The Double

  “I got a couple of cases, actually.”

  “Any progress?”

  “You know how I do. I get out there and talk to people.”

  “And?”

  “Things start to happen.”

  “Mind yourself with that woman of yours.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Leo swigged his beer, set the bottle down gently on the glass table. “Don’t fall in love with someone you can’t have.”

  NINE

  Lucas met Abraham Woldu, a well-dressed middle-aged man with curly black hair and an open smile, in front of his properties on North Capitol the next morning. Lucas had been honest about the fact that he was an investigator, though he declined to elaborate on the nature of the case, citing confidentiality. Nevertheless, Woldu appeared to be willing to talk. In the first few minutes of their conversation, Lucas learned that he was an immigrant from Eritrea, educated in Italy. He spoke several different languages, fluently. He had a wife and three sons who were now men. He owned the properties here and several others around town, served as his own broker, and had a license to do so.

  “Are you Orthodox?” said Lucas.

  “Yes.”

  “Me, too. We’re brothers.”

  “Yes, we’re brothers. But you don’t need to grease me up. What is it you’re looking for?”

  “I’ll get right to the point. I have reason to believe that someone was running an Internet scam out of one of your properties this past year.”

  “What kind of scam?”

  “It’s not important. What’s pertinent is that it was an unlawful operation. And if it was conducted under your roof, you’re connected. I’d really like to have your help on this. I’d hate to have to go to the Feds.”

  “There’s no need for threats,” said Woldu.

  “What I’m trying to say is, I’d appreciate your cooperation.”

  Woldu looked toward one of the two properties, a ground-level portion of a turreted row home fronted by a plate-glass window. “I had a Jamaican in there for a while. He sold CDs, incense, juices, and the like. Before that, there was a coffee shop run by a lady from my country. Neither of them made it. You want those types of businesses to do well in the neighborhood. It’s good for property values, good for all of us eventually. But sometimes they just don’t work.”

  “What about that one?” said Lucas, nodding to the first floor of the other Woldu property, the one with butcher paper taped over the window.

  “That was a longtime hair and nail salon,” said Woldu. “The owner-operator died suddenly. I had a man in there for four months after that, a short-term thing, off the books.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “It was tax season. He said he was an accountant. He signed no lease. He paid me cash, well in advance, every month.”

  “Off the books,” said Lucas.

  “I reported the income to the IRS,” said Woldu. “It wasn’t me who asked for cash. He insisted.”

  “Did you ever go in there and see what he was up to?”

  “Only to collect the rent. There were a couple of desks, computers…crated goods. No decorations of any kind. He had the blinds drawn all the time. Just as quickly as he was here, he was gone.”

  “Can I see the space?” said Lucas.

  Woldu shrugged and pulled out a set of keys from his pocket. “Sure.”

  They went inside. It was an empty rectangular room painted white. Lucas looked in the restroom, which was surprisingly large, with exposed pipes in the ceiling and a full bath.

  “The lady who had the hair salon enlarged the bathroom,” said Woldu, seeing Lucas’s inquisitive expression.

  “So, this tenant. He must have given you a security deposit. If he did, you sent it to an address later on, right?”

  “He did, in cash. But he came down here and met me for the refund. I returned his deposit, again in cash.”

  “For that meet, you must have communicated by phone.”

  “I have his number in my contacts, right here.” Woldu produced a BlackBerry from his pocket. He scanned his contacts and said, “Serge Nikolai.” He said the phone number, and Lucas wrote it down.

  “You ever see his name on an ID?” said Lucas.

  “No.”

  “Describe the guy.”

  “Medium height, black hair, pale skin. He spoke with an Eastern European or Russian accent.”

  That would be consistent with the mangled syntax of the e-mail message from Grant Summers to Grace Kinkaid, thought Lucas.

  “Anyone else go in and out of the property while he was there?”

  “Yes, there were people in there the few times I visited. Men in plain clothing.”

  “Can you describe those men?”

