“That ER doctor did a good job,” said Nikolic. “It healed nicely.”
“What about that scar?” said Lucas.
“It’s real. You’ll have it for life.”
“Is that it for us?”
“What else would you like me to do?”
“You could take my blood pressure. I think it’s up right now.”
“Why’s that?”
“It always happens to me when a good-looking woman walks into a room.”
“You’re the first patient that’s ever said that to me.”
“Really?”
“No.” Dr. Nikolic smiled a little as she removed her gloves. “Just let that bandage fall off naturally. You’re good to go.”
Lucas left the clinic and headed downtown. Petersen had asked him to come in. Something to do with Calvin Bates.
Twenty minutes later, Lucas sat before Petersen’s desk in the offices at 5th and D. Petersen, in Western drag, wearing a shirt with a yoked back and snap buttons, reached into a drawer and produced a deck of playing cards in a cardboard case. He dropped the case on the desk in front of Lucas.
“Do you know what these are?” said Petersen.
Lucas opened the pack and inspected the top card. The back of it read, “District of Columbia,” and the next line read, “Cold Case Homicides and Missing Persons,” and had a phone number and phone code printed below it. In the center of the card was a rendering of the D.C. flag overlaid with a small map of the District.
“Turn it over,” said Petersen.
Lucas looked at its flip side. It was the four of hearts, with the words “Unsolved Homicide” and “Up to $25,000 Reward” under the heart. Below that, a photo of a deceased woman named Sharmell “Mella” Hall, her age, the location of where her body had been found, a brief description of the crime, and its case number. She had been shot to death in 1989.
“I’ve heard of these,” said Lucas.
“The company that manufactures the cards distributes them in prisons and jails via various law enforcement agencies. They make them for about thirty different states and cities. Inmates love to play cards. The idea is, while they’re playing, a prisoner could see a missing person or murder victim, and they might know something about the perpetrator.”
“You mean, they’d roll on a killer? That doesn’t happen too often.”
“But it does happen. They do it for the reward, or just because they don’t like someone. Or for consideration at a later date. People who cooperate with the law do better at parole hearings. Of course, it’s often a false lead. But there’ve been a number of arrests and convictions off these tips.”
“How does this connect to Calvin Bates?” said Lucas.
“Apparently, a friend of his was playing poker in the common room of the jail and he recognized a name on one of the cards. Calvin asked to speak to you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” said Petersen, and Lucas tried to read Petersen’s face for the lie. For legal reasons, and to preserve their relationship, Peterson made it a point to stay out of Lucas’s side work and private affairs.
“That a fact,” said Lucas.
“You’ll have to ask him. You should do it quickly, though. His case has gone to the jury. If he’s convicted, he’s going to be moved to a federal facility. That means he’ll be incarcerated somewhere far away.”
“What are his chances of an acquittal?”
“I did the best I could,” said Petersen gravely.
Lucas looked at the cards. Petersen watched him intently as he began to slowly go through them. When Lucas came to the ace of spades and saw the photo and murder description of Cherise Roberts, and her nickname, his eyes registered surprise. Petersen saw this, too.
“They’re not all cold cases, strictly speaking,” said Petersen. “They’ve recently produced a new series for D.C. The deck you have is the latest.”
“What was Bates’s friend holding?” said Lucas.
Petersen grinned. “I thought you’d want to know. You do like your details.”
“What was it?”
“Bates said it was eights and aces,” said Petersen. “The dead man’s hand.”
“I thought that hand was known as aces and eights?”
“It scans better the other way,” said Petersen. “It’s more poetic. Bob Seger thought so, too. He changed the order in ‘Fire Lake.’ ‘Who wants to play those eights and aces’? Do you know that song?”
“My father liked it. He said that Seger was Springsteen for the authentic workingman.”
“Indeed.”
“When can I see Bates? I know they schedule visitation days by the first letter of the last name.”
