what that knife did to her…”
“Amanda,” he said, holding her shoulders, looking straight into her eyes, trying to get her to focus.
“I’m okay. I’ve been here all night. I’m just tired.”
“What did she say? Did she talk to the police?”
“No, not yet. There was a witness. She gave a description of the guy. Black man, wearing one of those knit hats, like a dread cap. He took her purse. Why would he do this if he only wanted to rob her?”
“I don’t know.”
“She called me a couple of days ago. Said you’d found her painting and brought it back.”
“I did.”
“This doesn’t have anything to do with that, does it?”
“No,” said Lucas, cutting his eyes away. “Take a walk, Amanda. Get something to eat. I’ll sit out here for a while.”
“You can’t go in there.”
He didn’t want to go in. He pushed her arm gently and said, “Go.”
Lucas watched her punch a wall button and walk through the swinging ER doors. He went to the doorway of Grace’s room and past a mobile curtain that partly obstructed his view. He saw her lying on the bed. A clear tube snaked out of her robe and there were thick bandages at the top of her chest. In the tube, blood and brown material flowed back and forth with each labored breath. A morphine drip led to her arm.
“You a friend of hers?” said a voice, and Lucas turned. The man in the suit, a guy in his thirties with broad shoulders, had approached him from behind.
“Yes,” said Lucas. “Actually, more of a friend to the woman who just left. I’m here because Amanda asked me to stop by.”
“Your name?”
“Spero Lucas.”
“Spell Spero,” said the man, and Lucas did. The man wrote this in a small notebook.
“You’re a detective?”
“Detective Paul Strong. Homicide and Violent Crimes. What do you do, Mr. Lucas?”
“I’m an investigator for a criminal defense attorney here in town.”
“One of those guys,” said Strong, without malice. “Ex-military?”
“Yeah. What happened here?”
“Are you working right now?”
“No.”
“Then allow me.”
“Okay.”
“Do you have any idea who would have perpetrated this crime on Miss Kinkaid?”
“None,” said Lucas. “Amanda told me what the witness saw. A guy with dreads stabbed her, then took her purse.”
“Black guy,” said Strong, who was black. “It’s okay to say it.”
“Kind of an extreme way to rob someone, isn’t it?”
“Homicides are way down in the city. We like to brag on that. But violent robberies and assaults are pretty much up citywide. East of the river, but also on the Hill. It can get pretty rough.”
“Why stab her, though? Why not just hit her on the head or push her to the ground?”
“That’s a good question.”
“Maybe he wanted to hurt her because she was white.”
“That’s your theory?” said Strong.
They looked at each other without speaking. It was perfectly comfortable, in the way that silence can be between men.
“Let me ask you something,” said Lucas. “You ever hear of the Ammidown killing, happened in D.C. around nineteen seventy-one?”
“You weren’t even born in seventy-one. Neither was I.”
“My father told me about it many times. He was a Washingtoniana freak. Loved his local history.”
“Go ahead.”
“Short version is, a white woman named Linda Ammidown was raped and murdered under the East Capitol Street Bridge. A black guy, a local pool player, was arrested and convicted of the crime, and sentenced to the chair by a Judge Sirica…the same Judge Sirica who would later get famous during the Watergate trials. A little more than a week later the Supreme Court threw out the death penalty, so the killer didn’t fry. Eventually, it came to light that Robert Ammidown, the victim’s husband, had hired the guy to kill his wife. It was a contract hit.”
“Black dude rapes and murders a white woman, it deflects the suspicion away from her husband.”
“Exactly.”
“What happened to those two gentlemen?”
“Ammidown pled to second-degree murder. Word is, the guy who did the killing is now out on the street. Friend of mine said he saw him recently in a pool hall on Central Avenue.”
“And the point of that story is what?”
“Something to think on, is all.”
“What do you know, exactly?”
“I’m making a suggestion, Detective. If you ever arrest this so-called Rasta and get him in the box, I’d ask him who paid him to do the job.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
“Just doing my civic duty.”
“Fuck you and give me your phone number,” said Strong.
Lucas gave him the number to one of his disposables. Detective Strong drifted, and Lucas had a seat.
When Amanda Brand returned, he went home. There was nothing else for him to do.
Not long after he entered his apartment, he picked up one of several disposables he owned and dialed the number for Billy King that Charles Lumley had given up the day they’d tortured him and run him out of town.
King answered.
“Hello.”
