When she had gone, he looked around the apartment and noticed that his parents were not among the crowd.

He asked the woman who lived downstairs if he could use her phone. In her apartment, he phoned Detective Dolittle at the station. Five minutes later, his call was returned. There was little to report on the case. No usable fingerprints had been turned up at the scene. No witnesses had come forward. Kenneth Willis had been picked up on a gun charge the Monday afternoon before the murder. Dolittle said he would interview Willis in his holding cell soon as he "got over that way," and when Strange suggested he do it now, Dolittle said, "Don't worry, Willis isn't going anywhere." Lula Bacon had been located, but Alvin Jones was not at her apartment. He had left her place, she said, in the middle of the night, and had not revealed his destination.

"You talked to Bacon?" said Strange.

"On the phone."

"Why don't you go over and see if he's there instead of taking that woman at her word?"

"That's an idea," said Dolittle, his voice slow and heavy with sarcasm. Strange wondered what bar Dolittle had come from last.

He asked for the location of the Bacon apartment, and Dolittle gave him the address. He asked for the make of Jones's car, and Dolittle told him that a green Buick Special was registered in his name.

"Find him," said Strange. "Focus on him. him."

"I'm workin' on it," said Dolittle.

Strange hung up the phone, his eyes fixed on nothing across the room.

He returned to the impromptu wake, made his way through the crowd, and found his parents back in Dennis's room. He closed the door behind him, m.u.f.fling the rumble of conversation coming from the main area of the apartment. His father stood with his back against the wall, a beer in his hand, his sleeves rolled up. His mother sat on Dennis's bed, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

Alethea looked up. "Who would do this, Derek?"

"I don't know. But I'm going to find out."

Alethea glanced at her husband, then stared at Derek in a way that made him feel ten years old. "You've got to let the Lord settle this in his own way. Do you understand me, son?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Derek.

CHARLIE BYRD HAD that sound. You could close your eyes and listen to his guitar and know that it couldn't be anyone playing it but him. Frank Vaughn found himself smiling, hearing it now. that sound. You could close your eyes and listen to his guitar and know that it couldn't be anyone playing it but him. Frank Vaughn found himself smiling, hearing it now.

He sat at the bar of the Villa Rosa, on Ellsworth Drive in Silver Spring. The place was done in dark wood and paneling, and it was a pleasant place to drink. Married couples, adulterous couples, and singles sat around him, talking low, as Charlie and his quartet played that jazzy samba sound from back in the Byrd's Nest, the show area of the restaurant and club.

"How's it goin', Frank?" said a smooth voice as a man in a turtleneck and a bright sharkskin sport jacket pa.s.sed behind him.

"I can't complain," said Vaughn to Pete Lambros, the owner of the club. Lambros had owned the s...o...b..at, down on 18th and Columbia, for years and had recently opened the Villa Rosa out in the suburbs. Crime and a lack of Adams Morgan parking had driven him north, over the D.C. line.

"Another?" said the bartender, long sideburns, longish hair, had that Johnny Reb-Civil War look going on. He had just come on shift. Vaughn didn't need another. He was on his fourth.

"Beam," said Vaughn.

"Rocks, right?"

"Make it neat."

The tender free-poured bourbon into a heavy gla.s.s and set it on a c.o.c.ktail napkin. Vaughn drew an L&M from the deck and used his Zippo to give it fire. With the fetishism common in bar lovers, he placed his lighter squarely atop his pack of smokes and pulled a tray to within ashing distance of his hand, leaning his forearm just so on the lip of the stick. Cigarettes, whiskey, and walking-around money. What more, thought Vaughn, did a man need?

Well, there was work. And women. He had two of those. One for companionship and memories, and one for s.e.x. He'd been with Linda that afternoon, and it had been good. He'd f.u.c.ked her strong, and she had given that strength back in equal measure. Her thighs were in spasm when they were done. Their lovemaking had been so physical that when it was over, the bed was halfway across the room from where it had started.

