Pop Goes the Weasel (13 page)

When the two policemen up ahead disappeared down a side street off Uhland, Shafer decided to stop at one of the brownstones
where they’d been asking questions. It was a small risk, but he needed to know what was happening. A couple of old men were
seated on the stoop. An ancient radio played an Orioles baseball game.

“They ask you about some kind of trouble in the neighborhood?” Shafer asked the men in as casual a tone as he could manage.
“They stopped me up the block.”

One of the men just stared at him, terminally pissed off, but the other one nodded and spoke up. “Sure did, mister. Lookin’
for a cab, purple and blue gypsy. Connected to some killings, they say. Though I don’t recall seeing any purple ones lately.
Used to be a cab company called Vanity. You remember, Earle? They had the purple people-eaters.”

“That was some years ago,” the other man said, nodding. “They went belly up.”

“I guess they were Metro police. Never showed me any I.D., though,” Shafer said, and shrugged. He was being careful to speak
with an American accent, which he was good at imitating.

“Detectives Cross and Sampson,” the more talkative of the two men volunteered their names. “Detective Cross showed me his
badge. It was the real deal.”

“Oh, I’m sure it was,” Shafer said, and saluted the two old men. “Good to see the police in the neighborhood, actually.”

“You got that right.”

“Have a nice night.”

“Yeah, you, too.”

Shafer circled back to his car and drove to the embassy. He went straight to his office, where he felt safe and protected.
He calmed himself, then turned on his computer and did a thorough search on D.C. detectives named Cross and Sampson. He found
more than he had hoped for, especially on Detective Cross.

He thought about how the new developments might change the game. Then he sent out a message to the other Horsemen. He told
them about Cross and Sampson, adding that the detectives had decided to “play the game.” So naturally, he had plans for them,
too.

ZACHARY SCOTT TAYLOR is a thorough, analytical, and very hard-nosed reporter on the
Washington Post
. I respect the hell out of him. His relentless cynicism and skepticism are a little too much for me to take on a daily basis;
otherwise, we might be even closer friends. But we have a good relationship, and I trust him more than I do most journalists.

I met him that night at the Irish Times, on F Street, near Union Station. The restaurant-bar is in an anachronistic, standalone
brick building surrounded by modern office structures. Zachary called it “a dumpy little toilet of a bar, a perfect place
for us to meet.”

In the time-honored tradition of Washington, I have occasionally been one of his “trusted sources,” and I was about to tell
him something important. I hoped he would agree, and would convince his editors at the
Post
about the story.

“How’re Master Damon and Ms. Jannie?” Zachary asked as he sat across from me in a darkened corner, under an old photo of a
stern-looking man in a black top hat. Zachary is tall, gaunt, and thin, and resembles the man in the old photo a little bit.
He always talks too fast, so that the words all run into one another:
How’reMasterDamonandMs.Jannie?
There was just a hint of Virginia softening his accent.

The waitress eventually came over to our table. He ordered black coffee and I had the same.

“Two coffees?” she asked, to make sure she’d heard us right.

“Two of your
very finest
coffees,” Zachary said.

“This isn’t Starbucks, y’know,” she said.

I smiled at the waitress’s brio, then at what Zachary had said—his first words to me. I’d probably mentioned my kids’ names
to him once, but he had an encyclopedic memory for all kinds of disparate information.

“You should go get yourself a couple of kids, Zachary,” I told him, smiling broadly.

He glanced up at an ancient whirring ceiling fan that looked as if it might suddenly spin out of the ceiling. It seemed a
nice metaphor for modern life in America, an aging infrastructure threatening to spin out of control.

“Don’t have a wife yet, Alex. Still looking for the right woman,” said Zachary.

“Well, okay then, get yourself a wife first, then get a couple of kids. Might take the edge off your neuroses.”

The waitress placed steaming cups of black coffee in front of us. “Will that be
all
?” she said. She shook her head, then left us.

“Maybe I don’t want the edge taken off my rather stunning neurotic behavior. Maybe I believe that’s what makes me such a damn
fine reporter, and without it my work would be pedestrian shit, and then I’d be nothing in the eyes of Don Graham and company.”

