going to be a dead end later on. He’d let Chris and Jamie run with that. The long money? That was on nailing the actual killer. For that, he was going to need street intel, and for that, he needed to be hoofing it around Princeton Place, keeping Sly close, kicking over rocks, looking for a man with a knife. So until you had that, stall.
He got out of the shower and called R.J. at home. “I’m going to write you a moody neighborhood profile,” Sully said. “Swing sets in the rain, poverty, meanness.”
“Bukowski,” R.J. said, not missing a beat. “Pure Bukowski.” Sully pictured R.J. in his living room, coffee in hand, up since dawn and his morning hike through Rock Creek Park already finished. He could hear Elwood, his partner for a quarter century, noodling on their baby grand, but he couldn’t place the tune. “I love it,” he continued, after a sip on the coffee. “But don’t you want in on the manhunt?”
“Nah,” Sully said, going with Sly’s word on the three suspects being a dead end, but not coughing that up just yet. He’d take the high road. “Not my turf. Don’t like bigfooting.”
“We may pull you into it later. But we could use the neighborhood scene for atmosphere. Think 1-A here. We’ve got to own this one. For tomorrow, yes?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll let the desk and photo know. Go, boy, go.”
Sully wolfed down a turkey and cheese sandwich standing up in the kitchen, in front of the sink, looking out at his postage stamp of a backyard. The cherry tree—he’d planted it when he bought the place, before his first foreign posting—was shimmering in the mist, leaves wet and dripping, spreading over the lawn. Three weeks every spring, it was a pink cloud. He went to the bedroom and pulled a light sweater over his head and stepped into black slip-on shoes. He got a slender backpack and put a notebook, a camera, a recorder, and a couple of pens inside. There was a moment of hesitation; then he went to the closet, the top shelf, a small box. He pulled out the Tokarev M57, the Zastava, ancient but accurate, that the commander had given him after the night on the mountain, him blown to shit. He checked the clip, then got his backup cycle jacket, the one for bad weather, and tucked the pistol into the right interior pocket. Because if he’d had a pistol when that night started instead of when it ended he wouldn’t look or walk like he did now.
The bike took him up Massachusetts Avenue to North Capitol, then left on the four-lane expanse of Irving Street NW, and he was back in the Park View neighborhood. The row houses sprang up on each side of the road, their porches coming to within a few feet of the sidewalks, their rusting iron gates and railings hard on the edge of the concrete.
He parked the bike on the top half of Princeton Place, looking at the row of weathered houses, picking one in the middle of the block. When he got to the front door, he pressed the doorbell, looking down, hands clasped in front of him, notebook tucked under an arm, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. An elderly, diminutive black woman opened the door a crack. She was wearing a pink house robe and did not take the business card he held out.
“Hi, ma’am, I’m sorry to disturb you this early, but my name is Sully Carter and I’m a reporter for the paper? I’m working on a story about this incident down to Doyle’s last night? I was—”
The woman blinked, her brown eyes steady, and gently closed the door in his face.
eight
You never stopped moving. That was the thing. You just kept pushing, driving, asking, sticking your nose in people’s faces, taking the shit, the insults, fighting back the depression and the sense of hopelessness and then, out of the void, sometimes somebody told you something.
The basketball court at the rec center, where the three suspects had been playing the night before, was roped off with police tape, the afternoon game moving to an adjacent alley, the
He got out of the shower and called R.J. at home. “I’m going to write you a moody neighborhood profile,” Sully said. “Swing sets in the rain, poverty, meanness.”
“Bukowski,” R.J. said, not missing a beat. “Pure Bukowski.” Sully pictured R.J. in his living room, coffee in hand, up since dawn and his morning hike through Rock Creek Park already finished. He could hear Elwood, his partner for a quarter century, noodling on their baby grand, but he couldn’t place the tune. “I love it,” he continued, after a sip on the coffee. “But don’t you want in on the manhunt?”
“Nah,” Sully said, going with Sly’s word on the three suspects being a dead end, but not coughing that up just yet. He’d take the high road. “Not my turf. Don’t like bigfooting.”
“We may pull you into it later. But we could use the neighborhood scene for atmosphere. Think 1-A here. We’ve got to own this one. For tomorrow, yes?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll let the desk and photo know. Go, boy, go.”
Sully wolfed down a turkey and cheese sandwich standing up in the kitchen, in front of the sink, looking out at his postage stamp of a backyard. The cherry tree—he’d planted it when he bought the place, before his first foreign posting—was shimmering in the mist, leaves wet and dripping, spreading over the lawn. Three weeks every spring, it was a pink cloud. He went to the bedroom and pulled a light sweater over his head and stepped into black slip-on shoes. He got a slender backpack and put a notebook, a camera, a recorder, and a couple of pens inside. There was a moment of hesitation; then he went to the closet, the top shelf, a small box. He pulled out the Tokarev M57, the Zastava, ancient but accurate, that the commander had given him after the night on the mountain, him blown to shit. He checked the clip, then got his backup cycle jacket, the one for bad weather, and tucked the pistol into the right interior pocket. Because if he’d had a pistol when that night started instead of when it ended he wouldn’t look or walk like he did now.
The bike took him up Massachusetts Avenue to North Capitol, then left on the four-lane expanse of Irving Street NW, and he was back in the Park View neighborhood. The row houses sprang up on each side of the road, their porches coming to within a few feet of the sidewalks, their rusting iron gates and railings hard on the edge of the concrete.
He parked the bike on the top half of Princeton Place, looking at the row of weathered houses, picking one in the middle of the block. When he got to the front door, he pressed the doorbell, looking down, hands clasped in front of him, notebook tucked under an arm, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. An elderly, diminutive black woman opened the door a crack. She was wearing a pink house robe and did not take the business card he held out.
“Hi, ma’am, I’m sorry to disturb you this early, but my name is Sully Carter and I’m a reporter for the paper? I’m working on a story about this incident down to Doyle’s last night? I was—”
The woman blinked, her brown eyes steady, and gently closed the door in his face.
eight
You never stopped moving. That was the thing. You just kept pushing, driving, asking, sticking your nose in people’s faces, taking the shit, the insults, fighting back the depression and the sense of hopelessness and then, out of the void, sometimes somebody told you something.
The basketball court at the rec center, where the three suspects had been playing the night before, was roped off with police tape, the afternoon game moving to an adjacent alley, the
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