anyway, which was easier, cheaper and much, much faster. Like New York, D.C. was a walking city for those who lived in its borders. D.C. parking operated on a sliding scale of seniority and importance—the daily ho-hum dwarves and environmentalists took the Metro, the midlevel management and government workers carpooled, paying through the nose for monthly passes to the parking lots, which weren’t overly plentiful. Those who garnered a bona fide parking permit were on the high end of the feeding pool, able to drive by themselves into town, park at a premium spot and parade into their buildings, high on self-importance and exhaust.
For the thousandth time, Fletcher wondered why he’d chosen to set down roots in D.C. of all places—the most impermanent, intransigent, imitation place in the world. Teeming with tourists and power-hungry suits and senseless deaths, he sometimes lost sight of the city’s beauty, the fact that his parents met, married and loved there, the fact that the food was on par with any city in the world, and the sports weren’t too bad, either. He’d spent the past fifteen years in a small row house on Capitol Hill, a surprisingly quiet street kitty-corner to the Longworth Building. In his tiny front yard was a sculpture of an angel that he left in front of the recycling trashcan. He liked the way the white marble reflected off the blue plastic. It reminded him of why he was a cop—harmony and beauty marred by rubbish.
He’d had a string of women in and out of the house—some staying longer than others—though he always managed to chase them away. He had an ex-wife, too, and a son who he didn’t get to see nearly enough, since his son’s bitch of a mother had managed to convince a judge that it wasn’t safe for the boy to be alone with his gun-toting homicide detective father for more than one weekend a month. Fletcher hadn’t helped the situation at the beginning by having to reschedule regular days because of crimes, and Felicia had taken full advantage of that. She wanted to move away, had finally convinced the judge that it would be better for Tad to be in another, cleaner, quieter environment. They’d made the move to Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, last year, and Fletcher saw even less of his only child. By the time he was free to spend time with the boy, Tad would be grown and stressing over a family of his own.
His ex wouldn’t speak to him outside of the grunted hello if they accidentally saw each other during their infrequent child exchanges. And now that Tad could drive, Felicia never came near him. She hated him with a passion.
Maybe it was for the best. Maybe Felicia was right—he was poison. He wasn’t a good man. Good men didn’t cheat on their wives and stay out late with strangers. Good men didn’t drink too much scotch and lose interest in their chosen career paths. Good men didn’t—
“Earth to Fletch.”
He glanced to his right, where Hart was pointing to the light. “Buddy, light’s green. Has been. Where the hell were you?”
“Felicia.”
“Ah. Enough said. Let the self-flagellation continue. I’ll stay quiet.”
He flipped Hart the bird. “Sit and spin.”
Hart did his best breathy Marilyn. “Oh, Daddy, can I?”
They both started to laugh. Count on Hart to drag his ass back from the doldrums. He really needed to think about taking that prescription the station shrink gave him at his last annual evaluation.
“Sorry, man. I’m just tired.”
“Join the club. I think that’s it on the right.”
The house was a standard rambler, brick on the bottom with blue siding and a carport to the right. This area of Falls Church was established, heavily treed, an older neighborhood. Three houses down a McMansion preened, full of itself and its newfound glory. Land was at a premium in D.C., so folks were buying smaller, older houses, razing them and building huge manors. Safe neighborhoods became safer, property values started to rise and folks like the
For the thousandth time, Fletcher wondered why he’d chosen to set down roots in D.C. of all places—the most impermanent, intransigent, imitation place in the world. Teeming with tourists and power-hungry suits and senseless deaths, he sometimes lost sight of the city’s beauty, the fact that his parents met, married and loved there, the fact that the food was on par with any city in the world, and the sports weren’t too bad, either. He’d spent the past fifteen years in a small row house on Capitol Hill, a surprisingly quiet street kitty-corner to the Longworth Building. In his tiny front yard was a sculpture of an angel that he left in front of the recycling trashcan. He liked the way the white marble reflected off the blue plastic. It reminded him of why he was a cop—harmony and beauty marred by rubbish.
He’d had a string of women in and out of the house—some staying longer than others—though he always managed to chase them away. He had an ex-wife, too, and a son who he didn’t get to see nearly enough, since his son’s bitch of a mother had managed to convince a judge that it wasn’t safe for the boy to be alone with his gun-toting homicide detective father for more than one weekend a month. Fletcher hadn’t helped the situation at the beginning by having to reschedule regular days because of crimes, and Felicia had taken full advantage of that. She wanted to move away, had finally convinced the judge that it would be better for Tad to be in another, cleaner, quieter environment. They’d made the move to Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, last year, and Fletcher saw even less of his only child. By the time he was free to spend time with the boy, Tad would be grown and stressing over a family of his own.
His ex wouldn’t speak to him outside of the grunted hello if they accidentally saw each other during their infrequent child exchanges. And now that Tad could drive, Felicia never came near him. She hated him with a passion.
Maybe it was for the best. Maybe Felicia was right—he was poison. He wasn’t a good man. Good men didn’t cheat on their wives and stay out late with strangers. Good men didn’t drink too much scotch and lose interest in their chosen career paths. Good men didn’t—
“Earth to Fletch.”
He glanced to his right, where Hart was pointing to the light. “Buddy, light’s green. Has been. Where the hell were you?”
“Felicia.”
“Ah. Enough said. Let the self-flagellation continue. I’ll stay quiet.”
He flipped Hart the bird. “Sit and spin.”
Hart did his best breathy Marilyn. “Oh, Daddy, can I?”
They both started to laugh. Count on Hart to drag his ass back from the doldrums. He really needed to think about taking that prescription the station shrink gave him at his last annual evaluation.
“Sorry, man. I’m just tired.”
“Join the club. I think that’s it on the right.”
The house was a standard rambler, brick on the bottom with blue siding and a carport to the right. This area of Falls Church was established, heavily treed, an older neighborhood. Three houses down a McMansion preened, full of itself and its newfound glory. Land was at a premium in D.C., so folks were buying smaller, older houses, razing them and building huge manors. Safe neighborhoods became safer, property values started to rise and folks like the
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