“What’re you smiling about?” said Olga as Vaughn got out of his chair.

“I got a hit,” said Vaughn.

Going up the stairs to the split-level’s second floor, he passed Ricky, coming down with books under his arm on his way to classes. Vaughn said nothing to his son, thinking only about the phone call and what it meant. He had that feeling he got, light on his feet, when he was close.

“THIS WAS WHEN, exactly?” said Strange.

“Sunday evening,” said Thomas. “They had parked that Monterey under a streetlight. It was lit up there enough for me to see ’em and write down the tag numbers, too.”

“You’re certain of the car?”

“Monterey’s the only car I know got that squared-off rear window.”

“Right,” said Strange. “And Dennis tipped you to the robbery on Monday?”

“Uh-huh. Early in the day. Said those other two were planning to take the place off.”

They were in Dennis’s bedroom, Strange standing, his back leaned against the wall, John Thomas seated in a chair. Strange had closed the door so that his mother could not hear their conversation.

“What’d you do next?”

“I called an MPD lieutenant I grew up with. Man named William Davis.” Thomas saw recognition creep into Strange’s face at the mention of Davis’s name. “You know Bill?”

“Not personally. Used to notice him when I was a kid. At the time, he was a beat cop up in the Sixth.”

“Wasn’t many black patrolmen then.”

“Why I noticed him, I guess,” said Strange. “Keep going.”

“I told Bill what I knew, leaving out your brother’s name to protect him. Bill told me later that they’d picked up the driver of the Monterey on a gun charge. The other man in the passenger seat, I don’t know what happened to him. What I do know is that we didn’t get robbed. So what your brother did was right.”

“Describe the other man,” said Strange, without emotion.

“Light-skinned, looked to be on the small side, maybe because he was sitting beside the one under the wheel. That boy had some size on him. The little dude wore a hat. That’s all I could make out.”

That’s plenty, thought Strange. That is more than enough.

“Did you call Lieutenant Davis when you saw my brother’s obituary?”

“No, I didn’t.” Thomas stared at Strange thoughtfully. “Do you want me to?”

“No,” said Strange. He uncrossed his arms and softened his tone. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything to him, not unless I… not unless my family asks you to. I don’t mean to cause you any trouble with your friend. It’s just that, you know, we’d like to go about this in our own way and time. Anyway, you’ve done plenty for us already.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Thomas. “It’s been hard for me to deal with this today. Truth is, I feel like I set something in motion that got your brother killed.”

“You’re wrong to feel that way,” said Strange. “I’d say you gave him hope. He was happy the last time I saw him, like he’d confessed. You did him right. You’d be doin’ him right again if you keep this between us.”

“I will,” said Thomas, getting up from his chair. He went to Dennis’s nightstand, picked up a book off the top of a stack, and examined its cover. “We had a nice discussion about this one the day he visited me.”

“He could talk,” said Strange, smiling a little for the first time in the past two days. “Argue, too.”

“There was truth in what he was sayin’. He had a right to be angry. We all do.”

“Yes.”

“Young black men out here, killin’ each other. Someday we gonna focus our anger in the right direction.”

“Sounds like somethin’ Dennis would say to my father to get him fired up.”

“My son does the same way with me. If I remember correctly, the few times I talked to your father at those meetings, he was just as angry at the injustices out here as your brother was. If he disagreed with your brother, I suspect it was because he was trying to calm him down, protect him from harm. The same way I do with my son.”

“My father couldn’t protect him.”

“Young men from good homes find trouble, too. Anyone could see that your brother had come on rough times. But there’s something you should tell your parents: When he came by to see me, he told me how proud he was of his family. I think it’s important that they know.”

“Yes, sir,” said Strange, a crack in his voice.

“All right, then. Let me get out of here.”

“Thank you.” Strange looked away, ashamed at the tears that had come to his eyes. “You don’t mind, I’m just gonna stay here a minute, get my thoughts together.”

John Thomas nodded and left the room.

FRANK VAUGHN AND Lawrence Houston sat in the front seat of Vaughn’s Polara, in the parking lot of the Tick Tock liquor store at University Boulevard and Riggs Road, drinking Schlitz from cans wrapped in brown paper bags. Houston’s plum-colored Dart GT was parked nearby. The first beer had erased the last of Vaughn’s headache but had gone down bitter. This one, his second, was going down good.

Houston still wore his coveralls from the garage. He had told his boss, Pat Millikin, that he had to run his sister to the doctor’s and needed an hour, an hour and a half of break time. He had suggested the Tick Tock location to Vaughn because it wasn’t far from the garage. Also, he wanted a cold can of beer.

“Tell it,” said Vaughn. “Time’s gettin’ short.”

“We need to get straight on somethin’ first.”

“Okay.”

“I ain’t used to talkin’ to police.”

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

“I know it.”

“You called me. You told me you had something on that Ford.”

Houston shifted in his seat. “Pat’s been good to me, man. Gave me my job straight out of the joint. I mean he always did me right. And you know, when I came out, people weren’t interested in hiring no violent offender. Pat took a chance on me, treated me with respect.”

“So Pat’s a swell guy.”

“What I’m sayin’ is, I don’t want to wrong him.”

“Listen, Lawrence, I’m not looking to jack Millikin up, if that’s what you’re worried about. The Prince George’s police already know all about the phony inspection certificates coming out of that garage, and they haven’t made a move on him yet. They’re waitin’, see? At some point, they’re gonna squeeze him for something big. He’s more valuable as a source of information than he is in jail.”

“I don’t want Pat to get in no trouble over this, is all.”

“I can’t promise you that. If he’s involved with that vehicle in any way, we’re gonna need his testimony to support the charges. Yours, too, most likely.”

Houston had a long swig of beer, then turned the brown bag in his lap.

Vaughn looked him over. “What were you in for?”

“Manslaughter.”

“Musta had a temper on you.”

“I still do.” Houston side-glanced Vaughn, veins standing out on his temples, veins shifting on his wrists and the backs of his hands. “Why I’m here, I guess.”

“Come on, Lawrence. Talk to me.”

Houston reached inside the chest area of his coveralls and withdrew a cigarette. Vaughn shook an L amp;M from his deck. He flipped open the lid of his Zippo, lit Houston’s smoke, lit his own, and snapped the lighter shut. Vaughn let the cigarette dangle from his mouth as he opened a small spiral notebook and thumbed down the top of a ballpoint pen.

“I got a kid brother, took the straight road,” said Houston. “Went to one of those good Negro colleges down South, got a government job, owns a house, has a wife and kids… I mean, he did it all right. That could have been my brother got run down in that street. Cut down for nothin’ but his color, you understand?”

“What about the car?” said Vaughn.

“Couple of men brought it in on Monday. Red Galaxie Five Hundred, all messed up in the front.”

“Sixty-three or sixty-four?”

“Sixty-three and a half,” said Houston with a hint of pride.