He walked from the bedroom. Tracy heard him pacing the living room and then a crash. It was the sound of a toppled chair. He came back in, and the vein was up on his face.

“I’m going out.”

“Where?”

“For a walk.”

“I’ll come.”

Quinn’s eyes cut away from Tracy’s. “No.”

He walked up Sligo Avenue, past houses and apartments and the Montgomery County Police station, the 7-Eleven and the bus station on Fenton, and then along the car repair garages and auto parts stores lining the strip. The closed-mouth kiss of gentrification and the replacement of mom-and-pops by national chains had not yet reached this far south in Silver Spring. Quinn generally stayed in this part of town.

He turned left on Selim, crossed the street at the My-Le, the Vietnamese restaurant there, and went over the pedestrian bridge spanning Georgia Avenue that led to the commuter train station and the B amp;O and Metro tracks. He stood on the platform and looked down Georgia, his nearsighted eyes seeing only the blur of headlights, street lamps, and streaks of neon. He turned toward the tracks, hearing the low rumble of a freight train approaching from the south. It reached him eventually. When it did, he reached his hand out so that he almost touched the train and could feel its wind. He closed his eyes.

Now he was away from his world. Enemies and allies were easily distinguished by hats of black and white. Honor and redemption were real, not conceptual. Justice was uncomplicated by the gray of politics and money, and, if need be, achieved at the point of a gun.

Quinn knew he was out of step. He knew that his outlook was dangerous, essentially that of a boy. And that it would catch up to him in the end.

He opened his eyes. The train still rumbled by. Up on Selim, his Chevelle was idling outside My-Le. He crossed back over the bridge and went to the open passenger window. He leaned into the frame. Sue Tracy was behind the wheel, her right hand moving the Hurst shifter through its gears.

“Thanks for checkin’ up on me, Mom.”

“Look, I don’t know what you dream about up here, cowboy, but it doesn’t get anything solved.”

“In my mind it does.”

“Okay. But it sounds to me like you’ve got some work to do tomorrow. I just wanted to make sure you got some sleep tonight.”

“What you wanted was to drive my sled.”

“There was that.”

“I’ll be home in a little while.”

“C’mon, Terry,” said Tracy, reaching across the bucket and opening the door. “Get in.”

STRANGE and Quinn sat at a table on the second floor of the Brian T. Gibson Building, the Fourth District station, in the office of Lieutenant Lydell Blue. Homicide detective Nathan Grady sat with them. Four Styrofoam cups holding coffee were on the table, along with a file. There were no windows in the office, no rays of sun, no bird sounds, no indication at all that it was a beautiful morning late in spring. It could have been any time of day. The fluorescent lights in the drop ceiling above gave them all a sickly pallor.

“So where we at?” said Strange.

“You first,” said Grady.

“I gave Lydell everything I had.”

“Tell me,” said Grady.

Strange repeated the story of Mario Durham’s visit to his office. He left out no detail of their meeting, except for one. He relayed the particulars of the subsequent investigation, including the conversations with his interviewees and those of Quinn. Quinn interjected to give further recollections as needed.

“Some man matching your description,” said Blue, “talked to a neighbor of Olivia’s at her old address. He used some ruse about being a football coach, called himself Will Sonnet. Like that old TV show with Walter Brennan. You know, ‘No brag, just fact.’ ”

“She came forward, huh?” said Strange.

“Soon as she saw on the TV news that they found the Elliot woman,” said Blue.

“Nice to know we got some good citizens out there.”

“I figured that was you.”

“And you told the son that his mother had won a raffle,” said Grady, addressing Quinn.

“Yes,” said Quinn.

“Tricky.”

Quinn ignored the editorial remark. “How’d he connect me?”

“The boy got a partial on your plates.” Grady stared at Quinn for a moment, then looked down at a small lined pad, where he tapped his pen. When he looked back up at Quinn he said, “You were a patrol cop here in Four D, weren’t you?”

“That’s right.”

Next thing you’ll tell me I look familiar, but you already know who I am. I’m the cop that shot that other cop two years ago. Never mind that I was cleared. All of you will never forget. And now I’m private, a joke, tricking kids so that I can get their mothers killed. The opposite of what a cop does. Why don’t you just say it so we can move on?

“We had no reason to think we were going to cause that woman any harm,” said Strange.

“True,” said Grady.

“Mario Durham looked less than harmless.”

“I appreciate your cooperation on this. I really do.”

“Anything we can do to help.”

Strange knew Grady by reputation and by sight, a tall man with gray-blond hair and ice blue eyes, looked like an older version of that Scandi actor, played in the later Walking Tall movies, Bo something. Blue said that Grady was all right. Odd, but all right. He was known to keep crime-scene photos of victims mounted on the walls of his apartment, where he lived alone. Cops who’d been by his place described them: There was one of a young man lying on his back on a Capitol Hill street, his hands still tented in prayer from before he had been shot. Another showed a woman who had hung her cat from the basement pipe, then hung herself beside it. That one was framed above the mantel. Outsiders would say that Grady was disturbed to keep such photos on display. Cops knew that this was Grady’s way of dealing with his job.

“Y’all are positive it was Mario Durham who killed her, right?” said Strange.

“As positive as you can be. He left prints all over the apartment and her car. His prints were on her car keys, the shower curtain he wrapped her in, everything.”

“Any idea on motive?” said Strange.

Grady shrugged. “They found cash between her mattress and box spring. There was marijuana in there, too, looked like it might have been a little more quantity than for personal use. Mario’s got a connection to a dealer -”

“What connection?” said Quinn.

“I’m gonna get to that,” said Grady. “So maybe this had something to do with a drug debt unpaid. Or it was one of those crimes of passion. The way you described him, Mario must have been a real player.”

“How’s the son doing?” said Quinn.

“He’s staying with his uncle, William Elliot. It’s where he was when she was killed, and why she wasn’t reported missing right away. The way I understand it, the arrangement’s going to be permanent. The uncle’s about as straight as they come. A government employee, married, secure. Doesn’t tolerate knuckleheads or any kind of foolishness. Loved his sister but hated her lifestyle, all that.”

“Sounds like a really fun guy,” said Strange.

“Let’s be honest,” said Grady. “The boy’s never gonna get over the death of his mother. But from my point of view, he’s going to have a more secure environment now than he had before.” Grady’s eyes went from Strange’s to Quinn’s. “I’m not tryin’ to make you two feel good about yourselves, either. Just giving you my opinion.”

Strange nodded. “You get anything from Durham’s cell number yet?”

“Nothing yet,” said Grady. “If he uses it, we’ll get a trace. If he’s smart, he’s destroyed the phone by now, or dumped it somewhere to throw us off.”

“He’s not smart,” said Quinn.

“Shouldn’t be too hard to find him, either,” said Strange.

“You’d think it’d be easy, even if he did move from place to place. And you know he’s not going far. Anacostia’s a small town. Talk to his mother, find out who he hangs with, all that. But there’s this connection he’s got, the one I was mentioning before.”