“This is Spero Lucas. Is this Billy King?”
“Do I know you?”
“You know what I’ve done.”
After a silence, King said, “Are you on a clean line?”
“Yes. You?”
“Uh-huh. So you’re the one who stole my painting and murdered Serge. The guy in the parking lot, right? It’s good to put a name to the face. How’d you get this number?”
<
br /> “Charles Lumley,” said Lucas. “We should talk.”
“I’m listening.”
“Face-to-face.”
“Call it,” said King.
They agreed on a place and time.
TWENTY-FIVE
Billy King wore a faded red polo shirt, frayed khaki shorts, and Sperry topsiders with no socks. His sunglasses hung on a leash over his broad chest. He was seated at a two-top across from Lucas, in a new Ethiopian-owned coffee shop on Georgia Avenue, in Petworth, located on the second floor of a house.
Lucas had arrived a half hour early and found a seat with its back to a wall. When King had walked in, moving with a jaunty strut, he made an impression. Close up, he was even larger than Lucas had remembered. Below the waist, he was an animal. Freakishly flanked, a full-on beast. He’d be hard to take down.
The morning rush was over, but there were still several patrons seated at tables and on couches, killing time, working on their laptops, using the free Wi-Fi. Others stood by the go-counter, picking up stirring sticks and napkins, glancing at their phones before hurriedly leaving the shop.
“Suckers,” said King, pointing his chin in the direction of two young go-getters who were heading out the door. “Where they going that’s so important?”
“I imagine they’ve got jobs.”
“I work. So do you. But you and me, we don’t have to be anywhere at a certain time. We don’t walk fast unless we want to.” King brushed blond hair off his forehead. “So you’re an independent contractor?”
“Something like that.”
“Like one of those Blackwater guys.”
“No, not like them.”
“You find things.”
“Sometimes.”
“I’m curious. How’d Grace Kinkaid pay you? A flat fee or a commission?”
“Aren’t you gonna ask me how she’s doing?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“She’s going to recover,” said Lucas. “I’m not sure if that bothers you or makes you happy.”
“Oh, has she been ill?” King furrowed his brow in a comic manifestation of concern.
“Cut the bullshit. You didn’t have to do that to her. This was between you and me.”
“She hired you, didn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Then she brought this on herself.”
“You’re a coward, Billy.”
“Careful.” King smiled pleasantly, showing Lucas his white teeth.
“Your man gave you your money’s worth. He almost cut off one of her breasts.”
“That’s a damn shame. Grace had nice tits. A little smaller than I normally like, but nice. And she had a real tight pussy, Lucas. For her age, I mean. Fit me like a glove.”
“Fucking degenerate.”
“I’m supposed to be ashamed? Of what? I got a big pipe and I like to use it. I make women come. I don’t buy ’em flowers or expensive dinners or any of that bullshit, because that’s all smoke and a waste of time. I take them straight to the bedroom and I give them what they want. It’s as simple as that. You know damn well what I’m talking about. You’re a healthy young man. You’re the same way.”
Lucas thought of Charlotte, naked beneath him, her mouth open, her face contorted in climax.
Lucas said, “No.”
“Sure you are. You ever fuck a woman against her will, Lucas?”
“Never.”
“Not even in high school, in the backseat of a car? Girl says no, but you keep trying, right? You talk her into it, or she gets tired of fighting and lets you in. Your cock’s so hard a cat can’t scratch it, and all you can think of is you. You’re not concerned with that girl’s feelings anymore. You just need to bust. Isn’t that right?”
Lucas said nothing.
“Don’t be so high and mighty,” said King. “It’s the same for you as it is for me. Once you get inside that box, your conscience goes out the window.”
“How would you know?” said Lucas.
“What’s that?”
“I hear you can’t get there unless you put it in a woman’s mouth.”
King sat back. For the first time Lucas saw the infinite nothing in his blue eyes.
“Let’s get to it,” said King.
“Fine.”
“What are we doing here?”
“You’re all alone now. Your crew is gone. Think about that.”
“I have. But I don’t need ’em, see? I’m stronger when I go solo.”
“Then go elsewhere,” said Lucas.
“You’re in no position to threaten me.”
“You paid someone to put a woman in the ER. You’re as guilty as the man who used the knife.”
“And you’re a murderer. You can’t go to the police.”
“I don’t plan to,” said Lucas.
They looked at each other across the table.
