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  Once I had everything situated just so, I ignored all the piles and went back to the evidence list. It would’ve been better to give Johnson’s apartment a look-see, but I didn’t have that kind of time or authority. Maybe if I found a golden nugget for Goodwin, he’d let me tag along to visit the scene, but until then, this would have to do.

  I grabbed a pen and forced myself to concentrate on each line of the evidence list, reading the description of the item, deciding whether it warranted more thought, then ticking it off if it didn’t. In this manner I got to know everything there was to know about Clay Johnson’s apartment. The DVDs he owned, the beer he drank, the mail he received, the North Face jacket and Timberland boots and the black Kangol cap he seemed to prefer based on the wear and tear. Riveting stuff. At the end of every page, I gave myself permission to look up and blink. On the fifth of these mini-breaks, Goodwin glanced over.

  “Coffee?”

  “Christ, yes,” I said. “I’m about to start in on how many pairs of underwear the guy had.”

  He got up, then came back a few minutes later with two navy blue Rockville PD mugs. The coffee was steaming hot and good. My surprise must’ve showed on my face.

  Goodwin grinned. “Not bad, huh?”

  “What happened to the sawdust and pencil shavings?”

  “I get this at a coffee roaster in Bethesda and bring it in.”

  “You import your own?” I asked, incredulous.

  “Life’s too short to drink bad coffee, man.”

  I slurped some more and got back to reading. I really was looking at the number of pairs of skivvies Johnson owned—and t-shirts, and trousers, and belts—swimming in the relentless details, and nearly missed it. It was a fairly innocuous line. (1) Sports jersey, maroon and gold [Redskins]. It had come right after (4) Dress shirts, long sleeved, blue. But something snagged at the edge of my attention when I saw it. The list indicated that it hadn’t been brought in. No real reason to haul it from his closet to the station.

  “Goodwin,” I said. “I need to see something from Johnson’s place. Any chance I could get access?”

  “Have to be a real good reason. You got something solid?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. I marked the line where the jersey was listed. “I need to see this.”

  He glanced at the sheet. “You can’t afford your own?”

  “It wouldn’t fit anyway. It’s just a hunch.”

  He handed me the sheet back. “Sorry, my friend. Everything not bagged was released to Tamika Johnson.”

  I pulled out my phone and punched in Tamika Johnson’s number from the phone number list on the stats sheet. She answered after three or four rings. Her voice was slow, Southern. Carolina or Georgia, maybe. I introduced myself.

  “Just one question, Ms. Johnson, and then I should be out of your hair. Among Clay’s effects was a Redskins jersey. The officers here didn’t think it pertinent to the case and gave it back to you. Do you still have it?”

  “Lord, that thing? Clay wore it every Sunday during the season. I hated it.”

  “Can you describe it for me?”

  “Well…it’s a Redskins jersey. Maroon and gold.”

  “Yes, I know,” I said. “Does it have a number or a player’s name on it?”

  She sighed. “He was so immature. Thought it was a big joke.”

  “It had a number, then?”

  “Yes. He had it custom-made. It had sixty-nine on the back.”

  I felt a tingle run up my spine. “Any lettering?”

  “No,” she said. “He used to tell people the number said it all. What a jackass.”

  “Thanks for your time, Ms. Johnson,” I said, and hung up.

  Goodwin poked his head over the cube wall. “Got anything?”

  I thought back to a picture I had seen, one with Bob Caldwell, Danny Garcia, and a host of blurry figures in the background. A man had been working the grill, a big man, blurry and indistinct, but wearing a Redskins jersey with the number 69 on the back.

  Goodwin cleared his throat, raised his eyebrows. Well?

  “I don’t know what I’ve got,” I said. And meant it.

  Chapter Twenty

  I left Rockville after another couple hours. Goodwin hadn’t pressed me for info, even though he knew I’d seen something. I promised him I’d share whatever I could, when I could. He accepted that and I’d headed out. But since I was on the north side of DC and there were still a few hours of daylight, it made sense to take a swing at Okonjo’s case. The file said he’d been shot in the parking lot of a bar called Rudy’s on Rockville Pike.

  The Pike was a never-ending strip mall that ran in a gentle curve north-northwest from DC until it hit the city of Rockville like the last link on the end of a chain. The mattress discounters, restaurants, fabric stores, and nail shops went back two or three blocks on either side of the Pike, some buried so deep in the sea of retail it was a miracle any of them stayed in business.

  Rudy’s pool hall propped up the end of a row of these shops on Broadwood Drive, a lower rent location than front and center on the Pike. At three in the afternoon, the neon beer signs were just dull green and orange tubes hanging in the window and five empty parking spots out of seven told me how busy it would be. Four more store fronts—a Chinese restaurant, an Asian grocer, a taco carryout joint, and a convenience store—made up the rest of the strip, which stared directly across Broadwood at a nearly identical lineup of stores. Which, in turn, were cookie-cutter examples of any commercial strip in a two-mile radius. It made me wonder if buildings ever got depressed or suffered from identity crises.

