'I'm good,' said Rhonda. 'Sorry you had to put up with my tears. I just got emotional. I can't say why.'

'Is it that time of month?' said Ramone.

'You mean that time of the month when you start talkin ignorant?'

'Sorry.'

They pulled away from the curb.

Holiday didn't speak much to his client, an Arnold and Porter lawyer, on the run down to Reagan National. Guy was on his cell most of the time and never once made eye contact with Holiday in the rearview the entire ride. To the lawyer, he was invisible, and to Holiday that was fine.

Coming back from 395, he shot through the tunnel and took New York Avenue out of town, where he hooked up with the Beltway in Maryland and ramped off onto Greenbelt Road. He listened to Channel 46 on the XM, a station called Classic Album Cuts, and kept it up loud. They were showcasing ax standards today, starting with 'Blue Sky,' and Holiday could see his brother, long-haired and higher than Hopper, playing air guitar to that beautiful, fluid Dickey Betts solo, a piece of music that just spelled happiness to Holiday, because his brother had been happy then and his sister was there, happy too, and alive. And then the deejay went right into 'Have You Ever Loved a Woman,' Clapton and Duane Allman dueling, both of them on fire, and something cold touched Holiday, like the finger of death, but then there came the memories of his family, and Holiday relaxed and let the window down and drove on.

He passed Eleanor Roosevelt High and made a right down Cipriano Road, checking the detail map on the bench beside him as he went along woods and past a Vishnu temple, going right on Good Luck Road on the edge of New Carrollton and making another right into a community known as Magnolia Springs, ramblers and ranchers mostly, some well tended, others in need of care. He found the house he was looking for on Dolphin Road. It was a yellow-sided, white-shuttered one-story affair with a brownish lawn and a late-model Mercury Marquis, the step-up Crown Vic, in the driveway. Holiday smiled, looking at the car. Once a cop.

He parked the Lincoln curbside, killed the motor, got out of it, and walked to the house. He passed a dead lilac tree in the yard and wondered why the owner hadn't removed it. He rang the doorbell and found himself straightening the lapels of his jacket as he heard footsteps approaching the door. And then the door opened, and a bald, average-sized black man with a gray mustache stood in the frame. He wore a sweater, though the day was warm. He was well past middle-aged and stepping off the bridge to elderly. Holiday had never seen him without his hat.

'Yes?' said the man, his eyes hard and unwelcoming.

'Sergeant Cook?'

'T.C. Cook, th-that's right. What is it?'

'Have you read the Post today? There was a boy found over in that community garden on Oglethorpe Street. Shot in the head.'

'Fourth District, yes. I saw the segment on Fox Five.' Cook unfolded his arms. 'You're not with the media. Some kind of law enforcement, right?'

'I'm ex-police. MPD.'

'No such thing as ex-police.' Cook's mouth sloped down slightly on one side as he spoke.

'I suppose you're right.'

'Television man said that the boy's first name was Asa.'

'It's spelled the same way,' said Holiday, 'forwards and back.'

Cook studied Holiday and said, 'Come inside.'

Leon Mayo worked as an apprentice auto mechanic in a small garage on a single-digit block of Kennedy Street. He had been given the opportunity to learn the trade by the owner, who had done Lorton time himself back in the early '90s. The owner's former parole officer, who now had Leon as an offender, had put them together. Ramone and Rhonda Willis found Leon after stopping by to see his mother at the apartment where both of them lived. She had told them that Leon was working, hitting the word emphatically, and gave them the location of the garage.

The owner of Rudy's Motor Repair, Rudy Montgomery, met them with unwelcoming body language and a glare, but he led them to Leon Mayo when they described the nature of their visit. Leon was in a bay illuminated by a drop-light, using a sprocket wrench to loosen a water pump with the intention of pulling it out of a beat-to-shit Chevy Lumina. They badged him and gave him the news about his friend. Leon put his fingers to the bridge of his nose and stepped away. They left him to his grief. A few minutes later he emerged from the garage and met them in a lot overfilled with previous-decade sedans and coupes manufactured, primarily, in Detroit.

Leon stood before them, rubbing his hands on a shop rag and twisting and untwisting the rag. His eyes were pink, and he kept them focused on the asphalt. The fact that they had seen him spontaneously break down had shamed him. He was a thin, strong young man who looked five years older than his twenty.

'When?' said Leon.

'Sometime last night, I expect,' said Rhonda.

'Where was he got?'

'He was found at Fort Slocum, around Third and Madison.'

Leon shook his head. 'Why they have to do that?'

'They?' said Rhonda.

'I'm sayin, why would anyone do Jamal like that? He wasn't into no dirt.'

'Your records say otherwise,' said Ramone.

'That's all past,' said Leon.

'It is?' said Ramone.

'We did our thing.'

'You stole cars, isn't that right?'

'Yeah. We touted and ran for a while, too, over there on Seventh. To us it was all in fun. We wasn't tryin to make no career out of it. We were just kids.'

'Seventh and Kennedy,' said Rhonda Willis, who had worked UC around that hot corner for several weeks back when she was plainclothes and on the way up to Homicide. 'That was more than just boys playin like they were in the game. They were serious over there.'

'There was some like that in the mix. But not us.'

'What made y'all special?' said Ramone.

'We caught grand-theft charges on the cars before the drug thing went to the next level. Ain't nothin more complicated than that.'

'And you don't have any idea who would have done this to Jamal.'

'Jamal was my boy. If I knew-'

'You'd tell us,' said Rhonda.

'Look, I'm on paper right now. I come to work every day.' Leon held out his greasy hands and looked hard at Ramone. 'This is me, dawg, right here.'

'What about Jamal?' said Rhonda.

'The same way.'

'What was he doing for money?'

'Jamal had steady work as a housepainter. I mean steady. And he was fixin to start his own business, soon as he learned the finer points, you know what I'm sayin?'

'Sure.'

'He wasn't never gonna go back. We talked about it all the time. I'm not lyin.'

Ramone believed him. 'Why would Jamal be walking around late at night?'

'He didn't have no whip,' said Leon. 'Jamal rode buses and walked all over town. He didn't mind.'

'Any girlfriends?' said Rhonda.

'Lately, he was just interested in one.'

'You got a name?'

'Darcia. Petworth girl, that's all I know. Pretty redbone he met a while back.'

'No last name? No address?'

'She lives with this other girl, a dancer down at the Twilight, goes by the name of Star. Far as I know, Darcia dance there, too. I don't know where they stay at. I told Jamal, don't be fuckin with girls like that, you ain't even know who they runnin with.'

'Girls like what?'

'Fast.' Leon looked away. His voice was hoarse, a whisper. 'I told Jamal that.'

'We're sorry for your loss,' said Rhonda Willis.

T.C. Cook led holiday through the house back to the kitchen, where Holiday had a seat at a table that took up much of the space. As they moved through the living and dining rooms, Holiday noted the disarray and sloppiness that were typical of a man who lived alone. The house was not dirty but had widower's dust on its tables and shelves. The windows were closed and their shades were drawn, holding in the smell of decay.