I sipped the day- or two-day-old coffee. “Except that if you had a couple of kids, you could never be nothing.”

Zachary squinted one eye shut and smacked the left side of his lips. He was a very animated thinker.

“Except if the kids didn’t love or even like me very much.”

“And you don’t consider yourself lovable? But actually you are, Zachary. Trust me. You’re just fine. Your kids would adore
the hell out of you, and you would adore them. You’d have a mutual adoration society.”

He finally laughed and clapped his hands loudly. We usually laugh a good bit when we’re together.

“So will you marry me and have my children?” He grinned at me over the top of his steaming cup. “This is a pickup joint, after
all. Singles from the Bureau of Labor Statistics and the Government Printing Office come here, hoping to bed staffers from
Kennedy’s or Glenn’s.”

“It’s the best offer I’ve had all day. Who called this meeting, anyway? Why are we here at this dive, drinking really bad
coffee?”

Taylor slurped his. “Coffee’s fairly strong, isn’t it? That’s something to be thankful for. What’s up, Alex?”

“You interested in another Pulitzer?” I asked him.

He pretended to think it over, but his eyes lit up. “Well, I might be. You see, I need to balance the look of my mantelpiece.
One of my dates told me that. Never did see the young woman again. She worked for Gingrich, as a matter of fact.”

For the next forty-five minutes or so, I told Zachary exactly what I thought was up. I told him about the 114 unsolved murders
in Southeast and parts of Northeast D.C. I detailed the contrasting investigations of the cases of Frank Odenkirk and the
German tourist in Georgetown, and those of the black teenagers Tori Glover and Marion Cardinal. I filled him in on the chief
of detectives, his proclivities and his biases, or at least my perception of them. I even admitted that I disliked Pittman
intensely, and Zachary knows I’m not that way about too many folks who don’t murder for a living.

He shook his head back and forth, back and forth, while I talked, and didn’t stop when I was finished. “Not that I doubt any
of what you’re saying, but do you have any documentation?” he asked.

“You’re such a stickler for details,” I said. “Reporters are such wusses when you come right down to it.”

I reached down under my seat and lifted up two thick manila folders. His eyes brightened.

“This should help with the story. Copies of sixty-seven of the unsolved homicide reports. Also a copy of the Glover and Cardinal
investigation. Note the number of detectives assigned to each. Check the case hours logged. You’ll see a huge discrepancy.
That’s all I could get my hands on—but the other reports exist.”

“Why would this be happening, this malicious neglect?” he asked me.

I nodded at the wisdom of his question. “I’ll give you the most cynical reason,” I said. “Some Metro cops like to refer to
Southeast as ‘self-cleaning ovens.’ That sound like the beginnings of malicious neglect to you? Some victims in Southeast
are called NHIs—that’s ‘No Humans Involved.’ The latter is a phrase used by Chief Pittman.”

Zachary quickly leafed through the reports. Then he shook my hand. “I’m going home to my lonely abode, made bearable only
by my single Pulitzer. I have all these fascinating police files on NHIs to read, then hopefully a chilling news exposé to
write. We’ll see. As always, it’s been a party, Alex. My best to Damon, Jannie, Nana Mama. I’d like to meet them one day.
Put some faces with the names.”

“Come to the next Washington Boys Choir performance,” I said. “All our faces will be there. Damon is a
chorister.
”

I WORKED THAT NIGHT until eight-thirty, and then I drove to Kinkead’s in Foggy Bottom to meet up with Christine. Kinkead’s
is one of our favorite restaurants and also an excellent place to listen to jazz and snuggle up to each other.

I sat at the bar and enjoyed the sounds of Hilton Felton and Ephrain Woolfolk until Christine arrived, coming from an event
at school. She was right on time, though. She is punctual. Very considerate. Perfect in almost every way, at least in my eyes.
Yes, I will be your wife
.

“You hungry? Want to go to a table?” I asked after we had hugged as if we’d been separated for many years and thousands of
miles.

“Let’s just sit here at the bar for a few minutes. You mind?” she asked. Her breath smelled slightly of spearmint. Her face
was so soft and smooth that I
had
to lightly cup it in both my hands.

“Nothing I’d rather do in the whole wide world,” I said.