  “There was a young man. I can barely picture him in my head. He had a beard, I think. Another, older man, too. Blond-haired, I believe.” Woldu rubbed at a cluster of raised moles on his forehead. “When I saw them it was very briefly. I’d have to think about it.”

  “I have your number.”

  “And I have yours.”

  “I didn’t mean to push,” said Lucas. “I apologize.”

  “I have nothing to hide.”

  “Habesha,” said Lucas.

  They shook hands.

  At lunchtime, Lucas walked into the Hitching Post, a soul food eat-house on Upshur, near the Old Soldier’s Home. Owned and operated by Alvin and Adrienne Carter since 1967, it was one of D.C.’s hidden treasures that, like many other down-home Chocolate City legends, could not last. The decor was eclectic, with almost fifty years’ worth of accumulation and whatever the liquor distributors had given the Carters. There was a full bar, several large booths covered in Naugahyde, and a patron-mix of races, classes, and generations. Folks came for the unusual ambience, the soul and funk jukebox, and the signature fried chicken.

  Pete Gibson sat in one of the booths. Lucas made eye contact with him, then stopped to greet Mr. Carter, who had been a patrol cop in D.C. back when black police officers were in the minority.

  “How’s it goin, young fella?” said Al.

  “Righteous,” said Lucas. He smiled at Miss Adrienne, still working behind the counter. “Ma’am.”

  Lucas shook Pete Gibson’s hand as he slid into the curve of the booth’s seat. Gibson’s hair was shaved close, his gray Vandyke so thin it was barely visible. He wore a neatly pressed checked shirt under a sport jacket, though it was a warm, humid day. In the chest pocket of the shirt was a hard deck of Marlboro Reds.

  “Lucas,” said Gibson, showing his white teeth.

  With his blue eyes, strong jaw, and erect bearing, Gibson looked like an actor playing a marine: Richard Jaeckel in The Dirty Dozen. But Gibson had no military background. He had entered the MPD right out of high school, worked patrol, then K-9, and headed an investigative squad in 6 and 7D, the city’s toughest districts. He ended his career as a lieutenant in the relatively soft Second. He lived out near Frederick now, like many former cops who had left the city for the exo-burbs or the mountains. But he had never really put the force behind him. In his head he was still a police officer, and he still craved the action.

  Gibson had helped him on the Anwan Hawkins case, which had ended with a violent confrontation between Lucas, a man named Ricardo “Rooster” Holley, and others. Only Gibson knew of Lucas’s actions and the bloody results.

  “You look good, Pete. Trim.”

  Gibson patted his stomach. “Sit-ups, push-ups, and a chin-up bar. That’s all a man needs. I want to be ready in case I get called up.”

  “For what?”

  “You tell me. I wouldn’t mind standing next to you if things got hot. I like how you resolved the Rooster Holley thing.”

  Lucas said nothing.

  “Anyway, if you ever need any help beyond talk,” said Gibson, “let me know. I can be more than just your bitch for information.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. You look at the menu yet?”

  “I already ordered for
both of us. Fried chicken sandwiches with sides of collard greens and mac and cheese. Is that all right?”

  “Great.”

  “It takes a while in the place. You know what they say: if you’re not hungry when you come to the Hitching Post, you will be by the time they serve your food.”

  “Cooked to order and worth the wait.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  A young waitress came by, and Lucas asked for iced tea.

  When she walked away, Gibson said, “So, Tim McCarthy gave me the message. You’re looking for something on a Brian Dodson.”

  “I have his criminal record, which ends in the nineties. Nothing since then on the books. By all accounts he’s living a straight life. Works at a garage in Cottage City, has a little house in Colmar Manor. But yesterday I tailed him down to Barry Farms.”

  “That shithole?” said Gibson.

  “It’s not all that bad.”

  “No? I wouldn’t live there if I did live there.”

  Lucas moved on. “Dodson walked into one of the dwellings with a bag over his shoulder, walked out with the same bag. I’m guessing he was conducting some kind of business. Given his criminal record, and the neighborhood, I can assume he wasn’t delivering Meals On Wheels.”

