The Double Page 6

  With this came negatives as well. Culturally, in Lucas’s lifetime, Washington had been a black city with a Southern feel, but blacks would soon represent less than fifty percent of the population. Chocolate City was not coming back, and neither were generations of locals who had sold their homes, many for a large profit, and moved to PG, Charles, and Montgomery counties.

  Coming in, Lucas noticed that his favorite mural in the city, on the side of a funeral home at Randolph Place and North Capitol, N.W., had been replaced. The old mural depicted Jesus reaching out to a man who was on the ground, with the words, “Don’t look down on a man…unless you gonna pick him up.” To Lucas the painting had always represented what was good about D.C. The new mural showed a vaguely spiritual figure carrying a depleted man in his arms on a beach as waves roll violently in toward the shore. It looked like an ad for suntan oil. The words read, “When it feels like you can’t go on, the Lord will carry you through the storm.” Same sentiment, different delivery. Lucas had asked a friend, a Bloomingdale resident, about the change. She said, “The man who owns the funeral home got pressure from the neighbors and a local nonprofit to get rid of the old mural. The paint was peeling. But them imposing their will and all, it didn’t smell right to me. Some folks want this whole city to look like Georgetown. What you end up with is a clean town with no character or soul.”

  As E. Ethelbert Miller had written in the Washington Post, “Well, chocolate melts.”

  Lucas walked south toward Florida Avenue. He checked the longitudinal and latitudinal coordinates the Grant Summers e-mail address had supplied, and the attendant images on his phone that had come up on Google Maps. He passed a church and a used-furniture operation that put chairs, sofas, and tables out on the street to attract customers. On a strip that was both commercial and residential, he came upon two properties that were unoccupied, one with paper taped inside its windows. Both properties displayed a real estate sign showing the same broker’s name and phone number. He was in the general vicinity of the coordinates. This IP address lookup wasn’t on the nose, but it usually yielded fairly accurate results. The broker was a man named Abraham Woldu. Lucas recognized the surname as Ethiopian or Eritrean.

  He rang up Woldu, told him his name, told him he’d like to speak to him about his vacant properties on North Capitol. Woldu agreed to meet Lucas there the next day.

  Lucas swung around on North Capitol, went up Lincoln Road, and drove under the arches of Glenwood Cemetery, located several blocks north, in Northeast. He found his father’s grave, near a drop-off to a short residential block of descending row homes on a street called Evarts, in the neighborhood of Stronghold. He no longer brought flowers to his baba’s resting place, preferring to give them to his mother when he saw her in Silver Spring. But he still came here often, even knowing it was an illogical act. The visits were for him, not his dad. He said a silent prayer, did his stavro, and got on his way.

  Before meeting Marquis back in Cottage City, Lucas went over to Fish in the Neighborhood, on the 3600 block of Georgia, in Park View, and got some takeout sandwiches. Formerly known as Fish in the Hood, the owner had recently altered the name to reflect the changing demographics of his customer base. But the product was the same. Lucas ordered fried catfish for Marquis, trout for himself, with tartar and extra hot sauce, and a side of their signature mac and cheese. He drove back across town and into Maryland.

  Marquis was in his late-model Buick sedan, idling with the air-conditioning on, when Lucas found him in the strip center in Cottage City. He was wearing one of the pajama-style outfits he was fond of, the multicolored fabric falling loosely around the titanium pole that was his left leg. A New Balance sneaker was fitted on the end of the pole.

  “Thanks for this,” said Marquis, swallowing a mouthful of catfish, lettuce, tomato, and tarter. “I suppose you want a hug or something.”

  “And a piece of chocolate on my pillow,” said Lucas.

  “I’ll smash your face into your pillow. How ’bout that?”

  “You’re so butch.”

  “Why you need me on this?”

  “On account of this guy Dodson burned my Jeep.”

  “You just want me to tail him?”

  “See where he goes when he gets off work.”

  “I can do that.”

  Lucas looked over Marquis’s outfit. “What, was Hugh Hefner having a yard sale?”

  “You just don’t know how to dress. I bet you get your clothes at Sears and Roebucks, and shit.”

  “As matter of fact, I do.”

  “Looking like a custodian or something.”

  “That wasn’t the idea,” said Lucas. “But I’ll take it.”

  They saw a Buick Grand National come around the corner of the service road. Lucas recognized the hulking Dodson behind the wheel.

  “That’s him,” said Lucas.

  “Those mechanics do love those GNs.”

  “Looks like an eighty-six or -seven.”

  “Got the intercooled engine, brah. We gonna need a rocket to catch up.”

  Marquis shoved the rest of his sandwich into its bag and pulled out of his space in the lot.

  “Don’t get too close,” said Lucas.

  “I don’t need you to tell me that.”

  “I’m sayin, we look like police.”

  “I look like police,” said Marquis. “You look like the dude who cleans my car.”

  EIGHT

  Brian Dodson lived nearby in Colmar Manor, on the southern side of Bladensburg Road. His asbestos-shingled cottage stood on a short block that was a court butting up against the Colmar Manor Community Park, a large plot of forested land bordering the Anacostia River. The neighborhood seemed quiet and had a country feel.

