The Night Gardener

He had, in fact, found his memory. The cocky blond patrolman who had been at the Asa Johnson crime scene was leaning on car number 461 when Ramone had first arrived. And he remembered the name on the uniform's faceplate: G. Du

'And?' said Holiday.

'I'd be nuts to hand over that information to you. It's not go

'I don't need you. I'll find it my own way.'

'Just do me a favor and don't act on anything unless you talk to me first.'

'Got it,' said Holiday.

'I mean it, Doc.'

'Understood.'

'That includes conducting your own investigation,' said Ramone. 'Impersonating a police officer is a serious crime.'

'Don't worry, Gus, I won't turn you in.'

'You're a fu

'Thanks for calling me back.'

Holiday hit 'end.' Then he dialed the number for T.C. Cook that he had programmed into his phone. Cook picked up on the second ring. Holiday thinking, The old man was waiting for me to call.

T.C. Cook sat at his kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee. From back in the office, he could hear the squawk, dispatcher's voice, and patrolman's response coming from the Internet site on his computer. It was often the sole sound in his otherwise quiet house. The woman the VA sent, the El Salvador lady, she made some noise around here, livened things up. He looked forward to her visits, but she only came once a week.

Mostly, his days were long on boredom. He got up early, made out what he could of the newspaper, then spent time in his office or the workshop in his basement, looking for something to do. He waited for his mail around noon and took longer than necessary to prepare his lunch. He fought off but often succumbed to an afternoon nap. He tried not to watch too much television, though that was something he could do without frustration. But it was a passive activity, all take and no give. Cook was someone who had always lived for goals, and now he had none.

He wasn't mentally weak. He had more reason than most to be unhappy, but he would not allow himself the out of depression. There was little upside for him to getting out of bed in the morning, but he did so and dressed before breakfast, as a man would who was headed off to work.

Getting involved with the church was an option, but he wasn't much of a Jesus type. His wife had been a devout Baptist, a woman of strong faith. Some police clung to God, but the job and what he had seen produced the opposite effect on Cook. Now that he was closer to death, it would have been easy and understandable for him to fall back into churchgoing, but also, he felt, hypocritical. He had not been an attentive or particularly model husband, but he had loved his wife and been faithful to her, and if there was a God, and if indeed He was good, Cook believed that He would see fit to put him and Willa together again, whether Cook attended Sunday services or not.

Cook stared into his empty coffee mug.

His doctor had said to have only one cup a day, if he had any at all. That caffeine made his heart race, and Cook didn't need that. Thing of it was, the doctor had also told him that the likelihood of his having another stroke was high, and when it came, it could be worse than the last. Wasn't like not having a second cup of coffee was going to prevent that.

His circulatory system was fragile, the doctor said. No, I ca

Cook looked over at the kitchen counter. He had one of those organizers, two pills in each compartment, separated by days of the week. So he wouldn't forget a day, or forget he had taken the pills already and swallow double the dose. This is what it had come to for him. If he lived past the next stroke, he would probably be one of those dudes, had dead arms and legs. Then the VA would have someone dropping by to bathe him. Put one of those bibs on him while he ate. Send some poor immigrant lady to wipe his old man's ass.

He'd sooner eat his gun. But that was a thought for another day.

Holiday had called. Cook had then phoned an old friend in the 4th District whom he had mentored in the early '80s, now a commanding officer. Cook told the lieutenant that an officer in 4D had done his niece a kindness and she wanted to write a letter commending him, but she could only remember the number she'd seen on his car. Cook had no niece, and the lieutenant's hesitation told him that he sensed the lie, but he gave the information out to Cook just the same. When Cook asked about the officer's schedule, the lieutenant told him, after a long pause, that he was on an eight-to-four that day.

Holiday would come, and they could get to work. The young man carried heavy baggage, but he had energy and fire. Maybe the two of them would turn over the right rock.

Cook went out to his car, a light gold Mercury Marquis with a blue-star FOP sticker on the rear window, and opened the trunk. He suspected that he and Holiday would be working a tail late in the day and that they would take two cars. He knew what was in the trunk, knew he had not moved its contents, but he was a little bit excited and wanted to have a look at his things.

He kept the car maintenance items here, including oil, antifreeze, jumper cables, brake and power steering fluid, shop rags, a tire patch kit, and a pneumatic jack. There was one Craftsman box holding standard tools and another holding a 100-foot retractable tape measure, duct tape, 10 x 50 binoculars, night vision goggles he'd never used, a box of latex gloves, a friction-lock expandable baton, a set of Smith and Wesson blued handcuffs, a variety of batteries, a digital camera that Cook did not know how to operate, and a Streamlight Stinger rechargeable steel-cased flashlight, which could double as a weapon. Also in the trunk was a steel jimmy bar.

All was in place. Holiday would not be by for a while. Cook decided to go back in the house and pull his Hoppe's kit and.38. He had time to clean his gun.

Michael 'Mikey' Tate and Ernest 'Nesto' Henderson sat in a pretty black Maxima, the new style with the four pipes coming out the back, in the lot of a strip mall on Riggs Road in Northeast D.C., not far from the Maryland line. There was a dollar store, pawnbroker, liquor store, Chinese-and-sub shop, check-cashing joint, papusa place, and two hairstyling shops. One specialized in nails and the other, called Hair Raisers, was known for braids and hair extensions. Chantel Richards was employed at Hair Raisers. Henderson could see her through the front window, standing behind a woman in a chair, both of them ru

'Damn, she fine, though,' said Henderson. 'That is a lot of woman,' said Tate, looking up. He was wearing big jeans, a long-sleeved Lacoste shirt, and matching shoes with the little alligators stitched on the sides.

'She tall, too,' said Henderson, who wore a blue Nationals cap, the away game version, not because he followed baseball but because the color matched his shirt. The cap was tilted slightly on his head.

'Her hair makes her look taller than she is,' said Tate. 'Plus, she might be wearing high heels. These fashion girls like to get that height thing goin. Makes 'em look more slim.'