The Night Gardener (26 page)

“I will when I get there. Meantime, you ever hear of a Lincoln Monument?”

“Uh-uh.”

“See if you can find some reference to that in there.”

“Okay, but Gus —”

“I’ll talk to you later,” said Ramone.

He drove toward the Maryland line.

R
HONDA WILLIS AND
Bo Green sat in the living room of a nicely maintained row house on Quincy Street, in the Petworth area of Northwest. They had cups of coffee set before them on a French provincial-style table. The house was clean and its furnishings tasteful and carefully selected. It did not look like the home of a girl who danced at the Twilight and ran with a murderer, but this was the place where Darcia Johnson had been raised.

Her mother, Virginia Johnson, sat on a couch. She was an attractive woman, light of skin and moderately freckled, dressed stylishly and properly for her age. An eleven-month-old boy sat in her lap, making sounds of contentment. He was smiling at Bo Green, who was making faces at him.

“What’s she done, Detective?” said Virginia.

“We’re looking to speak to a friend of hers,” said Rhonda. “Dominique Lyons.”

“I’ve met him,” said Virginia. “Speak to him about what?”

“It’s regarding a murder investigation.”

“Is my daughter under suspicion of murder?”

“Not at this time,” said Green. Squeezed into a small chair, he looked like the bull who’d decided to have a seat in the china shop.

“We know that Darcia and Dominique spend time together,” said Rhonda. “We’ve been to the apartment she shares with Shaylene Vaughn, over in Southeast. And we know where Darcia works. But she hasn’t shown up at those places for the last couple of days.”

“Have you heard from her?” said Green.

“She called last night,” said Virginia, her finger being held by the boy. “She was checking up on little Isaiah here. But I don’t know where she was calling from.”

“Is Isaiah hers?”

“He came from her.”

“Is Dominique Lyons the father?”

“No. Another young man who’s no longer in the picture.”

“We’ve got no fixed address on Lyons,” said Green. “Any ideas?”

“I’m sorry, no.”

Green leaned forward, picked up his coffee cup off the saucer, and had a sip. The cup was hand-painted, delicate, and looked endangered in his huge hand.

“I’m sorry about bothering you with this,” said Rhonda, her empathy genuine.

“We thought we did everything right,” said Virginia Johnson quietly.

“You can only try.”

“This neighborhood is changing now for the better, but it wasn’t always this way, as you’re well aware. My husband grew up here in Petworth, and he was adamant about sticking it out until the bad wind blew past. He said that two strong, watchful parents and our involvement with the church would be enough to keep our kids out of trouble. Mostly, he was right.”

“You have other children?”

“Three others, all grown. All attended college, all are out there in the world, doing fine. Darcia is the youngest. She was tight with that girl Shaylene since grammar school. Shaylene was into drugs and promiscuity starting at thirteen. She was never right. God forgive me for saying that, ’cause most of it wasn’t her fault. She had no home life to speak of.”

“That’ll do it,” said Green.

“But it’s not everything,” said Virginia. “You can be here all the time, give them all the guidance and love they need, and still, they go ahead and jump off that bridge.”

“Does Darcia have a close relationship with her son?”

“She cares for him very much. But she’s not fit to be his mother. I had my twenty-five in with the government and I took early retirement. My husband’s career is strong, so we can afford to get by on one job. The two of us will raise Isaiah. Unless things change.”

“Like I said, Darcia’s not a suspect in this crime,” said Green.

“But we are going to have to bring her into our offices,” said Rhonda. “She might be a witness.”

“Does she drive a car?” said Green.

“No, Darcia never did get a license.”

“So chances are,” said Rhonda, “Dominique would be driving her around.”

It was not a question. Rhonda Willis was thinking out loud.

“Did that young man kill someone?” said Virginia.

Rhonda nodded at Bo Green, a suggestion that he answer Virginia, and also that they begin to press.

“It’s a strong possibility,” said Green.

