“It’s a win, in a way. Right?”
“It’s better than life. I would have preferred a dismissal. You were instrumental in getting the sentence reduced. The information you dug up on Brian Dodson and his vehicle changed the tenor of the trial.”
“I planted a seed of doubt.”
“Yes, Mr. McCoy.”
“Where’s Calvin going?”
“They’ll ship him to the Federal Transfer Center in Oklahoma City. Then he’s headed for Leavenworth. When Lorton was open, a special Metrobus ran out there from the city every day. Inmates could visit with family and loved ones. Now, the convicts are spread out all over the country.”
“Could he get parole?”
“He’s eligible, sure.”
“If Calvin was to come forward with information related to a homicide...”
“That might help,” said Petersen, and left it at that. He was honoring the unspoken contract he had with Lucas. “I’ve been calling you.”
“Been layin low this past week.”
“What happened to you?”
“I got in a street fight,” said Lucas, with a sheepish shrug.
“Looks like you caught the worst of it.”
“You should see the other guy.”
Petersen folded his hands on his belly. “‘Some men like to hear a cannonball a roarin’.’”
“‘Whiskey in the Jar,’” said Lucas. “Thin Lizzy. My dad loved their live record.”
“Phil and the gang did a version of it, yes. The definitive version, I’d say.” Petersen eyed Lucas curiously. “So now you’re rested.”
“I’m coming around.”
“That’s good. I just picked up a case. It could use your special talents.”
“Give me a little time,” said Lucas, and he got up out of his chair.
“You look different, Spero.”
“I took some punches.”
“I don’t mean that.”
“See you around, Counselor.”
Petersen watched Lucas walk away.
When Lucas returned to his apartment, he got on the website Homicide Watch D.C., founded by journalist Laura Amico. Amico and her staff kept the victims of violent crimes in the public eye, no matter what part of the city they hailed from, long after the traditional media had stopped writing about them. He typed in Cherise Roberts and reread the details of her murder, the location of the Dumpster in a Fairmont Street alley where she’d been found, and looked for any updates on the investigation. No progress had been made on the case. He studied her photo, a smiling, magnetic young woman standing in front of the Cardozo High School sign, HOME OF THE CLERKS, at the top of the 13th Street hill.
At dusk, Lucas rode his bike down to Park View and swung off the saddle at Georgia and Princeton. It was his first ride since he’d been injured. He felt the bumps and potholes in his shoulder and rib cage, but it was bearable and close to fine.
He checked his watch. September had arrived and the sun was setting earlier now. If Percy Malone was still in his usual routine, this would be the time for him to leave his place for his evening walk.
Percy, dressed in a wrinkled, long-sleeved shirt, emerged unkempt and spidery from the gray row house where he stayed and walked up Princeton toward the rec center. He stopped to light his weed. Lucas kept far back and walked his bike up the hill. At Warder he looked right and saw Malone turning the corner at Otis, and Lucas followed, and watched Malone cut right into the short alley at 6th. He’d then go down the alley that ran behind Princeton, reappear at the bottom of Otis, and cross Georgia to visit his liquor store.
Lucas didn’t need to see the rest. He peddled home in the night.
He’d gotten a call from Amanda Brand, so he phoned her back. Grace Kinkaid had been released from the hospital and was convalescing in her condo in Adams Morgan. She’d asked to see him. She wanted to settle up her debt.
Lucas said he’d drop by.
The painting hung on the pale green wall in its original spot. Grace Kinkaid sat on her couch, a large glass of Chardonnay in hand, her legs folded under her. She wore green slacks and a white blouse buttoned to the neck. Through the sheer material of the shirt, bandages of some kind were visible. Grace’s face was drawn; she’d lost more weight.
Lucas sat in a chair, nursing a bottle of beer. WPFW came softly from the living room stereo.
“I know you visited me in the ER,” said Grace. “I appreciate it.”
“I’m just happy you’re coming along,” said Lucas.
“After they reinflated my lung, the main danger was infection. But my doctor is pleased with my progress. There’s some reconstruction to be done. I’m not afraid of surgery. I’m grateful to be alive.” She cocked her head oddly. “Do you think they’ll get the man who did this to me?”
“Hard to tell.”
Lucas watched her empty half of her wineglass. She licked her lips and placed the glass on the table before her. She looked up at the painting on the wall and her eyes grew bright.
“My painting’s back home, thanks to you, but not for long. After the buyer paid me, I persuaded him to let me keep it for a few more days. Don’t you think it looks nice?”
“It does.”
“Do you know why it’s called The Double?”
“Because of the two men,” said Lucas, lamely.
“But it’s not a painting of two men. Not really. The dark and the light colors in the background represent a man’s complex nature. It’s one man. Don’t you see?”
Lucas studied the painting.
“Yes,” he said. But he wasn’t sure.
“Would you like another beer?”
“No. I should be on my way.”
“Let me get you your money.”
She left the room and returned with an envelope thick with cash. Lucas had stood and had no intention of sitting back down. As was his custom, he counted the money to ensure that there would be no misunderstanding later on. He told her that it looked fine.
“Thanks again,” she said. She hugged him carefully and kissed him on the side of his mouth.
Lucas nodded, looking into her unfocused eyes. She walked him to the door.
On the elevator ride down, he looked inside the envelope again.
Eighty thousand dollars, less ten each for Marquis and Winston, less expenses. He’d walk with fifty-five, fifty-six thousand. Tax-free.
Lucas slid the goddamned money into his jeans.
The next morning, Lucas took the guns, armor, and gear back to Bobby Waldron in Rockville. In his basement bedroom, Waldron inventoried his goods and got a look at Billy King’s Colt, which Lucas had brought along.
Waldron inspected the .45. “I like this.”
“It’s clean,” said Lucas.
“Why’d you bring it?”
“I was thinking I’d keep the Beretta.”
“What’s the deal?”
“How ’bout I straight trade you the Colt for the nine.”
“I could do that,” said Waldron. “What about the silencer?”
“I’ll take that, too.”
Twenty-Eight
The days remained warm as summer turned to autumn, even as the nights grew markedly cooler. Lucas slept with the windows open and woke at dawn to scores of blackbirds calling from the trees of 16th Street Heights. He recommenced his prison regimen of sit-ups and push-ups, and rode his bike daily. He kayaked several times a week. He was busy with his rehabilitation and flush with money. He didn’t need to work, but he was restless.
He twice phoned Detective Paul Strong, of Homicide and Violent Crimes, to get an update on the investigation of the Grace Kinkaid assault. The first time, Strong reminded Lucas that he was not police, and added that only immediate family could expect to get the information he was looking for. The second time Lucas called, Strong told him to piss up a rope, then informed him that the perpetrator, most likely, would never be found. Lucas told himself that he was merely curious. He had simply wanted to know the suspect’s name.