Shannon was straight and Ward was open to suggestion, so Ornazian began to cut him in on side jobs that relieved criminals of their ill-gotten gains. It had been a good partnership so far. Ward realized that Ornazian was playing on his distaste for men who ran women. Ornazian knew, from an early conversation they’d had, that Ward’s sister had been lost to the streets.
Ward had come from a solid blue-collar family. His father worked in a diner and his mother was a line cook in a government-agency cafeteria. They were good people and good role models, but, as many parents discover, that wasn’t enough to overcome the influence of their children’s peers, or stop their daughter from temporarily losing her teenage mind. Ward’s sister, Ella, who had been a church girl and good student, started slipping away at age fifteen and somehow got herself introduced to a man who called himself Ace. Ace was a pimp and an addict who seduced Ella and got her hooked on heroin. She was tricking on the Fourteenth Street corridor by the time she was sixteen. Ace got turned out by another pimp, and from the moment that Ace had been punked, he lost his power and could no longer mack. He was just a heroin addict, no longer a stud. Ella stayed with him because she liked him, but she never slept with him again. They lived together only as junkies. Ella’s body was found, stiff as plywood, in a needle pad not long after her eighteenth birthday.
Ward never forgot. But his side work with Ornazian wasn’t just about hate, and it wasn’t about money. He had been a fierce combat soldier in Vietnam and a driven police officer in D.C. Now he was staring at seventy and the other side of the hill. He knew what was coming, and it was very difficult for him to face it. So he’d hold on to his image of himself for as long as he could. He liked the action. That’s really all it was, when you got down to it. He wasn’t ready to let that part of himself go.
Not yet.
AS NIGHT settled in, Phil Ornazian parked his car on Wagner Lane in Glen Echo Heights, a community of quiet affluence off MacArthur Boulevard, near the C & O Canal and the Potomac River. He was watching the Kelly residence, a simple brick-and-shingle Cape Cod near the top of the street that had been built when the neighborhood was affordable to the middle class. It was his third trip out here and so far he had come up empty. No Terry Kelly, no Dodge Charger. Just a vanilla Honda Pilot in the driveway that, in the hours of his surveillance, had not moved.
He was in a tough spot. He intended to rob Terry and his friends of the Tiffany bracelet, so he couldn’t just go up to the door and question Terry’s parents. The usual search programs on his laptop had placed Terry at his childhood home on Wagner and gave no alternative addresses. If Terry didn’t show he would have to think of something else. But right now, as he pondered it, there didn’t seem to be a something else.
His head began to hurt from all the thinking. Also, he was hungry. He hit the ignition button on the dash and headed back to D.C.
Ornazian met Sydney and the boys at a soul food spot on Second and Upshur, not far from their house. He had money in his pocket and he felt like treating them. His sons loved the fried chicken there and Syd was into their crab cakes. The new owner had spiffed up the place but it still had its charms, which included a nice middle-aged waitress and a wall jukebox featuring seventies R & B. The waitress was obviously a Teddy fan, as she had programmed the juke for a nightlong Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes mix. Sydney, like many Brits, was into the American soul and funk of that glorious decade, and because Ornazian was a native Washingtonian, it was in his blood too. The family had a nice night out. Thankfully, the boys were relatively well behaved.
Out on Upshur they walked to Ornazian’s Ford. The father, mother, and sons were all different skin shades, but in Petworth and in Park View, few gave them a second look. This acceptance was one reason that Ornazian was determined not to leave the city. They were in the realm of the norm here. He had once taken the family to a friend’s wedding in Vermont and he, his wife, and children had received blatant stares while walking down the street. So much for the progressive North.
Back at the house he rewarded the boys for their good behavior and let them sleep in his and Sydney’s bed. Whitey and Blue were snoring, passed out on their cushions nearby. The boys soon drifted off too. Ornazian had Gregg on one side of him, Vic on the other. Gregg was close against him and his scalp warmed Ornazian’s chest. Ornazian smiled, thinking, My puppies.
