The Double (28 page)
Lucas sat in a rickety chair in the offices at 5th and D. Petersen was in non-court attire, a mix of jeans, cowboy boots, and a flowery shirt imported from the U.K. His feet, and the boots, were up on his desk.
“Calvin Bates got twenty-five years,” said Petersen. “The jury convicted him of second-degree murder.”
“It’s a win, in a way. Right?”
“It’s better than life. I would have preferred a dismissal. You were instrumental in getting the sentence reduced. The information you dug up on Brian Dodson and his vehicle changed the tenor of the trial.”
“I planted a seed of doubt.”
“Yes, Mr. McCoy.”
“Where’s Calvin going?”
“They’ll ship him to the Federal Transfer Center in Oklahoma City. Then he’s headed for Leavenworth. When Lorton was open, a special Metrobus ran out there from the city every day. Inmates could visit with family and loved ones. Now, the convicts are spread out all over the country.”
“Could he get parole?”
“He’s eligible, sure.”
“If Calvin was to come forward with information related to a homicide…”
“That might help,” said Petersen, and left it at that. He was honoring the unspoken contract he had with Lucas. “I’ve been calling you.”
“Been layin low this past week.”
“What happened to you?”
“I got in a street fight,” said Lucas, with a sheepish shrug.
“Looks like you caught the worst of it.”
“You should see the other guy.”
Petersen folded his hands on his belly. “‘Some men like to hear a cannonball a roarin’.’”
“‘Whiskey in the Jar,’” said Lucas. “Thin Lizzy. My dad loved their live record.”
“Phil and the gang did a version of it, yes. The definitive version, I’d say.” Petersen eyed Lucas curiously. “So now you’re rested.”
“I’m coming around.”
“That’s good. I just picked up a case. It could use your special talents.”
“Give me a little time,” said Lucas, and he got up out of his chair.
“You look different, Spero.”
“I took some punches.”
“I don’t mean that.”
“See you around, Counselor.”
Petersen watched Lucas walk away.
When Lucas returned to his apartment, he got on the website Homicide Watch D.C., founded by journalist Laura Amico. Amico and her staff kept the victims of violent crimes in the public eye, no matter what part of the city they hailed from, long after the traditional media had stopped writing about them. He typed in Cherise Roberts and reread the details of her murder, the location of the Dumpster in a Fairmont Street alley where she’d been found, and looked for any updates on the investigation. No progress had been made on the case. He studied her photo, a smiling, magnetic young woman standing in front of the Cardozo High School sign,
HOME
OF
THE
CLERKS
,
at the top of the 13th Street hill.
At dusk, Lucas rode his bike down to Park View and swung off the saddle at Georgia and Princeton. It was his first ride since he’d been injured. He felt the bumps and potholes in his shoulder and rib cage, but it was bearable and close to fine.
He checked his watch. September had arrived and the sun was setting earlier now. If Percy Malone was still in his usual routine, this would be the time for him to leave his place for his evening walk.
Percy, dressed in a wrinkled, long-sleeved shirt, emerged unkempt and spidery from the gray row house where he stayed and walked up Princeton toward the rec center. He stopped to light his weed. Lucas kept far back and walked his bike up the hill. At Warder he looked right and saw Malone turning the corner at Otis, and Lucas followed, and watched Malone cut right into the short alley at 6th. He’d then go down the alley that ran behind Princeton, reappear at the bottom of Otis, and cross Georgia to visit his liquor store.
Lucas didn’t need to see the rest. He peddled home in the night.
He’d gotten a call from Amanda Brand, so he phoned her back. Grace Kinkaid had been released from the hospital and was convalescing in her condo in Adams Morgan. She’d asked to see him. She wanted to settle up her debt.
Lucas said he’d drop by.
The painting hung on the pale green wall in its original spot. Grace Kinkaid sat on her couch, a large glass of Chardonnay in hand, her legs folded under her. She wore green slacks and a white blouse buttoned to the neck. Through the sheer material of the shirt, bandages of some kind were visible. Grace’s face was drawn; she’d lost more weight.
