“I wish there was an easy way to say this,” I told them.

“Oh Lord. No…”

“I’m so sorry, but Cory’s been killed. He was found this morning.”

It was like her voice cracked the air. There weren’t any words now, just a gut-wrenching expression of grief. Loss. Devastation. She sank down onto her knees and leaned against her husband, who was still holding the cane, trying not to go down himself, I think. He bent his head toward his wife’s with his eyes squeezed shut, the cane shaking between the two of them.

“Where?” Mr. Smithe choked out. “Where was he?”

“In the Potomac,” I said. “At the Georgetown waterfront.” There’s no sense holding back information at this point. It was better for them to get it from me than some other version on the news later.

“Killed?” he said. “As in—”

“Somebody did this to him, yes,” I said. “Again, I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

I think a lot of people assume that’s lip service when cops say it, but the truth was, I could have cried right there with them. The loss of a child is a tragedy, whoever’s it is. You learn to keep it inside.

I waited until I felt like they could hear more from me, and then moved on.

“I know how hard this is,” I said, “but if you could give me a little information about Cory, it could be a big help.”

Mr. Smithe nodded, still on his feet. His wife was back in her chair, quietly weeping.

“What do you need to know?” he asked.

“The kinds of things Cory liked to do, where he hung out, the friends he spent the most time with. That sort of thing,” I said.

His mother looked up then. “Was he in some sort of trouble?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I told them honestly.

“He was a good boy,” Mr. Smithe said. “I know every parent must say that…or maybe they don’t. But Cory walked hand in hand with God. He prayed with us every night. In fact, he’s supposed to start at Catholic University in the fall. A theology major.”

Later I’d learn that Mr. Smithe was a deacon at the family’s church, and his wife had been a nun for twenty years. This had to feel to them like the cruelest possible blow from God.

I pressed them for as much as I could, and took down the names of Cory’s closest circle. There was a girlfriend, Jess Pasternak, they said. She lived only a few blocks away. That was as good a next stop as any.

Then I gave the Smithes my card with my cell number written on the back, and left them to grieve in private. The best thing I could do for them now was keep moving.

As usual, time was not on my side.

CHAPTER

15

“IS THAT WHAT THEY TOLD YOU? CATHOLIC U? ALTAR BOY, AND ALL THAT?”

Half an hour later, I was sitting in my car with Jess Pasternak. She had her legs pulled up on the seat, hugging her knees to her chest and crying bitterly while we talked.

When I’d shown up at her house, she’d asked to speak with me outside. Since she was eighteen, like Cory, that was her prerogative. After a tense exchange with her parents at the door, she’d followed me down to the curb.

Now, whatever it was she had to say, it wasn’t coming easily.

“Why?” I asked her. “Is there something Cory’s parents didn’t know about?”

She pounded the seat with her fist, literally fighting back the tears. It was like she was two parts devastated, and one part pissed off about something.

“I warned him,” she said. “I really did.”

“Jess? What are we talking about?” I said. “I know this is hard, but you’ve got to tell me everything.”

She sat up straighter and wiped her eyes. It left a dark streak of makeup on the back of her hand, and she absently wiped it onto the knee of her torn jeans.

She was a pretty girl, but not in the traditional, St. Catherine’s kind of way. Her blond hair was cut short above her ears, and she wore a wifebeater with thin leather suspenders over it, along with calf-high black boots. She looked more rocker chick than cheerleader to me.

“Cory wasn’t even going to college,” she said. “We were going to travel in the fall. You know—France, Italy, la-la-la.” She corkscrewed her hand in the air like it was all so much folly, now.

“How does that relate to what’s happened?” I asked. I hadn’t given her any of the specifics of Cory’s murder, but she seemed to assume that something awful had been done to him. Which it had.

“I swore I’d never say anything,” she told me, twisting the withered tissue in her hand. I could tell she was getting close, so I just sat quietly and waited.

Suddenly, she hitched up on the seat and pulled a silver phone out of her back pocket. I thought she was about to make a call, but instead she went onto the web and navigated to a page of some kind.

“There.” She dropped the phone on the seat between us. “I didn’t say a word, okay?”

When I picked up the phone, I saw she’d opened up a site called Randyboys.com. More specifically, it was a profile for Cory Smithe—or Jeremy, as he called himself there. When I thumbed down the page, I saw there were pictures, too—Cory, with his shirt off; in his underwear; nude from behind, with his face obscured. The profile said he was available for outcalls only, no overnights, no travel. No Sundays either, I noticed.

“They told me you were his girlfriend,” I said.

“Yeah, well…” Jess let out a scoff between her tears. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. Mr. and Mrs. Smithe are super nice and everything. They’re just kind of clueless about the whole gay thing. Much less”—she gestured at the phone without looking at it—“all that.”

“Do you know anything about the men Cory was hooking up with?” I asked. “Were there regular customers?”

She held up her hands in a shrug. “He just said they were all letches and chicken hawks. Guys with money, I guess.”

“Do you know where he’d meet with them?”

“Wherever they wanted,” she said. “At a hotel, in the park, down by the waterfront…”

She rolled her eyes, and it seemed to hit her all over again that her friend was gone. Then the tears started back up.

“I told him to be careful. I really did, but he wouldn’t listen. That asshole!”

I gave Jess my last tissue and let her cry. I didn’t read too much into the anger, other than a defensive kind of reaction to feeling overwhelmed. As far as I could make out, she was telling me everything she could about Cory.

And, if I was lucky, she’d just given me a little bit about his killer, too.

CHAPTER

16

TALK ABOUT HAVING TO PULL IT TOGETHER. AFTER SPENDING THE DAY ON WHAT would be any parent’s worst nightmare, I had to turn around and show up at home with something like a smile on my face. Especially tonight. This was Damon’s last night before he had to go back to school for fourth quarter, and I was taking everyone out to dinner at Kinkead’s.

For once I was glad to be running behind when I got home, if only as an excuse to grab a few minutes by myself. One shower, shirt, and blazer later, I was at least looking fit for public consumption.

By the time I was sitting down at my favorite restaurant, with my family chattering and laughing all around me, I was even starting to feel halfway human again. David Yarboro was on piano that night; I had a nice glass of pinot noir in front of me; and for just a little while, I could pretend that my biggest problem was deciding between the salmon and the New York strip with Kinkead’s Scotch whiskey sauce.

Life was good. It really was.

After everyone ordered dinner, I pushed back my chair and stood up with my glass. It got some glances from around the room, and I noticed Jannie looking a little mortified—but if embarrassing your kids isn’t one of the privileges of being a dad, I don’t know what is.

“I’d like to make a toast,” I said.