I shoved open another door, and knew by the putrescent odor that we’d found dead bodies. I waved the flashlight and saw Brianne and Errol. They no longer looked human. The building was warm and decomposition began fast. I calculated they’d been dead for at least a day, probably more.
I shone the Maglite flashlight at Errol first, then at his wife. I sighed and felt a little sick inside. I thought of Maria and how she had liked something about Errol. When he was little, my son Damon had called him Uncle Errol.
The corneas of Brianne’s eyes were cloudy, as if she had cataracts. Her mouth was wide open, the jaw slack. Errol looked pretty much the same. I thought of the family that had been executed in Silver Spring. What kind of killers were we dealing with? Why had they killed the Parkers?
Brianne’s top had been removed, and I didn’t see it anywhere in the room. Her jeans were pulled down, exposing red panties and her thighs.
I wondered what it meant. Had the killer taken Brianne’s top? Had someone else been in here since the murders? Had they played around with Brianne after she was dead? Was it the killer?
Sampson looked troubled and puzzled. “Doesn’t look like an overdose,” he said. “Too violent. These two suffered.”
“John,” I finally spoke in a
quiet voice, “I think they might have been poisoned. Maybe they were supposed to suffer.”
I made a call to Kyle Craig and told him about the Parkers. Had we solved part of the Silver Spring robbery? Was at least one killer still out there?
Chapter 14
A RUSH-RUSH AUTOPSY confirmed my suspicion that Errol and Brianne Parker had been poisoned. The ingestion of a massive dose of Anectine had caused rapid muscle contractions and led to cardiac arrest. The poison had been mixed into a bottle of Chianti. Brianne Parker had been sexually violated after she was dead. What a mess.
Sampson and I spent another couple of hours talking to the hangarounds, the homeless, the junkies living in the abandoned project buildings on First Avenue. No one admitted knowing Errol or Brianne; no one had seen any unusual visitors at the building where the couple had been hiding.
I finally drifted home for a few hours’ sleep, but I was restless in my bedroom. I got up and hobbled downstairs around five. I was thinking about Christine and little Alex again.
Nana’s latest refrigerator note was posted. It read: “Never once / did she wanna be white / to pass / dreamed only of being darker.” I opened the fridge and took out a Stewart’s root beer, then I wandered out of the kitchen. The poem from the refrigerator door drifted through my head.
I flicked the television on, then off. I played the piano in the sunroom — “Crazy for You” and then some Debussy. I played “Moonglow,” which reminded me of the best times with Christine. I imagined ways that we might fix the relationship. I’d tried to be there for her every day since her return to Washington. She kept pushing me away. Tears finally welled in my eyes and I wiped them away. She’s gone. You have to start over again. But I wasn’t so sure that I could.
The floorboards squeaked. “I heard you playing ‘Clair de Lune.’ Very nicely, I might add.” Nana was standing in the doorway with a tray in her hands. There were two steaming coffee mugs on it.
She pushed one of them toward me and I took it. She then sat in the old wicker rocker near the piano, quietly sipping her brew.
“This instant?” I kidded her.
“You find any instant coffee in my kitchen, I’ll give you this house.”
“I own the house,” I reminded her.
“So you say, sonny boy. Sunrise concerto, Alex? What’s the occasion?”
“Presunrise concerto. I couldn’t sleep. Bad night, bad dreams. Bad morning so far.” I sipped the delicious coffee, which was laced with chicory. “Good coffee, though.”
Nana continued to sip hers. “Mmm-hmmm. Tell me something I don’t know. What else?”
“You remember Maria’s stepbrother Errol? Sampson and I found his body in the First Avenue projects last night,” I told her.
Nana made a low clucking sound, and she gently shook her head. “That’s so sad, such a shame, Alex. They’re a good family, nice people.”
“I have to go and tell the family this morning. Maybe that’s why I’m up so early.”
“What else?” Nana asked again. She knew me so well, and in a way that was comforting now. “Talk to me, Alex. Tell your Nana.”
“It’s Christine,” I finally said. “I think it’s over between us. She doesn’t want to see me. She told me, made it official. I don’t know where that leaves little Alex. Nana, I have tried everything in my power. I swear I have.”
She put down her coffee mug and slid one skinny arm around me. She still has a lot of strength in her body. She held me tight. “Well then, you’ve done what you can, haven’t you? What else can you do?”
“She hasn’t gotten over what happened in Bermuda,” I whispered. “She doesn’t want to be with a homicide detective. She can’t do it. She doesn’t want to be with me.”