Джордж Пелеканос: The Double

Lucas had checked D.C. Homicide Watch daily to see if there had been any movement on the Cherise Roberts case. There had been none.

On three occasions, Lucas had surveilled Percy Malone, who always left his apartment at the same time for his walk and liquor store run. Lucas had waited weeks for nightfall to coincide with Percy’s habitual behavior. In August, when Lucas had first followed him, there had still been daylight as Percy had stepped out his front door. Now Percy left at night.

There was no internal debate. Lucas put his bike on his shoulder and carried it downstairs. With his bag slung over his back, he pedaled down to Park View in the gathering dark.

Percy Malone stepped out of his apartment at the usual time. He stood on his stoop and eyed the street like a sick, hungry animal emerging from the woods. Lucas was at the bottom of Princeton Place, leaning on his bike. He watched Percy go east on foot toward Warder. He watched him stop to light his weed, and then he waited as the spidery man moved on. Percy was walking his smoke.

Lucas followed, granny-gearing up the hill. At Princeton and Warder he saw Malone turn right past the rec center, onto Otis. Lucas took his daypack off and from it removed his lead-filled sap, wrapped in black electrician’s tape. He slung the pack over his shoulder and held the sap loosely in his right hand. He got back on his saddle and pedaled to Otis, where he cut right and went down to 6th. There he made another right into the short stretch of alley. It was full dark.

Lucas waited. Percy Malone would now be walking south on the alley that ran behind Princeton. Lucas heard the deep bark of a large dog coming from a yard. He proceeded to ride. He took the short stretch and turned left at Princeton’s alley. He coasted now and let his momentum take him down the hill. Percy was halfway down the alley, walking. He turned his head at the sound of Lucas’s bike, turned his head back, and stepped slightly to the right to let the white-boy biker pass, and as the bike came alongside him, its rider swung the sap violently. It made a wet sound as it connected to the back of Percy’s head. Percy fell forward, unconscious on his way to the alley floor. The dog, a dark figure moving about excitedly in a nearby yard, continued to bark, but no one came outside.

Lucas leaned his bike against a chain-link fence and slid the sap into his shorts. From his pack, he quickly removed his Berretta, the silencer screwed into its threaded barrel. He released the safety, chambered a round, and stood over Percy, who was lying facedown. His tightly curled hair was matted with blood. A lit joint was lying beside him, its ember glowing orange.

Lucas crouched down and rolled Percy over on his back. He was breathing through his open mouth. Lucas slipped the suppressor into Percy’s mouth and put his finger inside the trigger guard of the gun.

Lucas eyed him clinically.

The gas jolt would bug his eyes. A little barrel-smoke would curl out of his mouth. Funny. It would look like Percy was smoking a cigarette.

You are me, fella.

Lucas’s finger slipped on the trigger. His hand felt slick. He was dizzy. He stood up. There was sweat on his forehead and he wiped it off.

Lucas put the gun in his daypack and walked to his bike. He swung onto its saddle and rode uptown.

In his apartment he had a shower, then took a seat in his favorite chair. Next to the chair sat a lamp and a small side table that held books. The Berretta and its silencer lay there, atop a thick biography. Lucas intended to unload and disassemble the weapon, and put it back in the toolbox under the false floor of his closet. But there was something he needed to do first.

He phoned Tim McCarthy, his contact at the MPD. He got a recording, left a message, and waited for Tim to return his call. He didn’t have to wait long.

“What’s going on, Marine?”

“I’ve got something for you, Tim. It’s a homicide case. The Cherise Roberts murder.”

“You mentioned that one before.”

“I know you’re IA. It’s not your department, but I have no one else to call.”

“Whatever you give me, I’ll pass it along.”

“A guy named Percy Malone killed Cherise. In effect, he was her pimp. Percy confessed to a fellow named Josh Brown when both of them were incarcerated in the D.C. Jail. Brown’s still in. Percy’s out on the street.”

“A jailhouse confession.”

“Hear me out.”

“What’s Brown in for?”

“Manslaughter.”

“Lovely.”

“He’ll testify. A guy named Calvin Bates will back him up.”

“That’s all you got?”

“The killer left semen in Cherise’s rectum and on her face. You pick up Percy and DNA him, you’re gonna get a match.”

“Spell all those names for me.”

Lucas did it, and gave up Malone’s address.

“I’ll let you know if this pans out.”

“It will.”

“You doin all right?” said McCarthy.

Lucas said, “I’m fine.”

He ended the call.

He sat in his chair and thought of the dead. He looked at the gun lying on the table beside him. He picked up the gun and held it in his hand. He pulled back on the receiver and eased a round into its chamber. He turned the gun in the light.

I’ve killed. I’ll kill again.

To what end? What good has it done?

Lucas stared at the gun.

I could stop this now.

“Fuck it,” he said. He put the gun back on the table.

Lucas got up, walked into the kitchen, and opened the refrigerator door. He grabbed a Stella and uncapped it. Standing in the dim light of a forty-watt bulb, he drank the shoulders off the bottle. The beer was good.

I’m all right, thought Lucas.

I’m fine.

This novel references and honors the work of John D. MacDonald, Charles Willeford, and Don Carpenter. Those authors, and many others, were influential in the creation of Spero Lucas and The Double. Many thanks to Jon Norris, Joe Aronstamn, Andy Moursund, and Natalie Hopkinson for their help during the research phase. Thanks go out as well to Michael Pietsch, Marlena Bittner, Tracey Williams, Betsy Uhrig, Keith Hayes, Heather Fain, Karen Torres, and all at Little, Brown. My editor and friend, Reagan Arthur, worked this into shape. I’m blessed to have her on my side. Sloan Harris, gentleman lit agent, raconteur, and sportsman, did what he does best. Alicia Gordon and Greg Hodes represented on the film and TV side. Finally, my sincere thanks to the readers. Long live traditional publishing, long live books.