“What is it, honey?” said Flynn, joining Katherine at the rail. “Did you and Chris have a fight?”
She told him of their conversation in the apartment. By now Amanda had come downstairs, but as she moved toward the back door, Flynn raised his palm and she saw the look on his face and stayed inside.
“I knew he was mixed up in something,” said Flynn, when Katherine was done.
“But he wasn’t,” said Katherine. “Someone else stole that money. A guy named Lawrence. Not Chris, and not Ben. The trouble came to them after. They were trying to do right and walk away from it. It came to them. Chris hasn’t done anything wrong. Not yet.”
Flynn pushed a shock of black hair off his forehead. He recalled the day at Mindy Kramer’s house, when he’d accused Chris and Ben of botching the job. Whoever had taken the money, that Lawrence fellow, had messed up the good work they’d done. It wasn’t them being lazy or sloppy. Chris had been telling the truth that day. As he tended to do, Flynn had assumed the worst about his son.
“Well, it’s simple,” said Flynn. “I’ve got to stop him. What he’s saying he’s gonna do, that’s not him. It never was him. He was a stupid, selfish teenager, and he made mistakes. But he couldn’t kill anyone. He won’t.”
“You should call the police, Mr. Flynn.”
“I can’t do that. Not until I speak to him. I don’t know how far he’s gone down the road. If anyone’s going to call the police, it has to be him. I’ll speak to him and talk him down. I can do that.”
“If you think that’s the way.”
“I know it is. Yes.”
Flynn hugged Katherine. He was perspiring, and she could smell the alcohol on his breath and in his sweat.
“He won’t answer your phone call,” said Katherine.
“I’m going to go over there,” said Flynn, stepping back. “Stay here with Amanda for now.”
“Okay.”
“Thanks for coming here, Kate.”
“It’s Katherine,” she said gently.
“Katherine. Right.”
They walked into the house where Amanda was waiting.
“Chris is all right,” said Flynn. “I just need to speak with him. Katherine will explain.”
Amanda started to say something, but Flynn embraced her clumsily and kissed her on the mouth.
“Don’t worry.”
“Call me,” said Amanda.
He nodded, grabbed his keys from a bowl on the kitchen counter, and headed out the door.
Romario Knight lived in a middle-class home in Hillcrest Heights, across Southern Avenue, which ran between the District and Prince George’s County, Maryland. Knight’s street was quiet and he kept to himself. He was a bachelor who occasionally brought women home and had friends over on Redskins Sundays. He looked like any man in his thirties who went to work and made a modest living. By day, Knight wore a uniform as a meter man for the gas company. He was also a gun dealer who serviced the Southeast trade. Knight’s clients came to his place of residence after being screened by third parties.
Lawrence Newhouse stood with Knight in the downstairs rec room of the Hillcrest home. A huge television set, couches and chairs, and a wet bar filled the room, and Redskins memorabilia covered the walls. Knight wore a Sean Taylor jersey and he filled it out. He was a huge man who, even when in shape, had always been fat. In the years he played high school ball in PG, he was known, alternately and randomly, as Papa Doc and Baby Doc. He had the curious distinction of carrying the nicknames of both the father and the son.
Lawrence had put the word out with a boy at Parkchester he reckoned would have such connections, and soon Lawrence got a call on his cell and then was met by another young man, who checked him out, issued some barely veiled threats, and gave him instructions. In the course of a few hours, Lawrence was here, purchasing guns.
A large and a small revolver, a couple of semiautomatics, and boxes of ammunition were laid out on a card table. The weapons still had serial numbers and if confiscated would be traced back to legitimate gun stores in Virginia, where they had been originally purchased by straw buyers.
Lawrence stood beside Knight, looking down at the weapons, experiencing that curious sensation of excitement and dread some men feel in the presence of guns.
Lawrence had shot a boy many years ago. Had he killed the young man, Lawrence’s punishment would have been more severe, but the wound was not fatal. Lawrence could barely remember why he had done the thing. Some slight, real or imagined, had sent him after the boy with a Taurus. 38, a true Saturday night special, because Lawrence knew he couldn’t settle it with his hands.
“What’s that?” said Lawrence, pointing to a small auto pistol with a chrome finish and a laminated wood stock.
“Davis thirty-two,” said Knight.
“Does it work?”
“It ain’t gonna blow up in your face, I don’t think. I mean, shit, you said you wanted the cheapest thing I had.”
“It’s for my partner. I’m askin, will it stop a man?”
“I’m not even about to answer that. The Davis is a gun and it shoots bullets. That’s all I can say.”
“Okay. I’ll take that.”
“You said you wanted a revolver for yourself.”
“Autos jam.”
“They been known to.”
“What you got?”
“I brought out a couple pieces you might like. S and W’s, both. There goes a thirty-eight, right there.” Knight pointed to a short-barreled Chief. “Smith and Wesson make a nice product. You can’t go wrong with that.”
Knight’s voice was unenthusiastic. Lawrence knew he was about to be stepped up to the larger, more masculine-looking weapon set beside it. He knew, but he couldn’t help asking the next question.
“What about that big boy right there?” said Lawrence.
“Go ahead and pick it up,” said Knight.
Lawrence lifted the gun off the table. He hefted it and turned it in the light. It had a stainless finish, a six-inch barrel, and rubber, finger-molded grips. It felt right in his hand.
“Three fifty-seven combat magnum,” said Knight. “That’s a pup right there. You squeeze the trigger on that boy, it’s like shootin a full can of beer at a thousand miles an hour. Make a nice hole goin in and a mess goin out. It’s gonna kick, too. I don’t know, you might want somethin more manageable for your body type… ”
“I’ll take it,” said Lawrence.
“You gonna need some bullets, right?”
“Not a whole box.”
“I only sell bricks.”
“What about a shoulder rig for this one? I can’t be putting this monster down in my dip.”
“I can sell you that, too.”
“How about throwin it in?”
Knight laughed through his teeth and shook his head. They negotiated a price, and Lawrence paid him from a roll he had in his pocket, then stashed everything into a daypack he had brought with him.
Walking to the basement steps, Lawrence said, “Where you get all this Redskins shit, man?”
“Shows. The Internet.”
“You go to the games?”
“Not anymore,” said Knight. “I hate that stadium.”
“We gonna do it this year?”
“Not this year. But we will.” Knight put his hand on Lawrence’s shoulder at the front door. “You don’t know me, man. We ain’t never met.”
“I heard that,” said Lawrence.
He walked to his Cavalier, parked on the street.
After repeated knocks on Chris’s door with no response, Flynn was let into the apartment by Andy Ladas, who had an extra key. There was nothing there, no note, no notepads to rub that would reveal the secret message, no telltale signs left behind to let Flynn know where Chris had gone. It occurred to Flynn that he knew little about Chris’s life as an adult. He was not familiar with his hangouts, his haunts, or the locations of the homes or apartments of his closest friends.
He did have Ali’s number logged into the address book of his cell. He phoned Ali, got him, and filled him in on the latest events. Ali said that he would try to contact Lawrence; he had his number and knew where he lived. While Flynn waited in the quiet of Chris’s apartment, he helped himself to a beer, drank it quickly, and had another. By the time he was headed for a third, Ali phoned him back.