'I know it, yes.'

'There are almost fifteen thousand names etched on that wall, the police officers in this country who have been killed in the line of duty since they've been keeping records. And do you know that the department has denied my request to have Chris's name put on that wall? Do you know that, Mr Strange?'

'I'm aware of it, yes.'

'The only thing I have now is my son's memory. I want other people to remember him for the way he was, too. The way he really was. Because I know my son. And Christopher was good.'

'I have no reason to doubt what you say.'

'So you'll help me.' She leaned forward. He could smell her breath, and it was foul.

'It's not what I do. I do background checks. I uncover insurance fraud. I confirm or disprove infidelity. I interview witnesses in civil cases for attorneys, and I get paid to be a witness in court. I locate debtors, and I have a younger operative who occasionally skip-traces. Once in a while I'll locate a missing child, or find the biological parent of an adopted child. What I don't do is solve murder cases or disprove cases that have already been made by the police. I'm not in that business. Except for the police, nobody's in that business, you want to know the plain truth.'

'The white policeman who killed my son. Did anyone think to bring up his record the way they brought up my son's record?'

'Well, if I recall… I mean, if you remember, there was quite a bit written about that police officer. How he hadn't qualified on the shooting range for over two years, despite the fact that they require those cops to qualify every six months. How he was brought onto the force during that hiring binge in the late eighties, with all those other unqualified applicants. How he had a brutality-complaint sheet of his own. No disrespect intended, but I think they left few stones unturned with regard to that young man's past.'

'In the end they blamed it on his gun.'

'They did talk about the negatives of that particular weapon, yes – the Glock has a light trigger pull and no external safety.'

'I want you to go deeper. Find out more about the policeman who shot my son. I'm convinced that he is the key.'

'Mrs Wilson-'

'Christopher was proud to be a police officer; he would have died without question… he did die, without question, in the line of duty. But the papers made it out to seem as if he was somehow at fault. That he was holding his gun on an innocent man, that he failed to identify himself as a police officer when that white policeman came up on him. They mentioned the alcohol in his blood… Christopher was not a drunk, Mr Strange.'

Nor an angel, thought Strange. He'd never known any cop, any man, in fact, to be as pure as she was making him out to be.

'Yes, ma'am,' said Strange.

He watched Leona Wilson's hand shake with the first stages of Parkinson's as she raised her teacup to her lips. He thought of his mother in the home, and he rose from the couch.

Strange walked to the fireplace, where a slowly strobing light shone behind plastic logs, the phony fire cracking rhythmically. An electric cord ran from beneath the logs to an outlet in the wall.

He looked at the photographs framed on the mantel. He saw Leona as a young woman and the boy Christopher standing under her touch, and another photograph of Leona and her husband, whom Strange knew to be deceased. There were a few more photographs of Christopher in a cap and gown, and in uniform, and kneeling on a football field with his teammates, the Gonzaga scoreboard in the background, Christopher's gaze hard, his eyes unsmiling and staring directly into the camera's lens. A high school boy already wearing the face of a cop.

There was one photo of a girl in her early teens, its color paled out from age. Strange knew that Chris Wilson had had a sister. He had seen her on the TV news, a pretty, bone-skinny, light-skinned girl with an unhealthy, splotched complexion. He remembered thinking it odd that she had made a show of wiping tears from dry eyes. Maybe, after days of grieving, it had become her habit to take her sleeve to her eyes. Maybe she had wanted to keep crying but by then was all cried out.

Strange thought it over, his back to Leona. It would be an easy job, reinterviewing the players, retracing steps. He had a business to maintain. He wasn't in any position to be turning down jobs.

'My rates,' said Strange.

'Sir?'

He turned to face her. 'You haven't asked me about my rates.'

'I'm sure they're reasonable.'

'I get thirty dollars an hour, plus expenses. Something like this will take time-'

'I have money. There was a settlement, as you know. And Christopher's insurance, his death benefits, I mean, and his pension. I'm certain he would have liked me to use the money for this.'

Strange went back to the couch. Leona Wilson stood and rubbed the palm of one hand over the bent fingers of the other. She was eye to eye with him, nearly his height.

'I'll need access to some of his things,' said Strange.

'You can have a look in his room.'

'He lived here?'

'Yes.'

'What about your daughter?'

'My daughter doesn't live here anymore.'

'How can I reach her?'

'I haven't seen Sondra or talked with her since the day I buried my son.'

Strange's beeper, clipped to his belt, sounded. He unfastened the device and checked the readout. 'Do you mind if I use your phone?'

'It's right over there.'

Strange made the call and replaced the receiver. He placed his business card beside the phone. 'I've got to run.'

Leona Wilson straightened her posture and brushed a strand of gray hair behind her ear. 'Will you be in church this Sunday?'

'I'm gonna try real hard.'

'I'll say a prayer for you, Mr Strange.'

'Thank you.' He picked his leather up off the back of a chair. 'I'd surely appreciate it if you would.'

Strange drove down South Dakota to Rhode Island Avenue and hooked a left. His up mood was gone, and he popped out the Blackbyrds tape and punched the tuner in to 1450 on the AM dial. Joe 'the Black Eagle' Madison was on all-talk WOL, taking calls. Strange's relationship with OL went back to the mid-sixties, when the station's format had first gone over to what the newspapers called 'rhythm and blues.' Back when they'd had those DJs Bobby 'the Mighty Burner' Bennett and 'Sunny Jim' Kelsey, called themselves the Soul Brothers. He'd been a WOL listener for, damn, what was it, thirty-five years now. He wondered, as he often did when thinking back, where those years had gone.

He made a left turn down 20th Street, Northeast.

Leona Wilson's posture had changed when he'd told her he'd take the job. It wasn't his imagination, either – the years had seemed to drop off her before his eyes. Like the idea of hope had given her a quick shot of youth.

'You all right, Derek,' he said, as if saying it aloud would make it so.

He'd been straight up with Leona Wilson back at her house, as much as anyone could be with a woman that determined. Her temporary hope was a fair trade-off for the permanent crash of disappointment that would surely follow later on. He told himself that this was true.

Anyway, he needed the money. The Chris Wilson case was a potential thousand-, two-thousand-dollar job.

Down along Langdon Park, Strange saw Ron Lattimer's Acura curbed and running, white exhaust coming from its pipes. Strange parked the Caprice behind it, grabbed his binoculars and his Leatherman, climbed out of his car, and got into the passenger side of the red coupe.

Lattimer was at the finish line of his twenties, tall and lean with an athlete's build. He wore a designer suit, a tailored shirt, and a hand-painted tie. He held a lidded cup of Starbucks in one hand, and his other hand tapped out a beat on the steering wheel. The heater fan was blowing full on, and jazzy hip-hop came from the custom stereo system in the dash.