Least Wanted (Sam McRae Mystery 2)

When there was a break, I said, “Duvall, I hate to bring up business at a time like this.”

“What do you need?” He sounded relieved.

“Can you recommend an investigator I could use while you’re away? I tried to find Cooper at the Philadelphia address you gave me and struck out.”

I recapped my conversations with Marzetti and Elva McCutcheon. My description of Elva made him laugh.

“Try Alex Kramer,” he said. “She’s in Baltimore. Her number’s listed online. I’ve worked with her. If anyone can find Cooper, she can.”

“Thanks. I’ve got too much going on here to find Cooper myself.” I cradled the receiver on my shoulder and entered Kramer’s name and city into Switchboard.com. “By the way, have you ever heard of a guy named Little D?”

“Little D? Sure. Got a lot of street cred, as they say. Don’t tell me he has something to do with this embezzlement case.”

“No, this is for another matter.” I filled him in on Tina’s situation.

“Little D’s okay. I’ve worked with him whenever I’ve needed information from places in P.G. County where I ain’t quite dark enough to pass for a local. See what I’m saying?”

“So he’s a private investigator?”

“Well, technically, no . . . not licensed. He does favors for people, and he usually gets a little something for his efforts. He could help you find witnesses or do background checks for your murder case—unofficially, of course.”

Oh, good, I thought. Another expense with no receipt. I pondered where to place it on my Schedule C. “Does this Little D have a name?”

“Darius Wilson, Jr. He’s Little D and his dad’s Big D.”

“How far can I trust this guy?”

“Well . . . he won’t double-cross you or do anything you specifically ask him not to do. He may use a few methods you don’t like, but only when he needs to. You have to understand the kind of crowd we’re talking about. They don’t always respond to ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ Tell him you know me. He’ll treat you right.”

“Okay. Long as he doesn’t kill or torture people, I can live with that.”

“Let’s put it this way—I’ve never seen him kill anyone. And I don’t think what he does qualifies as torture so much as persuasion.”

“That makes me feel a whole lot better. Are we talking about breaking thumbs or kneecaps here?”

“He won’t do it, if you specifically ask him not to.” A low current of anxiety surged under my skin. What would this guy do if you gave him no direction?

“I’ll have to watch what I say. Assuming I use him.”

“I’d advise you to. Are you going to canvas the neighborhoods around Suitland all by your lonesome? I mean, some of these folks may have no problem talking to you. But if this involves a girl gang, there may be some you can’t take on alone. When it comes to gangs, a lot of people require the gentle art of persuasion to start talking.” Duvall paused. “And it never hurts to have someone looking out for your back. You’ve blundered into enough dangerous situations in neighborhoods where you wouldn’t expect trouble, so why take any chances in this case?”

“Thanks for pointing that out,” I said. My tone was acidic. I took a deep breath and forced myself to calm down. “I’ll keep it in mind. Nobody in law school told me that my cases might require protection from a knee-breaker named Little D.”

Duvall chuckled. “By the way, don’t let the nickname fool you. Little D is anything but little.”

* * * * *

I chose to ignore Duvall’s warning for now and visit Shanae’s neighbor. Before going, I called Hirschbeck again and left another message. Maybe it wasn’t fair to push so hard after the death of one of the company’s own, but my first concern had to be Brad Higgins.

I drove to Hillcrest Heights where Shanae and Tina had lived. The neighborhood of small brick ranchers, paired by common walls, was off Fairlawn Street, not far from Branch Avenue and Iverson Mall—the kind of mall where you wouldn’t find a Lord & Taylor or Nordstrom. A small lawn of half-dead grass and a stump fronted their house. I pictured tiny Shanae firing up a chainsaw and felling the lone tree. So much for those damned leaves.

I went to the house next door to Shanae’s, a clone except that its owner had cared for it. Yellow chrysanthemums grew between a pair of azalea bushes, and a tall maple arched over the lot, its branches like protective arms. The house’s brown shutters appeared freshly painted. A pot of purple and yellow pansies hung outside the front window. A faded green mat with “Welcome!” in white script lay on the front stoop.

I rang the bell and noticed a thin elderly black man raking leaves across the street. He stopped and looked at me then resumed raking. But I caught him shooting me sidewise glances.

A short woman with cocoa-colored skin opened the door as far as it would go with the chain in place and peered at me. She wore a yellow floral housedress and brown cardigan.

“Mrs. Mallory, isn’t it?” I said. I handed her one of my cards. She looked it over with a slightly bemused expression. “I’m representing Tina Jackson. She’s been accused in the, uh, unfortunate death of her mother.”