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.