“It would be a good first step,” said Rhonda, “to get Dominique Lyons off the street and away from your daughter.”

“We’ve got her cell phone number,” said Green.

“But she isn’t answering when we call,” said Rhonda.

“Maybe if she thought her son was sick or somethin like that,” said Green.

“She’d be concerned enough to come on by,” said Rhonda.

“I’ll call her,” said Virginia Johnson, using a soft towel to wipe some drool off Isaiah’s chin.

“We’d appreciate it,” said Rhonda.

“She’ll come, too,” said Virginia, now looking at Rhonda. “She does love this child.”

RAMONE WAS IN THE
waiting area at his son’s middle school in Montgomery County, sitting next to a black father about his age. He had arrived ten minutes earlier and told an administrative assistant that he’d like to speak with Principal Brewster. When told that he would need an appointment, Ramone had badged the woman, informed her that he was Diego Ramone’s father, and said that he’d wait until he was called. The woman had told him to have a seat.

Ten minutes later, a tall thin woman in her late forties emerged from a hallway leading to offices. She came around the counter, smiling, and looked around the waiting area, going to the black man and extending her hand.

“Mr. Ramone?” she said.

“I’m Gus Ramone.”

Ramone stood and shook her hand. Ms. Brewster had a humorless long face, what newspaper feature writers called “equine” when they meant “horsey.” She seemed to have too many teeth. Her forced smile had faded, but she managed to bring it back. Her eyes, however, had not recovered. She had met Regina several times but never Ramone. It was obvious that she had expected him to be black.

“Please come with me,” said Ms. Brewster.

Ramone followed her. He checked out her backside, because he was a man, and saw that she was light an ass.

Mr. Guy was seated in one of three chairs in Ms. Brewster’s office. The assistant principal held a clipboard tight to his chest. Unlike Ms. Brewster, he had an ample behind, and a belly and girl-tits to go with the package.

“Guy Davis,” he said, extending his hand.

“Mr. Guy,” said Ramone, pointedly using the ridiculous name Davis had chosen to be addressed by the students. He shook Mr. Guy’s hand and had a seat before Ms. Brewster’s desk.

Ms. Brewster settled into her chair. She glanced at her computer screen, couldn’t resist clicking her mouse to check something, then looked at Ramone.

“Well, Mr. Ramone.”

“Detective Ramone.”

“Detective, I’m glad you came by. Something has been brought to our attention, and we intended on bringing you in to discuss it. Now’s a good time.”

“First let’s talk about my son,” said Ramone. “I’d like to know why he was suspended today.”

“I’ll let Mr. Guy explain it to you.”

“There was an incident,” said Mr. Guy, “between a student, Toby Morrison, and another student recently.”

“You mean they had a fight,” said Ramone. “I know about it.”

“We have reason to believe that your son was a witness to it.”

“How did you come to that?”

“I interviewed several students,” said Mr. Guy. “I conducted an investigation.”

“An investigation?” Ramone gave Mr. Guy a small and meaningful smile.

“Yes,” said Mr. Guy, looking at his clipboard. “I brought Diego in to discuss the events that transpired, and he refused to answer my questions.”

“Let me get this straight in my mind,” said Ramone. “Diego was a witness to a fair fight off school grounds that I understand was between two boys. Nobody ganged up on the other boy or anything like that.”

“Essentially, that’s right. But the other boy was hurt in the altercation.”

“What, exactly, did Diego do wrong?”

“Well,” said Ms. Brewster, “for one thing, he did nothing. He could have stepped in and stopped the fight, but he chose to watch it instead.”

“You’re suspending him for an inaction?”

“In effect, yes,” said Ms. Brewster. “That and insubordination.”

“He refused to answer my questions in the course of the investigation,” said Mr. Guy.

“Bullshit,” said Ramone, feeling heat come to his face.

“I’m going to ask that you refrain from that sort of language,” said Ms. Brewster, her fingers laced together, her hands resting on her desk.

Ramone exhaled slowly.