Sydney, on the far side of the bed, spoke quietly. “Thanks for dinner, love. We should go out more often together. The boys aren’t as wild as they used to be.”
“Yes, they are. They just had an off night.”
“I’m saying, we’ll have more time to do things as a family now. You’ve finished with this last thing, right?”
“I’ve got other pots boiling on the stove.”
“Then take them off the stove.”
“All I’m hearing from you right now is cacophony.”
“Huh?”
“From the Greek. Caco means ‘bad.’ Phony is ‘sound.’”
“Oh my God. That again.”
“You’re making bad sounds.”
“Don’t get turned around by money,” said Sydney. “That’s all I’m saying. What’s important is right here, in this bed.”
“No need to stress on it, Syd. I’ve got it wired up tight.”
“I can’t help it.”
“Go to sleep.”
The wind picked up and rattled the branches of the oak outside their window. Its shadows crawled across their bed.
Twenty-One
A SECURITY guard had remotely opened the cell doors on the Gen Pop unit from inside the fishbowl, and inmates clad in orange jumpsuits had formed a line leading to a desk that was bolted to the floor. Anna sat behind the desk, her rolling cart of books beside her. She was talking to the man with heavy-lidded eyes and a gravelly voice whose name she could not recall.
“You got The Adventurers?” he said.
“It’s checked out. How about The Carpetbaggers?”
“I guess I could read it again. Jonas Cord is my man.”
Anna found a battered paperback of the Harold Robbins favorite and checked it out to the inmate.
Donnell, the sleepy-eyed misdemeanant who had nearly served out his term, stepped up to her and placed The Passenger on the table. Donnell had asked Anna for books to help him “figure out” women, and Anna had chosen this one for its female voice and perspective. Also, it was a compelling story, well told.
“I got into this one, Anna. That lady can write the shit out of a book.”
“Glad you liked it.”
“When that girl Tanya broke into those vacation houses and just kinda lived there in the off-season, while the owners weren’t around? That was crafty. I can see why this book would be popular. ’Cause, you know, the idea that you can dye your hair a new color, cash in your bank account, change your ID cards, and disappear into thin air? It’s kind of everyone’s fantasy, right? To have a new start.”
“It is for some,” she said.
“So what you got for me now?”
Anna took a book off the cart. It was one of Wallace Stroby’s crime novels about a professional thief named Crissa Stone. “Try this one. It’s got a female protagonist. Written by a man but he gets women right.”
Donnell opened the book and read some of the flap copy. “Thank you. I’ll let you know what I think.”
She logged in the information of his returned book and gave Donnell a DCPL receipt.
Larry, the man up on felony manslaughter charges who had recently found Jesus, was next in line.
“Miss Anna.”
“Larry. Here you go.”
She handed him a slim copy of The Red Pony. Since the book club had read Of Mice and Men, Larry had asked for more “Mr. Steinbeck.” She had erred in giving him East of Eden, which he returned unfinished, saying it was “too slow and too long.” She thought this one would work better for him.
Larry inspected the cover art, a lovely black-and-white photograph of a grazing horse,
circa 1926, taken by Albert Renger-Patzsch.
“This a kids’ book?” said Larry.
“Some people mistakenly thought it was when it was published. But it’s not. Not at all. It might be the deepest book Steinbeck wrote. It’s about the seasons of life.”
“Like they talk about in the Old Testament. Does it have the Lord in it?”
“Not by name. But it’s a very spiritual book.”
“Praise be,” said Larry.
Anna watched him walk back toward his cell, book in hand.
She normally ate her lunch in the workroom because of the security hassle of returning to the jail, but she needed a break and decided to get some air. She left the facility and walked down past the parking lots to where the Anacostia Riverwalk Trail went along the Stadium-Armory Campus. The trail was wide enough to accommodate bikers and pedestrians, and she took it on foot, through the trees and along the river. About a mile and a half in, she crossed an elevated bridge that spanned a boatyard where colorful kayaks were stacked in numbers, and then she descended the sloping trail to the water’s edge. She stood beneath the Sousa Bridge and looked across the river to its east bank.