  I parked and walked into Rudy’s. It was open but just barely. A TV game show flashing dollar signs and beach vacations kept the only waitress mesmerized at the far end of the bar, while a bartender—biting his lip while he concentrated—changed the handles on the beer taps. A dozen pool tables took up one side of the large room, their felt tops scarred and ripped. Sconces and billiard lamps gave off a muddy light, relieved by the occasional blinding offer from the TV. The place stank of bleach and beer, the signature off-hours odor of bars the world over.

  I went up and introduced myself to the bartender. He was a chubby, balding guy in his early thirties. Green polo shirt over a t-shirt, jeans, and a name tag that said “Teddy.” His hands looked clumsy and swollen as he spun the tap handles. I told him I was there to talk.

  “You mind if I keep working?” he asked.

  “Not at all,” I said.

  “What are you looking for, exactly?”

  “A cop was killed here a while back. Isaac Okonjo, a Montgomery County sheriff.”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “God, that was shitty. We had to close down for a week, then the place was deserted for another couple days after that. I almost didn’t make rent.”

  “For what it’s worth, he was in worse shape.”

  He bit his lower lip as he concentrated on getting the last tap off. “Sorry. That was a lousy thing to say. You just think about how things affect you, y’know?”

  “It’s natural,” I said, trying to stay agreeable. “What can you tell me about him?”

  “The cop?” He shrugged. “Not much. I never saw him before.” He called over to the waitress. “Nance, do you remember that guy, the black cop, that got killed here a few weeks ago?”

  The waitress tore herself away from the latest talk show. Her gaze was unfocused, like she had to concentrate after watching the tube. “Huh? The cop? Yeah, that was sad.”

  She came down from the end of the bar. She was in her twenties, with frizzy blond hair pulled back in a pony tail and she had on a green polo like Teddy’s, but with a black half apron across her hips. As she came up to me, she pushed out a pink bubble of gum, then cracked it. “You a cop, too?”

  “Was,” I said, turning my attention to her. “I’m looking into the shooting for a friend.”

  “They catch the guy who did it?”

  “Not yet.”

  “We talked to the po
lice that night, but I don’t think I helped much. I was inside the whole time and didn’t see a thing.”

  “Well, maybe you noticed something that you didn’t realize was important at the time,” I said. “You never know what could help. You might have something buried deep that could crack the case open.”

  “You think?” she said, getting excited. “That would be cool.”

  “So, you working the night he was killed?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Was he a regular?”

  “No, never saw him before,” she said. “I only remember him because he made this big entrance, walking through the door with his arms spread and said ‘My people!’ in this big, booming voice like some African king. He seemed like a funny guy. Wanted to get to know everyone at once.”

  “Did he come in with anyone? Have any friends here?”

  Nance thought about it. “I don’t remember any. He hung around the pool tables. He was a terrible shot and didn’t mind losing, so people wanted to play him. He got chummy, buying drinks and stuff, but that’s about it.”

  “He leave with anybody?”

  She glanced at Teddy, who shrugged. “Honestly, I didn’t see. But there was hardly anyone left to leave with.”

  “He stayed for last call?”

  She nodded. “And a little bit past.”

  “Where’d they find the body?”

  Teddy chimed in. “Back lot. Bus boy found him when he took the garbage out.”

  “Any reason for him to go out there?”

  “That's where most of the parking is,” he said. “It was after three when the bus boy found him. The light’s bad back there and he thought the guy was passed out at first.”

  “Did he fight with anyone? It is a rough crowd here?”

  Both of them shook their heads. “No,” Nance said. “The regulars are pretty laid back. Anyway, he was so freaking big, no one wanted to find out how tough he was. And with Moonpie around, too, there wasn’t going to be any trouble.”

  “Moonpie?” I asked.

  “Yeah, this other guy, a regular. Huge, too, like your guy. Hands like this.” She held her own hands about a foot apart. “His face was round as a plate. Everybody called him Moonpie.”

  “Black? White?”

  “Black, too, but not…African, like the other guy, you know? Just black black. Is that okay to say?”

  A tingle started near the back of my skull. “I’m not really qualified to judge.”

  Nance giggled.

  “Do you know Moonpie’s real name?”

  “Y’know, I don’t,” she said, sounding surprised. “I probably checked his ID, but I was looking for numbers and a face, I guess.”

  “Hold on a sec, will you?” I said, and ran out to my car to get my files. I came back in, leafing through the photos Bloch had given me. I found a staff picture of Clay Johnson and held it up for both of them to see. The one where he’d been beaten to a pulp probably wouldn’t have done much for the ID. Or their emotional well-being. “Is this, uh, Moonpie?”

  Nance squinted at it then nodded. “That’s him. Oh. Do you…?”

  “Think he did it?” I said. “No.”

  “Then, if you have his picture…is he…?”

  I nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

  She put both hands to her face. “Oh my God.”

  I gave her a second. “Was Moonpie here that night?”

  She sniffed once and scrubbed her face with her hands, shook her head and shrugged.

  “Clay, that was his real name, right?” Teddy asked. “I remember him now.”

  I’d almost forgotten Teddy was there. “Yeah.”

  “Took me a second. He hung out at the bar a lot. He liked making time with the girls who came in. He left with someone that night, in fact.”

