by Shawn Wilson
From fast-food franchises to family-owned ethnic establishments to upscale, Michelin-rated restaurants, the neighborhood provided something for everyone. Over the years, Brick had tried most, if not all, of them. He started walking south toward the intersection of Calvert Street and Connecticut Avenue. Around the corner and up a flight of stairs was one of his favorites, Pho-75. “Pho” referred to the traditional Vietnamese soup that was the mainstay of the menu and “75” represented the year the family who owned the place fled Saigon. Just as he expected, most of the tables were full and a line extended from the cash register back to the door.
At first Brick didn’t recognize Lily Nguyen as she approached the counter where orders were placed. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she was wearing faded jeans and a sweatshirt imprinted with a sketch of the Golden Gate Bridge. It was a sharp contrast to her usual, no-nonsense court attire but didn’t diminish her ability to turn heads. Brick saw two young Asian guys elbow each other as she walked past them to a small table in the back.
With a menu limited to pho, the line moved quickly. Brick grabbed a tray and a couple of paper napkins in anticipation of his turn.
“Next!” Dong Minh had taken over the restaurant since his father had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s. He looked up and tipped his Nationals cap in Brick’s direction. “The usual?”
Brick nodded. For him, the “usual” meant beef brisket as his choice of meat.
“Sure you don’t want tripe?” Dong asked.
It was a running joke between the two. Brick shook his head. “Next time.”
“That’s what you said last time.” Dong placed the steaming bowl on Brick’s tray. “Been to a game?”
“Not yet.” Brick spared him the details of his two aborted attempts.
Dong patted his shirt pocket. “Two tickets for this afternoon. I’m taking my boy—his first game.”
“Strasburg’s pitching so it should be a good one.” Brick managed a smile despite a wave of sadness that unexpectedly washed over him as he thought about taking Jose to his first game. The kid had been so eager to embrace all things American. And unwittingly he had, although Brick was sure becoming a homicide victim wasn’t something Jose considered a possibility. Brick carried his tray to Dong’s mother at the cash register.
“Bąn khỏe khộng?” Brick asked.
The woman smiled, revealing a few missing teeth. “I good. How are you?” She counted out Brick’s change and handed it to him.
“Cἀm on bąn.” Brick dropped the change in the tip jar.
“Thank you, too.” The woman smiled again and bowed her head in Brick’s direction.
There were a couple of empty tables near the window, but Brick walked past them to where Lily Nguyen was seated.
“Mind if I join you?”
Lily looked up from the crossword puzzle she was working on. “Detective Kavanagh, right?” Brick nodded. “It may be seen as consorting with the enemy.”
“I like to live on the edge.”
She responded with a smile that was more polite than welcoming before motioning to the chair across from her.
Brick set his tray on the table and sat down.
“Help yourself.” Lily pointed to the bowl of bean sprouts and herbs that were traditionally added to the chopped scallions and cilantro already sprinkled on the broth. She watched as Brick added the ingredients before squeezing a wedge of lime over the top. A couple of drops of Sriracha added the final touch. “Looks like you’ve been here before.”
Brick tasted the soup. “Guess you could say I’m a pho-natic.”
Lily groaned but she also laughed. “Next time, have the tripe.”
“I don’t think so.” Brick added a few more bean sprouts to the broth.
“You’re the one who said you like to live on the edge.”
“I lied.”
“Guess that’s okay since you’re not under oath.” Lily took a sip of water. “I have to say this is a bit awkward. Usually when I talk to cops, it’s on cross-examination.”
“And that’s preferable?”
“Let’s just say, I’m better at that than small talk since I don’t see things the way most cops do.”
“Well, I can make it easier for you—I’m not a cop anymore.”
Lily’s spoon was poised in midair. “What … what do you mean?”
“I retired.”
“Congratulations.” She put her spoon down. “And what great timing—a quick arrest and a defendant who pled, against my advice, I might add. Doesn’t get any better than that, does it?”
