The Ways of the Dead Read online

  also by neely tucker

  love in the driest season

  VIKING

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

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  penguin.com

  A Penguin Random House Company

  First published by Viking Penguin, a member of Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 2014

  Copyright © 2014 by Neely Tucker

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Tucker, Neely.

  The ways of the dead : a novel / Neely Tucker.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-0-698-14049-3

  1. Journalists--Washington (DC--Fiction. 2. Teenagers--Crimes against--Fiction. 3. African American youth--Washington (D.C.)--Fiction. 4. Murder--Investigation--Fiction. 5. Washington (DC)--Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3620.U318W39 2014

  813'.6--dc23 2013047847

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  pour joséphine

  laisse les bons temps rouler, chèr.

  and

  for elmore leonard,

  the best there ever was.

  contents

  also by neely tucker

  title page

  copyright

  dedication

  epigraph

  chapter one

  chapter two

  chapter three

  chapter four

  chapter five

  chapter six

  chapter seven

  chapter eight

  chapter nine

  chapter ten

  chapter eleven

  chapter twelve

  chapter thirteen

  chapter fourteen

  chapter fifteen

  chapter sixteen

  chapter seventeen

  chapter eighteen

  chapter nineteen

  chapter twenty

  chapter twenty-one

  chapter twenty-two

  chapter twenty-three

  chapter twenty-four

  chapter twenty-five

  chapter twenty-six

  chapter twenty-seven

  chapter twenty-eight

  chapter twenty-nine

  chapter thirty

  chapter thirty-one

  chapter thirty-two

  chapter thirty-three

  chapter thirty-four

  chapter thirty-five

  chapter thirty-six

  chapter thirty-seven

  chapter thirty-eight

  chapter thirty-nine

  chapter forty

  chapter forty-one

  chapter forty-two

  chapter forty-three

  epilogue

  acknowledgments

  about the author

  The evil that men do lives after them.

  —William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar

  The women that were up there, they were living in the margins of life, they were with multiple people, they weren’t really missed right away, even by their own loved ones.

  —D.C. homicide detective Danny Whelan,

  lead investigator on the Princeton Place murders

  one

  The first long shadows were falling across Georgia Avenue when Sarah Reese trotted down the steps to the lobby after her dance class, a big, loose jacket pulled over her tights. She didn’t have long. Her mother was always a few minutes late, always dragging out happy hour drinks with her girlfriends downtown, but it wasn’t as if she had an hour to burn.

  She stepped onto the sidewalk outside the studio and felt the light breeze ruffle her hair. She looked both ways across the four lanes of traffic, making sure she didn’t see her mother’s green Land Rover idling or approaching. She bit the inside of her lower lip, felt the small roll of bills in her left hand, and then jogged across the street at an angle.

  It was the first day of October, three months before the end of the twentieth century. The leaves were turning their flaming colors of yellow and amber and red and burnt orange. The colors were lush at this early stage of fall, and the air through the trees, just off the Chesapeake, carried the traces of an autumn chill. Sarah felt it as a quickening coolness, the sweat drying against her spine, her thighs, turning her forearms to gooseflesh. It was Friday night, the sky arching from black in the east to indigo blue overhead to a blaze of orange and pink on the western horizon. She would meet Michael later, after her parents had gone to bed. She shivered at the thought of it—she couldn’t help it, her eyes sparkled—and she crossed the last lane of the street into the tiny parking lot of Doyle’s Market. It was an old brick building with peeling blue paint and a sagging roof. The little silver bells at the top of the glass front door cling-clinged when she pushed it open.

  The interior was dim. She had to slow down to let her eyes adjust, turning right down the first aisle, toward the refrigerated units at the back of the store. The aisles were narrow and creepy. The place was no bigger than a little row house, which it had once been. The shelves were overstuffed with paper towels and canned vegetables and little sausages in cans and things too nasty to touch. It reminded her of a haunted house, the dim pallor, the yellowed linoleum floors, the smell of stale cigarette smoke and unwashed laundry and spilled beer and, on top of it all, a smear of disinfectant. The older girls had told her about Doyle’s after class last spring, when she’d first started at Regina’s studio, how the little old lady with the big hair behind the counter would sell you cigarettes or a beer and never ask a “motherfucking thing,” as Letitia put it. The excursion made Sarah feel older than fifteen. It revved her up to do something her parents didn’t know about.

  She got a bottle of vitamin water. Then she turned and navigated down the middle aisle to get gum. She would get the Virginia Slims and the condoms at the counter. The older girls had been right. Granny would sell you crank if it came with a price tag.