"You know those little round rubber things," said Vaughn, "you put 'em under the rollers of the bed frame? You need to get a set of those."

"That would spoil the ride."

Vaughn chuckled low. Linda kissed him hard on the mouth, her long brown hair damp with sweat.

He wasn't in love with her, and he wasn't with her just for s.e.x. He could get that free and clear from any one of the many prost.i.tutes he knew downtown. Vaughn needed to know that there was a woman out there who still wanted him, waited for him to drop by or call, thought about him that way that way when he wasn't there. Not out of marital duty or mercy but because it made her dizzy to imagine him. It meant he was still in the game and still very much alive. And that's what it came down to with him. That's why he f.u.c.ked a woman he didn't love instead of staying faithful to one he did. When he was deep inside that silk, he was laughing at death. when he wasn't there. Not out of marital duty or mercy but because it made her dizzy to imagine him. It meant he was still in the game and still very much alive. And that's what it came down to with him. That's why he f.u.c.ked a woman he didn't love instead of staying faithful to one he did. When he was deep inside that silk, he was laughing at death.

Vaughn drank off half his shot. He dragged on his cigarette and tapped ash off its tip.

At least he was pure at work. Not honest, but pure. His job was to close homicide investigations, and, regardless of his methods, there was no one better at it than he. But he had been a genuine sonofab.i.t.c.h to his family. He'd been a real failure with Ricky, who he hardly knew. The best he could say was that he'd kept Ricky out of harm's way.

Not that anything could guarantee your kid's safety. You could still lose them, even if you did them right. Look at Alethea and her husband, what was his name, Darrin, somethin' like that. No, he was thinking of Derek, the young man, the cop. That good young black cop. There, I said black black instead of instead of colored. colored. You happy, Olga? G.o.d, I am drunk. You happy, Olga? G.o.d, I am drunk.

Alethea had lost her oldest to the streets. Wasn't surprising, where they lived. Down there, coloreds were the perpetrators and the victims. But it never should have happened to a nice family like that. What they needed now was the satisfaction and peace of knowing who killed their son. That false pat on the shoulder, telling them the murder had been "solved." Of course, no murder ever got solved, not unless you could bring back the dead. And there'd always be another grieving mother, right behind the last. Like the mother of that boy who got run down on 14th, and now Alethea Strange. There just wasn't any way to protect the ones you loved. Even when you did them right . . .

"You all right here?" said the bartender.

"Gimme my check," said Vaughn.

He raised his gla.s.s, looked at his heavy-lidded eyes in the bar mirror, and killed his drink.

LATE IN THE evening, Strange left his parents' apartment, drove over to his place, showered, and changed his clothes. He put on a black leather car coat, dropped his badge into one of its pockets, and slipped his service revolver, a .38 Special, into the holster he had clipped onto his belt. He went back out to his Impala, parked on 13th, and drove down the big hill alongside Cardozo High. evening, Strange left his parents' apartment, drove over to his place, showered, and changed his clothes. He put on a black leather car coat, dropped his badge into one of its pockets, and slipped his service revolver, a .38 Special, into the holster he had clipped onto his belt. He went back out to his Impala, parked on 13th, and drove down the big hill alongside Cardozo High.

He had no destination in mind. He rolled down the windows and let the cool, damp air of April hit his face. He got the all-news station on the radio, listened to a report on a ma.s.sive rally for RFK on Park Road in Columbia Heights, and switched the radio off. He drove into the heart of Shaw.

Heading west, he pa.s.sed the Republic Theater, the London Custom clothing store, National Liquors, and the Jumbo Nut Shop, and came to the intersection of 14th and U, which had been cleared of debris from the disturbance on the previous night. On the northeast corner, cardboard had been inserted in the broken gla.s.s door of the Peoples Drug. Hustlers, pimps, wh.o.r.es, men dressed as women, pushers and addicts, workers who had gotten off buses and had not yet gone home, and kids who were out too late for their own good cruised the sidewalks.