  “A woman?” I asked and he nodded. “What time?”

  Teddy pursed his lips. “Early, I know that. One drink in. I could tell he was pretty pleased with himself for scoring so quickly.”

  “Would you ever mistake Moonpie for the other guy, Isaac?”

  “Maybe,” Nance said, doubtful. “I mean, they weren’t twins. But they were both kind of chubby. And huge. And, uh, black.”

  “So I gathered,” I said.

  “Maybe at a glance or if it was dark or something,” she said. “Then, yeah, maybe.”

  “Did they see each other? Know each other?”

  They glanced at each other, shook their heads. Both were more subdued than when I’d come in. Teddy said, “Moonpie…Clay, whatever…he was gone before the other guy even showed up.”

  “What happened to him?” Nance asked in a small voice. She didn’t sound excited to be part of a murder investigation anymore. “How did he die?”

  I thought about reaching into the file folder and showing her what some people are capable of, but it would’ve been gratuitous and smug.

  “He just did,” I said, tired. “That’s really all that matters.”

  . . .

  I walked out the back door and looked around. In front of me was an asphalt lot like a million-billion others, with sloppy white lines showing you where to park and a couple of light poles jutting out of the ground. A Dumpster and the compressor for the AC were next to the building, hidden by a cheap vinyl fence about seven feet high. I slid the crime scene photos out of the envelope, then glanced at the autopsy report. Traffic on the Pike buzzed a few blocks away, a honk or two telling of distant anger. A starling flew down from a wire and pecked at a piece of crust, then flew off. The tingling feeling I’d had inside the bar was still with me.

  Okonjo’s body had been discovered on the left side of the lot, between the Dumpster and the first row of parking. I paced it off from the back door, trying to get the location right. He’d been found lying with his arms wide, face up to a starless sky, shot twice in the back of the head near the base of his skull. Exit wounds had obliterated much of his forehead. Judging from that information, I was going to go out on a limb and say the shooter was shorter than the six-six Okonjo and that he shot him from behind. My deductions, however, would probably not get me the Detective of the Year Award.

  I walked around the Dumpster, on the far side of the fence, which put me behind the Asian grocer’s. I glanced at the steel door. The grocer would’ve been closed at three in the morning. As would the restaurant next to it. Quiet. Secluded. I stood at the corner of the fence in such a way that I was hidden from view from anyone coming out of Rudy’s, but could still see most of the parking lot. Swaying a little bit, I found a sweet spot between slats of the fence where I could see the door without losing my position. The smell wasn’t great, but that wouldn’t have been much of a worry. Just at that second the compressor turned on with a sound like a jet engine and I jumped about two feet off the ground.

  Once my heart started again, I turned back to the parking lot. I made a gun out of my thumb and forefinger and said, “Bang.” Or, I think I did. I couldn’t hear myself over the industrial roar of the AC unit behind me. I let my arm fall and stared at the asphalt, thinking.

  Three in the morning. Terrible lighting. Stark, blurring details. You’re tired. You’ve been hanging out for two or three hours, waiting for him to show. You catch a glimpse of movement through the fence as he finally comes out the door. A big black man. This is it. He can’t hear you, the AC's going full blast after a night of smoking and booze and bodies and the compressor is going like gangbusters. He walks at an angle in front of you, oblivious, intent on getting to his car. You step forward and pull the trigger from ten feet away. No one hears the shots or, if they do, they don’t know what they've heard. He twists at the last second or maybe you roll him over to make sure. And you find out…

  “You got the wrong guy,” I said.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “What are we doing here, again?” I asked.

  “It’s a surprise,” Amanda said for the fifth time, an impish grin on her face.

  We were back on the George Washington Universi
ty campus, in an auditorium called Phillips Hall, mid-afternoon on a Friday. At about the same time most people in DC were loosening ties and thinking of sixteen-ounce drafts, I’d been commanded to dress as though going out for an embassy soiree. I had on black slacks, a gun-blue dress shirt, and a black blazer. I was allowed to skip a tie. The ensemble gave me a cool, hip look while avoiding the migraine ties always seemed to give me. Losing the tie also let me sidestep the awkward look from my recent weight loss; my neck now swam in the size 17 collars that used to be snug when I buttoned them. Amanda wore a sleeveless, shimmery lavender dress and black heels which put her at nearly eye level with me. We were the tallest, best-dressed, ersatz father-daughter couple on campus.

  Amanda took my arm and hurried me through the auditorium lobby, keeping me from getting a look at the billboard, then snatched a program before I could grab one from the nice girl handing them out. Big double doors led into a darkened corridor that deposited us into the cavernous auditorium’s main seating area. Whatever it was we were going to see, it wasn’t very popular. The place could probably fit a thousand, but only the first three rows were filled and, assuming the mystery event was going to start on the hour, it was getting close to show time. Amanda dragged me down to the tenth row, end, then made me take the seat on the inside.

  “This is just an experiment,” she said, turning to me with her big eyes. “Here’s what I want you to do. You’re going to sit here and listen for one hour. At the end of that hour, you’ll tell me what you think. If you don’t like it, I’ll never ask you to sit through anything like it again.”