A Murder of Justice by Robert Andrews Page B

eighty-three citizens. In 1999, we dropped down to two hundred forty-one. But”—she threw her hands up—“look at the closure rates. In 1990, you guys were closing fifty-seven percent of the cases one way or another. In 1999, with half the killings, you were closing only thirty-seven percent of the cases. Over the ten-year period, we had almost four thousand homicides. Of those four thousand, over fifteen hundred are still open.”
    Frank looked at the stack of cold cases, still trying to gethis head around fifteen hundred unsolved murders in ten years.
    “Sweet Jesus,” José murmured.
    I n the hallway, headed back to their office, José muttered, “Fifteen hundred . . . One thousand  . . . five hundred  . . .”
    “Numbers,” Frank said absently. “Somebody said one death is a tragedy, a million’s just a statistic. I wonder where fifteen hundred comes down?”
    They were passing Emerson’s office. José jerked a thumb toward the door. “We’d been good at cooking the numbers, we’d be sitting behind glass desks and have nasty-ass secretaries with long nails and big tits to guard the front door.”
    “Remember what your uncle says about ifs?”
    José laughed. If my daddy hadn’t died in the poor house, I’d be a rich man.
    “What say we work on that”—he tapped the printout Frank was carrying under his arm—“till six or so, then go out for ribs?”
    “Give me a rain check. Kate’s coming in at seven.”

 SEVEN
    A t six twenty-five, Frank pulled into the C terminal parking garage at Reagan National, and found a slot on the third level. An arrival screen showed Kate’s flight due to arrive at seven-ten.
    Getting to appointments early. A security compulsion, a shrink once told him.
    He locked the car and found the elevators to the pedestrian walkway.
    Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. Hadn’t Freud said that? And it might be that you get to airports early because you don’t want to risk getting tied up in traffic and miss your plane.
    But tonight Kate was the reason. It was like one of those “If you do this, that’ll happen” things you made up as kid—if he got there early, she’d walk through the passageway door sooner. Or at least on time, which was getting to be a minor damn miracle.
    Getting through security with his pistol ate up several minutes. A manager had to be sent for. The man hadchecked Frank’s badge and credentials with anxious uncertainty, then sent for his manager.
    Taking a back-row seat opposite Kate’s arrival gate, Frank eyed the crowd. He always found people-watching more interesting at National than at Dulles. He thought it might be that people making the relatively short hops out of National to Orlando, Pittsburgh, and Cleveland carried themselves with more energy than those anticipating the long-leg runs out of Dulles to Berlin, Tokyo, and Buenos Aires.
    Fifteen hundred cold cases. Fifteen hundred dead people. How many living relatives of those cold-case victims? Say five? Okay, five per. That’s . . .
    Now, only partially aware of the airport crowd, Frank worked on the mental arithmetic.
    An airline ground agent opened the gate door, and travelers began rounding a corner in the passageway.
    Kate’s smile caught him while she was still down the passageway. Frank got up to meet her. The arithmetic faded into the shadows.
    A tweed jacket and pale-blue silk blouse highlighted short blond hair and blue eyes. Before they touched, he felt the warmth between them. They came together and kissed briefly. His hand at the small of her back, he felt the firm, assertive curve of her hip.
    “Long time,” he said, feeling his chest tighten.
    “Six days?”
    “It’s all relative. You hungry?”
    “Understatement.”
    “It’s warm enough to sit outside.”
    “La Brasserie?”
    L a Brasserie’s terrace faces Massachusetts Avenue, a few blocks east of Union Station. Schneider’s Liquors sits across the avenue, along with a bagel bakery and the offices of