“That depends. If the defendant is guilty—yeah, that’s as good as it gets. But if the defendant isn’t guilty even though—”
“Stop right there. Are you speaking hypothetically or specifically about one of my cases?”
Brick hadn’t planned to have this conversation, at least not now, but he couldn’t recant what he had said. “I’m talking about Guadalupe Cruz.”
“Are you implying he may not be guilty?”
Brick nodded. “I think that’s a possibility.”
Lily pushed back from the table. “You may be retired, but that doesn’t matter one bit. I’m an officer of the court, and if you have any proof, I need to know about it. I’m obligated to bring it to the attention of the presiding judge.” She stared across the table. “Why are you telling me this?”
Brick stared back. “I want justice for Jose and his sister.”
Lily shook her head. “That sounds a bit rehearsed. My gut tells me there’s more to it than that.”
“There isn’t, but if the truth ultimately wins out, what difference does it make?”
Lily crumpled her crossword puzzle and threw it next to the napkin on her tray. She stood up, reached into her purse, and extracted a silver card case. She dropped one of her business cards on Brick’s tray. “I don’t have time to play games. If you’re serious, be at my office at 8:00 a.m. on Monday. If you don’t show—we never had this conversation.”
Brick watched as Lily Nguyen turned and walked away. He picked up her card and slipped it into his pocket.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
BRICK CHECKED HIS watch. Just over an hour had passed since he’d left home. The rest of the day was his for the taking, but he wasn’t sure what to do with it. In the past, with only a finite amount of personal time, the days always seemed to be in fast forward. Now it sometimes felt as if time was standing still. He headed back toward his condo but made a spur-of-the-moment decision, turned, and headed in the opposite direction.
Although Brick lived close enough to the National Zoo to regularly hear the lions roar, he couldn’t remember the last time he had been there other than on police business. Given it was a beautiful Saturday spring afternoon, he knew it would be crowded, but that didn’t deter him. He dodged strollers, obliged a Chinese couple by taking their picture in front of the panda house, and watched the frenzied activity of the prairie dogs. Just as he made his way to the Great Cats enclosure, his phone rang.
“I can hardly hear you. Where are you, man?” Ron asked.
“The zoo.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, meet me on Tiger Hill.” Despite the poor connection, Brick heard Ron sigh.
“If you say so.”
For the next fifteen or twenty minutes, Brick watched as a trio of Sumatran tiger cubs played under the watchful eye of their mother. Although they were bigger than most domestic cats, their flexibility when they stretched reminded Brick of the contortions he had seen Elvis perform. The thought of Jose’s cat conjured up images of the bloody paw prints leading to Jose’s battered body. Brick gripped the hand rail on the security fence and closed his eyes, hoping to clear his head. It worked and he started to relax but only for a moment. He jerked and looked to his right as he felt a tap on his shoulder.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” Ron said.
Brick brushed it off. “I didn’t expect you so soon. Lights and sirens?”
>
“No, I was at Connecticut and K when I called. Figured it was better to make these copies at Kinko’s. Most likely all this file’s going to do is gather dust but I figured no one needs to know I was making a duplicate.”
Ron handed Brick a thick, sealed envelope.
“Feel a little like Deep Throat?”
Ron looked surprised. “You saw that movie … oh, I get it; the FBI guy from Watergate. No, wouldn’t we have to be meeting in an underground parking garage in Rosslyn?”
“Too late. According to the Post, it’s being torn down to make way for a high-rise.” Ron shook his head. “I’ll never get it. Nixon was going to win reelection anyway. Why’d he do it?”
“As long as you work Homicide, you’ll ask that question a lot. Sometimes it’s obvious and sometimes it’s so convoluted, you’ll just shake your head.”
“Guess as long as I figure out who and lock up their sorry ass, I won’t worry about why.”
“That works.” Brick tapped the envelope. “Thanks for getting this for me.”
“Sure.” Ron looked over at his former partner. “You okay, man? You seem a little, I don’t know, uptight.”