“I already put in a letter to the DOC. You can see him today. Actually, you’ll be seeing him on a video screen in a building alongside the old D.C. General. They’ve got a new policy down there.”
Lucas got up out of his chair, slipped the deck of cards in a pocket of his jeans.
“You okay, Spero?”
“I’m fine.”
“You seem stressed.”
“Tired, is all. Thanks for this.”
“Don’t be a stranger,” said Petersen.
Lucas didn’t comment. He was already walking away.
Lucas checked in to a room holding rows of chairs and screens in the shuttered hospital’s grounds, near RFK Stadium and close to the D.C. Jail. In the jail, which held prisoners awaiting trial, convicted detainees transitioning to federal prisons, or those serving less than one-year sentences, men sat in common rooms in front of similar screens and spoke to loved ones, relatives, priests, nuns, or attorneys. Face-to-face visits had recently been stopped, a money-saving measure that eliminated the humiliating, time-consuming search-and-frisk procedure that all visitors to the facility had once endured. The shift in policy and procedure had also taken away the needed human contact that came from two people sitting across from each other and looking into each other’s eyes. Even if there had been glass between them, and armed security in the room, most found that closeness preferable to the coldness of video visitation.
“My man,” said Calvin Bates, his face and shoulders filling the screen. “I appreciate you stopping by, Mr. Lucas.”
“Make it Spero.”
“I know what you did for me. Finding that dirt on Brian Dodson, and all that. Putting the possibility out there that it could have been his truck in that field. I’m thinking maybe it’s gonna help me with the jury. Least, I hope it does.”
“If you get a break, it’s probably because of Petersen.”
“You went beyond, though. You did.”
Lucas studied Bates. He was older than Lucas had expected him to be. His eyes were baggy, moist as a hound’s, and not unkind. It was hard to imagine him planning the murder of his girlfriend, Edwina Christian. But Lucas had seen all kinds of killers. Quiet men, fathers, educated men who’d grown up in stable, loving homes. Men who wore crucifixes, and men who killed in the name of Allah.
“Petersen said your buddy recognized someone on one of the playing cards they hand out in the jail.”
“That’s right. My friend’s name is Josh Brown. He’s in on a manslaughter thing.”
“Josh recognized this person when he saw the victim’s photo?”
“No. It was when he saw her name. Also, how the card said her body got found.”
“Just to be clear, we’re talking about…?”
“Cherise Roberts. Petersen had put the bug in my ear, told me to ask around the jail. I told Josh, and he remembered. He was holding eights and aces in a poker game he was havin one day right here in this room.”
“What happened?”
“I guess he was looking real hard at one of the aces he had, and he saw her name. Not Cherise, but her nickname. Cherry. The card said how she got found in a Dumpster in Columbia Heights. And something went off in his head. Wasn’t but a few days earlier that some low-ass inmate, dude called Percy, was braggin to him on killing a young
girl name Cherry and putting her body in a trash can.”
“Why would he do that?” said Lucas.
“Dude was high. Just Josh and him at a table, talking. He didn’t even want to be there with Percy, but wasn’t anyplace to walk away to. Shit, ain’t none of us even like the man. And I guess Percy sensed it, ’cause he started to braggin about who he was on the outside, how he made more money in one day than a pockets-turned-out dude like Josh made in a year. The shit he was up on made him bold.”
“What was he on?”
“He was dippin. All you got to do is drop a Newport into that juice, if you can find a bottle. Ain’t too hard to get in here if you pay the right CO.”
“What did he say?” said Lucas.
“Said he ran girls. High school girls who sold their licorice on the Internet. Said he got them in the fold by offering them blow, and then offered them more drugs and protection if they’d bring him the money they earned and let him hold it. Said most of these girls had no fathers, so he acted like one and moved right in. Said it was easy. Said these girls got to lovin on him and fearing him at the same time.”
Lucas looked around the room and lowered his voice. “What about Cherry?”
