DEWAYNE Durham had gotten the cell message on the way back from Six Flags amusement park informing him of the deaths of Jerome Long and Allante Jones. One of his young men at the elementary school had made the call. Word of the quadruple homicide had spread quickly on the street.
Durham and Bernard Walker dropped off Durham’s son, Laron, at his mother’s place in Landover. Durham hugged Laron without feeling and sent him into his apartment holding balloons and candy. Durham watched him, thinking, That boy has grown some, not realizing or caring that it had been six months since he had seen him last.
There were still a couple of balloons in the backseat of the Benz as Durham and Walker drove back into the city. Walker tried to look around them in the rearview as he changed lanes.
“Boy who called me said Nutjob shot first,” said Durham.
“I guess Jerome did have that fire in him after all,” said Walker.
“He ain’t had enough to save his life.”
“We lost two to get two of theirs. Makes us even, right?”
“That’s not the way it works; you know that. Some young boy now in Yuma is gonna see this as a way to prove he can put work in. All’s this is gonna do is make the killin’ start.”
“We’ll be ready, then.”
“We gonna have to be.” Durham shifted in his seat. “Go on over to Mississippi Avenue. Let’s see what’s up, get the rest of the story from the troops.”
When they got to the elementary school in Congress Heights, there were few of their people around. Durham could see a kid up by the flagpole, standing back in the shadows, and another boy, a lookout no older than twelve, up there on a bike. The kid rode his bike down the rise to the Benz, which Walker had put beside the curb. He wheeled around to the passenger side of the car as Durham’s window glided down.
“Wha’sup, youngun?”
The boy’s face was streaked with sweat, and excitement lit his eyes. A cell phone in a holster lay against his hip. “It was me called you up.”
“I’ll remember it, too.”
“Five-O already came by twice, askin’ after you. Same car both times.”
They heard the whoop of a siren blast then, as if on cue, as an MPD cruiser came down Mississippi.
“Here they come again,” said Walker.
“Book, little man,” said Durham, and the kid took off on his bike. He went up the cross street, past the elementary school, and disappeared into an alley.
“What you want me to do?” said Walker.
“Kill the engine. You don’t got your gun with you, do you?”
“You told me not to bring it, ’cause of your son.”
“We all right, then.” Durham moved to the left so that he could see the Crown Vic cruiser in the rearview, idling behind them with its headlights on, radioing in for backup. He could read the car number, but he suspected that this was more than a routine stop.
The Maryland-inflected, deep female voice on the cruiser’s loudspeaker told them to put their hands outside the open windows of the car. They did this, then were approached by two officers. One of them had drawn his sidearm, a Glock 17, and was holding it out and pointed at the driver’s window with his elbow locked.
“Why they’re not waitin’ on more cars?” said Walker.
Durham said, “They want to talk to me first.”
The officers separated them outside the car. Walker was led to the side of the cruiser by a tall officer with a thick black mustache. Durham was frisked against the Benz by an eight-year veteran of the force, a wide-bottomed woman with short bottle-blond hair. Her name was Diane Beard.
Beard pushed on Durham’s head until it was bowed and got close to his ear. “We’re taking you in for questioning soon as the backup gets here.”
“For what?”
“The shooting tonight.”
“I don’t know nothin’,” said Durham, his standard response to any police question.
“Course you don’t,” said Beard.
“Why you here?” said Durham, lowering his voice.
“Jerome Long and Allante Jones are dead. The Coates cousins, too.”
“Tell me somethin’ I don’t know.”
“Your brother, Mario, is hot.”
“What?”
“A woman named Olivia Elliot was found murdered in Oxon Run this afternoon. Mario’s the number one suspect. It just came out over the radio.”
Durham said, “Goddamn.”
His first thought: Couldn’t be. He didn’t believe Mario had murder in him. But then, it fit together. Dewayne had told Mario to find the woman for some get-back. He had only meant be a man. He didn’t mean for the fool to kill the bitch.