Lucas sat in a chair, nursing a bottle of beer. WPFW came softly from the living room stereo.
“I know you visited me in the ER,” said Grace. “I appreciate it.”
“I’m just happy you’re coming along,” said Lucas.
“After they reinflated my lung, the main danger was infection. But my doctor is pleased with my progress. There’s some reconstruction to be done. I’m not afraid of surgery. I’m grateful to be alive.” She cocked her head oddly. “Do you think they’ll get the man who did this to me?”
“Hard to tell.”
Lucas watched her empty half of her wineglass. She licked her lips and placed the glass on the table before her. She looked up at the painting on the wall and her eyes grew bright.
“My painting’s back home, thanks to you, but not for long. After the buyer paid me, I persuaded him to let me keep it for a few more days. Don’t you think it looks nice?”
“It does.”
“Do you know why it’s called
The Double
?”
“Because of the two men,” said Lucas, lamely.
“But it’s not a painting of two men. Not really. The dark and the light colors in the background represent a man’s complex nature. It’s
one
man. Don’t you see?”
Lucas studied the painting.
“Yes,” he said. But he wasn’t sure.
“Would you like another beer?”
“No. I should be on my way.”
“Let me get you your money.”
She left the room and returned with an envelope thick with cash. Lucas had stood and had no intention of sitting back down. As was his custom, he counted the money to ensure that there would be no misunderstanding later on. He told her that it looked fine.
“Thanks again,” she said. She hugged him carefully and kissed him on the side of his mouth.
Lucas nodded, looking into her unfocused eyes. She walked him to the door.
On the elevator ride down, he looked inside the envelope again.
Eighty thousand dollars, less ten each for Marquis and Winston, less expenses. He’d walk with fifty-five, fifty-six thousand. Tax-free.
Lucas slid the goddamned money into his jeans.
The next morning, Lucas took the guns, armor, and gear back to Bobby Waldron in Rockville. In his basement bedroom, Waldron inventoried his goods and got a look at Billy King’s Colt, which Lucas had brought along.
Waldron inspected the .45. “I like this.”
“It’s clean,” said Lucas.
“Why’d you bring it?”
“I was thinking I’d keep the Beretta.”
“What’s the deal?”
“How ’bout I straight trade you the Colt for the nine.”
“I could do that,” said Waldron. “What about the silencer?”
“I’ll take that, too.”
T
he days remained warm as summer turned to autumn, even as the nights grew markedly cooler. Lucas slept with the windows open and woke at dawn to scores of blackbirds calling from the trees of 16th Street Heights. He recommenced his prison regimen of sit-ups and push-ups, and rode his bike daily. He kayaked several times a week. He was busy with his rehabilitation and flush with money. He didn’t need to work, but he was restless.
He twice phoned Detective Paul Strong, of Homicide and Violent Crimes, to get an update on the investigation of the Grace Kinkaid assault. The first time, Strong reminded Lucas that he was not police, and added that only immediate family could expect to get the information he was looking for. The second time Lucas called, Strong told him to piss up a rope, then informed him that the perpetrator, most likely, would never be found. Lucas told himself that he was merely curious. He had simply wanted to know the suspect’s name.
One night he rode his bike down to Park View and followed Percy Malone once again as he made the loop from home to liquor store and back. Lucas had now committed Malone’s route to memory. He knew why he was tailing him and where this was headed.
One day, at the end of the month, he got a call from Charlotte Rivers. She apologized for being out of touch for so long, and wondered if he would like to meet her for a drink.
“Just a drink,” she said, sensing his hesitation on the other end of the line. “Tonight, at our usual spot. I’d like to see you again.”
“One last time?”
“We should talk face-to-face.”
“I don’t know if I can make it,” said Lucas.
“I’ll be at the bar,” she said. “Try to come.”
Lucas told himself he shouldn’t meet her, that it was better not to. But as the day went on, and he thought of her more and more, he knew that he would. It wasn’t just curiosity. She was still in his head.