“Josh got tired of all his talking, see? He asked Percy, Who’d believe anyone, even a high school girl, would fear a no-ass, skinny-ass Bama like you? And then Percy got all puffed up in that bony chest of his and said they feared him plenty. Matter of fact, he’d had to make an example of this one girl he had named Cherry, after she lipped off and threatened to walk away. Said he got a nut in her backside and rubbed his jam on her face, and then he broke her neck. Put her in a trash can and left her for the rats. Dude was so goddamned ripped on boat he probably don’t even remember telling Josh this bullshit. But Josh remembered.”
“Is Percy still in the jail?”
Bates shook his head. “He’s out.”
“Sent to a federal joint?”
“On the street. He was up on charges for distribution, a major violation for him, and he was looking at years. But someone on the jury refused to convict. He got freed on a nullification thing. Man went right back to his neighborhood, I expect. He lives in the area where he said he dumped that girl.”
“What’s his full name?” said Lucas.
“Percy Malone. Goes by ‘P.’”
“He stays in the Heights? Where?”
“I don’t know the numbers on his door. But he shouldn’t be too hard to find for a guy like you.”
“Right,” said Lucas. It’ll be easy.
“I hope this helps.”
“Would Josh Brown repeat what he said to the law?”
“You mean, will he testify? Sure.”
“Even if it could come back on him?”
“He’s not afraid. Neither am I.” Bates looked deeply at Lucas. “You want to know why I’m comin forward with this, right?”
“It crossed my mind.”
“I’m about to get my verdict,” said Bates. “Whatever the decision, I accept it. But no twelve can judge me. Only God can. If I can do something right in His eyes…”
“Understood.”
“I’m tired,” said Bates.
“Thank you,” said Lucas.
TWENTY-FOUR
Grace Kinkaid had a light day of work at her nonprofit and could have gone home early, but she usually stuck around till after five. She enjoyed the company of her coworkers. Also, if she went back to her condo too early, she’d start drinking, and the night would be too blurry and long. She was aware of her problem with alcohol and was making an effort to cut back. She’d heard that drink-counting was a warning sign of dependence, but she’d taken to doing just that, looking to keep her intake to three, four glasses of wine per day. Her intention was to get it down to two. As of yet, she’d not come close to achieving that goal. But she was trying.
Her office was on the sketchy side of the Hill, on one of the low-numbered streets in Northeast, between Constitution and H, but closer to H. She was an attorney but she earned a modest salary, not much more than the younger folks she worked with, who only had undergraduate degrees or no degree at all. The organization was called Food for Children, which was good for fund-raising and solicitation. People saw those words on a mailer, it was hard to throw away.
Grace didn’t have the high salary that came with a law firm, or its politics and rigidity. She liked the fact that she was doing something positive for her native city. Her work was mostly administrative, but in her mind she was helping to feed hungry kids.
“Good night, Neecie,” said Grace, to an overweight, pretty-faced woman with red lipstick, who sat at a nearby desk.
“Have a good one, Grace.”
Grace walked from the offices out to the street. There were neighborhood folks around but not too many, as most had not come home from work yet. Her car, a late-model Jetta, was parked down the block.
Grace had not yet gotten the money she owed Spero Lucas. Her intent was to close the deal with the painting’s buyer soon. She’d blown it off in part because he’d not reminded her, though she realized the responsibility was not his. It was funny about Spero. He didn’t even seem to want the money when he’d returned the painting. It was like it wasn’t important to him.
As she walked down the sidewalk, her purse in hand, she idly noticed a man get out of a nondescript sedan. In fact, it was an old Ford Taurus, a hack with stolen plates that the man had rented for one day from a resident of Lincoln Heights. The man wore a multicolored knit tam that normally covered dreads, but today covered wads of paper resting atop a modified Afro. His face had been shaven clean hours earlier, except for a thin Vandyke missing spots he couldn’t “get.” He wore aviator sunglasses with large lenses. To some, he went by Jabari Jones, but his surname was Alston. He was in disguise.