“I’ll leave,” said King. “But not without the money Grace paid you. How much was that?”
“Eighty thousand dollars,” said Lucas.
“That’ll get me started in another town. That’ll be just fine.”
“What if I say no?”
“If I have to stick around and wait for my money, there’s no telling what could happen to your friend Grace when she gets out of the hospital. That would be awful, seeing as how she’s so traumatized. You know what I mean?”
“I think so.”
“You do have the money, right?”
“I can get it,” said Lucas, without hesitation.
“Well, then. You know what to do. But don’t even think about bringing a newspaper in a backpack, like you did to Serge. I won’t like that.”
“I’ll bring what you need,” said Lucas.
King’s eyes assessed Lucas. “Serge said you lectured him about impersonating a marine. Is that what you are?”
Lucas did not reply.
“Tough guy,” said King.
“Just a guy,” said Lucas. “I’ll be in touch.”
King got up and walked from the coffee shop, a spring in his step.
Lucas spent the rest of the day planning his next move. He took a long bike ride. He phoned Winston Dupree and explained himself, apologized for not calling sooner, and assured him that he would be paid for the time he’d put in on the job. He made a similar call to Marquis.
In the evening he drove out to Silver Spring, stopped at the Safeway for flowers, and handed the bouquet to his mother as she greeted him at the door of the bungalow. She’d made macaronia with burnt butter, and a country salad of cucumbers, onions, and tomatoes from the backyard. They sat together in candlelight on the screened porch. Eleni Lucas sipped from a large glass of Chardonnay. Spero nursed a Stella. He’d just taken his last bite.
“Work going okay, honey?”
“It’s good, Ma.”
“Any thought of going back to school?”
“No.”
“Your father would have wanted you to get your degree.”
“I know,” said Spero. “But that’s not how things worked out.”
“The government will pay your tuition.”
“They’d pay for some of it. That’s not the issue.”
“What is?”
“I’m not going to college.”
Eleni stood up. “Would you like anything from the kitchen?”
“Nothing for me,” said Spero.
She returned with a full glass of white and a photograph in a frame. Eleni set the photo on the table before him.
He’d seen it before. His mother had taken it the day Spero had been brought home from the adoption agency. In the photograph, Spero sat on the floor of their family room, strapped in a car seat. Leo sat beside him, his arm around his new kid brother. Apart from them sat Irene, their oldest and sole biological child, and Dimetrius, the Lucases’ first adopted son. In the middle of this group kneeled Van Lucas, curly haired and black of beard, smiling broadly, looking somewhat shocked but happy. Shilo, one of their dogs, snif
fed at Spero’s feet.
“I always liked this one,” said Spero.
“It was a tradition for us,” said Eleni. “Soon as we brought each of you kids home we’d take a family photo. The day Leonidas came home with us? It snowed like crazy. Your baba had sandbags in the back of the Silverado to weigh it down. We almost didn’t make it up our hill, but we were giggling all the way. We were just so excited. Dad had snow in his hair and beard when he carried Leo inside. He was holding him like a football.”
“I’ve heard that story,” said Spero. In fact, he’d heard it many times.
“You know, Leonidas was supposed to be adopted by another couple, but when they saw the most recent baby photo of him, they turned him down. They thought he was too dark.”
“They wanted a white black baby,” said Spero. “I know.”
“And then you. The couple that was in line to get you said they weren’t quite ready when you became available. They needed to paint the nursery or something first. Can you believe it?”
“Our gain,” said Spero. “Leo and I scored.”
“No, honey. It was your father and me who scored.” Eleni picked up the photograph and held it out to Spero. “This is why I brought this out. Look at the family room window, right there.”
Spero examined it. Through the window, in the gray winter sky, was a wink of light.
“What is that? It looks like a star.”
“Your father said it was the reflection from the camera flash. But I always believed it was something else. Like an eye, looking after us.”
“That’s nice,” said Spero, because he didn’t know what else to say.
“After he passed, Dad became that light. He’s the eye. Do you see what I’m saying?”
“I do.”
“You’re skeptical.”
“Just trying to get my head around it.”
“Your father’s here, right now, and he’s thinking of us. Thinking of you.”
“Okay.”
“You’ve always been on his mind, Spero. When you went overseas, he was troubled. Not just about your safety. We were all concerned about that. He was worried about what the experience was going to do to you, mentally, moving forward into your life. How you were going to react to everything you’d seen and done after you returned.”
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