Christine ordered a Harvey’s Bristol Cream and I had a mug of beer, and we talked as the music flowed over, around, and right
through our bodies. It had been a long day, and I needed this.

“I’ve been waiting for this all day long. I couldn’t wait. Am I being too corny and romantic again?” I said, and grinned.

“Not for me. Never too corny, never too romantic. That won’t happen, Alex.” Christine smiled. I loved to see her like this.
Her eyes twinkled and danced. I sometimes get lost in her eyes, fall into the deep pools, all that good stuff that people
yearn for but few seem to get nowadays, which is sad.

She stared back, and my fingers lightly caressed her cheek. Then I held her under her chin. “Stardust” was playing. It’s one
of my favorite songs, even under ordinary circumstances. I wondered if Hilton and Ephrain were playing the tune for us, and
when I looked at him, Hilton gave me a sly wink.

We moved closer together and danced in place. I could feel her heart beating, feel it right up against my chest. We must have
stayed like that for ten or fifteen minutes. No one at the bar seemed to notice; no one bothered us, offered to refill our
drinks or escort us to our table. I guess they understood.

“I really like Kinkead’s,” Christine whispered. “But you know what? I’d rather be home with you tonight. Someplace a little
more private. I’ll make you eggs, whatever you’d like. Is that all right? Do you mind?”

“No, I don’t mind at all. That’s a perfect idea. Let’s go.”

I paid our bar bill and made my regrets about the dinner reservation. Then we went to Christine’s.

“We’ll start with dessert,” she said, and smiled wickedly. I liked that about her, too.

I HAD BEEN WAITING A LONG TIME to be in love again, but this was worth it and then some. I grabbed hold of Christine as soon
as we were inside her house. My hands began to trace her waist, her hips; they played over her breasts, her shoulders, then
touched the delicate bones of her face. We liked to do this slowly, no need to rush. I kissed her lips, then gently scratched
her back and shoulders. I pulled her closer, closer.

“You have the gentlest touch,” she whispered against my cheek. “I could do this all night. Be just like this. You want some
wine? Anything? I’ll give you anything I have.”

“I love you,” I told her, still lovingly scratching her lower back. “We
will
do this forever. I have no doubt of it.”

“I love you so much,” she said, then I heard her breath softly catch. “So please try to be careful, Alex. At work.”

“Okay, I will. But not tonight,” I said.

Christine smiled. “Not tonight. Tonight you can live dangerously. We both will. You
are
handsome, and debonair for a policeman.”

“Or even for an international jewel thief.”

I swept her up and carried her down the hallway to the bedroom. “Mmm. Strong, too,” she said. She flicked on a hall lamp as
we passed. It was just enough light to see where we were going.

“How about a trip somewhere?” I said. “I need to get away.”

“That sounds good. Yes—before school starts. Anywhere. Take me away from all this.”

Her room smelled of fresh flowers. There were pink and red roses on the nightstand. She has a passion for flowers and gardening.

“You planned this all along, didn’t you?” I said. “You
did
. This is entrapment. You sly girl.”

“I was thinking about it all day,” she confessed, and sighed contentedly. “I thought about being with you all day, in my office,
in the hallways, the schoolyard, and then in my car on the way to the restaurant. I’ve been having erotic daydreams about
you all day.”

“I hope I can live up to them.”

“You will. No doubt about it.”

I took off her black silk blouse in one sweeping motion. I put my mouth to a breast, pulling at it through her demi-bra. She
was wearing a brushed leather skirt, and I didn’t take it off, just slowly pushed it up. I knelt and kissed her ankles, the
tops of her feet, then slowly came up her long legs. She massaged my neck, my back and shoulders.

“You
are
dangerous tonight,” she said. “That’s a good thing.”

“Sexual healing.”

“Mmm, please. Heal me all over, Doctor.”

She bit down hard into my shoulder, then even harder into the side of my neck. We were both breathing fast. She moved against
me, then opened her legs for me. I moved inside her. She felt incredibly warm. The bedsprings began to sing, and the headboard
rocked into the wall.

She pushed her hair to one side, behind an ear. I love the way she does that.

“You feel so good. Oh, Alex, don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop,” she whispered.