The Double (23 page)

But Lumley wasn’t returning his calls. This disturbed King and made him suspicious. He didn’t like to be ignored. Worse, his phone calls to Serge had gone unanswered and unreturned as well. And now Louis had become unreachable. This was Louis, who followed King around like a broke-dick dog. Something was wrong.

King walked out of the house carrying his bag. He opened the rear lid of his Monte Carlo SS and stashed the bag in its trunk.

Lois followed him from the house wearing a bathrobe, cigarette in hand.

“Billy,” she said, reaching him as he opened his driver’s-side door. “Where you going, hon?”

Hon.
Lois liked to brag that she hailed from Baltimore, and King gave a fuck.

“Work, doll.”

“You’re coming back, right?” She clutched at her robe, let it fall open slightly to give him a look at her retooled globes. She was going for sexy, but the sunlight did her no favors.

“Oh, yeah,” said King. “I wouldn’t leave a dish like you alone for too long.”

She moved to kiss his mouth. He let her, but held his breath. She smelled like an ashtray.

King fired up the SS.

He drove right into Washington and parked near Lumley’s shop. Going to the door, he felt the heat well up in him as he read the note taped inside the glass.

To my loyal patrons:

After several years here as a merchant in Dupont Circle I have made the difficult decision to close my business and move on. I’d like to thank you for your loyal patronage and friendship, and hope that our paths cross again.

Best,
Charles Lumley

King looked into the nearly empty shop. No paintings on the walls, no easels, no goods for sale. Only a desk and a chair remained. Even the landline had been removed.

King drew his cell and phoned Lumley. Once again, he got dead air, not even a recording.

Lumley owed him no money. In fact, he had stood to make a hefty commission on the sale of the paintings. Maybe the fit young man in the Oxon Hill parking lot, the one who’d stood down Serge, had come back to Lumley’s shop and persuaded him to leave town. Maybe Lumley had given up the location of the paintings to this private heat before he skipped.

With growing dread, King got back into his Chevy and drove out to the house in Croom.

Louis’s Crown Vic wasn’t in the yard.

King approached the house with care and used his key to open its front door. He smelled death and heard the buzz of insects as soon as he walked inside.

Serge was lying near the dining room table, dotted with flies. He’d been shot several times.

King went to the paintings.
The Double
was gone. The other paintings had been left behind, and the computer equipment had gone untouched.

The couch, tables, and floor had been shot to hell. Up on the landing, a large portion of the plaster wall was gone.

In King’s bedroom, not one item was missing. Even the Bushmaster with the folding stock was where he’d left it.

In Serge’s room, King found a cell and put it in his pocket.

In Louis’s room, his earbuds and the small speaker he attached to his smartphone lay on the bed. His clothing still hung in his closet. Louis would have taken these things if he had intended to leave for good. Unless he had escaped in a rush or been forced to leave against his will.

King went back downstairs. In the kitchen he wet a towel and wrapped it around his nose and mouth. Returning to the living room and dining room area, he found a couple of nine-millimeter shell casings on the floor. Serge’s Ithaca and Glock lay on the floor as well. King checked under a couch cushion and found a semiautomatic pistol he’d stashed there.

The thief had left hastily and had taken only the painting King had lifted off of Grace Kinkaid’s wall. So the raider was some kind of professional. At the very least, he was a man with focus.

King sat down on the shredded couch. He’d paid rent to the home’s owner several months in advance, in cash, along with a cash security deposit. The man had asked for no ID after King had given him the money and one of his assumed names. He hadn’t even glanced at the license plate on King’s car. As usual, greed had trumped good sense.

King was going to lose his security deposit, but he’d clean the place up the best he could. Gather up the rest of Louis’s things, and Serge’s things, and all of their identification, false and otherwise, and take everything out to the county landfill. Do the same with the guns he didn’t want and the computer equipment, which wasn’t worth the trouble it would take to sell. Call Arthur Spiegel and see if he could middle the remaining paintings through an art specialist. Stay here until he finished that bit of business, then get out, because the landlord dropped in unannounced from time to time. Move back into Lois’s place for a few more days. Get his hands on her jewelry and leave town.