When she’d first moved to Washington, she’d ride her bike down to the Anacostia via city streets because there was no trail. Men were often day-camped here, sitting on folding chairs, bottom-fishing for their supper, pulling perch and catfish out of the brackish water. The river, once polluted, was improving by then but still unclean. She wouldn’t have eaten any fish that swam in it but she supposed the men knew what they were doing. They called her “Slim” and “baby” and offered her cheap beer from their coolers but were not at all threatening. She rarely saw locals like them here anymore. It was young couples wearing Patagonia and pushing baby strollers, joggers in Runner’s World gear. But they were part of the D.C. fabric now too.
Gulls swooped down and threw black shadows on the stanchions of the bridge. A slight wind came up and rippled the water. It was lovely here, still.
Her thoughts went to Donnell and his comments: “It’s kind of everyone’s fantasy, right? To have a new start.”
She was not one of those who wanted to run away. She was into Washington. She liked dealing with the inmates and turning them on to books. Maybe it would not be her life’s work but it was better than fine for now. And yet there was something missing in her overall day-to-day, particularly with Rick. Given his even temperament, burgeoning career, and good looks, she would find this difficult to explain to a friend. But then, she had few people in her life that she could truly confide in. It was strange that she had found it so easy to be with Michael Hudson and open up to him. Michael, with his gentle manner, his confidence, the stylish way he wore the cap on his head, his deep brown eyes.
“No,” she said aloud, and then she shook her head, because what she was thinking was wrong.
Anna walked back toward the jail.
MICHAEL HUDSON loaded up a rack of clean glassware from out of the dishwasher, his earbuds in, his phone playing Backyard Band’s Street Antidote, a go-go set he’d been listening to for the past hour. He lifted the rack, distributed its weight against his apron, and headed for the spiral stairs that led to the bar and dining room.
The kitchen had grown warmer as the spring progressed, and he was sweating, but he was in work shape and he was fine. As he neared the stairs, he was stopped by a pull on his T-shirt from behind. It was Blanca, the pizza-station cook, with her red-rinse hair and Raggedy Ann cheeks, oven scars wormed on her inner forearms. She was smiling. She stood on her toes, reached up, and removed one of Michael’s earbuds. Now he was half listening to his go-go, half listening to the Spanish, horn-driven music that was blaring trebly from the Bluetooth speakers the crew had set up in the kitchen.
“What you want, Blanca?”
“Just bothering you, baby.”
“Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Don’t be so serious.” She raised her arms and did some sort of abbreviated cha-cha move. “You want to dan’?”
“I’m on the clock. They don’t pay me to dan’. But if they did, I’d dance you so hard your head would spin.”
“I spin on you,” she said. She turned to Maria, her friend in the kitchen, and winked. Both of them doubled over in laughter. Michael nearly blushed.
He headed up the stairs. Trying to negotiate the turns and watch his footing, he came upon Joe, who was descending. Joe gave Michael a short backfist in the groin as he passed.
“Good thing my hands are full, amigo,” said Michael.
“I drop you like a tall tree,” said Joe, and he gave Michael an air kiss.
In the hall leading to the bar, Michael smiled. Thinking, I’m in.
He had lunch at a two-top up in the empty top-floor dining room after the rush. He was eating and reading his book when Angelos Valis came out of the office, where he had been doing some paperwork.
“You got a minute?” said Angelos, taking a seat across from Michael.
“You fixin to give me my walking papers?”
“The opposite. Just wanted to tell you that you’re doing a good job.”
“So that means what? A raise?”
Angelos shook his head with theatrical regret. “Negative. Your raises are triggered by the D.C. minimum-wage laws. I told you that. But I would like to put you on our health-insurance plan. You’d have to contribute a small portion of your paycheck, but it’s very reasonable, and the plan is solid. Do you have health insurance now?”
“No.”
“Well, if you got sick or got in an accident or something, who’d pay the bills?”
His mother would step up, thought Michael, but he was too ashamed to say so.
