HOLIDAY CARRIED THE POST out to his balcony and read the article on Asa Johnson thoroughly. He stubbed out his cigarette and took his coffee inside to the second bedroom of his apartment, which he had outfitted as his office. He had a seat at his desk, fired up his computer, and got online. He went to a search engine and typed in “Palindrome Murders, Washington, D.C.” For the next hour he read and printed out everything useful on the subject, some of which came from serial-killer sites, most of which came from the archives of the Washington Post. He then phoned the local police union office and got a man on the line who had been a patrolman when Holiday had walked a beat in the H Street corridor. This man gave Holiday the current address of the person he was looking for.
Holiday dressed in his black suit and left the apartment. He had a pickup for an airport run.
THE VICTIM’S NAME WAS Jamal White. He had been shot twice in the chest and once in the head. Burn marks and notable cranial damage indicated a close-range kill. He was on his back, with one leg folded in an unnatural manner under the other. His eyes were open and fixed on nothing, and his top teeth were bared and protruded over his lower lip in the manner of a slaughtered animal. He had been found on the edge of the park at 3rd and Madison. Blood had bloomed and dried on his white T.
“Nineteen years old,” said Rhonda Willis. “Did a long juvenile stay at Oak Hill and some D.C. Jail time while he was waiting on sentencing. Car thefts, drug possessions, minor sales pops. No violent crimes on his sheet. He came up near Fifth and Kennedy, so you know what that’s about. Residential address is his grandmother’s home on Longfellow.”
“His family been notified?” said Ramone.
“What there is of one. Mother’s currently incarcerated. An addict with multiple larceny convictions. No father of record. There’s a few half-siblings, but they weren’t living with him. The closest kin is his grandmother. She’s been called.”
They talked to the patrol cop out of 4D who had arrived first on the scene. They asked him if he had spoken to anyone who might have seen something, or if he himself had seen anything pertinent to the murder, and the patrol cop shook his head.
“I guess we should, uh, seek out some witnesses,” said Ramone to Rhonda.
“Please,” said Rhonda. “Let’s go see Granmoms and allow these good people to do their jobs.”
They left the working techs and drove to the grandmother’s row house on the 500 block of Longfellow Street. The blinds were drawn on the windows of the front porch.
“She in there having her moment, I expect,” said Rhonda. “Allowing herself a good cry.”
“You could come back,” said Ramone.
“No, I need to do this. Might as well make it now. She might have something to tell me while she’s thinking on it.” Rhonda looked across the bench at Ramone. “Don’t suppose you want to come with me.”
“I got a few calls to make.”
“Gonna make me fly solo, huh.”
He watched her go to the house and knock on the front door. The door opened and there was darkness behind. A hand reached out and touched hers and Rhonda stepped inside.
Ramone called 411 and obtained the number for Strange Investigations, a storefront operation on 9th and Upshur. Derek Strange was ex-police, now private, and Ramone had used him in the past for discreet information. In return he threw bits of meat, occasionally, back to Strange.
The phone rang and a woman picked up. It was Strange’s wife, Janine.
“Is the big man in?” said Ramone.
“Working,” said Janine. “And rarely here. All you boys like to run the streets.”
“True. Listen, I got a name. Can you get me an address and phone? I need business and residence.”
“All those toys you police have and you’re askin me?”
“I’m not at the toy store,” said Ramone. “Daniel Holiday, spell it like a vacation. Goes by Doc. He has a car or limo service, is what I hear. I imagine he’d name it after himself.”
“Okay. I’ll run it through People Finder. Give me your cell number. I got it on file somewhere here, but I’m lazy.”
Ramone gave her his number. “How’s your boy?”
“Lionel’s in college, praise be. Your lovely wife and kids?”
“All is good. Ya’ll still got that boxer?”
“You mean Greco. He’s under my desk. Got his chin on my toes as we speak.”
“Nice beast,” said Ramone. “Call me, hear?”
“In a minute,” said Janine.
It was more than a minute, but not much more. Ramone wrote down the information on his pad and thanked Janine. Soon after that, Rhonda came out of the house. She put her sunglasses on immediately, walked to the Taurus, and got under the wheel. She removed her sunglasses and used a tissue to wipe at her eyes.
Ramone reached over and put a hand on her shoulder, massaged her there.
“I guess the old girl took it rough,” said Ramone.
