“I’m so happy,” said Grace.
“I’m glad.”
“I didn’t think I’d ever see my painting again. It’s not a reflection on you. I just thought, you know, that it had been sold and was somewhere out there in a collector’s hidden room.”
“I got after it,” said Lucas.
“Indeed you did. Was it difficult?”
“Not very.”
“Was there any connection to the car scam guy?”
“That was a blind alley.”
“So you found Billy?”
“No.”
“You spoke to him, though.”
“Never had the pleasure.”
“How’d you get the painting, then?”
“That’s not important, is it?” Lucas looked into Grace’s eyes. His message was clear.
“I suppose not,” she said.
“As for my fee...”
“You took me by surprise. I have to call the buyer and make the deal. I could write you a check from my money market account right now, if you promise not to deposit it right away.”
“I’d like it in cash, as we agreed. I can wait.”
“Certainly.”
“I know you’re good for it.”
“Of course.” Grace looked to a space on the wall where a brass hook was nailed into a stud. “I’m going to put it right where it was.”
“Would you like me to hang it for you?”
“No, I’ll do that. I think I’m going to sit here and look at it for a while.”
Lucas stood from his seat. “I better get on my way.”
Grace placed her wineglass on the coffee table and stood. She came close to him, put her hand on his forearm, and kissed him, catching the side of his mouth. Her lips were wet and she smelled strongly of alcohol.
“Thank you so much, Spero.”
“My pleasure.”
“I’ll probably have the money for you in a couple of days.”
“Right,” he said.
Lucas entered the elevator. In its polished steel interior he saw his reflection, refracted and dim.
He met his brother Leo at his neighborhood spot on Georgia Avenue, below Geranium, a nondescript, nonviolent bar with mostly middle-aged patrons and a jukebox stocked with soul, neo-soul, and funk. The room was filled with the voice of Anthony Hamilton, singing with gospel fervor.
“That’s my man,” said Leo, nodding toward the juke. “Anthony dogged his girl, now he’s praying to God to bring her back.”
“Maybe it’ll work. He sounds convincing.”
“That’s no spiritual pose. Dude sings in church.” Leo took a sip of his beer. They were drinking imports at a four-top in the center of the room. A woman at the bar had turned her head and was looking at Leo in a familiar way. “When’s the last time you been to Saint Sophia?”
“Been a while. You?”
“I took Mom two Sundays back. Father Steve’s still up there at the pulpit, preaching the good word.”
“F.S. is the man,” said Spero.
He needed to get to church and pray. Lately, he’d broken damn near every one of the commandments. But what good would it do? You couldn’t unfuck another man’s wife. You couldn’t give life back to the dead.
Leo studied his brother’s troubled eyes. “How’d that work thing go for you?”
“I took care of it.”
“The job’s done?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s up for you next?”
“Just keep doin what I’m doin, I guess.”
“You don’t seem too enthusiastic.”
“What’s your point?”
“You know what it means when someone wakes up in the morning and they don’t see any promise in the day?”
“It means they’ve got a limp dick.”
“I’m serious. You been feeling a little blue lately, right?”
“Shit...”
“You should talk to someone. Not to me. I’m sayin, you should take advantage of your VA benefits and see a professional.”
“Please.”
“I’ve been reading stuff, Spero. About all the veterans who’ve been committing suicide. It’s up to one a day now. That’s a higher rate than the combat deaths in Afghanistan this year.”
“Screw you, Leo. You know me better than that.”
“I’m not saying you’re at risk. I’m saying, if those people had gotten help, they might not have done what they did. Ain’t no shame in talking to a shrink.”
“Screw you.”
“Nice to see you have an open mind.”
They changed the subject. They talked about the Nats and the Redskins, and the woman at the bar, whose head kept swiveling in Leo’s direction.
“So you hear anything on the Cherise Roberts murder?” said Leo. “The law got any leads?”
“My attorney, Petersen, he put some feelers out down at the D.C. Jail. There’s been no arrest as of yet.” Spero killed the rest of his beer. “Let me ask you something, man. When you had Cherise as a student, was there anything off about her? Outside of the usual teenage, temporary madness stuff?”
“Cherise was funny and popular. Not much of a scholar, though. She wasn’t headed to college or any place like it. She did the minimum, but she was pleasant, and she never disrupted my class.”
“What about her home life?”
“No father in her world, but that’s not unusual.”
“Was she promiscuous?”
“No more than you or me at that age, from what I could tell.”
Spero was carefully wading around the subject of Cherise’s secret life. But maybe it wasn’t a secret to her peers.
“Her friends ever call her by a nickname?” said Spero.
“Shoot, all the kids have nicknames.”
“What was hers?”
Leo thought about it. “Cherry. Why?”
“I’m going to stay on this,” said Spero. “I need to keep busy. To help me through this blue period I’m in.”
“See, man, why you got to ridicule me? I’m concerned about you, is all. Always looking out for you, bro.”
“The same way that minx at the bar has her eye on you. She’s fine, too. You should talk to her.”
“I got plans. I’m meeting a young lady tonight.”
“Don’t hurt her, Hammer.”
“I gotta go. You coming out the door with me?”
“You go ahead,” said Spero, holding up his empty bottle and signaling the waitress. “I’m gonna have one more beer.”
Lucas had three more. That made five, which for him was far too many.
He’d been thinking of Charlotte, and his inability to reach her, and his frustration welled up and crested, manifesting itself in a bad decision. He stood, left money on the table, and walked toward the door. On the way out he inadvertently bumped a patron, an older man, and Lucas said, “My bad, sir,” and the man said, “That’s quite all right, young man.”
Out in his Jeep, Lucas put a guitar-heavy mix into his CD player and turned it up. As he drove west on Military Road he listened to Dinosaur Jr.’s “I Don’t Wanna Go There,” and the Hold Steady’s “Most People Are DJs,” two songs with long blister-bleed solos that made him more reckless. Soon he was in an upscale upper Northwest neighborhood, parked near a stately forest-green colonial. Lucas got out of his Jeep.
The first floor of the house, her house, was lit up. Many of its curtains and blinds were open, affording a view to the living and dining areas. He’d memorized her address. It had been easy to find, using one of the many programs on his laptop. He was good at what he did. After all, he’d found a group of lowlife criminals operating under false surnames. Stood to reason, he could come up with the residential address of a respectable citizen like Charlotte Rivers.
“‘You’re so respectable,’” sang Lucas, under his breath.