“Just to be clear, we’re talking about...?”
“Cherise Roberts. Petersen had put the bug in my ear, told me to ask around the jail. I told Josh, and he remembered. He was holding eights and aces in a poker game he was havin one day right here in this room.”
“What happened?”
“I guess he was looking real hard at one of the aces he had, and he saw her name. Not Cherise, but her nickname. Cherry. The card said how she got found in a Dumpster in Columbia Heights. And something went off in his head. Wasn’t but a few days earlier that some low-ass inmate, dude called Percy, was braggin to him on killing a young girl name Cherry and putting her body in a trash can.”
“Why would he do that?” said Lucas.
“Dude was high. Just Josh and him at a table, talking. He didn’t even want to be there with Percy, but wasn’t anyplace to walk away to. Shit, ain’t none of us even like the man. And I guess Percy sensed it, ’cause he started to braggin about who he was on the outside, how he made more money in one day than a pockets-turned-out dude like Josh made in a year. The shit he was up on made him bold.”
“What was he on?”
“He was dippin. All you got to do is drop a Newport into that juice, if you can find a bottle. Ain’t too hard to get in here if you pay the right CO.”
“What did he say?” said Lucas.
“Said he ran girls. High school girls who sold their licorice on the Internet. Said he got them in the fold by offering them blow, and then offered them more drugs and protection if they’d bring him the money they earned and let him hold it. Said most of these girls had no fathers, so he acted like one and moved right in. Said it was easy. Said these girls got to lovin on him and fearing him at the same time.”
Lucas looked around the room and lowered his voice. “What about Cherry?”
“Josh got tired of all his talking, see? He asked Percy, Who’d believe anyone, even a high school girl, would fear a no-ass, skinny-ass Bama like you? And then Percy got all puffed up in that bony chest of his and said they feared him plenty. Matter of fact, he’d had to make an example of this one girl he had named Cherry, after she lipped off and threatened to walk away. Said he got a nut in her backside and rubbed his jam on her face, and then he broke her neck. Put her in a trash can and left her for the rats. Dude was so goddamned ripped on boat he probably don’t even remember telling Josh this bullshit. But Josh remembered.”
“Is Percy still in the jail?”
Bates shook his head. “He’s out.”
“Sent to a federal joint?”
“On the street. He was up on charges for distribution, a major violation for him, and he was looking at years. But someone on the jury refused to convict. He got freed on a nullification thing. Man went right back to his neighborhood, I expect. He lives in the area where he said he dumped that girl.”
“What’s his full name?” said Lucas.
“Percy Malone. Goes by ‘P.’”
“He stays in the Heights? Where?”
“I don’t know the numbers on his door. But he shouldn’t be too hard to find for a guy like you.”
“Right,” said Lucas. It’ll be easy.
“I hope this helps.”
“Would Josh Brown repeat what he said to the law?”
“You mean, will he testify? Sure.”
“Even if it could come back on him?”
“He’s not afraid. Neither am I.” Bates looked deeply at Lucas. “You want to know why I’m comin forward with this, right?”
“It crossed my mind.”
“I’m about to get my verdict,” said Bates. “Whatever the decision, I accept it. But no twelve can judge me. Only God can. If I can do something right in His eyes...”
“Understood.”
“I’m tired,” said Bates.
“Thank you,” said Lucas.
Twenty-Four
Grace Kinkaid had a light day of work at her nonprofit and could have gone home early, but she usually stuck around till after five. She enjoyed the company of her coworkers. Also, if she went back to her condo too early, she’d start drinking, and the night would be too blurry and long. She was aware of her problem with alcohol and was making an effort to cut back. She’d heard that drink-counting was a warning sign of dependence, but she’d taken to doing just that, looking to keep her intake to three, four glasses of wine per day. Her intention was to get it down to two. As of yet, she’d not come close to achieving that goal. But she was trying.
Her office was on the sketchy side of the Hill, on one of the low-numbered streets in Northeast, between Constitution and H, but closer to H. She was an attorney but she earned a modest salary, not much more than the younger folks she worked with, who only had undergraduate degrees or no degree at all. The organization was called Food for Children, which was good for fund-raising and solicitation. People saw those words on a mailer, it was hard to throw away.
Grace didn’t have the high salary that came with a law firm, or its politics and rigidity. She liked the fact that she was doing something positive for her native city. Her work was mostly administrative, but in her mind she was helping to feed hungry kids.
“Good night, Neecie,” said Grace, to an overweight, pretty-faced woman with red lipstick, who sat at a nearby desk.
“Have a good one, Grace.”
Grace walked from the offices out to the street. There were neighborhood folks around but not too many, as most had not come home from work yet. Her car, a late-model Jetta, was parked down the block.
Grace had not yet gotten the money she owed Spero Lucas. Her intent was to close the deal with the painting’s buyer soon. She’d blown it off in part because he’d not reminded her, though she realized the responsibility was not his. It was funny about Spero. He didn’t even seem to want the money when he’d returned the painting. It was like it wasn’t important to him.
As she walked down the sidewalk, her purse in hand, she idly noticed a man get out of a nondescript sedan. In fact, it was an old Ford Taurus, a hack with stolen plates that the man had rented for one day from a resident of Lincoln Heights. The man wore a multicolored knit tam that normally covered dreads, but today covered wads of paper resting atop a modified Afro. His face had been shaven clean hours earlier, except for a thin Vandyke missing spots he couldn’t “get.” He wore aviator sunglasses with large lenses. To some, he went by Jabari Jones, but his surname was Alston. He was in disguise.
Grace did not pay much attention as the man approached her, and paid little more attention when he reached under the tail of his shirt. As he neared her, she saw his hand come out with a knife. It was long and serrated, and as he raised it, late-afternoon sun winked off its blade. Grace dropped her handbag to the sidewalk and turned her head, as if by looking away she could stop this. Alston grabbed Grace by the throat, came down with the knife, and stabbed her deeply in her right breast. Grace said, “Oh,” and felt the air go out of her as her knees buckled. Alston held her up and again plunged the knife into her chest. He released his hand from her throat, and as she fell, she felt blood leave her. Then a great deal of pain, but only for a moment, because she was going into shock. One leg twitched in spasm as she lay on the ground. Alston picked up her handbag and walked away.
A witness later described the assailant as “a Rasta dude with shades.” She said he’d gotten into an old blue “Ford or Chevy” and drove away. She noted that he’d looked “sick” as he’d quick-stepped to his car.
Lucas spent the latter part of the day in his apartment. Using the Intelius program on his laptop, he background-checked Percy Malone, found his record of multiple arrests and convictions, and brought up his photograph. Over a twenty-year period, since the age of fourteen, Malone had been into everything from drug distribution to felonious assault to pandering. His incarcerations had begun at the old Oak Hill facility for juveniles. He’d done a stretch at the now-shuttered Lorton Reformatory and one out-of-state facility as well. He was a career criminal, a poster child for those who were anti-rehabilitation or — reform. Lucas was all for redemption. He also knew that some men couldn’t be saved.