The Cut

TWELVE

In the morning, Lucas did a circuit workout in his apartment. He showered, changed into clothing that was suitable for a lunch date, got on his computer, and did some research on dc. gov. With time to kill before his lunch, he went out and hit a couple of used-book stores. At Silver Spring Books, in his old neighborhood, he found two nonfictions that he had read and enjoyed: Kings of the Bs, by McCarthy and Flynn, and Sergio Leone, the massive biography by Christopher Frayling.

He met Constance Kelly at My Brother’s Place, at 2nd and C, Northwest, a lunch-and-happy-hour spot not far from the courts and Tom Petersen’s office. The bar, dark wood and low lights, was one of the better down-home watering holes in town, a longtime haunt of cops, judges, federal marshals, Department of Labor employees, and college students. Lucas and Constance sat out on the enclosed porch, watching the sidewalk parade. Constance was studying the menu.

“You eat meat, don’t you?” said Lucas.

“So?”

“Get the burger. It’s Angus beef and they put it on a nice kaiser roll.”

“What are you having?”

“The Cubano. They got a kickin mojo sauce here, man.”

“What is it with you and food?”

“Part of my culture,” said Lucas. “It’s a way of life.”

“You’re not even Greek.”

“Want me to prove it?”

Constance looked up from the menu and blushed. The waiter, a young El Salvadoran, arrived and took their order. As he moved away, Lucas reached into his pocket and produced a plastic cell phone, which he placed on the table.

“What’s that?” said Constance.

“A gift.”

“I have a phone.”

“This one’s special. It’s a disposable.”

Constance picked up the phone, examined it, and placed it back on the table. “It’s got a drawing of a cartoon kangaroo on its face. And a special button for nine-one-one. Who makes this, Fisher-Price?”

“It’s made for kids. And seniors.”

“Which one do I look like?”

“I was hoping you’d use it to do me a favor.”

“You want me to make some kind of call that’s hard to trace or monitor.”

“Well…”

“You’re asking me to break the law.”

“Nope. But I am asking you to lie, a little.”

“Why can’t you lie?”

“This needs the distaff touch.”

“That’s an antiquated term. Tell you the truth, I’m not all that surprised you’re using it.”

Lucas pushed the phone in her direction. “I’m trying to find the name of a police officer who was driving a certain MPD squad car on a specific day and time.”

“How would a person do that?”

“Call the Office of Unified Communications and ask for a dispatcher. All the cars have a four-digit CAD, which is the Computer-Assisted Dispatcher number. Police officers are required to give the CAD to the dispatcher when they put a vehicle into service. This particular vehicle was a Ten Ninety-nine, meaning it was a one-man unit.”

“You want me to call the OUC.”

“Now you’re getting the hang of it.”

“I’m just trying to speak your language. Your knowledge of acronyms and ten-codes is very impressive.”

“Thank you,” said Lucas, ignoring her sarcasm. “So what I need you to do is give the dispatcher this information right here.” Lucas pulled a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to Constance. On it was written the number 4044, and a date and time. “Ask them who was driving that car on that particular day and shift.”

“And they’ll just give it to me.”

“They’re supposed to. But sometimes they don’t, for good reason. In that case you have to file a Freedom of Information Act request, which could take a lot of time.”

“And you’d have to put your name on the FOIA, which you don’t want to do.”

“In this instance, that wouldn’t work for me.”

“You’re not telling me much.”

“I don’t want you to get too involved.”

“But you want me involved just enough-”

“Yes.”

Constance sat back and stared at Lucas.

“Mo’ ice tea?” said the waiter, appearing like a sweaty apparition.

“Yes, please,” said Lucas.

“Are you going to give me some kind of instructions?” said Constance, after the waiter had poured and drifted.

“Tell the dispatcher that you had an Officer Friendly experience. That a certain police officer stopped to give you directions, or help change your tire, or whatever. That he showed an unexpected kindness to you and you’d like to send a thank-you note to the station, but you don’t recall his name. Or, you know, you wanna put him up for a commendation.”

“A laurel and hearty handshake.”

“Something like that.”

“So,” said Constance, “I do this and I get, what, a twenty-dollar lunch?”

“I was thinking dinner, too.”

“That sounds nice.”

“How about Mourayo on Connecticut? They bake a fish that you’ll dream about.”

“Always with the food, Spero.” She put the toy phone and slip of paper in her purse.

Constance and Lucas walked out of the restaurant and stopped on the 2nd Street sidewalk to say good-bye.

“I’ve got a full day,” said Constance. “Tom’s got me running on a case.”

“I’m headed over there right now,” said Lucas.

“To Petersen’s office?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re calling in all your chits today.”

“Thank you for doing this,” said Lucas. “I mean it.”

He bent forward to kiss her. She gave him her cheek instead of her mouth. Maybe she knew. Some women just did.

Tom Petersen was at his desk, eating a Potbelly sub from the shop on the first floor. Lucas was seated before the desk. His chair was wobbling on the rickety wood planks of the ancient floor.

“Where you been?” said Petersen. He was wearing a Ben Sherman shirt that looked as if it had been purchased in swinging London, circa 1967.

“Working.”

“I could use you if you’re free. The interns I have right now aren’t giving me what I need. There’s this one young guy, big guy, got a few inches on you, I ask him to go to Southeast to do a witness interview, he starts walking backwards.”

“Send Constance, if you don’t think it’s too dicey. She’s got backbone.”