Brick told Ron about his unexpected encounter with Lily Nguyen.
“Whoa, no wonder they call her the Dragon Lady.” Ron glanced down at his watch. “Much as I’d like to knock off the rest of the day watching the pandas eating bamboo, I need to get back. For now, I’m still working solo, and it looks like I’m finally making some progress on the Southeast Freeway road-rage case.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, seems a Crime Stoppers reward jogged someone’s memory. Imagine that?”
“It’d be nice to put that one in the closed column.” It had been one of the first cases the two detectives had worked together, and for a moment, Brick regretted he wouldn’t be a part of how the investigation progressed. He shook it off. “Where did you park?”
“I found a spot near the entrance.”
“Must be living right.”
“I try, man. And a certain Official MPDC Business placard on the dash helps.”
Together they made their way back to the zoo’s entrance on Connecticut Avenue.
“Take it easy, man,” Ron said as the two shook hands. “Let me know what you find.”
“Will do. And just for future reference, when the twins are old enough, Uncle Brick will be happy to take them to the zoo.”
The offer brought a smile to Ron’s face. “You got it, man.”
The two former partners headed in opposite directions; Ron to his car and Brick toward his condo. The meeting had yielded what Brick needed, but Ron’s departure sparked an emotional response Brick hadn’t anticipated. In the year they had worked together, they had bonded in a way Brick hadn’t experienced before even though he had previously worked with guys he liked and respected. Maybe it had been the teacher/student roles that had made the difference. Or maybe in Ron, Brick saw a younger version of himself. He still remembered how it felt that first year. He was thrilled to be working Homicide, eager to learn everything he could, and never gave a thought to the day it would be over.
Hopefully, he and Ron would keep in touch, but Brick knew that, even if they did, it would never be the same.
Before going home, Brick made one more stop. He walked into Boland’s just as Rory high-fived a young woman at the end of the bar.
“Hey, Brick, our boy Strasburg is on his game today. Six up, six down.” Rory picked up a glass and reached for the Guinness tap.
Brick stood at the bar. “Did Eamonn’s flight get off okay?”
“Yeah, right on schedule.” Rory handed his iPhone to Brick. “Got this app tracking it—he’s about two hours out from Guatemala City.” Rory stepped back to the tap and retrieved the Guinness he had left there to settle. He set it in front of Brick. “Gotta say I felt awful watching him walk through security at BWI, but there was nothing I could do.”
“He’ll be fine.” Brick tried to sound confident but, like Rory, he was worried the trip would prove to be too much for Eamonn.
“I have my doubts, but I guess it’s better to do what you believe you need to do than regret not doing it.” Rory moved down the bar to where a guy had been looking over the menu. “Decide on anything?”
“I’ll have a corned beef sandwich.”
“Something to drink?”
“Harp, but hold off on that. I’m going outside for a smoke.”
As the guy walked past the end of the bar, Brick thought he looked familiar but couldn’t place him. It wasn’t until he returned that Brick remembered. He moved to the vacant barstool next to the guy and sat down.
“Unless I’m mistaken, you’re with ICE.”
The guy nodded but didn’t say anything.
“Brick Kavanagh. I bummed a cigarette from you outside the FOP after … well, not one of my prouder moments.”
“Oh yeah, I remember.” He put down his glass and wiped his hand on a napkin before extending it in Brick’s direction. “Eric Monroe.” He reached into his pocket and retrieved a pack of Marlboros. “Help yourself.”
Brick waved him off. “Thanks, but I quit over a year ago except for that one slip. It was just—”
“Hey, like I said then, I’ll say again now. The guy, what’s his name—Alden?”
“Allen, Travis Allen.”
“Oh yeah, he’s an asshole. I don’t envy you having to work with him.”
Brick took a sip of Guinness. “That’s not going to be an issue anymore.” He had no intentions of sharing the details of his abrupt retirement; instead he explained it away as a decision to pursue other interests after twenty years on the job.
