A SECURITY guard had remotely opened the cell doors on the Gen Pop unit from inside the fishbowl, and inmates clad in orange jumpsuits had formed a line leading to a desk that was bolted to the floor. Anna sat behind the desk, her rolling cart of books beside her. She was talking to the man with heavy-lidded eyes and a gravelly voice whose name she could not recall.
“You got The Adventurers?” he said.
“It’s checked out. How about The Carpetbaggers?”
“I guess I could read it again. Jonas Cord is my man.”
Anna found a battered paperback of the Harold Robbins favorite and checked it out to the inmate.
Donnell, the sleepy-eyed misdemeanant who had nearly served out his term, stepped up to her and placed The Passenger on the table. Donnell had asked Anna for books to help him “figure out” women, and Anna had chosen this one for its female voice and perspective. Also, it was a compelling story, well told.
“I got into this one, Anna. That lady can write the shit out of a book.”
“Glad you liked it.”
“When that girl Tanya broke into those vacation houses and just kinda lived there in the off-season, while the owners weren’t around? That was crafty. I can see why this book would be popular. ’Cause, you know, the idea that you can dye your hair a new color, cash in your bank account, change your ID cards, and disappear into thin air? It’s kind of everyone’s fantasy, right? To have a new start.”
“It is for some,” she said.
“So what you got for me now?”
Anna took a book off the cart. It was one of Wallace Stroby’s crime novels about a professional thief named Crissa Stone. “Try this one. It’s got a female protagonist. Written by a man but he gets women right.”
Donnell opened the book and read some of the flap copy. “Thank you. I’ll let you know what I think.”
She logged in the information of his returned book and gave Donnell a DCPL receipt.
Larry, the man up on felony manslaughter charges who had recently found Jesus, was next in line.
“Miss Anna.”
“Larry. Here you go.”
She handed him a slim copy of The Red Pony. Since the book club had read Of Mice and Men, Larry had asked for more “Mr. Steinbeck.” She had erred in giving him East of Eden, which he returned unfinished, saying it was “too slow and too long.” She thought this one would work better for him.
Larry inspected the cover art, a lovely black-and-white photograph of a grazing horse, circa 1926, taken by Albert Renger-Patzsch.
“This a kids’ book?” said Larry.
“Some people mistakenly thought it was when it was published. But it’s not. Not at all. It might be the deepest book Steinbeck wrote. It’s about the seasons of life.”
“Like they talk about in the Old Testament. Does it have the Lord in it?”
“Not by name. But it’s a very spiritual book.”
“Praise be,” said Larry.
Anna watched him walk back toward his cell, book in hand.
She normally ate her lunch in the workroom because of the security hassle of returning to the jail, but she needed a break and decided to get some air. She left the facility and walked down past the parking lots to where the Anacostia Riverwalk Trail went along the Stadium-Armory Campus. The trail was wide enough to accommodate bikers and pedestrians, and she took it on foot, through the trees and along the river. About a mile and a half in, she crossed an elevated bridge that spanned a boatyard where colorful kayaks were stacked in numbers, and then she descended the sloping trail to the water’s edge. She stood beneath the Sousa Bridge and looked across the river to its east bank.
When she’d first moved to Washington, she’d ride her bike down to the Anacostia via city streets because there was no trail. Men were often day-camped here, sitting on folding chairs, bottom-fishing for their supper, pulling perch and catfish out of the brackish water. The river, once polluted, was improving by then but still unclean. She wouldn’t have eaten any fish that swam in it but she supposed the men knew what they were doing. They called her “Slim” and “baby” and offered her cheap beer from their coolers but were not at all threatening. She rarely saw locals like them here anymore. It was young couples wearing Patagonia and pushing baby strollers, joggers in Runner’s World gear. But they were part of the D.C. fabric now too.
Gulls swooped down and threw black shadows on the stanchions of the bridge. A slight wind came up and rippled the water. It was lovely here, still.
Her thoughts went to Donnell and his comments: “It’s kind of everyone’s fantasy, right? To have a new start.”
She was not one of those who wanted to run away. She was into Washington. She liked dealing with the inmates and turning them on to books. Maybe it would not be her life’s work but it was better than fine for now. And yet there was something missing in her overall day-to-day, particularly with Rick. Given his even temperament, burgeoning career, and good looks, she would find this difficult to explain to a friend. But then, she had few people in her life that she could truly confide in. It was strange that she had found it so easy to be with Michael Hudson and open up to him. Michael, with his gentle manner, his confidence, the stylish way he wore the cap on his head, his deep brown eyes.
“No,” she said aloud, and then she shook her head, because what she was thinking was wrong.
Anna walked back toward the jail.
MICHAEL HUDSON loaded up a rack of clean glassware from out of the dishwasher, his earbuds in, his phone playing Backyard Band’s Street Antidote, a go-go set he’d been listening to for the past hour. He lifted the rack, distributed its weight against his apron, and headed for the spiral stairs that led to the bar and dining room.