Strange turned around at 16th Street and doubled back to 7th, checking out the action near the Howard Theater and the active life on the street. He was killing time. He had told Darla Harris he might get up with her, but he had no intention of meeting her tonight. Seeing Carmen the other night, seeing her come into his parents' apartment today, knowing she had missed her cla.s.ses to do so, still feeling her hot breath in his ear, had erased Darla Harris completely from his mind.

Down below Howard University, he drove into the low-numbered streets of LeDroit Park. He went by the row house where Lula Bacon had her apartment and slowed his Chevy. The lights inside her place had been extinguished. He circled the block, saw no green Buick Special parked in the vicinity, and drove on. Dennis had spoken of another woman with whom Jones had fathered a baby. Dennis, Willis, and Jones had been at her place, getting their heads up, on Sunday evening. But Strange did not know her name or where she lived. He'd come back and speak to Lula Bacon. Also, he'd speak to James Hayes. If that woman had been involved in some kind of dope thing with Dennis and them, Hayes would know. But for now, all Strange could do was drive.

He ended his night, as he knew he would, parked on Barry Place, in front of the row house where Carmen stayed. He went up the concrete walk to the house, then took the wooden steps to the third floor and knocked on her door. Carmen did not answer. A middle-aged woman with a hard face came out of her apartment and asked Strange what his business was in the house. Strange said he was calling on his friend Carmen Hill.

"She went out with some of her college friends," said the woman, looking him over. "You want to leave a message, somethin'?"

"No," said Strange.

He went back to his parents' apartment because he couldn't stand to go back to his place alone. His father was seated in his chair, in the dark, watching Wanted: Dead or Alive Wanted: Dead or Alive with the sound down low. Derek stood behind him and placed one hand on his father's shoulder, noticing his father's fingers tight on the arms of the chair. with the sound down low. Derek stood behind him and placed one hand on his father's shoulder, noticing his father's fingers tight on the arms of the chair.

"Derek," he said, staring at the screen, his shoulder relaxing under his son's touch.

"You don't mind," said Derek, "I'm gonna stay the night."

"I was hoping you would."

"Pop?"

"What?"

"I don't want you to worry. I'm gonna take care of this, hear?"

"Your mother told you something tonight. I want you to mind it."

"I will."

"You been given a responsibility, son. You're not just protecting your community out here. You're representing us, too. You do something to betray that, you don't deserve to be wearin' that uniform."

"Yes, sir."

"Go on, boy," said Darius. "And be quiet goin' along back there. I don't want you to wake your mother."

Derek fell asleep in Dennis's bed, the smell of his brother in the room.

TWENTY-FOUR.

ON THURSDAY, APRIL 4, in Memphis, Dr. King met with his staff in a room of the Lorraine Hotel and made plans for Monday's march. in Memphis, Dr. King met with his staff in a room of the Lorraine Hotel and made plans for Monday's march.

At midmorning in D.C., Alethea Strange answered a knock on her door. In the open frame stood a dark-skinned man, near her husband's age, with gray in his close-cropped hair. A bag of groceries was cradled in his arm.

"My name is John Thomas. Is this the Strange residence?"

"Yes."

"Are you the mother of Dennis?"

"I am."

"My sympathies on the death of your son."

Alethea c.o.c.ked her head. "Were you a friend to Dennis?"

"Not exactly. We spoke briefly this past Monday. I read about his death in the Post Post this morning. I was up here, picking up a few things from Mr. Meyer, down on the corner. He and the man I work for, Ludvig, they both own markets. They're friends, from synagogue. . . ." this morning. I was up here, picking up a few things from Mr. Meyer, down on the corner. He and the man I work for, Ludvig, they both own markets. They're friends, from synagogue. . . ."

"Yes?"