  Sarah was bent down looking for the gum—mint, sugarless—when she heard the door open and the little bells cling-cling again. Loud male voices, laughter, profanity, bursting with accents that telegraphed into her ear as danger bad ghetto black. She looked up. Three boys coming down her aisle, wifebeater T-shirts untucked. One dribbling a basketball, baddabaddabapbap. The one in front, a wide, expressive face, his hair cropped close to the scalp, stopped.

  “Whoo y’all lookit. Miss Dance America.” He looked Sarah in the eye and pushed backward two steps, the boys behind him peeping over his shoulder. His jeans were slung low on narrow hips. Boxer shorts bunched above the waistline. She froze, her eyes locked on his. Then she lowered her gaze and bolted past them. She could smell the sweat, the beer, the energy, a tang at the tip of her nose.

  She went to the counter and reali
zed she had not gotten the gum. The boys were walking up behind her, loud, dribbling, dribbling, dripping fat ugly drops of testosterone onto the linoleum—she could all but smell that, too. She didn’t turn around. Screw the gum and fuck the smokes. Michael could wrap his own rascal. She wanted out of there. She pulled out her wallet and got two ones, pushing them across the counter for the water, jamming the wallet back in her jacket.

  Dolly Parton made change and handed it back to her. As Sarah reached for the coins, one of the boys jostled her. He bumped against her butt. Her hand sprang open from the surprise of it and her change fell out, bounced on the counter, and spilled to the floor. More laughter. A quarter spun around like a top on the linoleum.

  “Blondie tossing cash, y’all.” This from the boy who had bumped her behind.

  “Check that ass,” a different one, a whisper. “White girl got a little something.” Sumpen.

  “She gonna bend over.”

  “I’ma smack it.” Snickering.

  “Smack that booty?”

  “And the booty go smack.”

  Low fives, they were killing each other.

  Sarah considered running out the door but stopped herself. Three obnoxious boys. Boys. She wasn’t going to act like a scared little rabbit.

  She let out a breath, trying to slow down. She felt her weight shift backward and she went down in a single motion, bending her right leg back and down, keeping her arms near her sides until her right toe bent back and her right knee glided to a stop on the floor. The quarter she picked up with her left hand. Her right picked up one dime by the bottom rack. She found the other dime a few inches out in the aisle. They were both heads up. She was noticing everything. Then she pressed back on her right toe and down on her left foot and felt her body rise in a straight line. As she rose, she failed to notice that her wallet was so far out of her jacket pocket that the boy behind her, the one who had talked nasty, reached forward and gently pulled it out in a smooth, single motion.

  “You got all your change, honey?”

  Sarah looked up and it was Dolly Parton behind the counter, sounding like a train whistle in the dark. Her soft face was smudged with mascara and lipstick. There was a twinkle of fear behind her reading glasses. Sarah saw it, a spiky glimmer in the beady little pupils that was not supposed to be there. She wondered if Dolly could call 911.

  “Got all of it?” Dolly repeated, sounding as if she were hooting from the outhouse, looking down at her, and now her potato face seemed to smile and Sarah wasn’t so sure if she saw the fear there or not.

  Sarah nodded quickly, yes yes yes, ponytail bouncing, and she turned to the left to leave, her hair snapping sideways. She heard the boy behind her mutter, “Out front. Get the bitch when she out front.” One of the boys moved to the front door ahead of her, and there was a burst of noise, an exclamation from the other one, but she was too frightened to hear what it was. She took a half step toward the front of the store, mute, going numb, but then she looked to the rear of the store.

  There were double metal doors marked EXIT.

  She all but sprinted for them, pushing both doors open, ready to start running, but she was in a dark storage room and there was yet another door with an exit sign tacked to it. There was another tattered sign that read ALARM WILL SOUND.

  She stopped. Fuckfuckfuck. She blinked. The storage room was dark and narrow and there were rows of boxes stacked nearly to the ceiling, left and right. She turned around and could see the front part of the store through the swinging double doors she had just pushed through.

  Options, a nice word, came to the front of her mind. She could go out the exit door behind her and see where that went, but the alarm would sound and the police would come and she wasn’t going to do that. She could march back out front, past the boy who had bumped against her, and see what they had planned on the street out front.

  That wasn’t going to happen, either.

  No, she’d just call her mom from right here. Mom would be pissed and there would be a scene but she would know what to do. Sarah reached in her jacket for the Nokia and there was nothing. Her eyes flew open and she looked down, digging in the pockets, trying to turn the fabric inside out—nothing, no phone and no wallet. She patted her thighs, checking the pockets there, but she was wearing tights and there were no pockets. It dawned on her, in an ugly flash of memory, that she’d left the phone in her backpack at the studio. She smacked her thighs, twice and then three times, trying to make the pocket and the phone appear. She felt her shoulders start to shake and snot begin to bubble out of her nose.

