The Outsider

by Anthony Franze

  “I wish it were under better circumstances,” Cartwright said. Without saying so, he reminded Blaze that this wasn’t a social visit. Milstein always admired how Cartwright connected with people. He could be tough without using force, kind without appearing weak, and scold without an explicit reprimand. Milstein’s more blunt approach had its efficiencies, but also tended to push people away.

  Blaze shifted in his chair, his ruddy face more serious now. “Yeah, she was a sweet girl. She didn’t deserve that. I heard the guy beat her so bad you could barely recognize her.”

  “You didn’t see anything suspicious that night?” Cartwright asked.

  “I own a liquor store in Hamilton Heights,” Blaze said, “there’s something suspicious every night. But no, I didn’t see anything. We close at nine o’clock.”

  “You told our agent that you might have some information.”

  “She was asking me why the girl’s family wouldn’t talk to you all. And I told her it could be because of what happened with the Feebies and her dad back in the day.”

  “What do you mean?” Milstein asked. Maybe this wouldn’t be a complete waste of time after all.

  Blaze adjusted his bulky frame. “I was just a kid,” he said. “My dad ran the liquor store back then. The convenience store was off-limits to us kids. Dad told me that something happened over there. And that the FBI nearly beat the store’s owner to death.”

  Milstein and Cartwright exchanged a glance.

  “You’re saying an FBI agent beat Sakura Matsuka’s father? When?” Cartwright said.

  Before Blaze could answer, Milstein turned to Cartwright and said, “Wouldn’t this have come up in our files?”

  Cartwright shrugged.

  “I may know why nothin’ came up.” Blaze smiled, displaying yellowed teeth. “Dad said that they changed their name. The Matsukas used to be the Yoshidas or something like that. Dad said the old man sued the FBI, there was some scandal, and that’s why they changed their name.”

  “Do you know what it was about?” Cartwright asked.

  Blaze leaned back in his chair and cracked his neck. “Can’t say that I do. My dad told me to stay away from the shop, so I did. I own the store now, and I deal with Mr. Matsuka on neighborhood merchant stuff. Never had a problem with him.”

  “Do you know anyone who would want to hurt Sakura? Anyone who had a beef with the family?”

  Blaze folded his arms across his flabby chest. “Like I told the other agent, I can’t afford any trouble with these people.”

  “What people?”

  “You run a store in the Heights, you don’t just pay the tax man, if you know what I mean.”

  “Actually, I don’t,” Milstein said.

  Blaze let out a loud breath. “If you want to make sure no one sticks a gun in your face every night or breaks in and steals your inventory, people need to know you’re protected. And protection ain’t free.”

  “And you think Sakura’s family was paying protection to someone?”

  Blaze directed his glassy eyes at Milstein. “The old man was getting fed up with payin’. He got all Norma Rae, and tried to get me and other stores on the block to refuse to pay when the boss got out of the joint and raised the monthly protection tax.”

  “And I take it you didn’t sign on to the rebellion?” Cartwright asked.

  “My dad didn’t teach me much, but he once showed me the burned-out storefront of the last guy who didn’t pay for protection. Cost of doing business.”

  “So, who’s this ‘boss’?” Milstein asked.

  Blaze shook his head, like he was disappointed in both of them. “Name’s Alvarez. Arturo Alvarez. And I do not want to get on the wrong side of that guy.”

  CHAPTER 22

  After delivering the envelope, Gray stared at Mike’s feather pen intermittently as he worked all morning and through lunch on his draft opinion. He tried to stay focused, but his thoughts wandered back to the night of Anton Troy’s execution, the same night the woman at the convenience store was killed. The same night Mike was a no-show at the court. He should call that agent. She’d given him a card, but he didn’t have it with him. He checked the FBI website, but it didn’t give direct extensions for particular agents. Maybe he’d just call the main line and the operator would patch him through. No, he was being paranoid. This was stupid. His hand-wringing was interrupted by the chime of his iPhone. The Caller ID was blocked.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Hi, Grayson. This is Special Agent Milstein.”