Grace did not pay much attention as the man approached her, and paid little more attention when he reached under the tail of his shirt. As he neared her, she saw his hand come out with a knife. It was long and serrated, and as he raised it, late-afternoon sun winked off its blade. Grace dropped her handbag to the sidewalk and turned her head, as if by looking away she could stop this. Alston grabbed Grace by the throat, came down with the knife, and stabbed her deeply in her right breast. Grace said, “Oh,” and felt the air go out of her as her knees buckled. Alston held her up and again plunged the knife into her chest. He released his hand from her throat, and as she fell, she felt blood leave her. Then a great deal of pain, but only for a moment, because she was going into shock. One leg twitched in spasm as she lay on the ground. Alston picked up her handbag and walked away.
A witness later described the assailant as “a Rasta dude with shades.” She said he’d gotten into an old blue “Ford or Chevy” and drove away. She noted that he’d looked “sick” as he’d quick-stepped to his car.
Lucas spent the latter part of the day in his apartment. Using the Intelius program on his laptop, he background-checked Percy Malone, found his record of multiple arrests and convictions, and brought up his photograph. Over a twenty-year period, since the age of fourteen, Malone had been into everything from drug distribution to felonious assault to pandering. His incarcerations had begun at the old Oak Hill facility for juveniles. He’d done a stretch at the now-shuttered Lorton Reformatory and one out-of-state facility as well. He was a career criminal, a poster child for those who were anti-rehabilitation or -reform. Lucas was all for redemption. He also knew that some men couldn’t be saved.
Next, Lucas ran Malone’s name and DOB into the People Finder program and came up with a current residential address. Calvin Bates had been mistaken. Malone did not live in Columbia Heights, but rather in a house on Princeton Place, Northwest, in Park View. Lucas was familiar with the 700 block and knew it held smallish row homes on the south side. The “First Floor” designation told Lucas that Malone stayed in an apartment or rented a room in a house. Bates had been right about one thing: Malone was easy to find.
Lucas drove
his Jeep down to Park View.
He parked on Princeton, the nose of his truck pointed east. Lucas knew that at the top of the grade was Warder Street and Park View Recreation Center, and one block beyond, the grounds of the U.S. Soldiers’ and Airmen’s Home, which most folks called the Old Soldiers’ Home. Just five years earlier, Lucas would have stood out if he were parked on this street. Since the sixties, and for many years after the riots, the neighborhood had been almost entirely black. Park View also was home to the once-infamous Park Morton Complex and the Black Hole go-go club on Georgia, a trouble spot for police in 4D. But Park View’s demographics and amenities, like those citywide, were changing. There were whites, blacks, and Hispanics now on the streets, and new coffee shops, bars, restaurants, and condos opening on the Avenue. Lucas couldn’t decide if the changes were positive. Maybe it was just a cultural and economic evolution. Neither good nor bad, just different.
He waited in the car for a couple of hours, keeping an eye on Percy Malone’s residence, a two-story row home painted gray. He listened to music from his iPhone and peed once into an old water bottle. He was about to go home when Malone emerged from the house. Lucas mentally recorded the time.
Malone looked like his photograph. Average height, spidery, with skinny arms and legs, and gangly wrists. Malone glanced around the street. His eyes, even from this distance, had the alert but deadened look of an abused child.
Lucas had expected Malone to go down the block to Georgia, but instead he walked up Princeton toward Warder Place. Then Lucas saw him stop, cup his hands around a match, and light something thinly rolled. So Malone was smoking a little weed on the way to wherever he was going next. Lucas waited until he was out of sight, then started the Jeep and drove east, slowly following Malone’s path.
At the Warder intersection, Lucas looked right and saw Malone turn the corner on the other side of the rec center, onto Otis. Warder was one way heading north. Lucas took a chance and drove against traffic, and when he came to Otis and turned right, Malone had vanished.