  The exit door behind her swung open, but the alarm didn’t sound. She turned, the shadows deepened, and then Sarah Reese dropped her change again.

  two

  Sully Carter, on his third Basil Hayden’s (on the rocks, water back), felt the October air blow into the bar through an open window near his booth. He closed his eyes for a second, it felt that good, like a kiss from home.

  His white linen shirt, freshly pressed at the beginning of the day, was wrinkled and untucked from his jeans. The sleeves were rolled up at the cuffs and he had not bothered with the razor, it being a Friday. He was sitting in the back corner of Stoney’s, the Ducati racing jacket slung over the seat on the booth, the helmet beneath it. He felt good enough to punch somebody.

  He rattled the ice in his glass, sipped, and felt the slight and lovely sting of bourbon on the tip of the tongue. Sneaking another glance at the bar, he caught a glimpse of Dusty, still working, taking orders next to Dmitri, the other bartender, the guy from the Ukraine. She didn’t see him look this time, but she had earlier, so maybe that could count as flirting or foreplay or something.

  Lean as a light pole, Sully spoke in a slight rasp, a trace of a Louisiana accent, more centered on the Irish-German sections of Nawlins, but it took an ear. He was taller than most people, but because he tended to lean back on his left leg it wasn’t always apparent. The shrapnel blast he had taken while covering the Bosnian war, the hot metal that had eaten up his right knee, broken three ribs, and sliced open his left cheek—that bitch had tattooed its signature across his face and torso, too.

  There were horizontal scars down his cheek, with tiny little welts around both eyes. There was a long, horizontal scar at the top of his forehead, but it was mostly concealed by the shock of black hair that fell slightly over it. He had twin scars that ran down his right side like a short set of railroad tracks, and the skin on his right knee looked like it had been put together by Dalí during a hangover.

  The unusual gait, the scars, the posture, the distant manner—it all combined to create a menacing air of someone who cared less about his future than the people around him cared about theirs.

  Stoney’s, his favorite dive, sat four blocks from the courthouse, three from the Metropolitan Police Department headquarters, and five from the U.S. Attorney’s Office. It catered to cops and prosecutors and assorted stiffs of the downtown proletarian set. It had worn hardwood floors, a mirror behind the bar that had lost most of its silvering, and an air that the smart set drank somewhere else.

  Now he looked back across the booth at his dinner partner, Eva Harris, in Homicide for eight years, fifteen in the Agency.

  “So why didn’t the—the jury—I mean, why didn’t they convict him for killing Fat Chucky?” he said.

  “Self-defense,” she said.

  “Self-defense from what?”

  “Self-defense from Fat Chucky. Fat Chucky went six-one and three-twenty. Mr. Hastings testified that Chucky wanted to make him be ‘sexually submissive.’”

  “At ten in the morning? On the general compound of D.C. jail?”

  “That was the testimony.”

  “How did Mr. Hastings defend himself?”

  “With a ten-pound barbell from the weight-lifting thing.”

  “Beat Chucky to death?”

  “Beat him
to death.”

  “Mr. Hastings,” Sully said, “must not like to be sexually submissive.”

  “Submissive, my ass. Chucky owed money. Sly Hastings beat the man’s skull open in front of a hundred and twenty-five witnesses and walked because everybody on the general compound knows better than to testify against him.”

  “And how did Sly Hastings come to be in D.C. jail?”

  “Weapons charge. This is, what, five, six years ago? He was awaiting trial.”

  “And?”

  “Beat that, too.”

  “I’m detecting a pattern, counselor.”

  “Yeah. There is. Mr. Hastings offs people and gets away with it,” Eva said, a little heat now. “He looks like a bookworm. Wears those little round John Lennon glasses, did you know that? Read Jean Toomer during the last trial. Cane. Fucker made notes in the margins.”

  “You denying the man an interest in the Harlem Renaissance?”

  “Your neighborhood don doesn’t usually have literary tastes more sophisticated than Penthouse Letters.”

  “You sure this is his occupation? Because, what are we talking here—three trials, two hung juries, one acquittal? I don’t want to go wading in on a piece about a Teflon defendant if the dude is, what do I want to say, small time.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “But you—you think he’s a badass.”

  “I don’t think anything. I’m telling you. Sly Hastings runs things. He runs things because he gets rid of people who get in the way of him running things, and then he skates on it.”

  “You got hard feelings on the Fat Chucky thing,” he said.

  She put a hand to her short dreadlocks pulled back into a ponytail, touched her wineglass, and then set her hand back on the table. Eva, she would look at you for five seconds before saying anything, and then burst out, rat-a-tat-tat. She had grown up in West Virginia, went to Georgetown Law, and had no accent from anywhere unless she wanted to. When she did want to, it leaned more to city than country, Sully thought, her saying things like “he left out the house” and “my decedent.”