The Cut (Spero Lucas) (2 page)

He understood why David and Duron had stolen the SUV. Teenage boys did stupid things; their brains were wired for impulse and fun. Wasn’t but a little more than ten years back that he had been one of those reckless boys, too, before September 11 and his tour of Iraq. A sobering decade, a decade that stole his youth.

Lucas drove west on Upshur. He gunned the Jeep going down the hill and pulled over when he reached the commercial strip, near Georgia Avenue. He saw the alley, cut along a salmon-colored building, currently unoccupied, where the boys had been trapped. He looked at the south and north sides of the strip and he studied the businesses and the layout of the street. In his notebook he drew a map showing the locations of the establishments. On the south side: a funeral parlor, a dry cleaner’s, a carryout featuring Chinese/steak-and-cheese, a nail salon, and a hair salon; on the north side: a storefront church, a market selling wine and beer, a furnishings store that seemed too upscale for the
neighborhood, a hair salon, a Caribbean café, the alley, the salmon-colored building, another Chinese/American hybrid, a seafood carryout, a beverage shop, and on the corner a shuttered barbershop. Many of the stores had English and Spanish signage in their windows; there were blacks, Hispanics, and a few whites out on the street.

He got out of the car and, using his iPhone, took photographs of these businesses and their spots on the block. No one questioned him or got in his way. He went around the corner and noted the commercial layout of Ninth: the Petworth station of the U.S. Post Office, a private-detective agency, another funeral home, the Salvadoran restaurant where Duron had tried to hide, an embroidery shop, and a corner Spanish grocery store that did not have any English signage and was padlocked shut. Above the detective agency door was a lightbox that read “Strange Investigations,” with several letters enlarged by the magnifying-glass logo placed over them. He had heard tell of the man, Derek Strange, and his latest partner, a middle-aged Greek whose name he could not recall.

Lucas retraced his steps, crossed Upshur and stood by the Chinese eat-house, where in his report Officer Clarence Jackson stated that he had been parked, and saw that indeed it afforded a direct view of the alley. He took a photograph from that perspective. He looked across the street to the market where Jackson’s partner had bought his smokes, and he saw that there was a fire hydrant in front of it. That would explain why Jackson had parked across the street. It would have explained it perfectly, except for the fact that Jackson was police.

Lucas crossed Upshur once again and entered the beer and wine market. It was clean, well stocked with alcohol and food packaged in bags, its walls lined with steel shelving and reach-in coolers. Behind the register counter was a man in his forties, round brown face, white shirt open at the neck revealing a gold crucifix in a thicket of black chest hair. By his bearing and the gold-and-diamond ring on his finger, Lucas surmised that he was the owner. When questioned, the man confirmed this. Lucas gave him his name and identified himself simply as an “investigator.” He asked if the owner, who called himself Odin, recalled the day of the arrest, and Odin said that he did. He asked Odin where the officer had been parked when his partner had entered the market to buy his smokes, and Odin said, “He park out front.” When Lucas noted that there was a fire hydrant out front, Odin, who like many hardworking Hispanics was a law-and-order man, said rather defensively, “But he is police; he park where he want!”

Lucas got the man’s contact information, thanked him, and made a note in his book regarding the pronunciation of Odin’s name. He left the store and took multiple photographs of the alley from the point of view of the empty parking spot. He framed these so that the fire hydrant was in the foreground of the shots.

THE NEXT
day, Lucas was sitting on the edge of Constance the intern’s desk, trying to talk her into something, when Petersen called out to him from his office.

“We should continue this conversation later on,” said Lucas.

“You think so?” said Constance, a strand of dark hair over
one eye, light freckles across the bridge of her nose. She reminded Lucas of one of those J. Crew girls. There was no trace of a smile on her face, but there was a light in her eyes, and Lucas knew that if he wanted to be in, he was in.

Petersen was behind his desk, loud striped shirt untucked, his blond hair shaggy around his face, looking like an aged Brian Jones. He was checking out photos on his computer screen, displayed from a disk that Lucas had burned from his iPhone.