“Diego could have helped us sort this out,” said Mr. Guy. “Instead, he hampered our efforts to get to the bottom of the incident.”

“You know something?” said Ramone. “I’m glad that my son didn’t answer your questions.”

Ms. Brewster blinked rapidly, a nervous tic that she had, up to this moment, managed to control. “Certainly you of all people should understand the value of cooperation in matters such as this.”

“
This
is not a homicide. Boys get in fights. They test each other and find out things about themselves that they carry the rest of their lives. And it wasn’t a case of bullying, and no one was seriously hurt.”

“The boy was punched in the face,” said Mr. Guy.

“That’s one way to lose a fight,” said Ramone.

“I can see we’re looking at this from wildly different perspectives,” said Ms. Brewster.

“I didn’t raise my son to rat out his friends,” said Ramone, looking at Ms. Brewster, deliberately not addressing Mr. Guy. “Now Toby Morrison will know what kind of friend Diego is to him and he’ll always have his back. And Diego will have respect out in the street. That’s more important to me and my son than your regulations.”

“Diego’s protecting a dangerous kid,” said Ms. Brewster.

“What’s that?”

“Toby Morrison is a dangerous young man.”

Now I know what you’re about, thought Ramone.

“He’s a
tough
young man, Ms. Brewster,” said Ramone. “I know Toby. He plays on my son’s football team. He’s been over our house many times, and he’s welcome there. If you don’t know the difference between dangerous and tough —”

“I certainly do know the difference.”

“I’m just a little curious,” said Ramone. “I’m sure there are some white kids in this school who have also gotten into fights from time to time. Have you ever sat in this office and described those kids as dangerous?”

“Please,” said Ms. Brewster with a small wave of her hand. Her smile was joyless and sickly. “I’m the principal of a school that’s over fifty percent African American and Hispanic. Do you think they would have brought me in here if I didn’t have an empathy and understanding for minority students?”

“Obviously, they made a mistake,” said Ramone. “You separate these kids by test scores. You see color and you see problems, but never potential. Pretty soon it starts to become a self-fulfilling prophecy. And having a black man doing your hatchet work for you doesn’t excuse any of it.”

“Now wait a minute,” said Mr. Guy.

“I’m talking to Ms. Brewster,” said Ramone. “Not you.”

“I don’t have to take this,” said Mr. Guy.

“Yeah?” said Ramone. “What are you gonna
do
?
”

“In any event,” said Ms. Brewster, still collected, “this is all moot. In the course of Mr. Guy’s investigation, a student informed us that you and your family do not live in Montgomery County but rather reside in D.C.”

“Would you like me to show you the deed on my house in Silver Spring?”

“A deed makes no difference to us if you don’t actually live in the house, Detective. You and your family reside on Rittenhouse Street in Northwest—we’ve confirmed this. In effect, Diego is illegally attending this school. I’m afraid we’re going to have to terminate his enrollment, effective immediately.”

“You’re kicking him out.”

“He is disenrolled. If you’d like to appeal —”

“I don’t think so. I don’t want him here.”

“Then this conversation is over.”

“Right.” Ramone got out of his chair. “I can’t believe they’d put someone like you in charge of kids.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I believe you. But that doesn’t make you right.”

“Good day, Detective.”

Mr. Guy stood. Ramone brushed by him and left the office. He had a spring in his step. He knew he had been aggressive and needlessly insulting, and he did not feel sorry at all.

RAMONE CALLED REGINA FROM
the parking lot. Diego had come home briefly, picked up his basketball, and gone out the door. He wasn’t angry, Regina said. Just quiet.

Ramone drove over the District line down to 3rd and Van Buren. He parked, left his suit jacket in the car, loosened his tie, and walked up to the fenced court. Diego was shooting buckets, wearing shorts too big for him, a wife beater, and his Exclusives. He spun in a reverse layup, gathered up the ball, and tucked it under his arm. Ramone stood three feet away from him and spread his feet.