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  “Hey, you can’t just leave that paddleboat out here.” Jonesy started to laugh. “I’m pulling your leg. We’ll run you two back, then my guys can get on with it.”

  As Jonesy was talking, Brick watched one of the guys check his face mask and strap on an array of knives. He would be the primary conducting the search for evidence. The secondary would keep a close eye on him, ready to spring into action if the diver got into trouble. Soon they would bring out the sonar and metal detectors. Brick waved toward the back of the boat. “Thanks, guys.”

  Brick felt reasonably confident the search would be conducted properly, but that didn’t ensure anything useful would be recovered. As far as he was concerned, the odds were about the same as the Cubs getting to the World Series.

  Jonesy steered the boat toward the dock, and just as he had anticipated, a medical examiner’s van was waiting in the parking lot adjacent to the building housing the Harbor Patrol.

  “Home sweet home—at least for the next twenty-three days”—Jonesy checked his watch—“and two hours.”

  Two guys wearing blue jumpsuits leaned against the van. One was smoking; the other playing air guitar. The smoker ground out his cigarette and the guitarist stopped playing as the boat came to rest at the dock. They retrieved a gurney from the back of the van and proceeded to wheel it toward the boat.

  Brick signed the required paperwork to transfer the body to the custody of the medical examiner’s agents. It was a routine procedure that had to be followed, but it always made him uneasy. Even though he’d never had kids, in an odd way, he felt parental-like responsibility toward the victim. The guys in the blue jumpsuits wouldn’t have been his first choice for babysitters.

  Along with Ron, Brick watched as the body bag was loaded into the back of the van. The door slammed shut and the air guitarist double-checked to make sure it was locked. “Guess we’re good to go.”

  “Wait a minute,” Brick said. “Our cruiser is parked on the other side of the Tidal Basin. Can we hitch a ride with you?”

  “No problemo. We gotta go past there anyway. I’ll get in the back; you guys can ride up front.”

  At least for a few more minutes, Brick still had the illusion of control.

  * * *

  After dropping Ron off at the Archives Metro Station, Brick turned onto Indiana Avenue and pulled into a parking space reserved for police vehicles. He jaywalked across the street and made his way up the stairs of the Henry J. Daly Building. Usually referred to simply as Police Headquarters, the building was named for a veteran police sergeant who was killed along with two FBI agents when an armed intruder entered the building, proceeded to the Cold Case Squad, and opened fire. Brick had been a rookie assigned to the Third District on that fateful November afternoon. Still, it would always be a day when he’d remember exactly where he was when he heard the news.

  “Watch your step there, Brick, my man.”

  Brick recognized the voice of Otis Johnson, the night janitor. He turned to see the older man grimace as he bent to position the “Caution—Wet Floor” sign.

  “Looks like your shift’s about over,” Brick said.

  “Yours, too?” Otis straightened up, but it was evident he was still in pain. “Arthritis is kickin’ my ass today. Bet I know where you’ll be going.”

  His comment stopped Brick in his tracks. With all that had happened in the past few hours, he’d forgotten it was Opening Day at Nationals Park. How was that possible? He’d been looking forward to this for weeks. He had suffered through the early years at RFK and now was reaping the reward of watching a competitive team in a beautiful park. But not today. He reached for the ticket in his pocket and handed it to Otis. “Got a new case; I’m going to be here for a while.”

  Otis looked at the ticket and shook his head. “Club level. Too rich for my wallet.” He tried to hand the ticket back, but Brick waved him off.

  “It’s yours for the taking. Just one condition—if you catch a foul ball, it’s mine.”

  Otis smiled broadly. “You got it, man, you got it.”

  In an ideal world, Brick would have his own windowed office with a view of waves crashing on a rocky shore. From the time he was a kid, he was drawn to water, especially the ocean, and the more dramatic the coastline, the better. As it were, he was grateful for a battered gunmetal-gray desk in a three-sided cubicle he didn’t have to share with another detective when the shift changed. Although Brick didn’t see himself as a neat freak, comparing his standards to those of some guys in the squad, the label might apply. He checked his voicemail and listened to a message from an assistant U.S. attorney who wanted to meet with him before an upcoming witness conference. It would have to wait. For now, he was on his own time and other matters were more pressing. Ron had offered to stay until he remembered he had promised his pregnant wife to accompany her to a doctor’s appointment. Brick smiled as he recalled Ron’s words: “I’d rather face down a junkyard dog who hasn’t eaten for three days than be a no-show.”

