'You miss it,' said Franklin, 'don't you?'

'I do.'

'Listen, Terry…'

'What?'

'That thing Strange was talking about, the group I joined – Concerned Black Officers, I mean.'

'I knew about it already.'

'Didn't have anything to do with how I felt about you, or whether you were right or wrong on the Wilson thing. You understand that, don't you?'

'Sure.'

'We'd been asking for radios for off-duty officers for years, so that if you did get into a situation when you were in street clothes, you could call it in, let the dispatcher know that you were a cop and you were on the scene.'

'I know it.'

'If Chris Wilson had had that radio that night, and we had known who he was when we pulled up on him, he'd be alive today.'

'Y'all got your radios now. I read about it, that the issue finally went through.'

'It took that last shooting, and the threat of a protest, to get it done. And Chief Ramsey, he's toughened the firearms instruction requirements, instituted retraining. Got a whole lot of new initiatives drafted, with new hiring standards on the way, too.'

'You tryin' to tell me it was a good thing that Wilson died? Don't go blowin' smoke up my ass, man, 'cause I've known you too long.'

'I'm tellin' you that some good came out of it. Whatever I thought about what happened that night, it was on me to get involved, make sure that somethin' like that couldn't happen again.'

'I bet it was good for your conscience, too.'

'There was that.'

'Don't worry, Gene. I don't blame you for anything. I would have liked to hear from you once in a while, but I don't blame you for a thing.'

'I thought about calling you,' said Franklin. 'And then I thought, Outside of our shift, me and Terry never hung out, anyway. I don't recall us speaking on the phone more than once or twice when we were riding together, do you?'

'You're right. We never hung out.'

'We got different things. Different kinds of lives, interests, different friends. You and me used to talk about it, remember? Ain't no kind of crime for people to want to hang with their own kind.'

'It's a shame,' said Quinn. 'But it's no crime.'

'Anyway,' said Franklin, 'I gotta bounce.'

'Go ahead. Nice seeing you. Gene. Stay away from the fuglies, hear?'

Franklin blushed. 'I'm gonna try.'

They stood, hugged again, and broke apart awkwardly. Franklin did not meet Quinn's eyes before walking away. Franklin passed Strange on his way back from the head but did not acknowledge him at all.

'Friendly place they got here,' said Strange as he arrived at the table. 'Your boy Eugene is a card-carrying member of my fan club, and some Carl Eller-lookin' sucker back in the bathroom was wantin' to take my head off.'

'You know cops,' said Quinn. 'They like to stick to their own kind.'

'I've got a couple more stops today,' said Strange. 'I'd take you home, but it's not on my way.'

'Drop me at the Union Station Metro,' said Quinn. 'I'll catch the Red Line uptown.'

Strange pulled the Caprice away from the curb. 'Nevada Smith is on TNT tonight. You know that one?'

'Uh-huh. That's a good one. McQueen was the real thing.'

'That's the one ends with that old guy from Streets of San Francisco, with the nose-'

'Karl Maiden.'

'Yeah, him. McQueen shoots him a couple of times, but he doesn't kill him. Gets off of that revenge trip he's been on right there, finds his humanity, and leaves Maiden in the river. McQueen's riding away on his horse, and Maiden's yellin' at him to finish him off, screaming, over and over, "You're yella… you haven't got the guts!" I get the chills thinkin' about it, man.'

'You gonna watch it?'

'I'm takin' a woman to the fights.'

'Your girlfriend?'

'More like a friend kind of thing, the woman who runs my office, Janine Baker. I been knowin' her for a long time. Nothin' all that serious.'

'Friend kind of thing's the best kind, you ask me.'

'Yeah, I believe you're right. What about you?'

'I got a date myself. Girl named Juana I been seeing.'

Strange looked across the bench. 'Y'all got specific plans?'

'We were just going to go out, figure it out then.'

'Why don't the two of you come with me and Janine? I got extra tickets, man.'

'I wouldn't mind. But I have to see if Juana's into it.'

'Check it out with her and give me a call. My beeper number's on that card I gave you.'

'I will.'

Strange turned onto North Capitol. Quinn said, 'Here's good,' and opened the door as Strange slowed the car to a stop.

'Hey, Terry. Thanks again for the record, man.'

'My pleasure,' said Quinn.

They shook hands. Quinn walked toward Union Station. Strange drove north.

18

Strange stood in Chris Wilson's bedroom, examining the objects on his dresser. There was a cigar box holding cuff links, a crucifix on a chain, a Mason's ring with a black onyx stone, ticket stubs from the MCI Center and RFK, and a pickup stub from Safeway. There were shoehorns and pens in a ceramic police-union mug. A small color photograph of Wilson's sister, pretty and sharply dressed, had been slipped beneath the mug. A nail clipper, a long-lensed camera, a pearl-handled knife, a bottle of CK cologne, and a crystal bowl holding matches from various bars and restaurants sat atop the dresser, as did a well-used, autographed hardball, scuffed and stained by grass and mud.

Beside the dresser mirror, hung on the wall, was a framed photograph of Chris Wilson as a boy, standing under the arm of Larry Brown, with a message from Brown and his signature scrawled across the print. Team photographs of the Redskins going back fifteen years and posters, framed cheaply and mounted, of college and professional basketball players, local boxers, and other athletes and sporting events were hung on the walls as well. The room reflected an unsurprising blend of boy and man.

'I've left it exactly as it was,' said Leona Wilson, standing behind Strange. 'He was so proud of that picture we took with Larry Brown.'

'I've got a signed photo of Larry myself,' said Strange. 'Proud to have mine, too.'

'I remember one time I was straightening the picture, and Chris walked in and just got so upset, told me to leave it alone. Of course, he hardly ever raised his voice to me.'

'Some things special to a man might seem trivial to others. I got this Redskins figure on my desk, got a spring for a neck-'

'Chris grew up in this room. He never lived anywhere else. I suppose if he had moved out and gotten his own place, his new room wouldn't have looked like this. He kept it much the same way as he did when he was a boy.'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'I never asked him to stay, Mr Strange. After his father died, he took it upon himself to become the man of the house. He felt it was his role, to take care of me and his sister. I never asked him to do that. He took it upon himself.'

Strange looked around the room. 'Chris keep any kind of journals? He keep a diary, anything like that?'

'Not that I'm aware of.'

'You don't mind, I'd like to take these matchbooks from this bowl here. I'll return them, and anything else I take.'

Leona Wilson nodded and wrung her hands.

'Chris had a girlfriend at the time of his death, didn't he?' said Strange. 'I'm talking about the one gave the statement to the newspapers.'

'That's right.'

'Think it would be possible to talk to her?'

'She's been wonderful. She has dinner with me once or twice a month. She and her little girl, a lovely child she had before she met Chris. I'll call her if you'd like.'

'I would. Like to meet with her as soon as possible, matter of fact. And I'd like to speak to your daughter, too.'