Around 6:30, he dropped off his Jeep at the door of the boutique hotel, four blocks north of the White House, and went inside. Walked the checkerboard marble floor of the hall that led to the bar, and found her there, seated at the turn, on a high-backed stool. She was wearing the orange dress with the low neckline that she’d worn the first night they’d met, and she was every bit as lovely. He kissed her cheek and took the empty seat beside her.
“Would you like some of this?” she said, pointing to the bottle of Barolo on the bar. “It’s nice.”
“You know, I’m not much of a wine man, to tell you the truth. I’d rather have a beer.”
The quiet, attentive bartender heard this, asked Lucas for his preference, and returned with something in a green bottle. Lucas had a pull as Charlotte looked him over. He was healed, more or less, but not entirely. His ear was scabbed, and the scratch marks on his forehead and nose, where the blood flowed less freely, still faintly showed.
“You’ve been in a fight,” she said.
“I had a little trouble,” said Lucas. “But not too much.” He gave her a reassuring smile and revealed the gap in his row of incisors.
Her eyes flickered. “Spero, what happened to you?”
“It’s fine. I just haven’t got around to the dentist yet.”
“You stopped phoning me. Were you in the hospital or something?”
“I stopped because you weren’t calling me back.”
“I apologize for that. I do.”
“I figured you were sending me a message. I took the hint and stepped back.”
“It wasn’t that, exactly.”
“
What
was it?”
“I needed some time away from you.”
“Because, what, we weren’t getting along?”
“We got along fine.”
“I don’t recall any complaints.”
“We were perfect,” said Charlotte, and she touched his arm. He drew it back.
“Tell me,” said Lucas.
Charlotte took a sip of wine and set the glass on the bar. “You’re a little intense.”
“I know it.”
“You don’t give up much.”
“That’s true.”
“When we started seeing each other, I couldn’t foresee that it was going to get as deep as it did. In the beginning, I was looking for a break from my routine, not more complication. After a while, you were all I thought about. I thought about you at work, I thought about you when I was with my husband…You were taking up too much space in my head. What was happening between us scared me.”
“And you felt you had to end it. Why didn’t you talk to me about it?”
“I didn’t know how you’d react.”
“Shit,”
said Lucas.
“No, listen. You want me to be honest with you, so let me say it.”
“Go ahead.”
“My husband is a steady guy. Maddeningly so. I told you this from day one. But with that came a stability I could rely on. I started to think, I should meet him halfway. Initiate more intimacy instead of just waiting for him to make a move. Make him go out on dates, or book weekends out of town. Talk to him more. Try to recapture what we had when we first met.
Try.
Because I wasn’t going to leave him.”
“Leave him for me, you mean.”
“For anyone. I didn’t mislead you about that.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Truthfully, I never stopped caring for him. And if I was going to stay with him, I knew I was in for a long world of hurt and frustration if I just allowed things to stay the way they were.”
“So my intensity made you appreciate your husband’s steady personality. Is that it? You’re saying being with me drove you back to him?”
“In a way. You were a bridge.”
“Glad to be of service.”
“Please, don’t be that way.”
“Charlotte, what’s going on? For real.”
“My husband and I are taking small steps. That’s all I know for now. As for you and me…” She wrapped her fingers around his biceps and this time he let her. “Spero, I’m sorry.”
In his movie, he saw her asking him if he’d like to go up to her room, one last time. He’d consider it, because she was beautiful, and he knew how it would be between them, and he loved her. She’d ask, and he’d turn her down.
He’d
be the one to drive the final nail in, not her. Walk from the bar unscathed, with his head up.
But Charlotte didn’t ask him. Instead, she told him that she needed to get home. She reached for her wallet, but he stopped her and paid the tab in cash.
Out by the valet stand, waiting for his Jeep, he looked down at the palm of his hand. The wormy, crescent-shaped mark, pale red and pronounced, had settled into the shape of a C.
Lucas laughed.
C
for Charlotte. He’d wear her scar for the rest of his life.
One evening in October, as the sun began to set, Lucas dressed in black shorts, a black T-shirt, and bike shoes, and put some items into a backpack. His face was grim as he worked.
Lucas had checked D.C. Homicide Watch daily to see if there had been any movement on the Cherise Roberts case. There had been none.