“That’s cool. Congratulations. Twenty years, seems like a long time, but I’m almost halfway there, five years with ICE and four in the Army—military police.”
“Iraq or Afghanistan?”
“One of the lucky ones—both.” Eric shook his head. “There was a time I thought I’d be a lifer, but after that second tour in Afghanistan, I wouldn’t have re-upped if they paid me what the Nats are paying Strasburg.”
“That bad?”
“Unless you’ve been there, you have no idea.”
Brick thought it best to change the subject. “How do you like working for ICE?”
“It’s a job.” His sandwich arrived and Eric took a big bite before continuing. “Until a week ago, I was living up near Baltimore and the commute was killing me. Now that I’ve moved into the city, my job attitude might improve.”
“Guess it’s hard to love your job, any job, when you’re spending all that time on the Parkway sitting in traffic.”
“You’re right about that. Whole different lifestyle now. Taking the Metro to work, walking to a neighborhood bar—the SUV’s been parked all week.” He took another bite of his sandwich and washed it down with a swallow of Harp. “Maybe I should get rid of it.”
“Reduce your carbon footprint?”
Eric shrugged. “Screw that. More like reducing my monthly expenses. No car payment or insurance—it’s tempting but I don’t know, I’ve had a car since I was sixteen.”
“Rent one when you need to. That’s what I do since mine got torched by the local pyromaniac.”
“Seriously?”
Brick nodded. “Turned out to be the teenage son of a Superior Court judge.”
“Nothing like making your parents proud.” Eric finished his beer. “Good sandwich. I can see myself becoming a regular.”
“Boland’s has kept me from starving.”
“Or dying of thirst?”
“That, too.”
“This is where Jose Delgado worked, right?”
“Yes.” Brick took a drink before continuing. “And as we speak, the owner is escorting the bodies back home to Guatemala.”
“You mean …” Eric paused and seemed to consider what Brick had just said. “Wow, I’d say that goes above and beyond what you’d expect from an employer. He must have thought a lot of him.”
“He did.” Brick set his empty glass on the bar. “It seems everyone who knew Jose did.”
Brick didn’t stay to watch the end of the game. The Nats tacked on a couple of insurance runs in the eighth inning so victory was all but assured. Normally the game and a Guinness were all Brick needed to relax and temporarily forget about whatever was weighing heavily on his mind. Not today. By running into Eric Monroe, he was reminded of the ugly incident with Travis Allen. And he couldn’t escape the nagging thought that, had he just gone along with Blancato, sucked up the two-week suspension, he’d be in a better position to follow up the new evidence he discovered.
Brick collected his mail before climbing the stairs to his third-floor walk-up. At the time he bought the place, the price was right and a no-elevator building meant less maintenance and lower condo fees than a mid- or high-rise one. Although high-rise in D.C. doesn’t mean the same as it does in other cities like New York or Chicago. Height restrictions keep buildings from exceeding that of the Washington Monument. With each flight his knees questioned his no-elevator strategy, but given the area’s inflated real estate prices and taxes, he knew a move was not in his future. Besides, the place suited him. It was small enough to keep clean but large enough to not feel claustrophobic. That was important especially now that he’d probably be spending more time there. Granted, it could use some sprucing up. Maybe he’d finally get around to painting the walls and replacing the carpet. Might even consider having wood floors installed. And the TV with the broken remote—its days were numbered. Once inside, Brick sorted through his mail. He opened his Visa statement and scanned the charges. Nothing he didn’t recognize so he set it aside, along with his Pepco bill. He’d write the checks later. For now, he was eager to get started reviewing the files Ron had copied.
As much as Brick would miss his days working Homicide, he wouldn’t miss attending autopsies. Just looking at the photo of Maria lying on the slab conjured up the sound of the Stryker saw. He flipped through the copies. The quality wasn’t great, kind of grainy, but he could still see what looked like a bruise on her left hip. On the written report, a contusion was noted, its cause undetermined.
