“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.”