  “Funny,” Gray said, “I was just thinking of calling—”

  “I’m across the street. At the Capitol Visitor Center. Can you come over?”

  “Meet? Like, right now?”

  “I won’t take much of your time.”

  Gray eyed the feather pen again. “Where are you, exactly?”

  “Just walk across First Street. You’ll see me.” She ended the call.

  Gray pulled the feather pen from the drawer. He should bring it with him. He found a Redweld folder and slipped the pen inside. He headed downstairs and out the court’s front doors.

  Standing at the top of the marble staircase, he gazed across the street. He didn’t see Agent Milstein in the small crowd milling about at the mouth of the incline that led down to the visitor center. Gray walked quickly down the famous forty-four steps. An officer who stood at the bottom nodded at him. Only a few people wandered about the plaza. Mostly tourists taking duck-face selfies against the backdrop of the court. The oral arguments ended at noon, so the protesters and reporters had mostly cleared out.

  Gray crossed the street and proceeded down the hill to the visitor center. A large group huddled near the entrance, but still no Milstein. He thought he heard someone call his name. He turned around, and there she was. On the bench, eating the last bite of a hot dog from a vendor. She gestured for him to sit, then wiped ketchup from the corner of her mouth with her hand.

  “Thanks for coming,” she said, dusting off her hands.

  Gray nodded. He wasn’t sure what she wanted, so he started by handing her the folder.

  Milstein’s eyes flashed when she looked inside.

  “I found it at Mike Dupree’s house. He’s one of my co-clerks,” Gray said. “I’m sure it’s nothing, but—”

  Milstein shushed him with a waving hand as she carefully removed the feather pen. She examined its stock, holding it up to the sky for light. Disappointment rolled across her face.

  “It doesn’t have the identification mark.” She placed the feather pen in her lap and pointed to a crevice near the tip. “The real ones have a tiny ID right here. I’ll have this analyzed, but it looks like it’s from the gift shop.”

  “But still, this seems pretty important, right?”

  “Actually, when we found out Mike Dupree didn’t show up at the court the night Sakura Matsuka was murdered, we looked into it. He was at a bar from ten o’clock until three in the morning. Credit card charges and video footage. But I appreciate you keeping your eyes open.”

  Gray felt a weight lifted from his chest. He was being paranoid. So why did she want to meet?

  “I actually asked you here for something else—unrelated to the court.” Milstein pulled out her smartphone and tapped its face. Reading Gray’s expression, she said, “Don’t worry, no dead bodies.”

  Gray glanced down at the device. It showed a mug shot. A Hispanic man.

  “Know him?”

  “You know I do or you wouldn’t be here.”

  Milstein gave a fair enough shrug. “You know how we can find him?”

  “No idea. I haven’t spoken to Arturo in years. I heard he’s just out of prison. Doesn’t he have to check in with a parole officer or—”

  “We kind of thought of that,” Milstein said.

  “You tried Madison Towers? That’s where he used to run his crew.”

  “Yeah. But they’ve got lookouts and escape routes. The moment someone like me shows up…”

  Gray
gave the slightest nod. That much he remembered from when he was a kid.

  “I spoke to the Metro cops who cover the Heights. Alvarez is cautious, hard to get to, since some rival gang is gunning for him. The Ortiz family.”

  Gray’s chest heaved at the mention of the Ortiz crew. He shrugged, pretending he knew nothing of the feud. “What did he do this time?” Gray asked. “More drugs? Guns?”

  “I’m sure all of the above, but I have no interest in any of that,” Milstein said. “Apparently, the convenience store owner wasn’t paying your friend his monthly protection.”

  “You mean the girl who was killed? No way, that’s not Arturo’s style.”

  “How do you know? You said you haven’t talked to him in years.”

  “Because I know. He’d never hurt a woman. Ever.” Gray’s mind flashed to Arturo’s mother, the black eye peeking out from behind the big sunglasses. Arturo’s disdain for his father.

  “How are you so sure?”

  “Because I am.”

  “Would Alvarez have any reason to go after you?”

  “Me?” Gray said, surprised. “No. Why?”

