A Murder of Justice

TWELVE

… Zelmer Austin… hit-and-run?” Kate asked.

Ahead on N Street, streetlamps cast pools of light on brick sidewalks laid before the Revolutionary War. Frank savored the feeling of well-being that came from sharing good food and wine with Kate. Earlier, while waiting for her at the bar, he had made a resolution to stay away from Gentry and Skeeter. The resolution held less than a minute after he and Kate had gotten seated. The rest of the dinner had been spent sifting through every nuance of the crowded day. Frank realized with a start that they’d had three coffees after dessert and that Cafe Milano was now packed with Washington’s Euro-emigres; as the night wore on here, the legs got longer and the skirts shorter.

“So Zelmer Austin didn’t kill Kevin Gentry?”

They reached Thirtieth Street and walked south toward Olive.

“They found a pistol with him, but it was clean. No ballistics history. Zelmer himself was capable. Nasty piece of work. He’d been one of Juan Brooks’s enforcers. Slipped one first-degree charge, two on manslaughter.”

“That man has questionable intentions, young lady.”

Frank and Kate turned toward the sound of the voice.

Charlie Whitmire walked down Thirtieth Street toward them, led by Murphy, a toffee-colored Wheaten terrier. Charlie, Frank’s next-door neighbor, could wear anything and still come across as fastidious. Tonight he had on a pair of khaki shorts and a faded Gold’s Gym sweatshirt. Short white hair and softly rounded features created the impression of an aging cherub, an impression destroyed by his roguish grin and floorwalker’s discovering eyes. Charlie and his partner, Jack, had lived on Olive Street for nineteen years, and they had been the first to welcome Frank to the neighborhood.

“Hi, Charlie, Murph,” Kate said, stooping to scratch Murphy’s ears.

They all walked down Thirtieth toward Olive.

“Stopped by earlier,” Charlie said. “You were out.”

“Cafe Milano,” Frank answered.

“The place to be, right, Murph?” Charlie turned to Frank: “You’re going to be a busy boy.”

“Always am, Charlie.”

“Busier. I was talking with a friend on the news desk. She said the Gentry case is opening up again.”

“You guys know already?”

“Frank,” Charlie said in a reproachful tone, “this is a town full of spooks, investigators, and media monkeys like me. Secrets last only until the first phone call. Besides, you got something against freedom of the press?”

“Hell no, Charlie. Some of my best friends are reporters.”

Charlie threw his head back in mock distaste. “I am not a reporter,” he said with dignity. “I am a columnist. A sensitive, compassionate observer of life and living.”

“You work for a newspaper,” Frank said.

Charlie smiled big and slightly evil. “Newspapers! Thank God they exist, otherwise I couldn’t find work in mainstream society.”

“Gentry?” Kate made it a question.

“Oh,” said Charlie. “That. That came in over the wire. Also that a congressman… Rhinelander?… is calling for an investigation of D.C. Homicide.”

They turned the corner onto Olive Street.

“We’re headed home,” Frank said. “You and Murph want to come in for coffee or a drink?”

Charlie looked tempted, then held up an empty blue plastic bag, the kind newspapers came in. “You owe me. Murph hasn’t gotten all her walk in yet.”

Inside, Kate settled on the small sofa in the breakfast room. Frank stood at the kitchen counter and debated whether to take care of the coffeemaker or pay attention to the answering machine’s insistently blinking red eye. He compromised and checked the caller