The kitchen had grown warmer as the spring progressed, and he was sweating, but he was in work shape and he was fine. As he neared the stairs, he was stopped by a pull on his T-shirt from behind. It was Blanca, the pizza-station cook, with her red-rinse hair and Raggedy Ann cheeks, oven scars wormed on her inner forearms. She was smiling. She stood on her toes, reached up, and removed one of Michael’s earbuds. Now he was half listening to his go-go, half listening to the Spanish, horn-driven music that was blaring trebly from the Bluetooth speakers the crew had set up in the kitchen.
“What you want, Blanca?”
“Just bothering you, baby.”
“Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Don’t be so serious.” She raised her arms and did some sort of abbreviated cha-cha move. “You want to dan’?”
“I’m on the clock. They don’t pay me to dan’. But if they did, I’d dance you so hard your head would spin.”
“I spin on you,” she said. She turned to Maria, her friend in the kitchen, and winked. Both of them doubled over in laughter. Michael nearly blushed.
He headed up the stairs. Trying to negotiate the turns and watch his footing, he came upon Joe, who was descending. Joe gave Michael a short backfist in the groin as he passed.
“Good thing my hands are full, amigo,” said Michael.
“I drop you like a tall tree,” said Joe, and he gave Michael an air kiss.
In the hall leading to the bar, Michael smiled. Thinking, I’m in.
He had lunch at a two-top up in the empty top-floor dining room after the rush. He was eating and reading his book when Angelos Valis came out of the office, where he had been doing some paperwork.
“You got a minute?” said Angelos, taking a seat across from Michael.
“You fixin to give me my walking papers?”
“The opposite. Just wanted to tell you that you’re doing a good job.”
“So that means what? A raise?”
Angelos shook his head with theatrical regret. “Negative. Your raises are triggered by the D.C. minimum-wage laws. I told you that. But I would like to put you on our health-insurance plan. You’d have to contribute a small portion of your paycheck, but it’s very reasonable, and the plan is solid. Do you have health insurance now?”
“No.”
“Well, if you got sick or got in an accident or something, who’d pay the bills?”
His mother would step up, thought Michael, but he was too ashamed to say so.
“How much would I have to pay?” said Michael.
“I’ll print the deal out for you so you can look it over.”
“That costs y’all money,” said Michael. “Why would you do it?”
“I talked it over with the owner. We like your performance and your work ethic. It’s an incentive for you to stay with us. We want you to.” Angelos stood from his chair. “I’ll let you finish your lunch in peace.”
Angelos went down the stairs. Michael began to read his book, Northline. He couldn’t stay away from the novel now or put it out of mind. Allison Johnson’s story was coming to an end.
A GOOD detective has to have patience along with ambition. On Ornazian’s fourth trip out to the house on Wagner Lane, early in the evening, Terry Kelly came home.
Terry parked his bright red Charger in front of his parents’ house, got out of the car, and retrieved a laundry basket topped off with clothes from the backseat. Ornazian, three houses down the block, took photos of Terry, then watched him as he used his key to enter the house. Terry was muscular, with closely shaved hair and an unusually long face and wide forehead. He was tall. Ornazian put him at about six foot two.
Ornazian took photos of the car and used his fingers to spread them wide on the screen to ensure that he had gotten the tag numbers. The R/T badge was visible on the grille of the Charger, as were the dual scoops on the hood. Underneath was a V-8 Hemi. Ornazian remembered pricing out this model years ago. If the car had been purchased new, the father had dropped forty grand on a gift for his son. A lot of money, symbolic of his pride in a kid who had been accepted to a college where he was set to play D-1 ball on a scholarship. Ornazian could only imagine the father’s disbelief when Terry started failing in school and then got busted on a distro beef. The old man’s world must have imploded. The kid, now an adult, still drove the car, a laughing reminder of his steep fall.
Ornazian hit Thaddeus Ward up on his office phone.
“Ward Bonds,” said the man himself.
“Like the character actor?”
“What do you want, Phil? I got no time for your nonsense.”
“I found Terry Kelly. One of the guys who stole the Tiffany bracelet.”
“And?”
“He came home to roost. I’m outside his father’s house. I’m going to tail him and see where he goes.”
“Don’t get burned.”
“Thanks, Dad. Actually, I don’t have to hug him too close. He’s driving a car so bright, I can see it from miles away. It’s real subtle, like napalm dropping on a forest.”
“Was the Vietnam reference for me?”
“I forgot to mention the Zippo lighter.”
“You need a ride-along?”
“Sure. There’s plenty of time for you to get out here. Terry’s doing his laundry.”
Ornazian gave Ward the address.
Three hours later, they were following the Charger out of the Washington metropolitan area and onto 270 North. They drove for over an hour, past Frederick, on to Route 15, then turned left off the highway to a two-lane that ran through a sparsely populated town called Hillville at the foot of the Catoctin Mountains. There, Terry Kelly went up a winding grade and turned into a gravel driveway that led to a house set back in a stand of pines.