  Brick drummed his fingers on the keyboard as he waited for his computer to boot up. Finally, he was able to log on. When budget time rolled around, maybe this would be the year for upgrades and the existing computers could be retired to the Smithsonian. Starting with the current date and working backwards over a six-month period, he searched a database of local missing persons. He got a few hits, but no one who even remotely resembled the young woman in the Tidal Basin. Still, it was possible she could be an out-of-town high schooler whose information had been reported but hadn’t been loaded into the database. If that proved to be the case, Brick was fairly certain he would know within a few hours. The report of a missing tourist, especially a kid, would be flagged. In the meantime, he expanded the date parameters and refined his search criteria: Caucasian, female, 15–25 years old, 90–140 pounds, 4’10” to 5’5”. When prompted, he checked black hair and hit “enter.” On the next screen, a pull-down menu listed specific identifying characteristics. He scrolled past tattoos and piercings to birthmark. Under that heading, he clicked on “shoulder.” He hit “search” and sat back while the computer matched his specifications against an expanded database containing missing person reports from the D.C.-Virginia-Maryland region.

  Three hits. Brick’s reaction was Pavlovian. He felt his heart beat faster as he leaned forward to read what was displayed on the screen. His excitement waned as he eliminated each possibility based on the accompanying photographs.

  “Fuck.”

  “Only if you take me to dinner first.”

  Even before Brick swiveled in his chair, he knew who had made the remark. Travis Allen, one-half of a pair known as “The A-Team,” slouched against the cubicle divider. He and his partner, Paul Adkins, were the only detectives who had been in Homicide longer than Brick. For the most part, Brick got along with the others in the squad but a little bit of Allen went a long way. He was like the obnoxious brother-in-law family members tolerate at the holiday dinner only because it’s Christmas.

  Allen pulled the tab on a can of Coke. The soda bubbled up over the side of the can and dripped onto the floor. Allen didn’t seem to notice. He raised the can to his mouth and took a drink. “Heard about your floater—know who she is?”

  “Not yet, but it’s only been a couple of hours.” Brick deliberately sounded more optimistic than he felt. He wasn’t about to give Allen the satisfaction of knowing he was frustrated. “Is that your phone ringing?”

  “Yeah, guess it is.” Allen started to walk away then stopped. “Almost forgot, Blancato needs to see you.”

  Nice that the lieutenant sent his messenger boy, Brick thought. He turned his computer off and headed down the hall.

  * * *

  “Is Lieutenant Blancato expecting you?” The secretary’s stiff formality always seemed out of place, better suited for a District Court judge’s chambers than a police squad room, but then again, she was probably following Blancato’s orders.

  “Yes.”

  Brick walked past her d
esk and opened the door leading to the lieutenant’s office. Everything about the office, from the newly installed carpet and drapes to the leather chairs and Blancato’s highly polished walnut desk, shouted “rank has its privilege.” And if anyone didn’t get the message, they probably would by glancing around at photos of Blancato shaking hands with politicians, law enforcement officials, and actors playing cops on TV. Brick always made a point to look around to see if anyone new had been added to the gallery.

  “Is that you with Joe Biden?” Brick asked.

  “Yeah, he was the keynote … anyway, we got to make this quick. I’m meeting with the chief in five minutes.”

  Brick figured the “got to make it quick” comment was code for “don’t sit down, just stand there and tell me what I need to know.” He pulled up a chair and made himself comfortable.

  Blancato glanced up at the clock on the wall. “Bring me up to speed on this body in the Tidal Basin.”

  Brick complied.

  “And the media wasn’t all over this?”

  “We managed to get out of there before they arrived. That’s not to say they won’t find out about it.”