He’d ridden alone his entire adult life. Partnering up with Serge and Louis had been a one-time deal, and it had been a mistake. It was time to get back on a familiar path.

But first he had to take care of the Kinkaid woman and draw out her rented man. Also, put Serge underground. His corpse was stinking up the house.

It was dusk when King finished burying Serge in a shallow grave, deep in the woods. King had found an animal feed and farm supply store down 301, and there he’d purchased a fifty-pound bag of hydrated lime. He would have preferred quicklime, which burned the body as well. But it was difficult to buy without a commercial account, even if you could find a tractor supply company or masonry material house. The hydrated variety didn’t do the burn job like quicklime, but it worked just fine for the smell. Man behind the counter said, “You got a Jiffy John, or somethin?” and King said, “Just a big old dog.”

King bought a large tarp, shovel, mask, and tube of Vaseline at a regular hardware store. He put on the mask, dabbed the petroleum jelly inside his nostrils, and laid Serge in the tarp. Dragged him out to the woods, found some soft earth, and dug a hole. It felt good for King to work his back, put some of his anger and muscle into the job. He dumped Serge into the hole, shrouded him with lime, filled the hole back up with dirt, and covered the spot with brush and a log. When he was done he was still agitated, but his vision was clear.

It was full dark as he walked back into the house. He showered and had himself a beer, and as he drank it he called Arthur Spiegel and got the ball in motion. Then he found the phone number that Serge had given him in the bar of the Russia House on the first night they’d met. Serge had bragged that he knew a man who’d do certain jobs for money. King made the call and, when it connected, was surprised that the number was still good and pleased that the voice on the other end of the line was that of a black man. After a short conversation, they agreed to meet the next day.

Around noon, Billy King walked down Minnesota Avenue in Northeast. He had parked his car, locked the glove box, and made sure to lock the Chevy’s doors, taking note of the many blacks, the Korean and Chinese merchants, and varieties of brown that were on the street. From what he could see, he was the sole white in the area, but he was not concerned. King had never lacked confidence.

He found the man he was looking for in a Laundromat, seated in a plastic chair. The place was warm and loud, with the sound of washing machines, tumbling drums, and women alternately talking on cell phones and raising their voices at children who were going about the business of being kids.

King took a seat beside the man and said, “I’m Billy Hunter.”

“Jabari Jones.” His last name was Alston, not Jones. He was about forty, with an unstylish modified Afro, salted gray, and a full beard interrupted by bare spots he couldn’t “get.” He wore a blue chambray shirt and black slacks. His eyes were crafty but not hard. He looked like a custodian or liquor store clerk. He didn’t look like someone who would do violence for cash.

“Thanks for seeing me,” said King.

“You wearing a wire?”

“No.”

“Let me see.”

King raised his polo shirt, then dropped it.

“How’s my friend Serge?” said Alston.

“Resting.”

“Would’ve liked to have seen him.”

“He’s not available.”

“Is he with a woman?”

“That would shock me.”

Alston’s eyes smiled with recognition. “Getting his hair cut, then. Those blond locks of his do get unruly.”

“Serge has black hair. And one eyebrow.”

“That’s my boy.”

“Any other questions?”

“No,” said Alston. “I believe we’re straight.”

“Let’s get to it, then.”

“What’d you have in mind?”

King told him and said, “It’s half a job, for you.”

“That don’t mean I take half the pay.”

“If you want to rape the bitch, go ahead and do that, too.”

“I don’t think so.”

“That’s extra?”

“It’s not on the menu.”

“How much for what I asked?”

“Seven thousand, three hundred dollars,” said Alston. “Cash, today.”

“Why seven and change? Why not six, or five? Or ten, for that matter?”

“I was born in seventy-three.” Alston shrugged sleepily. “That’s my quote.”

“I give you the cash right now, how do I know you’ll complete the job?”

“’Cause I
took
the job. I get my work from referrals. If I don’t maintain a rep, I don’t get paid.”