  “I had the pleasure of working those districts. In Six-D…I ever tell you about what we’d do to the dope fiends over there by Mayfair Gardens?”

  “Yes,” said Lucas, but that wasn’t going to stop Gibson.

  “We used to line up the junkies and crackheads, in the dead of winter, and have them take off all their clothes. Said we needed to search ’em, but we couldn’t run the risk of pricking ourselves on dirty needles. So they’d get naked and put all their clothes on the hood of my squad car. And then I’d say to them, ‘All right, now you got thirty seconds to get your shit off my car, ’cause I’m about to take off.’ They’d panic and scramble. Put on whatever they could grab. Later, me and the guys in my unit, we’d see these pipers on the street, wearing mismatched outfits, a Nike and a Converse on each of their feet.”

  “Officer Friendly.”

  “I know.” Gibson shook his head, his eyes bright with nostalgia. “It was wrong, I guess. But it was funnier than shit.”

  “Brian Dodson…”

  “Right. Your boy isn’t who you think he is.”

  “I already told you, I think he’s dirty.”

  “It’s worse than that. His name came up on a wiretap last year, a thing the Feds were working. Dude was talking, said he had a problem that needed to get solved, other dude suggests a guy named Brian Dodson. Said he’d put work in for a triple deuce. Meaning, he’d murder someone for six thousand dollars. These knotheads talk in code, think they’re foolin someone. A retard could figure out the meaning of the words.”

  “He’s…”

  “Dodson’s a mechanic.”

  “I know it.”

  “As in The Mechanic, with Charlie Bronson. He’s an assassin.”

  “I get you, Pete. I’m just digesting it.”

  The waitress served Lucas his iced tea. He sipped it and waited for her to drift.

  “Why didn’t the law bring him in?” said Lucas.

  “The dude who identified Dodson as a contract man is no longer available to elaborate on the subject.”

  “He skipped town?”

  “He’s Ten-Seven. That’s police code for Out of Service, Lucas.”

  “I’m familiar with the codes.”

  “Someone put a bullet in his dome. But the Special Task Force is keeping an eye on Dodson. He’s what they call a ‘person of interest.’” Gibson grinned. “Good stuff, right?”

  The waitress served their sides and chicken sandwiches, which were several pieces of bone-in fried chicken served on a piece of bread. How one could eat it as a sandwich was one of the pleasant mysteries of the Hitching Post. Lucas and Gibson commenced to getting down on their food.

  They ate silently, ravenously.

  A little while later, Lucas wiped a napkin across his face and said, “What about the Cherise Roberts murder? Anything on that?”

  “No progress,” said Gibson. “My guy in Homicide tells me that they turned up some interesting details on the victim, but they have nothing as of yet on a perpetrator.”

  “What about her?”

  “A search of the history on her home computer indicated that she was running a little business on the side.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “She was trickin.”

  “Cherise was a prostitute?”

  “Not like the image you got in your head. She didn’t walk the stroll or anything like that. You don’t need to in this day and age. Teenage girls can retail their ass online if they’re savvy. Any girl can be an entrepreneur with the help of the Internet. Cherise even had a prosti name.”

  “What was it?”

  “I don’t recall. Some kinda name designed to make the creeps get wood.”

  Lucas thought of Leo. His brother had expressed no suspicions about Cherise’s character. Leo worked in a public school in the city—he was anything but naive. If this was true, Cherise had been discreet about her secret life. It would cut Leo deep if he were to hear about it.

  “If they have the computer history,” said Lucas, “then they have the names of some of her Johns.”

  “I’m sure they’ve conducted their interviews,” said Gibson.

  “Right.”

  “Let the real police do their jobs.”

  “I will,” said Lucas. “Thanks for looking into all of this.”

  Gibson nodded. “Lunch is on you.”

  “If I need you again…”

  “You’ve got my number,” said Gibson.

  Lucas signaled the waitress.