“These are interesting,” said Petersen, Lucas now standing beside him.

“The ones with the hydrant in the foreground? That would approximate the sight line of Officer Jackson. From where he was actually parked, as opposed to where he
said
he was parked.”

“He couldn’t have seen deep into the alley from there.”

“He could only have seen the head of it, and a small piece of it at that. The report says the Denali was found at the back edge of that salmon-colored building. So, from that perspective, there’s no way Jackson could have observed David and Duron get out of that SUV.”

“Can anyone testify that Jackson was parked in front of the market?”

From his back pocket Lucas produced his notebook and opened it. “The owner. His name is Odin Nolasco.” Lucas spelled it and Petersen wrote it down. Lucas said, “It’s pronounced Oh-deen. I don’t think he’d willingly discredit a police officer’s official report. You’re going to have to subpoena him. When you get him on the stand you might have to treat him as hostile.”

“Thank you for the legal advice, counselor.”

“I’m sayin.”

“The visual ID, the link of the boys to the SUV, that’s the prosecution’s case right there.”

“Weren’t the boys’ prints on the Denali?”

“Their prints were all over it. But that’s less significant than what we have here. I was weighing a plea, but now I want this to go to trial. You put it into a D.C. jury’s head that a police officer gave false testimony to make a case against a juvenile, nine times out of ten that jury’s going to acquit, even in the face of damning evidence.”

“Well, there’s your ammunition.” Lucas held up the notebook. “I’ve got street maps I drew, right in here, if you need them.”

“The Book of Luke.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good work, man.”

“Thank you.”

Lucas began to walk from the office, and Petersen stopped him. “Spero?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t bother Constance. She’s a nice girl.”

“I like nice girls,” said Lucas. He meant it, too.

IT WENT
the way Petersen said it would. A month later, he phoned Lucas and got him on his cell.

“David Hawkins was acquitted,” said Petersen.

“Duron?” said Lucas.

“Duron will walk, too.”

“Do I get a bonus, somethin?”

“In a way. But not from me.”

“That would be out of character.”

“David’s father, Anwan Hawkins, would like to meet you. I think he has something like an extra envelope in mind.”

“Anwan Hawkins the dealer?”

“Yeah. Up on trafficking charges at the moment, unfortunately. He’s currently in the D.C. Jail.”

“He wants me to come there?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Visitation days are set by the first letter in the last names, right?”

“That’s for social visits; the prison makes audio recordings of those conversations. You should go in as one of my official investigators. Those conversations are confidential.”

“Got it.”

“I’ll put a letter in to the DOC. It takes twenty-four hours to clear.”

“You know what Hawkins wants?”

“I believe Anwan is going to make you some sort of a proposal. But I can’t have you taking on any side work for a week or so. You’ve got those interviews to do for me on that Southeast thing. I’m defending Reginald Brooks, the shooter. Remember?”

“I do.”

“So what should I tell Anwan?” Petersen got no comment from Lucas. “Spero?”

“I’ll meet with him,” said Lucas. “See what he has to say.”

Which is how Spero Lucas met Anwan Hawkins, and the truck began to roll downhill.

L
UCAS HIT
“end” on his iPhone and placed the device on the nightstand beside his bed. The stand held a digital alarm clock, a lamp with a pillowcase thrown over its shade, his Bible, and a couple of other books. Lucas kept two, a fiction and a nonfiction, going at a time. He rolled over and got up on one elbow. Constance Kelly was beside him, naked in the bed.

“That was your boss,” said Lucas.

“Yours, too.”

“I don’t have a boss.”

“Neither do I, technically. I’m an intern, remember? At least you get paid.”

“Fifteen an hour.”

“It’s folding money.”

“Don’t forget about the meal plan. Horace and Dickies, Litteri’s…”

“Tom does like to feed his troops.”

Lucas leaned into her. They kissed.

“Why’d he call you on a Monday night?” said Constance.

“He had something for me.”

“A case?”