They walked to the Monte Carlo and got inside. King unlocked the glove box and took out cash. He turned the key in the ignition and kicked on the AC. King and Alston completed the deal.

“Don’t try to tail-gun me,” said King, handing Alston the money and giving him a meaningful smile.

Alston counted out the bills, folded them neatly, and put them in the right pocket of his slacks.

“Did you hear me?” said King.

“My ears work fine.”

“If you fuck me, I’ll find you.”

“I believe you would.”

“Take care of this right away. And make sure she sees you.”

“Assault by a deadly nigger,” said Alston wryly.

“Something like that.”

“Just so there’s no misunderstanding…you don’t want me to dead her, right?”

“I’m just sending her a message.”

“But it should be something she remembers.”

“Leave scars,” said King.

TWENTY-THREE

L
ucas had his stitches removed in the small white room of an urgent care clinic in Manor Park. He sat in a wooden chair as a Dr. Nikolic snipped and pulled the sutures using a set of clippers. It stung a little when the threads passed through his skin, but he didn’t let it show on his face. The doctor was a knockout, and he was going for tough.

Tanya Nikolic was tall and on the cusp of thirty, a black-haired beauty descended from Eastern European stock. She examined his wound closely and then poured hydrogen peroxide over it. Lucas watched it bubble over the raised crescent mark. When his hand was dry she affixed a butterfly bandage to the cut.

“That ER doctor did a good job,” said Nikolic. “It healed nicely.”

“What about that scar?” said Lucas.

“It’s real. You’ll have it for life.”

“Is that it for us?”

“What else would you like me to do?”

“You could take my blood pressure. I think it’s up right now.”

“Why’s that?”

“It always happens to me when a good-looking woman walks into a room.”

“You’re the first patient that’s ever said that to me.”

“Really?”

“No.” Dr. Nikolic smiled a little as she removed her gloves. “Just let that bandage fall off naturally. You’re good to go.”

Lucas left the clinic and headed downtown. Petersen had asked him to come in. Something to do with Calvin Bates.

Twenty minutes later, Lucas sat before Petersen’s desk in the offices at 5th and D. Petersen, in Western drag, wearing a shirt with a yoked back and snap buttons, reached into a drawer and produced a deck of playing cards in a cardboard case. He dropped the case on the desk in front of Lucas.

“Do you know what these are?” said Petersen.

Lucas opened the pack and inspected the top card. The back of it read, “District of Columbia,” and the next line read, “Cold Case Homicides and Missing Persons,” and had a phone number and phone code printed below it. In the center of the card was a rendering of the D.C. flag overlaid with a small map of the District.

“Turn it over,” said Petersen.

Lucas looked at its flip side. It was the four of hearts, with the words “Unsolved Homicide” and “Up to $25,000 Reward” under the heart. Below that, a photo of a deceased woman named Sharmell “Mella” Hall, her age, the location of where her body had been found, a brief description of the crime, and its case number. She had been shot to death in 1989.

“I’ve heard of these,” said Lucas.

“The company that manufactures the cards distributes them in prisons and jails via various law enforcement agencies. They make them for about thirty different states and cities. Inmates love to play cards. The idea is, while they’re playing, a prisoner could see a missing person or murder victim, and they might know something about the perpetrator.”

“You mean, they’d roll on a killer? That doesn’t happen too often.”

“But it does happen. They do it for the reward, or just because they don’t like someone. Or for consideration at a later date. People who cooperate with the law do better at parole hearings. Of course, it’s often a false lead. But there’ve been a number of arrests and convictions off these tips.”

“How does this connect to Calvin Bates?” said Lucas.

“Apparently, a friend of his was playing poker in the common room of the jail and he recognized a name on one of the cards. Calvin asked to speak to you.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” said Petersen, and Lucas tried to read Petersen’s face for the lie. For legal reasons, and to preserve their relationship, Peterson made it a point to stay out of Lucas’s side work and private affairs.

“That a fact,” said Lucas.

“You’ll have to ask him. You should do it quickly, though. His case has gone to the jury. If he’s convicted, he’s going to be moved to a federal facility. That means he’ll be incarcerated somewhere far away.”