  Marquis drove past his street, avoiding the trap of the court. He turned around and stopped on the cross street, where they could get a look at Dodson’s house. Marquis and Lucas watched him park on the street and walk inside. There was a maroon Ford Excursion, Ford’s SUV version of a bus, in the driveway. Lucas jotted that down in his notebook.

  “What if he’s in for the night?” said Marquis.

  “Let’s give him a half hour,” said Lucas.

  “I’ll just go ahead and finish my sandwich.”

  As Marquis ate, Lucas dialed Charlotte Rivers, but got no pickup. He left a voice message, did so quietly. He thanked her for a wonderful night and asked when he could see her again.

  “Thank you for a wonderful night,” said Marquis, smiling at Lucas. And then he softly sang, “When will I see you…a-gain?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “The Three Degrees,” said Marquis, feigning innocence. “My mother used to love that one when I was a kid.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m sayin, that’s a real good song.”

  Twenty minutes later Dodson emerged from the house with a daypack slung over his shoulder. He got into his black Grand National and fired it up. Marquis reversed his vehicle and deftly swung it into a more hidden spot.

  “Nice move,” said Lucas.

  They stayed several car lengths back and followed him down Bladensburg Road, which cleaved the Fort Lincoln Cemetery and dropped into D.C., then turned onto Benning Road. They headed east and crossed the Anacostia River via the Benning Bridge.

  Dodson took the Anacostia Freeway and made his way to Martin Luther King Avenue, the entranceway to Anacostia, and jumped off and went over to Firth Sterling Avenue, which took them along the Barry Farms Dwellings, two-story public housing structures set on weedy grounds. Dodson parked his car and Marquis drove on past.

  “Go up the hill and turn around,” said Lucas.

  “What you suppose your man is doing in this part of town?”

  “I don’t know. Guy leaves his nice, neat little neighborhood to come down here? I reckon he’s doing some kind of dirt.”

  They made a turnaround and parked up the hill. They could see young men, mothers, and girls, some who were also mothers, out around the dwellings.
A group of men were throwing dice. It was late afternoon, and this time of year folks stayed outside. Dodson got out of his car with his daypack and walked by a group of young men who eye-fucked him but said nothing. He passed under an archway and entered a door to one of the units.

  “The Farms,” said Marquis. “This place was infamous when I was a youngster coming up in PG.”

  “I’m working a case for a woman got murdered down in Charles County,” said Lucas. “The mother of the victim said her daughter was dating Dodson. Said he was a churchgoing type, steady worker, all that. Practically painted a halo over his head.”

  “We don’t want to be sitting here too long, seeing as how we’re a salt-and-pepper team. We look like law.”

  “I look like law,” said Lucas. “You look like Sabu.”

  “Who’s Sabu?”

  Wasn’t long before Dodson came out of the dwellings carrying his bag.

  “What you think is in that bag?” said Marquis.

  “Cash,” said Lucas. “Drugs…a gun. Who knows? Something bad, for sure.”

  “Now you gonna tar all these people down here just ’cause they live in the Eights?”

  “I’m not tarring anyone but Dodson. Tellin you, he’s wrong.”

  “Want me to keep tailing him?”

  “No,” said Lucas. “I’ve seen enough.”

  At his apartment, Lucas ran a statewide and nationwide criminal background check on Dodson using his Intelius program, and came up with some minor convictions and one major conviction for assault with a deadly weapon. There was nothing since 1999. Lucas picked up his phone and searched his contacts for Tim McCarthy’s number.

  Lucas had met McCarthy, a former 6D patrolman and Metropolitan Police Department investigator, through Tom Petersen. McCarthy had been in the Corps in peacetime and, in his fifties, had taken a leave of absence from the police force to return to Iraq to serve as a chaplain-with-an-M-16 for the marines. Now he was back, close to retirement. He would never give up police-business information to Lucas, but he could usually put him up with someone who could be more accommodating.

  “Tim,” said Lucas, when he got him on the line. “Spero Lucas.”

  “How’s it going, Marine?”

  “Copacetic. I’m working on something, need a little intel on a guy.” Lucas gave him the name and address. “Also, any update on the Cherise Roberts murder would be much appreciated.”

  “That girl who was found in the Dumpster?”

  “Her.”

  “You working murders now, Lucas?”

  “I leave that to professionals. Just curious.”

  “I have your number,” said McCarthy. “Someone will get back to you.”

  “Pete Gibson?” said Lucas, hopefully.

  “Take care.”

  Lucas dressed, mindful of his brother Leo’s inevitable comments, and drove over the District line to Silver Spring, where his mom lived in one of the many bungalows that lined her street. Hers had been refashioned and expanded by her builder husband as their family had grown. It no longer had the architectural integrity of a Sears bungalow, but it had successfully sheltered and warmed six humans and many dogs.

  He went by Afrikutz to say hey to his barber and stopped at the Safeway on Fenton and Thayer to sign a card for his friend Mike Kingsbury, who had passed a year earlier. Lucas bought a bouquet of daisies while he was there and drove over to his mom’s.

