“He was kinda skinny, had a long nose, like a beak almost. Hair was cut close, like a reddish color. Dude looked like a big old rooster.”
“Black or white?”
“If he was white I would have said so.”
“Right,” said Lucas. “What else?”
“I think this man saw me.”
“You think.”
“Before he left outta there, he looked up toward my house. I don’t know, maybe he had one of those feelings you get, like someone’s watching you. When he did, I stepped back, away from the window.”
“So you don’t know for sure.”
“The other day, when you were parked on this street, the first time you called out to me?”
“I remember.”
“He was parked over there on Clifton, in front of my school. I felt like he was waiting for me, man.”
That’s why Ernest had been so uptight that day, thought Lucas. It was the same 4D patrol car, the same officer who had come down the street earlier, driven slowly by Lucas’s Jeep, and checked him out. Now Lucas knew why the sight of the car had felt strange to him. The Fourth District’s southernmost boundary ended at Harvard Street, several blocks north of 12th and Clifton, which was 3D territory. So this car was out of its district. The officer knew who Ernest was and where he lived. He also knew Lucas’s vehicle by sight and maybe had its plates; he’d seen Lucas get out of it and try to talk to Ernest.
“What’s wrong?” said Ernest.
“I’m thinking,” said Lucas.
“Should I be worried?”
“No. You’ve told me everything you know, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You did right by talking to me. But you’re out of it now.”
“What’s your connect?”
“I was hired to get that package back.”
“Yeah? What was in it?”
“It’s better that you don’t know.”
“You sayin this shit is dangerous.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to you, Ernest.”
“I can’t lie. I’m scared.”
“Don’t be,” said Lucas. “You’ll be fine.”
HE WAS riding his bike out along Sligo Creek, away from the city, heading into the woods of Wheaton Regional Park property later that day, when it came to him. He kept pedaling and pushing it, and when he hit the park itself he found a shaded shelter that was cool and unoccupied. He removed his gloves and helmet, then sat on a picnic bench, took a long drink from his insulated water bottle, and wiped the drip off his chin.
He stared out into the trees.
The numbers of an MPD squad car, called the CAD, were printed on its right rear bumper and front quarter panels. The sequence started with the police district’s number. So a car from the Fourth District would display a CAD identification that began with the number 4.
The number that Tavon Lynch had sent him through the phone was not an address. Tavon had texted Lucas the number of the squad car driven by the police officer who he was in with or was shaking him down. Sitting on Hayes Street that night, he must have had the feeling that something was terribly wrong.
Car 4044.
Lucas’s grin was feral and tight.
TWELVE
In the morning, Lucas did a circuit workout in his apartment. He showered, changed into clothing that was suitable for a lunch date, got on his computer, and did some research on dc. gov. With time to kill before his lunch, he went out and hit a couple of used-book stores. At Silver Spring Books, in his old neighborhood, he found two nonfictions that he had read and enjoyed: Kings of the Bs, by McCarthy and Flynn, and Sergio Leone, the massive biography by Christopher Frayling.
He met Constance Kelly at My Brother’s Place, at 2nd and C, Northwest, a lunch-and-happy-hour spot not far from the courts and Tom Petersen’s office. The bar, dark wood and low lights, was one of the better down-home watering holes in town, a longtime haunt of cops, judges, federal marshals, Department of Labor employees, and college students. Lucas and Constance sat out on the enclosed porch, watching the sidewalk parade. Constance was studying the menu.
“You eat meat, don’t you?” said Lucas.
“So?”
“Get the burger. It’s Angus beef and they put it on a nice kaiser roll.”
“What are you having?”
“The Cubano. They got a kickin mojo sauce here, man.”
“What is it with you and food?”
“Part of my culture,” said Lucas. “It’s a way of life.”
“You’re not even Greek.”
“Want me to prove it?”
Constance looked up from the menu and blushed. The waiter, a young El Salvadoran, arrived and took their order. As he moved away, Lucas reached into his pocket and produced a plastic cell phone, which he placed on the table.
“What’s that?” said Constance.
“A gift.”
“I have a phone.”
“This one’s special. It’s a disposable.”
Constance picked up the phone, examined it, and placed it back on the table. “It’s got a drawing of a cartoon kangaroo on its face. And a special button for nine-one-one. Who makes this, Fisher-Price?”
“It’s made for kids. And seniors.”
“Which one do I look like?”
“I was hoping you’d use it to do me a favor.”
“You want me to make some kind of call that’s hard to trace or monitor.”
“Well…”
“You’re asking me to break the law.”
“Nope. But I am asking you to lie, a little.”
“Why can’t you lie?”
“This needs the distaff touch.”
“That’s an antiquated term. Tell you the truth, I’m not all that surprised you’re using it.”
Lucas pushed the phone in her direction. “I’m trying to find the name of a police officer who was driving a certain MPD squad car on a specific day and time.”
“How would a person do that?”
“Call the Office of Unified Communications and ask for a dispatcher. All the cars have a four-digit CAD, which is the Computer-Assisted Dispatcher number. Police officers are required to give the CAD to the dispatcher when they put a vehicle into service. This particular vehicle was a Ten Ninety-nine, meaning it was a one-man unit.”
“You want me to call the OUC.”
“Now you’re getting the hang of it.”
“I’m just trying to speak your language. Your knowledge of acronyms and ten-codes is very impressive.”
“Thank you,” said Lucas, ignoring her sarcasm. “So what I need you to do is give the dispatcher this information right here.” Lucas pulled a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to Constance. On it was written the number 4044, and a date and time. “Ask them who was driving that car on that particular day and shift.”
“And they’ll just give it to me.”
“They’re supposed to. But sometimes they don’t, for good reason. In that case you have to file a Freedom of Information Act request, which could take a lot of time.”
“And you’d have to put your name on the FOIA, which you don’t want to do.”
“In this instance, that wouldn’t work for me.”
“You’re not telling me much.”
“I don’t want you to get too involved.”
“But you want me involved just enough-”
“Yes.”
Constance sat back and stared at Lucas.
“Mo’ ice tea?” said the waiter, appearing like a sweaty apparition.
“Yes, please,” said Lucas.
“Are you going to give me some kind of instructions?” said Constance, after the waiter had poured and drifted.
“Tell the dispatcher that you had an Officer Friendly experience. That a certain police officer stopped to give you directions, or help change your tire, or whatever. That he showed an unexpected kindness to you and you’d like to send a thank-you note to the station, but you don’t recall his name. Or, you know, you wanna put him up for a commendation.”
“A laurel and hearty handshake.”
“Something like that.”
“So,” said Constance, “I do this and I get, what, a twenty-dollar lunch?”
“I was thinking dinner, too.”
“That sounds nice.”
“How about Mourayo on Connecticut? They bake a fish that you’ll dream about.”