  Blancato seemed to mull that over. “Yeah, and when they do—we’re screwed. The timing couldn’t be worse. Tourists are overrunning the city like a swarm of locusts. And of all places, there’s a body floating in the Tidal Basin. Why couldn’t they drop her in Chesapeake Bay, then she’d be Baltimore’s problem.” Blancato reached up as if to scratch his curly hair but stopped short. He glanced down at his shoulder and brushed his uniform sleeve with his hand. “Holy Christ, the networks live for stories like this. We don’t need that kind of publicity.”

  Brick wasn’t sure who Blancato meant by “we” but he suspected the reference included the mayor. One of the worst-kept secrets in the department was the borderline incestuous relationship between Blancato and the mayor’s office. When it came to decision-making, Brick often wondered who was calling the shots.

  “Keep me informed and under no circumstances are you to talk to the press. That’s my responsibility.” Blancato popped a couple of Tic Tacs in his mouth. “Hey, let’s hope she’s just a crack whore who went for a swim.”

  And that from the guy who would handle the press. Brick didn’t respond. He just shook his head as he left Blancato’s office.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Then one foggy Christmas Eve …” The words stuck in his head even though several hours had passed. Ear worm … yeah, that’s what it’s called, he’d found the term on Wikipedia. A few times he even sang along as the words played on a seemingly endless loop. He was grateful for the fog. And just like it had been for Rudolph, it was a game changer.

  At first, he wasn’t sure where he would dump her body. But when he saw the monuments shrouded in fog, he didn’t have to look any further. Disguising himself as a street person was always part of the plan. It was a no-brainer. You can stand in a crowd and still be invisible. Kind of like being a mailbox. People walk right by and don’t even know you’re there.

  All he had to do now was get rid of the shopping cart. That would be easy. He drove his van to a suburban Giant and parked near a designated cart-return place. Just for good measure he wiped down the handle before shoving the cart into the queue behind the others.

  He was hungry, and as long as he was here, he might as well get something to eat. He had plenty of cash in his pocket. Only an idiot would use a credit or debit card and leave a paper trail. What sounded good? He thought about it for a minute or two.

  Pop-Tarts. He hadn’t had a Pop-Tart since he was a kid. Blueberry or cherry? He’d get a box of each and eat as many as he wanted. And he wouldn’t burn them like his mother used to. She had to be the stupidest woman on earth. She couldn’t even toast a Pop-Tart without fucking it up.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  AT JUDICIARY SQUARE, Brick boarded the Red Line bound for Shady Grove. After a sixteen-hour day, he should have been exhausted. He wasn’t. New-case adrenaline coursed through his veins. There was a time when winding down after work meant a couple of beers and swapping stories at the Fraternal Order of Police Lodge located a few blocks from Headquarters. That ended when he was assigned to Internal Affairs. It was obvious he wasn’t welcomed at the FOP when he walked in just after his appointment and other cops walked out leaving untouched drinks on the bar. And there was another time when the end of a shift meant going home to his fiancée. That ended when he went undercover in Narcotics at the height of the crack epidemic. His bride-to-be said she had agreed to be his wife not his widow. Nothing he said convinced her otherwise. Over the years, as his options dwindled, Brick found a place that provided refuge. For him, Boland’s Mill was much more than an Irish bar.

  Brick exited the Woodley Park Metro Station and headed north on Connecticut Avenue. He walked past his circa 1920 condo building, crossed the street, and continued on for two blocks. Just before walking in the door of Boland’s Mill he rolled his shoulders up and back a couple of times, a move he had learned from a Pilates instructor he used to date. The brief exercise along with the anticipation of a slow-poured Guinness did the trick; he felt the tension in his muscles ease.