  He entered the house and patted the dogs, Cheyenne and Yuma, short-haired Lab mixes from the Humane Society on Georgia at Geranium, who had greeted him with exuberant barks and swinging tails. He found his mother, Eleni, and his brother Leo back in the kitchen. His mother was working on a glass of white wine. It wasn’t her first; she smelled sharply of it as he kissed her.

  “How’s it goin, Ma?” said Spero, handing her the daisies wrapped in damp paper.

  “Thank you, honey. Leo?”

  Leo fetched a vase from the top shelf of a cabinet, and she put the flowers in water.

  Spero grabbed a couple of Stellas, which Eleni stocked for him, and popped the cap on one for himself and one for his brother. They tapped bottles and drank. Leo looked him over.

  “You went for the fitted Polo,” said Leo. “That’s an upgrade for you.”

  “And you’re like, what, a model for L.L.Bean now? You moving to Maine or sumshit?” Leo had on khakis with a green cloth belt and a neatly pressed blue chambray shirt.

  “Brothers Brooks,” said Leo, and for some reason he did the Heisman pose.

  “You must be the only brother who shops at Brooks Brothers.”

  “See, you’re wrong. But you wouldn’t know ’cause you don’t go to the higher-end spots. You just don’t know fashion.”

  “I’m guessing they had to custom-make those pants to allow for your big caboose.”

  “Least I got one.”

  “Please,” said Eleni, but she was half smiling.

  “What’s for dinner, Ma?” said Spero.

  They ate by candlelight on the screened-in porch out back. Eleni had grilled lamb skewered with vegetables out of her backyard garden, and served the kebabs over a bed of pilafi with a summer salad of tomatoes, onions, feta cheese, oregano, oil, and vinegar. Spero and Leo recalled stories about their father, discussed the latest news of their sister, Irene, noting her emotional and physical distance, and inevitably mentioned their wayward brother, Dimitrius, who hadn’t been heard from in years.

  “He’ll turn up when he needs a loan,” said Leo, who had no love for the brother he called the Degenerate. “Or bail money.”

  “Leonides,” said Eleni. “He’s got a sickness. You can’t hate someone for being sick.”

  “I can come close to it.”

  “He needs help,” said Eleni, her eyes increasingly unfocused, her speech a little slurred.

  So do you, thought Spero. Leo would say to let her drink, if that’s what makes her feel better. But it wasn’t making her better. It was just aging her and ruining her health. Even in the forgiving candlelight, she was looking older than her sixty-plus years.

  The sons cleared the table and returned to the porch. Eleni had insisted on doing the dishes herself.

  “When I came in,” said Leo, “she was in front of the TV, watching the Encore Western channel. I think she keeps it on ’cause Pop liked it so much. She’d sit with him through all those spaghetti Westerns he liked.”

  “Whenever they’d run The Big Gundown,” said Spero, “during that final scene? With Van Cleef and Tomas Milian riding across the desert, the Morricone music on the soundtrack? Baba would be on his feet, giving praise to the director. ‘Viva Sollima,’ he’d say.”

  “It was his favorite Italian horse opera that wasn’t directed by Leone.”

  “If they had a kung fu channel, Mom would be watching that, too.”

  “She did indulge him.”

  Leo watched as Spero checked his phone for messages. He’d been looking at his phone frequently throughout the night, but had not heard back from Charlotte Rivers. There was a text from Pete Gibson, though, telling Spero that he was available for a meet.

  “What, you got a new girl?” said Leo.

  “I think so.”

  “You been checking your phone like it’s your first piece of ass. Stressin over a woman, that’s not like you.”

  “She’s special,” said Spero.

  “They’re all special when they’re new.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So she’s got that good stuff?”

  “It’s more than that. I opened up to her right away. I kissed her for what seemed like hours before I went any further.”

  “But you did go further.”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it good?”

  “It was incredible.”

  “Careful. That oyster can make you light-headed. You might get dizzy and fall down.”

  “There’s a big problem beyond that. She’s married, Leo.”

  “Ho, shit.” Leo shook his head
. “I don’t even know what to tell you about that. Except, step away.”

  “It’s gonna be hard for me to do that. Haven’t you ever found yourself in that situation?”

  “You don’t find yourself with a married woman. You make a choice.”

  Spero looked at his brother. “That math teacher you were dating, wasn’t she married?”

  “Separated,” said Leo, shrugging sheepishly.

  “Now you’re splitting hairs.”

  “I split more than that.”

  “See?”

  “I know.”

  Later, Leo asked Spero if there had been any progress in the murder case of Cherise Roberts, who had been his student.

  “It would mean something to me, and to Cherise’s family, if something got done on finding her killer,” said Leo. “The kids at school are still messed up over her death. Tell you the truth, I am, too.”

  “I’ve got feelers out,” said Spero. “All you got to do is find one person who knows something.”

  “And then get ’em to talk.”

  “If they’re incarcerated, they generally won’t talk to police. But they might talk to Petersen. Or me.”

  “And then what, you’d turn over the information to Homicide?”

  “Yeah. I’d let the guys who do it for a living take over.”

  “I appreciate you looking into it,” said Leo. “What else you working on?”