Category:

"You mentioned a dealer."

"He used to work out of Philadelphia. Goes by the name of Dr. Love."

"Have you talked to this Dr. Love?"

"Two weeks ago, I spoke with the man. Told him real nice to get out of town. He didn't say nothin'. He just looked at me funny. Two blocks away I was jumped by a bunch of white guys. Left me for dead."

"Stryker spent a week in the hospital," Sister Grace says. "The doctors say he was hurt real bad."

"Where can I find this Dr. Love?" I ask.

"On Sundays and Wednesdays, he usually hangs out at a bodega near the corner of Orange Street, just off Malcolm X Avenue. Can't miss him. He always draws a big crowd."

"I'll talk to him."

"Do more 'n talk," Sister Grace says. "Stop him. You'll get your usual fee."

"That won't be necessary this time, Sister Grace. I want to see this poison taken off the streets as much as you do. Washington is my town, too."

"The dealers are a real rough bunch. You'll need backup."

"I don't need protection. I can take care of myself."

"I say you need protection. I'm makin' Stryker your partner for this job."

"I already have a partner."

"Your other partner is a cop. No cop can operate in this neighborhood. Stryker your partner now. Understood?"

She takes a drag on her cigarette. "You gonna do this thing for me, Detective? You gonna get Speedball off the streets?"

"I'll do what I can. That's a promise, Sister Grace."

 

CHAPTER THREE

By the time I get back to the crime scene, fire trucks, ambulances, and police vehicles fill the street, parked helter-skelter on sidewalks and on people's front yards. I look for the man with the spiky white-blond hair but don't see him. He's vanished. Tyrone Clifford, my new police partner, stands next to the foam-covered wreck of the Ford Explorer looking with horror at what's left of the figure inside. Two men and a woman in fire gear move carefully around the car, checking that all flames have been extinguished.

Tyrone Clifford is a good-looking young Black man who graduated with honors from Howard University and has been with the Metropolitan Police for five years. He was assigned to me just over six weeks ago right after my former partner, Lucy, was promoted and reassigned to a better job. She was also rewarded, according to the fancy citation presented to her during the ceremony, for her role in foiling the assassination of the visiting prime minister of Montenegro. Tyrone spent three years in Internal Affairs before being assigned to Homicide. I suspect that Tyrone was made my partner to keep an eye on me. To report to someone what I'm doing. He denies it but I'm pretty sure.

"Do we have any identification on the victim?" I ask Tyrone.

"Nothing yet. We haven't been able to get in the vehicle to do a search."

One of the members of our police team circles the burned-out car, taking photographs. "The firefighters say we can check out the victim now," Hanna Forbes, our forensic team leader, calls from a distance.

No one jumps to be the first.

I'm thinking, as ranking officer on the scene, it should fall to me to do the job, but then Celia, the assistant medical examiner, saves me. She squares her shoulders and walks to the car. She wipes foam from the window before she peers in. And recoils. She tries to open the driver's-side door, but it won't budge.

"It's locked tight," one of the firefighters says.

"Probably fused shut from heat," somebody else adds.

One of the firefighters brings a large device that looks like a gigantic pair of pliers, which, I think, is called the jaws of life. One of the firefighters carefully inserts the device between the car's post and the edge of the door and slowly opens a gap until the door pops out and falls to the street with a thud.

The photographer approaches and takes flash photographs of the interior. Then, very cautiously, Celia crawls partway into the car. From where we stand, we can't see what she sees. After about three minutes, she emerges, her protective gear and her face mask smeared black with something I can't identify.

"Dead, of course," she mutters.