  TEN

  Tom Petersen sat behind his desk, reading the one-page report Lucas had typed and printed after his lunch at the Hitching Post. Lucas, seated before the desk in a wobbly chair, watched as Petersen dropped the sheet and folded his hands across his belly.

  “I’m not sure what you’re saying here,” said Petersen. “Exactly.”

  “I’m giving you a scenario,” said Lucas. “Edwina Christian was seeing a man named Brian Dodson at the same time she was seeing Calvin Bates. My source tells me that Dodson has been identified as a contract killer per Federal wiretaps.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “When I interviewed Virginia Christian, she explained a quote I read in the discovery material, something to the effect of her daughter wanting to ‘take care’ of Bates. Virginia said that this meant Edwina wanted to help Bates. That she was on a mission from her pastor at church. But what if Edwina Christian wanted to take care of Bates in a different way? As in, take him out permanently. He wouldn’t leave her alone, and it had become a problem. She had a relationship with a low-rent hit man. Dodson would be the one she’d turn to.”

  “I’m getting a warm feeling now.”

  “What was the caliber of the slug found in Edwina’s brainpan?” said Lucas.

  “Twenty-two.”

  “Twenty-twos are used by professionals who like to work close-in.”

  “Now the blood is flowing to my pecker.”

  “And consider this: one of Dodson’s vehicles is a Ford Excursion.”

  “I’m guessing it has a wide axle track.”

  “Look up the specs online. It could be that Dodson’s Excursion is the vehicle that laid those tracks down near the woods in Southern Maryland.”

  “Yes, it could be. But why?”

  “Because it’s a heavy truck?”

  “No, I’m asking, why would Brian Dodson murder Edwina Christian? What was the motive?”

  “I don’t know,” said Lucas. “Maybe she paid him and he decided to do her instead of Bates. Maybe Dodson and Bates were in collusion.”

  “Don’t stray too far into Candy Land.”

  “Okay, but let’s stay with the theory that she paid Dodson to hit Bates. Go ahead and access her bank re
cords. You might find a significant withdrawal before her murder.”

  “Okay, I’m still with you. But there’s the matter of Bates’s presence near those woods, right around her time of death. The GPS records from his ankle bracelet don’t lie. What was he doing down there? And why would he torch his truck to cover up evidence if he was innocent?”

  “Maybe someone else torched his truck and set him up.”

  “Candy Land.”

  “I’m only giving you some possibilities,” said Lucas. “You asked me to find something, and I did.”

  Petersen stood. He paced the room, his cowboy boots clomping on the wood floor. “I’m going to trial in a couple of days.”

  “Then subpoena Dodson and put him on the stand,” said Lucas. “At least you’ll put a, you know, seed of doubt into the jury’s mind.”

  “And cut to commercial break,” said Petersen, with amusement.

  Lucas got out of his chair. He stretched and picked up his notebook off the desk.

  “You’re leaving?” said Petersen.

  “I’ve got plans tonight.”

  “A woman, I take it.”

  “I’m like that.”

  “‘Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.’”

  “I intend to,” said Lucas. “By the way, I’m going to be out of commission for a while.”

  “Side job?”

  Lucas didn’t answer. He walked toward the door.

  “Spero,” said Petersen, and Lucas stopped and turned. “Nice work on this one. Real nice.”

  Lucas said, “I know.”

  On the way to Petersen’s office, Lucas had gotten a call from Charlotte Rivers. She’d be at the hotel on 16th Street that evening, and was wondering if he wanted to stop by.

  “I’ve been calling you,” said Lucas.

  “I don’t leave that phone on much,” said Charlotte. “Do you want to come or not?”

  “I can meet you in the bar.”

  “Come straight up to my room,” she said, and gave him the number on the door.

  At his place, he heated up some thick spaghetti with meat sauce, cut a salad, got some food inside him, then showered, dressed, and drove over to the hotel, where he left his Jeep with the valet. The doorman recognized him and damn near winked as he ushered him through the entrance. Maybe Lucas imagined it. His mind was fuzzy. He was thinking of Charlotte up in that room.