  “Look at it from our point of view. You’re attacked and the perp drops a feather quill pen. Another feather is left at a store your boy terrorizes.”

  “He’s not ‘my boy.’”

  Milstein gazed at him a long beat.

  “Look, if you wanna waste your time focusing on Arturo, be my guest,” Gray said. “I don’t know how to find him, if that’s why you called me over here.”

  “To be honest, I don’t think he has anything to do with this. He’s got a rock-solid alibi for the Dupont Underground murders: he was locked in a cell. I’m just dotting my i’s and crossing my t’s. I just need to talk to him, to rule him out.”

  Gray didn’t know if he believed that, but she couldn’t be this desperate for a lead, could she?

  “I don’t know how to find him.”

  “Can you think of anywhere he liked to go, people he liked to see? I honestly couldn’t give a shit about his little criminal empire.”

  Gray thought for a moment. “I don’t know where he is, but I know somewhere he might be next week.”

  CHAPTER 23

  The following week, Gray strolled the rooms of the elegant Alexander Gallery, Lauren at his side, looking fetching in a simple black dress.

  “Thanks for inviting me,” Lauren said. She tilted her head to the side, examining one of Sam’s black-and-white shots hanging under the soft lights of the gallery. “She’s really good.” The photo was of a little girl. She was clutching a dirty rag doll and standing in line at a soup kitchen. Gray looked over at Sam, who was surrounded by admirers. He caught her eye, and she gave a fleeting smile. They hadn’t spoken since their tiff at the clerk happy hour, but the best of friends know the look: I’m still pissed at you, but I’m glad you’re here.

  From behind them, a familiar voice. “Well, look who decided to grace us with his presence.”

  Gray turned to find his sister. She also looked lovely in her floral dress. She’d always struggled with her weight—she went up and down—and she’d lost quite a bit since he’d last seen her. When was that? It couldn’t have been at the hospital, could it?

  “Lauren, this is my sister, Miranda.” Gray gestured to them both. “Miranda, this is Lauren, one of my co-clerks.” He resisted calling her his date, since he wasn’t sure that’s what this was.

  “So nice to meet you,” Lauren said, sticking out her hand.

  “Nice to meet you too. Glad you could get this one”—Miranda poked Gray in the chest with a finger—“out of that building he loves so much. It’d be nice if you could return a call.”

  “Would you tell my sister how much work we have to do?” Gray turned to Lauren. “That this is the first time I’ve been out anywhere unrelated to work.”

  Lauren said, “I don’t know what he’s talking about. I have plenty of free time.” She smiled and took a sip from the champagne flute.

  “Just as I suspected,” Miranda said. She then sidled up to Gray. In a more serious tone, she said, “Mom mentioned that you’ve missed every Sunday at the gym with Dad since you started.”

  It wasn’t a question, just an observation. A passive-aggressive observation. They were thankfully interrupted by the sound of someone tapping a glass. The gallery owner—a woman with large-framed glasses and ruler-straight short black bangs—continued tinging until the room went quiet. The owner gave a short talk about Sam’s work, calling her one of the most talented artists on the scene. Sam, never comfortable with compliments, blushed and fidgeted. Gray felt a wave of pride for her. He scanned the room and didn’t see Sam’s mother. He realized that Sam’s expression wasn’t embarrassment about the accolades. He’d seen the look many times. The one when her mom hadn’t shown up to the elementary school play when Sam was the lead. The one where Sam sat alone at the middle school banquet when she’d won an award for her art. The one when she looked out at the crowd at their high school graduation.

  “Are Mom and Dad coming?” Gray asked Miranda, hoping at least his parents would be there, the usual stand-ins for Sam.

  “No, but they sent flowers. They’re watching Emilio.” Miranda lifted another drink from a silver tray. “Mommy needed a night out.”

  “Gray showed me a picture of Emilio,” Lauren said. “He’s adorable.”

  Gray could tell Lauren already was winning over Miranda, not an easy task.

  “Yeah, he’s a pretty adorable little guy—when he’s not crying himself to sleep missing his uncle,” Miranda said, piling on.