  Brick’s barstool of choice allowed him to keep his back to the wall with a clear view of the door. He was glad to see it was vacant. Despite the ceiling fan whirling overhead, it was warm inside, but the gun holstered at his waist prevented him from taking off his suit coat. He compensated by pulling off his tie and loosening the collar of his shirt. He glanced up at the new big-screened TV in time to catch the bottom of the ninth. The Nats left two men on base, losing 3–0. He could only hope this wasn’t a harbinger of the season ahead. He watched other scores scroll across the bottom of the screen as he waited for Rory, the day manager and bartender, to put down his cellphone. Finally, Rory turned in Brick’s direction and held up his index finger in a wait-a-minute gesture. Still holding the phone to his ear, he set a glass under the tap. Just after pulling the spigot, Rory must have realized his mistake. He dumped the Harp and set a clean glass under the Guinness tap. He continued holding the phone as the dark liquid filled the glass. Before it had settled, he put it in front of Brick.

  “Sorry, I’m a bit distracted.”

  Brick nodded. “You know, if I want bad service, I’ll go to Mulligan’s.” Rory didn’t crack a smile. Something wasn’t right. Brick looked around the room expecting to see Eamonn Boland holding court with a couple of regulars in the back corner. Not today. Except for a table of four who appeared to be tourists having a late lunch, the place was empty.

  “Where’s Eamonn?”

  “He had another doctor’s appointment.”

  Brick didn’t like the sound of that. “Is he okay?”

  “Yeah, he’s supposed to take it easy for another week but he’s going stir crazy. It’s just—”

  The sound of the tri-tone from Rory’s cellphone stopped him mid-sentence. He snatched the phone from where it had been lying on the bar. Brick watched as he apparently read a text message before exhaling loudly. “Feck!”

  “Rory, what’s going on? Girlfriend trouble?”

  Rory shook his head. “It’s Jose—he hasn’t shown up for work.”

  Brick knew who Rory was talking about. Jose was the young guy who had been bussing tables at Boland’s for a couple of years.

  Rory continued to stare at his phone. “And he hasn’t answered the voicemail and text messages I’ve left.”

  Brick’s pint of Guinness had settled. He took a sip then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

  “It’s none of my business, but aren’t you overreacting?”

  Rory reached under the bar and retrieved a bottle of Gatorade. He unscrewed the cap and took a swig from the bottle before stowing it back under the bar. “Today’s the third day. I was off over the weekend so I didn’t know he hadn’t shown up until this morning. It’s not like him—he’s never missed a day since he’s been working here.”

  Brick took another swig of
Guinness. The stress of the day was beginning to fade. “Cut him some slack. He’s young.”

  “I know, but he’s more responsible than some of the guys we’ve had that were twice his age.” Rory shrugged his broad shoulders. “He’s more feckin’ responsible than I am.”

  Brick knew that wasn’t true, but the self-deprecation spoke volumes about how Rory felt toward Jose. He wasn’t the only one. Several of the regulars recognized what a hard worker Jose was and did what they could to help him in different ways. A retired schoolteacher tutored him in English. Brick, on the other hand, tutored him in baseball, something Jose knew little about since he had grown up playing soccer in Guatemala. Another of the regulars with a window treatment business hired Jose to install blinds. He always seemed eager to do whatever he could to earn extra money to send back home to his mother.

  “What about his sister? I remember him saying something about her coming here,” Brick said.

  “She did, a couple of weeks ago, but I don’t have a number for her.”

  Brick picked up his glass, took a drink, then another. “Any issues with his work status?”

  Rory shook his head. “Not that I know of, but Eamonn handles all that.” He glanced over Brick’s head, toward the front window. “And speak of the devil.”

  As if on cue, the door flung wide and Eamonn limped toward the bar carrying a zippered money bag. Brick hadn’t seen the owner of Boland’s in over a week and was surprised by Eamonn’s condition. Well into his seventies, he always seemed younger than his years, but now it appeared his health problems were taking a toll.

  “Have you heard anything, lad?” Eamonn sounded out of breath.

  “Not a word.”

  Eamonn raised the hinged section of the bar and made his way over to the cash register. He opened the drawer and filled the designated slots with ones, fives, tens, and twenties. It wasn’t until he finished and turned around that he acknowledged Brick.

  “Aw, jaysus, I didn’t even see you there. How are you, Brick?” Eamonn struck a roll of quarters on the side of the cash drawer before dumping the coins into the tray. “Did Rory tell you about Jose?”