Generally, Ramone had not had any trouble with his fellow officers when he'd worked Internal Affairs. Most cops did not want to be around other cops who were unclean because they tainted the straight ones by association. He had never been fish-eyed by other uniforms, had never heard the words rat squad uttered in his presence, and had never had a police move off his bar stool when Ramone stepped up to the stick. IAD was a necessary element of policing, and most cops accepted it. Ramirez was a former drinking buddy of Holiday's, and he simply didn't like Ramone because of what had happened to his friend.

'Listen, I don't want take up too much of your time. I was wondering if you've seen Dan Holiday lately. If you guys were still friends…'

'Yeah, I've seen him. Why?'

'I'm just looking to get up with him. It's a private matter.'

'Oh, it's private. He runs a limo service; maybe that helps.'

'I heard.'

'But I don't have his number or anything. Shouldn't be too hard for you to find it, though.'

'Okay, Johnny. Thanks.'

'You want me to tell him you're looking for him, in case we cross paths?'

'No, don't do that. I wanna surprise him.'

Of course, Ramone knew that Ramirez would call Holiday straight away, which was why Ramone had sought him out. He wanted Holiday to think about it before he came up on him. It would eliminate the bullshit half of the conversation if Holiday knew.

'See you around, Ramirez.'

Ramone found Rhonda at the turn of the stairwell, looking at a wall covered with the framed photographs of MPD officers killed in the line of duty. She was standing before the photo of a genial young policeman she had known well when both of them were in uniform. He had been shot to death during a seemingly routine traffic stop. Rhonda's eyes were closed, and Ramone knew that she was saying a prayer for her friend. He waited until she turned to him, unsurprised at his presence.

'You get what you needed from Ramirez?' said Rhonda.

'Officer Ramirez was just telling me how much he admired my work in Internal Affairs.'

'So you're not gonna tell me.'

'Oh, all right. I was asking him out on a date. One bottle of pop and two straws, something like that.'

'Okay, then. I need to get back to the office, do some background on our boy Dominique.'

Ramone said he'd take her there.

Because of its proximity to the majority of the dropped bodies in the city, the Violent Crime Branch of the MPD was located in Southeast, but the offices of most of the other specialized units, such as Morals, Sex Assault, and Domestic Violence, were in the same facility as police headquarters, at 300 Indiana Avenue, Northwest. Ramone arrived at the building soon after leaving Rhonda in the VCB lot and picking up his Tahoe. He went straight to the offices of the Cold Case Squad.

Unsolved homicides moved from VCB to Cold Case after three years. Some homicide police disparaged the work of cold case detectives, as most of the old murders that got 'solved' had little to do with investigative prowess or forensic science and more to do with criminals offering up unexpected information in exchange for a reduction in their sentences. These same homicide detectives who felt that the cold casers hadn't earned their closes were conveniently forgetting that this was how many warm homicide cases got put to bed as well.

Ramone had no such resentment. The members of the Cold Case squad were not the sexy, sunglasses-wearing hotshots with toned bodies and beautiful faces seen on TV, but rather were middle-aged men and women with paunches, families, and credit card debt, doing a job, just like those in the VCB. He had worked with some of them in other capacities through the years.

He found Detective James Dalton at his desk. Ramone had done many favors for Dalton in the past and hoped for the same in return. Dalton was lean, with gray hair, a white dude with Chinese eyes. He had grown up in northern Montana, come to D.C. in the '70s intending to do social work, and wound up as police. He often said that he had gone from one small town to another when he moved to Washington. 'More people, same attitude.'

'Thanks for doing this,' said Ramone.

'File was already pulled,' said Dalton. 'We're waitin around on the ME's report before we decide if it's something we ought to be involved with. You weren't the only one to notice the similarities.'

'If you've been around long enough…'

'Right. File's over there on the desk. It's a big one.'

'That's what she said.'

'Huh?'

'Dumb old joke.'

'You're not the primary on this, are you?'

'Garloo Wilkins,' said Ramone. 'I knew the decedent. Friend of my son's. You mind if I look it over and take some notes?'

'Go right ahead. I'm outta here.'

Perfect, thought Ramone.

For the next two hours, Ramone read the extensive case files on the Palindrome Murders. Included in the official police reports were archived news reports from the Washington Post and a long historical piece from the Washington City Paper. Dalton had given him the opportunity by clocking out, so Ramone burned copies of what he thought he might need on the office Xerox, counter to policy. He put the copies in an empty brown file container that Dalton had helpfully left on the desk, and carried it under his arm from the headquarters building to his Tahoe.

Under the wheel, he dialed Wilkins's cell.

'Hey, Bill, it's Gus.'

'What's going on?'

'I think you should call the ME and order a sex kit on the Asa Johnson autopsy.'

'They'll do it without my order.'

'Call them anyway and make sure it's done.'

'Why?'

'We all just want to be thorough.'

'Right.'

'Anything today?'

'I spoke with the principal at Asa's middle school. But I'm having a little trouble with the boy's father. I wanted to go by the house and get into Asa's room, but Terrance Johnson told me he wanted you to have a look at it first.'

'I apologize, Bill. They've been knowing me for a while, is all it is. I'm going to swing by their house later and while I'm there I'll set him straight.'

'It's my investigation, Gus.'

'Absolutely. I've got a few more calls to make this afternoon. We can talk when I see you.'

'All right, buddy. Take care.'

Ramone ended the call. No reason to mention the possible connection to an old, unsolved series of homicides. He told himself that it would just cloud Garloo's mind.

Ramone headed uptown.

Asa Johnson's middle school was in Manor Park, blocks from the Johnson house, blocks from Ramone's. His son, Diego, had walked there when he'd still been registered, but now he walked the mile into Maryland and caught a Ride On bus to his school in Montgomery County. It seemed unnecessarily complicated to make his son go through all those moves to get to his new destination, given the closeness of the neighborhood school to their home. Of course, Ramone didn't really mind that his son had to break a sweat to get to school. He was simply dipping his toe back in the waters of rationalization for moving Diego back into the District's public-education system.

Ramone thought about this, and other things, walking down the hall to the administrative office. The bell had sounded, ending the last class of the day. The kids around him, mostly black and some Hispanic, were laughing and cutting up, stowing books and retrieving bags from their lockers, preparing to bust out and head home. They moved around roaming security guards. With its wire mesh-covered windows, dim lighting, and constant police-like presence, the place had the feel of a juvie hall.

Ramone saw kids he recognized, from both the neighborhood and Diego's football team, and a couple of them acknowledged him with either a 'Mr Ramone' or a 'Mr Gus.' They knew he was police. Some of them did not look him in the eye because of it, but most were friendly and showed him respect.