  “All right, all right. I get it,” Gray said.

  Sam finally made her way over to them. She hugged Miranda and then offered a handshake to Lauren.

  As Miranda and Lauren continued to gab, Gray turned to Sam. “I’m really proud of you.”

  “Don’t speak too soon. We’ll see if any of them sell,” she replied.

  “I don’t think that will be a problem,” Gray said, looking about the crowded gallery.

  A photographer came over and gestured for the four of them to get closer together for the shot. As the flash went off, Gray imagined the photo: Gray in his expensive new suit, a sophisticated woman on his arm, alongside the other favorite women in his life. At an art show, no less. It was one of those perfect moments from the movies where the photograph freeze-framed and you knew something ominous was coming.

  With perfect timing, Gray saw Agent Milstein across the room. She too wore a dress, which showed more leg than he would have expected from a G-woman. She caught his eye, and motioned with her chin to the back of the place.

  Sam shuffled off to work the room, and Gray turned back to his sister and Lauren. Miranda apparently was talking about him. “He slept with a stuffed animal, a giant Smurf, until he was fourteen,” Miranda said.

  “Really?” Gray said.

  Lauren laughed and reached for his hand. Gray didn’t want to let it go. But then he saw Milstein again, her chin gesture for him to come to the back of the gallery now more stern.

  “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I need to use the restroom.”

  Miranda mocked his voice. “Mr. Manners. You are excused.”

  Gray heard Lauren laugh again as he negotiated his way through the crowd. The place was filled with a mix of professionals and artist types. He found Milstein in a small side room.

  “I thought you said Alvarez would come?”

  “I thought he would.”

  Milstein sighed, then took a sip of red wine.

  “There are worse ways to spend an evening,” Gray said. “And, like I said, you’re wasting your time.”

  Milstein shrugged, as if he’d made a good point. A couple strolled into the room. “If you see Alvarez,” Milstein said in a quiet voice, “text me.”

  “I don’t have your number,” Gray said. “When you called me, the number was blocked. And I lost your card.”

  Milstein handed him another card. She the
n fished out her phone, tapped on it, and Gray’s phone pinged.

  “You’ve now got a card and my personal cell.”

  When Gray returned to Lauren, Miranda had stepped out to call home to check on Emilio. The gallery was even more crowded now. “Want to get some air?” Gray asked.

  Lauren grabbed his arm. “I’d love to.”

  The night was balmy, fall stubbornly refusing to show itself. The sidewalk in front of the gallery bustled with young Washingtonians, the vocal minority who cared more about the arts than partisan politics. Lauren led Gray past two smokers getting their fix, to the covered doorway of one of U Street’s trendy shops. She stopped and turned toward him. She gently touched his face, tracing her finger along his scar. Gray leaned in for a kiss, but the spell was broken by the rumble of a motorcycle that jerked to a stop in front of the gallery.

  Gray gave an annoyed look to the biker, who was unbuckling the straps on his helmet. Then he noticed the tattoo on the guy’s neck. A scorpion. Not that original, but the ink was distinctive, designed by Sam when they were kids. He’d been right. Arturo, one of “the three amigos,” wouldn’t miss Sam’s big night. Gray turned away, pretending he didn’t see him. He quickly tapped a text to Milstein. The bike unexpectedly roared loudly. Gray turned and saw Arturo racing down the street. A car, a souped-up Chevy, jumped from the curb, did a screeching U-turn, and tore after him. Another car, this one a Mustang, went in the other direction, like it was going to cut Arturo off at the pass.

  “What was that about?” Lauren said.

  Gray shrugged. He then saw Milstein coming out the gallery door. She mouthed to Gray: What the fuck?

  Gray turned his attention back to Lauren. “Hey, you want to go for a walk?”

  She smiled and took his arm again.

  They strolled along U Street past the closed shops and then a parking lot surrounded by a tall chain-link fence. The area was gentrified, safe by D.C. standards, but still had pockets of danger. Gray grew less comfortable as the landscape turned more depressed, the street lights more distant. But Lauren continued to walk confidently.