dead or in shock before the guy was finished knifing him.”
“What does all that mean?”
“It could mean a lot of things. The intent was clear—he didn’t want to wound Henry, he wanted him dead. It could have been a drug deal gone bad. Or it was a crime of passion. You know, a homo burn.”
“A homo burn?” I frowned. “Come on, Boyle, what the hell is that?”
“We explore every possibility, Nick. That building he lived in, it had a history of homosexual tenants.”
I sighed and drummed my fingers on the bar. “Keep going.”
Boyle pointed to his empty shot glass. I reached behind me to the second row of call, grabbed the black-labeled bottle of Jack, and poured him some sour mash. He sipped it, chased it with some draught. “The main point I got out of the report, the angle I’d go for if I was looking into it, was how he got past thesecurity guard in the lobby.” Boyle winked. “That’s, like I say, if I was going to look into it.”
“What was the security guard’s name, Boyle? The one that was on duty.”
“I’ll deny this if it ever gets out.” I nodded and looked around the bar. Our regulars were drinking peacefully. A couple of them had solemnly closed their eyes and were mouthing the words to Joe Jackson’s version of “What’s the Use of Getting Sober? (When You’re Gonna Get Drunk Again)” as it came through the speakers. Boyle said, “James Thomas.”
I wrote down the name and said, “Any progress on the case?”
Boyle snorted and closed his eyes slowly as he sipped from the shot glass he held in his thick hand. When he was finished he put the glass down. “A case gets cold after a few days, Nick. And there’s always something else. Right now we’ve got hookers gettin’ whacked down in the Midnight Zone. Detectives working double shifts.” Boyle drained half of what was left in the mug. “The thing you got to remember is, almost one out of two homicides in the District go unsolved. Pretty good odds for the bad guys, huh? You kill someone in this town, you got a fifty percent shot at getting away with it.”
“What are you saying?”
“We’re never going to find that boy’s killer, Nick. That’s a fuckin’ bet.”
“Thanks for the information.”
Boyle leaned in and stared hard. He was attempting to focus his jittery pale blue eyes on mine. “If you need anything else, partner, you let me know.”
“I will. In the meantime, I gotta be getting out of here.” I wiped the area in front of him with my bar rag. “Believe it or not, I’ve got a date.”
“I remember those days,” Boyle said. “Dates. Now all’s I got is rotten screaming kids.”
“There’s a solution to that.”
“What would that be?” he said.
“Take ’em out in the street,” I said, “and shoot ’em in the head. Public fuckin’ executions.”
ON THE WAY HOME I stopped and picked up my package at the office of my answering service on Georgia Avenue. After that I headed west a few blocks and parked the Dodge in front of my apartment. The afternoon sun had taken care of most of the snow. What was left was gray now and in mounds near the curb. My cat ran out as I stepped along the walk. She rolled onto her back and let me scratch her stomach. As I did this her left rear paw boxed the air convulsively. When her paw stopped moving I tickled the scar tissue where her right eye had been, then entered my place.
I changed into sweat clothes while the water boiled. Then I made coffee and took the coffee and my package to a small desk I had set up in my bedroom. I opened the package and spread its contents out on the oak top.
Billy Goodrich had organized his wife’s file with all the efficiency and warmth of a client’s prospectus. There was a cover letter and a photograph that appeared to have been professionally taken. I tacked that one to the bulletin board that hung over my desk. I glanced over the rest of the material—family and medical history, doctors, a résumé—and
“What does all that mean?”
“It could mean a lot of things. The intent was clear—he didn’t want to wound Henry, he wanted him dead. It could have been a drug deal gone bad. Or it was a crime of passion. You know, a homo burn.”
“A homo burn?” I frowned. “Come on, Boyle, what the hell is that?”
“We explore every possibility, Nick. That building he lived in, it had a history of homosexual tenants.”
I sighed and drummed my fingers on the bar. “Keep going.”
Boyle pointed to his empty shot glass. I reached behind me to the second row of call, grabbed the black-labeled bottle of Jack, and poured him some sour mash. He sipped it, chased it with some draught. “The main point I got out of the report, the angle I’d go for if I was looking into it, was how he got past thesecurity guard in the lobby.” Boyle winked. “That’s, like I say, if I was going to look into it.”
“What was the security guard’s name, Boyle? The one that was on duty.”
“I’ll deny this if it ever gets out.” I nodded and looked around the bar. Our regulars were drinking peacefully. A couple of them had solemnly closed their eyes and were mouthing the words to Joe Jackson’s version of “What’s the Use of Getting Sober? (When You’re Gonna Get Drunk Again)” as it came through the speakers. Boyle said, “James Thomas.”
I wrote down the name and said, “Any progress on the case?”
Boyle snorted and closed his eyes slowly as he sipped from the shot glass he held in his thick hand. When he was finished he put the glass down. “A case gets cold after a few days, Nick. And there’s always something else. Right now we’ve got hookers gettin’ whacked down in the Midnight Zone. Detectives working double shifts.” Boyle drained half of what was left in the mug. “The thing you got to remember is, almost one out of two homicides in the District go unsolved. Pretty good odds for the bad guys, huh? You kill someone in this town, you got a fifty percent shot at getting away with it.”
“What are you saying?”
“We’re never going to find that boy’s killer, Nick. That’s a fuckin’ bet.”
“Thanks for the information.”
Boyle leaned in and stared hard. He was attempting to focus his jittery pale blue eyes on mine. “If you need anything else, partner, you let me know.”
“I will. In the meantime, I gotta be getting out of here.” I wiped the area in front of him with my bar rag. “Believe it or not, I’ve got a date.”
“I remember those days,” Boyle said. “Dates. Now all’s I got is rotten screaming kids.”
“There’s a solution to that.”
“What would that be?” he said.
“Take ’em out in the street,” I said, “and shoot ’em in the head. Public fuckin’ executions.”
ON THE WAY HOME I stopped and picked up my package at the office of my answering service on Georgia Avenue. After that I headed west a few blocks and parked the Dodge in front of my apartment. The afternoon sun had taken care of most of the snow. What was left was gray now and in mounds near the curb. My cat ran out as I stepped along the walk. She rolled onto her back and let me scratch her stomach. As I did this her left rear paw boxed the air convulsively. When her paw stopped moving I tickled the scar tissue where her right eye had been, then entered my place.
I changed into sweat clothes while the water boiled. Then I made coffee and took the coffee and my package to a small desk I had set up in my bedroom. I opened the package and spread its contents out on the oak top.
Billy Goodrich had organized his wife’s file with all the efficiency and warmth of a client’s prospectus. There was a cover letter and a photograph that appeared to have been professionally taken. I tacked that one to the bulletin board that hung over my desk. I glanced over the rest of the material—family and medical history, doctors, a résumé—and
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