Jack pulled the cap down close to his eyebrows, then walked to the entrance and posted himself beside it. To each passerby he gave his rehearsed and, he hoped, well-acted spieclass="underline" He was looking for his homeless brother, someone said they’d seen him around here, followed by a description of his attacker. Most walked past him, either without responding or with some muttered excuse or a flat “No.” Occasionally a shopper would stop, listen for a moment, then sadly shake his or her head and wish him luck.
At 7:55, a familiar face appeared, one of the regular cashiers, a short early-twenties woman with large black eyes. She’d checked him out a few times but was shy and rarely looked him in the eye.
“Hi, excuse me,” Jack said. “I’m looking for my brother. He’s missing.”
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, stepping around Jack and heading for the door. “I need to—”
“Tall, skinny, maybe wearing a dark hoodie. He’s homeless. We’re worried about him. Please.”
The cashier slowed, then stopped and turned. She backed farther into the light coming through the front windows, putting some distance between them. A local, he guessed. She gave no sign she recognized him.
“How tall?” she asked.
“Six-five or so.”
The woman hesitated, then said, “Wait. There was a guy. I seen him a few times in the last week. He was panhandling, asking for change. I gave him a few dollars but felt kinda stupid, you know.”
“Why?”
“I came in early for my shift last night, about seven-thirty, and I saw him get dropped off, right down there.” She pointed toward the far end of the building.
Seven-thirty, Jack thought. A half hour before he arrived. Good timing. Here was another habit he’d let slip — that of varying his daily routine to make himself a harder target for both surveillance and ambush.
She said, “It was a real nice car, not a beater or anything. I figured if he had a car like that or had a friend with a car like that, he shouldn’t be creeping for money.”
Jack frowned. “I’m sorry he did that. He’s got problems, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I get it.”
“What’d the car look like?” he asked.
“White, newer, like a Nissan or Toyota. Midsize, I think.”
“Did you see the driver?”
She shook her head. “Wait a second. There was something on the news… Wasn’t some guy hit on Kings Highway last night?”
“Really?” Jack replied. “Did they describe him? Did he have ID?”
“No, I don’t know. Sorry. You could call the police. I hope it’s not him, but maybe…” She let the words trail off, tilting her head in sympathy. “I gotta go.”
“Thanks,” Jack said as she disappeared through the doors.
White midsize car. Did the headlights silhouetting his mystery man the previous night belong to this car?
Jack drove home, parked in the garage, then took the elevator up to his floor. The doors parted, revealing the vestibule. Sitting on the leather bench against the far wall was Doug Butler.
Jack stepped out. “Hey, Detective,” he said tentatively.
Butler stood up. “We gotta talk.”
5
How did he get back on Butler’s radar? He’d already given the detective a statement over the phone, one that seemed to satisfy the cop. Jack went through the possibilities: He’d contradicted his earlier statement; a witness had come forward; they’d found trace evidence on the scene that put him there. Inwardly, Jack winced. He was thinking like a criminal. He didn’t like the feeling.
He unlocked his door and stepped inside, with Butler following. Jack flipped switches on the wall, illuminating the kitchen and living room. He stepped into the kitchen. “I was about to ask how you got up,” Jack said, “but you’ve got a hell of a hall pass, I guess.”
“Comes in handy,” Butler replied.
“You want something? A beer, coffee—”
“Yeah, a beer’d be good. So, what do you carry?”
Jack turned. Butler was standing in the archway, hands shoved in his pants pockets. “What?” asked Jack.
“In your hip holster.”
“Glock Twenty-six. I’ve got a permit.”
“I know you do. Were you carrying when we met at the Supermercado?” When Jack nodded, Butler gave a sad shake of his head. “Can’t believe I missed it. Getting old.”
“I paid extra for the Holster of Invisibility,” Jack replied with a grin.
Butler snorted — not quite a laugh, but as close as he got to one, Jack suspected. He grabbed a pair of Heinekens from the fridge and handed one to Butler, who unscrewed the cap and took a swig. He held up the cap. “Garbage?”
“Counter’s fine,” Jack replied, and took his own sip. “You want me to ditch the gun?”
“Nah. Just don’t draw on me. Might give me a heart attack. Nice place. You rich?”
“Everything’s relative.”
“You work at a financial company, right? Hendley something?”
“Hendley Associates. Yep. Arbitrage, analysis, that sort of thing.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“Everything’s relative,” Jack repeated. “I’m on a kind of sabbatical, I guess you could say.” This was the first time he’d explained his situation to anyone outside of his family.
Sabbatical. Forced leave of absence. Each term was accurate enough in its own way, but in essence, Gerry Hendley had told him to go to his room and think about what he’d done. Christ, Jack thought. He realized, slightly stunned, that he was angry. He understood why Gerry had made the call, but that wasn’t the same as acceptance, was it? Had he been fooling himself? Had he come to peace with the suspension, or was that simply what he’d told himself he should feel? He didn’t know, and didn’t feel like thinking about it.
“Got any stock tips?” Butler asked.
“Depends on what you’re looking for. Legal or illegal?”
“Better give the first one.”
“Good. It’s the only kind I know.” Jack took another swig and thought about it. “Buy low, sell high.”
Butler grinned. “Dick.”
“I know a few good private investment managers, if you’re looking.”
“Yeah, maybe, thanks. Another eight and I’m out. Unless I win the lottery or become the next Wambaugh, I’m gonna need something.”
They stood there, sipping their beers and saying nothing for a bit. Jack wondered if Butler was using the silence as an interview tool.
“My grandfather was a cop,” Jack said.
“Yeah?”
“Baltimore Homicide.”
Butler nodded slowly. “Mine, too. Tulsa. Small world.”
“What got you into it?”
“I was military police in the Army. In May of ’03 I ended up in Baghdad. A month after I got there we got mortared and I took some shrapnel. Spent about six months at Walter Reed, then they cut me loose. Alexandria was hiring cops and I figured it would be an easy transition.”
“Was it?”
“Mostly. If I’d stayed in, probably not. I know guys that did tour after tour. Those are the ones that have trouble.”
The silence hung in the air.
“So…” Jack said, hoping to nudge Butler toward the point of his visit. It worked.
“So, are you in some kind of trouble, Jack?”
“You mean aside from last night?”
“Yeah.”
“Not that I know of,” Jack replied. “Why?”