"When one runs out of something, the other helps him out. I volunteered to come pick this stuff up, after reading the papers. . . . Your son told me you lived up on Princeton, so I asked Mr. Meyer where your place was."

"I don't understand." Alethea had backed up a step and was holding on to the door for support. "Why have you come here?"

Thomas knew he was talking too fast, confusing the woman, who was obviously weak with grief. But he was nervous, too, and didn't quite know how to get to the point.

"I knew your husband," said Thomas.

"I don't recall him ever speaking of you."

"We weren't tight. . . . What I mean is, I knew him by sight, from the American Legion. Post Five? I used to see him at those meetings at Republic Gardens, long time ago. We talked a few times, you know." Thomas cleared his throat. "I was wondering, could I speak with him for a minute, if he's not too busy? I've got some information about your son."

"My husband is at work," said Alethea.

Darius had gone in early, despite the fact that Mike Georgelakos had insisted he take the day off. Darius felt that the place would fall apart without him, and anyway, it was worse for him to be sitting around the apartment with nothing to occupy his mind. Alethea understood. She was not physically ready to return to work, but she would be soon. In fact, she planned to go to her regular Friday house, the Vaughns', the next day.

"Maybe I ought to stop by later," said Thomas. "I don't mean to trouble you."

"Please come in," said Alethea, pulling back the door, stepping aside. "My younger son, Derek, is here."

"I should stop by later," said Thomas, not wanting to say what he had to say to some kid.

"If you have some information," said Alethea with a sudden firmness, "you should speak to my son. Please come in."

Thomas did as he was told and stepped into the apartment. As he entered, Derek Strange emerged from a hall leading to the bedrooms.

"What's goin' on?" said Derek.

"This man is here to see you," said Alethea.

"About what?" said Derek, in no mood for pleasantries.

"You can speak freely," said Alethea, looking at the man with the gray hair and the kind eyes. "My son's police."

VAUGHN SAT AT the kitchen table in his boxers and a T-shirt, nursing a hangover that two Anacin, coffee, eggs and bacon, and a couple of L&Ms had not yet cured. He read the sports page, mechanically saying "yep" and "uh-huh" and "yes, Olga" every so often, as his wife described a pair of double-strap sling-back patents she'd seen at the Franklin Simon in the new Montgomery Mall. She leaned against the sink, her yellow ap.r.o.n standing out in contrast to her helmet of raven black hair. the kitchen table in his boxers and a T-shirt, nursing a hangover that two Anacin, coffee, eggs and bacon, and a couple of L&Ms had not yet cured. He read the sports page, mechanically saying "yep" and "uh-huh" and "yes, Olga" every so often, as his wife described a pair of double-strap sling-back patents she'd seen at the Franklin Simon in the new Montgomery Mall. She leaned against the sink, her yellow ap.r.o.n standing out in contrast to her helmet of raven black hair.

"They're only sixteen dollars," said Olga. "It's not like it's gonna break us."

"It's only money," said Vaughn, his lids at half-mast, his eyes squarely on the paper spread before him. "Easy come, easy go."

Vaughn read that the Baltimore Bullets, who had finished in last place the previous season, were looking to draft Wes Unseld, the big All-American kid out of Louisville.

"I can put them on our Central Charge," said Olga.

"That's an idea," said Vaughn. Not a good idea, but an idea.

The Kentucky Colonels, from that new league, were trying to get Unseld as well. Coach Shue would pull it off. Shue was all right. Vaughn had seen him in a bar one time, with a nice-looking redhead, lighting her cigarette. A man's man.

"Frank, are you listening to me?"

"Yes, Olga."

The phone, canary yellow like Olga's ap.r.o.n, rang in the kitchen. Olga crossed the linoleum and s.n.a.t.c.hed the receiver off the wall.

"Vaughn residence . . . Just a moment." She held the receiver out for Vaughn. "It's you. Business."

Vaughn's arm shot out with a rush of energy he had not felt all morning. "Frank Vaughn here."