My chunky guide prodded the man some more. “Tell him the rest, Charles.”
“I tried to tell the cops. They just told me to get lost. Never got to tell no one. No one who matters. Ain’t no one ever going to believe a white person murdered someone in this neighborhood, then just walked away. But I swear to Jesus, it happened.”
The thin man looked down and said, “You get your water for the day, Charles?”
The homeless man held up two bottles in one hand.
To me, the thin man said, “Some of the people who live on the streets forget about the basics. We make sure they have water and arrange for them to wash up at the community center down the street.”
I asked a few more questions but quickly realized the only firm detail was that someone had walked away from the car. That reinforced my theory that the homicide had had nothing to do with anyone local.
My two guides led me back to my car. As we walked, I said, “This neighborhood might be in bad shape without you guys.”
The chunky guy said, “The neighborhood is in bad shape. No one gives a shit about these people. None of the city resources come to us—except to arrest someone or put out a fire. The entire country has the wrong idea about neighborhoods like this.”
“Is there anything I can do to help? Sort of a thank-you for your guidance.”
“You can pray for us. And if you go by the community center at the end of the block, they take donations.”
“I’m headed there right now.” I shook hands with both men. They had reinforced my belief that most people are basically good.
Chapter 32
I’d received a lot of information in a short amount of time. My head was spinning as I tried to figure out how the murder of Michelle Luna might be even remotely related to Emily Parker’s death. And I had no idea how I’d explain to Bobby Patel my theory that the two murders might be connected, that I’d gone to Baltimore and looked into Michelle Luna’s death.
Then I thought ahead. What if I came up with information the FBI didn’t want to hear? What if they focused on me for some kind of obstruction charge? Bobby Patel didn’t impress me as that kind of petty prick. But I’d dealt with enough FBI supervisors to know that many wouldn’t think twice about sacrificing a city detective.
My other concern was, if Emily really had been interested in “powerful men,” what would those individuals do to limit this investigation?
I went ahead and called Bobby. I told him all about my trip to Baltimore.
Bobby said, “I knew about the Luna homicide. It was news in both Baltimore and DC. She may have known some of the same people as Emily, but we can’t find any connection between the two. That’s a dead end.”
“How can you call the strangulation of two women in the same social circle a dead end?”
“Because Michelle Luna never met Emily Parker. They had a few friends in common, but everyone in DC does. You make it sound like the FBI ignored this. I was giving you the shorthand.” He paused, sighed, and said, “I get the feeling that you think you’re the only one trying to find Emily’s killer. I’m busting my ass on it too. I’m doing it officially. Making notes, writing reports. Not roaming round talking to people who might know something.”
“Sorry, Bobby, you’re right. You’ve done a good job. I’m not disparaging it in any way.”
He mumbled an acceptance of my apology.
We ended the call on that awkward note. After I drove back to my DC hotel, I was still unsettled as I handed my Prius off to yet another snickering valet. Though maybe not as tall as me, he was on the heavy side. All I could think was Good luck squeezing in there, pal.
I was tired. I did another zombie shuffle through the lobby. The typical chain-hotel happy hour—business travelers downing cheap vodka tonics as fast as the elderly bartender could pour them—was in full swing.
I took the elevator up to the seventh floor, the Baltimore PD case file in hand. All I could think about was lying down for a few minutes. Maybe an hour. Maybe until tomorrow morning. Just as I was about to put my plastic key card into the sensor, I thought I heard someone inside my room.
I paused and listened. I definitely heard something. I took a second to scan the hallway while I reviewed the list of possible suspects. Members of The Burning Land, the DC cops who’d harassed me at the hotel, the FBI, or maybe someone else I hadn’t thought of.
I put my ear to the door, trying to figure out how many people were inside. There was no way to tell. And I didn’t have the patience to wait it out. I swept back my windbreaker, wedged the Baltimore case file into the back of my waistband, and put my hand on the butt of my pistol. In one quick motion, I swiped the card and turned the handle.