Lucas shook his head. He ran his hand down her neckline, her breast, her ribcage. The inside of her thigh and between her legs.

“I’m not on the stand,” said Lucas.

“You do side work,” said Constance. “Isn’t that right?” In the low light of his bedroom lamp she looked very young.

“Something like that.”

“That’s how you have all this.” She meant his spacious apartment. His bicycle, his car, the kayak hung on hooks on the back porch. In terms of Washington, it really wasn’t much at all. But from her perspective, living on a tight budget, it looked like a lot.

“All this,” said Lucas, finding a spot she liked.

She gasped a little and arched her back. She sucked at his lip and he pulled away, looking down at her, admiring her.

“I guess you think you’re pretty smart,” said Lucas.

“Just observant.”

“And lovely.”

Her chest blushed pink and he laughed.

“Stop it,” she said.

“Stop what?”

“Talking.”

“What’s the rush?”

“I mean it,” she said, her eyes slightly gone.

She tugged at him and he fitted himself between her, lifting one of her legs. It was slow at first. They searched for it and then they found it and soon it became something else,
and the bed moved across the floor. Constance’s hand twisted the sheets, her pupils dilated, her hair fanned out about her face. She was the quiet type, but he felt her tense beneath him, and when she made it, Lucas let go and shot a hot river.

They lay there quietly, the sex smell heavy in the room. She liked him to linger. When she was ready she pushed at him a little and she made a small sound when he pulled out. She rolled off the mattress and stood. He watched her cross the room slowly, deliberately, so he could take her in. She was proud of her body and rightly so. He listened to her in the bathroom, washing herself, and then the sound of water drumming in the sink. Thinking, This is what I dreamed of when I was overseas: a nice big comfortable bed in a place of my own, money in my pocket, good-looking young women to laugh with, sometimes just to fuck, sometimes to make love to. God, what more do you need?

Fifteen minutes later, she was dressed and by the front door. He was beside her, shirtless and shoeless, in his 501s.

“You could stay,” said Lucas.

“I want to wake up in my own place. I have class in the morning and then I’m doing some work for Tom.”

“I feel used.”

“No, you don’t. You’re happy and grateful.” She touched his chest, lifted his crucifix, and handled the pendant of blue glass and silver that hung beside it on his chain. “What is this?”

“A
mati
. It means ‘eye.’ ”

“Like an evil eye?”

“The opposite. It reflects evil back on the onlooker.”

“I’m evil.” She moved her hand to one of his nipples and pinched it.

Lucas smiled. “Don’t I know it.”

“I hope we didn’t wake up the woman downstairs,” said Constance.

“She lived here with her husband for over fifty years. I reckon they christened every room in this house, one time or another. Miss Lee understands that I’m a healthy young man.”

“I’ll say.”

He walked her down the stairs that led to the separate entrance to his place. He had the entire second floor of a four-square colonial on the corner of Emerson and Piney Branch Road, in 16th Street Heights. This wasn’t the Piney Branch that ran deep into Maryland, a street commuters knew well, but rather a short stretch of road running from Buchanan up to Colorado Avenue, in a country-style atmosphere of quiet lanes and alleys that felt bucolic and was only fifteen minutes north of the White House and deep downtown. A brief bike ride down Colorado to Blagden could take Lucas into Rock Creek Park. Nearby 13th Street was within pedaling distance of the places he needed to go. He had lucked into the spot when Miss Lee, a septuagenarian with a prunish face, a thin cap of cottony hair, and beautiful and wily black eyes, had advertised the apartment the old-fashioned way, with a handbill stapled to a telephone pole. He spotted it one day while cruising through the neighborhood on his Trek. When she interviewed him, she explained that the house was paid for, that she didn’t need a tenant for the rent money and was only looking to feel secure with
someone in the house. He mentioned that he was a veteran and a marine, and that, coupled with the fact that he repeatedly addressed her as Miss Lee and not by her Christian name, Willie Mae, closed the deal. Given the size of the place, the low rent, and the location, he knew he’d scored.