“Don’t you know it,” said Petersen, not looking in Lucas’s eyes.

“I’ll be around. But I need a little time.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for a contact over at Internal Affairs. I remembered that you have someone over there who you speak to.”

“I do.”

Petersen, unlike many other defense attorneys, had a decent relationship with the police. He occasionally defended them, successfully, in misconduct cases and alleged wrongful shootings. Unlike others, he did not take high-profile civil suits against the department. He kept himself in reasonable good graces with both criminals and police. He was a forward-thinking man.

“What happened?” said Petersen. “A police officer fondle you at a traffic stop or something?”

“Nothing that exciting. I just want to know what they have on a certain someone, if anything.”

“You’re fishing.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m not even gonna ask.”

Petersen wiped his mouth with a napkin and reached across the desk. He flipped through the cards of his Rolodex. He was one of a dwindling number of professionals who still used one.

“You ready?” said Petersen.

“Yeah.”

“Guy’s name is Tim McCarthy.”

Lucas typed it into the Contacts section of his iPhone. “Number?”

Petersen gave it to him. “Don’t call him, though. Let me. I owe him a phone call on something else anyway. There’s no way he’s gonna talk to you unless I ask him to. And even with that, frankly, I don’t think he’s gonna give you jack. Even though he is one of your stripe.”

“He served?”

“McCarthy, I put him at about fifty-four. He missed Vietnam but served in the Corps stateside. Was a patrol cop in the late seventies through the eighties, then did a long stint as an investigator in Six-D. Here’s the kicker: when we invaded Iraq-what was that? two thousand three-he takes a leave of absence from the force and goes over there as a chaplain. He was too old to fight but said he wanted to be with the men. Can you believe it?”

Yes, thought Lucas.

“He’s got this photograph of him over there in the desert, got a Bible in one hand and an M-Sixteen in the other, the butt resting on his thigh. McCarthy’s the Burt Lancaster of chaplains.”

“Why don’t you think he’ll talk to me?” said Lucas. “He doesn’t like investigators?”

“He likes his job. Man’s a couple of years from retirement. He could get fired if he gives out classified information to a civilian.” Petersen took a last bite of his sub and balled up the white paper on his desk, shoving it into a cylindrical brown bag. “But I’ll call him. Most likely, he’ll get in touch with you. You’ll probably have to meet him somewhere outside of Indiana Avenue.”

“Thanks.” Lucas got up out of his chair and stretched. “What’s going on with the Hawkins case?”

“Preparing to go to trial.”

“Sounds like the Feds have him dead to rights.”

Petersen said, “We’ll see.”

Lucas bought two bunches of roses from a street vendor, then drove up to 12th Street and parked his Jeep. He crossed the street with a plastic bag in one hand and one bouquet of roses in the other. He went up the steps to Lisa Weitzman’s home and laid the roses, heavily wetted, on her doorstep, along with a note he had written in childish scrawl before getting out of his vehicle. The note was corny and obvious, something about how nice it was to hang out with her. He had no plans to try and see her again, but he wanted to do something respectful for her, at least. Flowers had come to mind. He was a resourceful but not particularly original young man.

Lucas then went to the Lindsay residence and knocked on its front door. The door soon opened, and a middle-aged man with a sour face and alcohol breath appeared in the frame.

“What you want?” he said, looking Lucas over in a way that no man likes.

“I’ve got something for Ernest.”

“Who are you?”

“Spero Lucas. I’m the brother of Ernest’s English teacher over at Cardozo.”

The man closed the door without a word. It wasn’t quite a slam but had a similar effect.

“Dick,” said Lucas.

A short while later Ernest came outside. He had an Oreo cookie in his hand, dripping with milk, and he popped what was left of it into his mouth. Lucas waited for him to chew and swallow.

“Spero.”

“Got you a couple of books.”

Lucas handed the bag to Ernest, who took it and pulled out its contents. “Cool.”

“Thought you’d like them. I know you’re into Leone, and Kings of the Bs is one of the best film books I’ve ever read. I was lucky to find it. It’s been out of print for a while.”

“That’s what’s up,” said Ernest, genuinely touched.

“Read ’em in good health.”

“Was that man rude to you?” said Ernest, jerking a finger over his shoulder.

“Who is he?”

“My mother’s boyfriend,” said Ernest, with unmasked disgust.

“Is your mom home?”

“She’s still at work. That man’s tryin to stay here all the time.”

“If you need me for anything,” said Lucas, “you call me, hear?”

Lucas gave him his number and Ernest entered it into his own phone.

“Thanks for these.”

“My pleasure.”

Lucas walked to his Jeep. Ernest sat on the porch glider and began to look through the books.

On the way home, Lucas stopped at Glenwood Cemetery to see his father. He laid a bouquet of red roses on his grave, did his stavro, and said a silent prayer.

Late that night, the phone rang in Lucas’s apartment. He crossed the room and turned down the Ernest Ranglin CD he was listening to on the box. He’d smoked a little weed, and the sinewy instrumentals had been doing it to his head.

Constance was on the line. He asked her if she wanted to come over, and she said that she was tired and was looking at an early day. He reminded her that they had a dinner date in the future, and she said that she hadn’t forgotten. She’d phoned him because she had made the call they had discussed. She’d found the name of the police officer who had driven car number 4044 on the day and time Lucas had given her.

“What’s the name?” said Lucas.

“Lawrence Holley,” she said, and spelled it. “I imagine he goes by Larry.”

The name meant nothing to Lucas. But it would.