“She wasn’t but ten years older than me,” said Rhonda. “Granmom raised that boy from a baby. Stayed right there by him through all his rough spots, never gave up hope that he would make it through to the other side. Now she’s got nothin.”
“What was her take?”
“She said he was a good boy who had made some bad friends and unfortunate mistakes. Said Jamal had finally got himself on the straight.”
“Sounds familiar.”
“I took a quick look at his room. No cash lyin around, and the things he had didn’t look all that nice. I didn’t see any obvious signs that he was in it. Anyway, we gonna have to go elsewhere to get the deeper story. I got a couple of photos from G-mom, so I can show them around.” Rhonda leaned forward, looked in the rearview, and chuckled without joy. “Look at me. All puffy-eyed and stuff. And now my mascara’s run.”
“C’mon, you look fine.”
“I used to. Remember how I looked before I had my boys?”
“You know it.”
“I had it goin on, Gus.”
“You still do.”
“Aren’t you sweet.” Rhonda opened the folder she held on her lap. “Granmom says he’s still best friends with this boy Leon Mayo. His name came up on WACIES as an accomplice in one of those car thefts and a possession beef. We ought to find him, see what he’s got to say.”
“You’re driving,” said Ramone. “Or do you want me to? So you can, you know, reapply that war paint?”
“I’m good,” said Rhonda. “Sorry you had to put up with my tears. I just got emotional. I can’t say why.”
“Is it that time of month?” said Ramone.
“You mean that time of the month when you start talkin ignorant?”
“Sorry.”
They pulled away from the curb.
HOLIDAY DIDN’T SPEAK MUCH to his client, an Arnold and Porter lawyer, on the run down to Reagan National. Guy was on his cell most of the time and never once made eye contact with Holiday in the rearview the entire ride. To the lawyer, he was invisible, and to Holiday that was fine.
Coming back from 395, he shot through the tunnel and took New York Avenue out of town, where he hooked up with the Beltway in Maryland and ramped off onto Greenbelt Road. He listened to Channel 46 on the XM, a station called Classic Album Cuts, and kept it up loud. They were showcasing ax standards today, starting with “Blue Sky,” and Holiday could see his brother, long-haired and higher than Hopper, playing air guitar to that beautiful, fluid Dickey Betts solo, a piece of music that just spelled happiness to Holiday, because his brother had been happy then and his sister was there, happy too, and alive. And then the deejay went right into “Have You Ever Loved a Woman,” Clapton and Duane Allman dueling, both of them on fire, and something cold touched Holiday, like the finger of death, but then there came the memories of his family, and Holiday relaxed and let the window down and drove on.
He passed Eleanor Roosevelt High and made a right down Cipriano Road, checking the detail map on the bench beside him as he went along woods and past a Vishnu temple, going right on Good Luck Road on the edge of New Carrollton and making another right into a community known as Magnolia Springs, ramblers and ranchers mostly, some well tended, others in need of care. He found the house he was looking for on Dolphin Road. It was a yellow-sided, white-shuttered one-story affair with a brownish lawn and a late-model Mercury Marquis, the step-up Crown Vic, in the driveway. Holiday smiled, looking at the car. Once a cop.
He parked the Lincoln curbside, killed the motor, got out of it, and walked to the house. He passed a dead lilac tree in the yard and wondered why the owner hadn’t removed it. He rang the doorbell and found himself straightening the lapels of his jacket as he heard footsteps approaching the door. And then the door opened, and a bald, average-sized black man with a gray mustache stood in the frame. He wore a sweater, though the day was warm. He was well past middle-aged and stepping off the bridge to elderly. Holiday had never seen him without his hat.
“Yes?” said the man, his eyes hard and unwelcoming.
“Sergeant Cook?”
“T. C. Cook, th-that’s right. What is it?”
“Have you read the Post today? There was a boy found over in that community garden on Oglethorpe Street. Shot in the head.”
“Fourth District, yes. I saw the segment on Fox Five.” Cook unfolded his arms. “You’re not with the media. Some kind of law enforcement, right?”
“I’m ex-police. MPD.”
“No such thing as ex-police.” Cook’s mouth sloped down slightly on one side as he spoke.
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Television man said that the boy’s first name was Asa.”
“It’s spelled the same way,” said Holiday, “forwards and back.”
Cook studied Holiday and said, “Come inside.”