“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?”
“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.