“How much would I have to pay?” said Michael.
“I’ll print the deal out for you so you can look it over.”
“That costs y’all money,” said Michael. “Why would you do it?”
“I talked it over with the owner. We like your performance and your work ethic. It’s an incentive for you to stay with us. We want you to.” Angelos stood from his chair. “I’ll let you finish your lunch in peace.”
Angelos went down the stairs. Michael began to read his book, Northline. He couldn’t stay away from the novel now or put it out of mind. Allison Johnson’s story was coming to an end.
A GOOD detective has to have patience along with ambition. On Ornazian’s fourth trip out to the house on Wagner Lane, early in the evening, Terry Kelly came home.
Terry parked his bright red Charger in front of his parents’ house, got out of the car, and retrieved a laundry basket topped off with clothes from the backseat. Ornazian, three houses down the block, took photos of Terry, then watched him as he used his key to enter the house. Terry was muscular, with closely shaved hair and an unusually long face and wide forehead. He was tall. Ornazian put him at about six foot two.
Ornazian took photos of the car and used his fingers to spread them wide on the screen to ensure that he had gotten the tag numbers. The R/T badge was visible on the grille of the Charger, as were the dual scoops on the hood. Underneath was a V-8 Hemi. Ornazian remembered pricing out this model years ago. If the car had been purchased new, the father had dropped forty grand on a gift for his son. A lot of money, symbolic of his pride in a kid who had been accepted to a college where he was set to play D-1 ball on a scholarship. Ornazian could only imagine the father’s disbelief when Terry started failing in school and then got busted on a distro beef. The old man’s world must have imploded. The kid, now an adult, still drove the car, a laughing reminder of his steep fall.
Ornazian hit Thaddeus Ward up on his office phone.
“Ward Bonds,” said the man himself.
“Like the character actor?”
“What do you want, Phil? I got no time for your nonsense.”
“I found Terry Kelly. One of the guys who stole the Tiffany bracelet.”
“And?”
“He came home to roost. I’m outside his father??
?s house. I’m going to tail him and see where he goes.”
“Don’t get burned.”
“Thanks, Dad. Actually, I don’t have to hug him too close. He’s driving a car so bright, I can see it from miles away. It’s real subtle, like napalm dropping on a forest.”
“Was the Vietnam reference for me?”
“I forgot to mention the Zippo lighter.”
“You need a ride-along?”
“Sure. There’s plenty of time for you to get out here. Terry’s doing his laundry.”
Ornazian gave Ward the address.
Three hours later, they were following the Charger out of the Washington metropolitan area and onto 270 North. They drove for over an hour, past Frederick, on to Route 15, then turned left off the highway to a two-lane that ran through a sparsely populated town called Hillville at the foot of the Catoctin Mountains. There, Terry Kelly went up a winding grade and turned into a gravel driveway that led to a house set back in a stand of pines.
Twenty-Two
THE FOLLOWING morning, Terry Kelly woke up to the sounds of his phone alarm and the hard-core thrash of a band called Storm. His housemates had downloaded the tune off a Maryland-based website that sold CDs, clothing, and other items that promoted white supremacy. If Terry had had any historical perspective, he might have noted that the music sounded very similar to that of first-wave D.C. punk groups like Minor Threat, albeit with racist lyrics. But he had no historical perspective. He merely had a headache.
The night before, Terry and his housemates, Richard Rupert and Tommy Getz, had drunk a case of beer and a bottle of Jack and smoked plentiful amounts of weed.
Richard put the music on first thing every morning. He said it got him motivated for his day. Terry sometimes wished that Richard would give it a rest. The music had sounded great last night, when they were torched and dancing with their shirts off, but the barking vocals and speedy guitars were grating at seven thirty a.m. Terry was a believer, but if pressed he would admit that white-nationalist rock lyrics were pretty much the same from song to song. Some young guy lamenting about old days he’d never actually experienced when jobs were plentiful for white people, before “others” arrived, fucked up the neighborhood with graffiti, gangs, and cheap labor, and ruined everything.