“I want to talk to you about something, Alex,” she finally said. She stared into my eyes. I could tell from the look on her face that this probably wasn’t good news I was about to hear.
“I was hoping that it wouldn’t bother me — your getting on a new murder case. But it does bother me, Alex. It makes me crazy. I worry about you. I worry about the baby. And I worry about my own safety. I can’t help it after what happened in Bermuda. I haven’t been sleeping since I returned to Washington.”
It tore me apart to hear Christine talk like this. I felt terrible about what had happened to her. She had changed so much, though. There didn’t seem to be anything I could do to make it better, to help her. I’d been trying for months, but nothing worked. I worried that I wouldn’t just lose Christine, but little Alex as well.
“I remember some of the dreams I’ve had lately. They’re so violent, Alex. And they’re so real. The other night you were chasing the Weasel again, and he killed you. He stood there calmly and shot you again and again. Then he came and killed the baby and me. I woke up
screaming.”
I finally took her hand. “Geoffrey Shafer is dead, Christine,” I said.
“You don’t know that. Not for sure,” Christine argued, and pulled her hand away from me. She was angry again.
We walked along the edge of the Anacostia River in silence. After a while she told me about some of her other dreams. I sensed she didn’t want me to interpret them. Just to listen. The dreams were all violent — people Christine knew and loved were mutilated and murdered.
Christine finally stopped walking at the corner of Fifth near my house. “Alex, I have to tell you something else. I’ve been going to a psychiatrist, Dr. Belair, in Mitchellville. He’s helping me.”
Christine continued to stare into my eyes. “I don’t want to see you anymore, Alex. I’ve thought about this for weeks. I’ve talked about it with Dr. Belair. You can’t change my mind, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t try.”
She took her briefcase from me, then she walked away. She didn’t let me say a word, but I would have found it hard to speak, anyway. I had seen the truth in her eyes. She didn’t love me anymore. What made it so much worse was that I still loved her, and of course, I loved our baby boy.
Chapter 11
I REALLY DIDN’T HAVE A CHOICE, so I threw myself into the bank robbery and multiple murders investigation. The newspapers and TV were still filled with sensational stories about the murdered father, child, and nanny. The picture of three-year-old Tommy Buccieri seemed to be everywhere. Did the killer want us to feel outrage? I wondered.
Sampson and I spent most of one day trying to find Errol and Brianne Parker. The more I followed up on the Parkers with the FBI, the clearer it got that they had probably been robbing small banks in Maryland and Virginia for at least a year. The job at Silver Spring was different. If they had done it, something had happened to change their style; they had become brutal, heartless killers. Why?
Sampson and I stopped for lunch at a Boston Market around one in the afternoon. It wasn’t our first, or even second choice, but it was handy and the Big Man was hungry, wouldn’t be denied. I could have continued on without eating.
“You think the Parkers are off doing another job?” he asked me as we dug into orders of meat loaf, corn, and mashed potatoes.
“If they’re the ones who did the bank in Maryland, they’re probably hiding out. They know the heat is on. Errol sneaks off to South Carolina sometimes. He’s a fisherman. Kyle already has FBI agents on the ground there.”
“You ever spend time with Errol?” Sampson wanted to know.
“Family get-togethers mostly, but he only came to a few that I can remember. I went fishing with him once. He was like a little kid as long as we were catching largemouth bass and two- or three-pound catfish. Maria always liked Errol.”
Sampson kept eating his meat loaf and double order of mashed potatoes. “You think about Maria much?”
I scrunched down into my seat. I wasn’t sure I wanted to talk about this now. “Different things remind me of her. Especially Sundays. We’d sleep until noon sometimes, treat ourselves to a nice brunch. Or visit the duck pond near the river. St. Tony’s. Long walks in Garfield Park. It’s a sad, confusing thing, John — that she died so young. It especially hurts that I could never solve her murder.”
Sampson kept on hounding me with questions. He gets that way sometimes.
“You and Christine are doing all right?”
“No,” I finally admitted. But I couldn’t quite get out the whole truth. “She can’t get over what happened with Geoffrey Shafer. I’m not even sure that the Weasel is dead. We finished here?”
Sampson grinned. “Food, or my cross-examination?”
“Let’s go. Let’s find Errol and Brianne Parker. Solve the bank robbery. Take the rest of the day off.”
Chapter 12
AROUND SEVEN O’CLOCK Sampson and I decided to take a dinner break. We figured we’d be working late, probably past midnight. It was that kind of case. I went home for supper with the kids and Nana Mama.
I ate, and complimented Nana on her cooking, but I didn’t taste much of anything. I was keeping the Christine thing bottled up inside me. Not too bright on my part.
Sampson and I agreed to meet around ten to check out a few night crawlers who would be easier to find after darkness fell. At quarter past ten, we were trolling Southeast again in my car.