“Hey, Dan,” Luca said. “Remember you said you’d give us a ride if we met you here?”
“Sure, cutters. How else you gonna get back to work?”
Luca turned to them. “See, we’re cloth cutters at Rose Clothing, and Dan’s our boss.”
“First, give me a hand here,” Dan said to the men and lifted the truck’s backdoor. “These hillbilly gals brought everything they own from Southwest Virginia.”
Once their things were on the porch, Dan gave Rachel a letter. “This is from Mrs. Rosen. They expect you next Friday night for Shabbat. I’ll pick you up here at 7:30.”
Frowning, Rachel took the letter. “But what if I don’t want…”
“The Rosens remember you from when you were little.” He dropped his cigarette on the sidewalk and pressed his toe into it. “They’re swell, you’ll see.”
He turned to Luca and Tony. “Let’s go, cutters. The midnight shift calls.” He went down the walk and through the gate toward his truck, Tony in his wake.
“Wait a minute, boss,” Luca yelled and drew Pearl aside. “May I have your telephone number, Pearl? Sure would like to show you Washington.” He offered her a pen and a matchbook.
Matches reminded Eddie of her mother, who sometimes set fires. She needed to send a list of things her sisters must do before Mama returned home. At the top of the list: hide the matches.
“All righty.” Pearl smiled at Luca and handed the matchbook to Bert. “Could you write your telephone number?” Grinning, Bert wrote and passed it back to Luca.
This exchange was wartime and romantic. Everyone wanted to live their own version of Casablanca.
Dan eased the truck away from the curb and honked. Luca ran and got aboard.
“Okay, Eddie.” Bert gestured to the house. They followed him onto the porch. “Mama’s in the parlor waiting for ya’ll.” He opened the front door and stood back.
Eddie hesitated. This was what she dreaded.
6
Arlington Cemetery’s narrow road wound uphill. Oaks lined the way, throwing nets of shadow over them. As they passed rows of white tombstones like troops on parade, Jess felt a familiar burning in his chest. He would never become immune to murder, the ultimate violation.
Lowering his head, he prayed, yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil… Alonso’s hands tightened on the wheel, knuckles rising beneath the skin. Jess sensed him sharing the dark sensation that gripped them whenever they met the murder victim.
Alonso parked behind the DC police car. “Of course, Ray K. got here first.”
“It’s not a race,” Jess said, “but I bet he had his siren on through the city.”
Their nemesis, Detective Kaminski, Ray K. as he liked to be called, of the Metropolitan Police of the District of Columbia or MPD, unintentionally brought humor to places where there was none.
Short and wide as a garden shed, Ray K. strutted toward them in a double-breasted jacket, its buttons straining to contain him. His driver, a young beat cop, leaned against the black-and-white. Chin in the air, the driver blew smoke into the starless sky.
“Need help getting out, Jess?” Ray K. straightened and looked over the hood at Alonso. “Get lost driving here, Al? Finding your way in the big city can be confusing for ‘Bama boys.”
This was Ray’s favorite theme: that Jess and Alonso were ignoramuses, hopelessly out of their depths in DC. Jess had begun to fear Ray was right.
Pulling his kit from under the seat, Jess slung its strap over his shoulder and pushed open the car door forcing Ray to step back onto the grass.
Jess rushed at him, grabbed his tie, and yanked him forward. “Your siren brought the press to the gates.”
Immediately Jess was ashamed of himself. He was six inches taller and at least ten years younger than the DC detective.
His aggression got the attention of the beat cop, who started around the black-and-white as if to protect his boss. Alonso blocked his way.
Ray K. motioned for the uniform to back off. The man had his pride. He was a rescuer not one in need of rescue.
“Careful with my favorite tie, ‘Bama.” He shoved Jess back. “For your information, our siren was not on. Sometimes reporters wait outside the station and tail us.” He smoothed his tie back into his jacket. “In this town, we call it a free press. Maybe they don’t have such a thing in Alabama.”
Because the first two government girls’ bodies had been found in Washington City, Ray K. and his partner had been assigned the cases. After the third murder, the Bureau was called in. Of course, they were all supposed to be working this together, but police detectives were like dogs. They marked their territory and didn’t welcome encroachers. Ray K. resented Jess on sight, although he pretended to be cooperative.
What Ray didn’t know was that on almost all their previous cases, there had been at least one local dick like him to deal with.
“I need to be sure Thad Graham found out about the murdered young woman by following you here,” Jess said. “Also it looked like his photographer came in another vehicle. Why did they drive here separately?”
“You talk to the press and J. Edgar’s going to hit you with his hammer,” Ray K. said. “I know Thad. I’ll talk to him for you.” Ray’s wandering left eye truly wandered tonight, leaving most of his eyeball white. “This way, boys,” he said as if they were scouts in his troop.
The three walked toward the police lamps, bright in the cemetery’s vast darkness. Alonso carried his camera snug under his arm.
“This is the oldest part of the cemetery, where the Union’s Civil War dead are buried.” Ray K. brought both eyes into alignment to direct his gaze. “But I doubt they let Johnny Rebs like you in here, Jess.”
“Lucky I’m not looking for a burial place right now.” Part of his outburst with Ray stemmed from his frustration with the investigation.
Jess introduced himself and Alonso to the two Park Policemen standing uphill from the girl’s body, their cigarettes glowing in the dark. Men smoked in the presence of death. It was the one thing they could do when they were afraid that didn’t make them look afraid.
A young Park Policeman in dusty riding boots stood back from the group, holding the reins of his horse, a quiet neighing presence.
With all of them walking around in the dark, no telling what evidence had been trampled. “Pick up your cigarette butts, fellas,” Jess called and stepped into the brightness the circle of lamps made.
The girl lay on her side, one arm stretched over the grassy grave as if to caress it. Her body appeared posed. Jess studied her from various angles. Like the others, she was dark-haired pretty, a little plump, further proof these weren’t random murders. The killer selected his victims, all of whom looked so much alike they could have been related.
Jess crouched beside her. She wore a knee-length skirt and a jacket too warm for the weather. The edge of her right sleeve was stained purple probably from a typewriter ribbon. And this time there were no lines drawn up the backs of her legs.
“Another government girl out for a good time.” Ray K. stood uphill from Jess. “You think she’d have better sense than go off with a fella she didn’t know from Adam’s house- cat.”
“Too late for a lecture, Ray K.” Jess’s gaze stayed with the girl.
Not that Jess didn’t see Ray’s point. The war encouraged folks to act as if each day was their last. The nearness of death breathed on all of them, making life brighter, more vivid. This girl had taken a risk in moving to Washington and an even greater risk when she went