Page 29 of The Family Cross

“Told you,” he said. “The toughest old lady who ever lived.”

“When are they going to wake her up?” I asked Bree.

“Fully? Tomorrow morning maybe.”

“I thought Sydney said tonight if the third scan looked good.”

“They took her off the ventilator,” Bree said. “But Sydney’s concerned about an irregular heartbeat that’s been happening every hour or so, and she wants to see that stabilize before they wake Nana up completely, so she’s still heavily sedated. Dr. Ames said Nana might be able to hear us, so we should talk to her, encourage her.”

I went to Nana Mama and held her hand. “You can do this, Nana. We’re here for you.”

From the foot of her bed, Sampson said, “Everyone’s rooting for you, Nana.”

“Hopefully they’ll bring her out of this soon,” Bree said. “In the meantime, how’d the return trip to the bridge go?”

We started by telling her about Sean Brundage. Bree was even more heartbroken than we were—she’d been chief when Brundage was promoted to detective and had witnessed his initial decline. She’d also been part of the review team that had suspended him after his mental deterioration and subsequent violent acts.

“My heart breaks for his wife and kids,” Bree said, shaking her head. “They’re out in Bowie these days, I think.”

“His wife had ample reason to leave him,” Sampson said. “But I’m sure it would crush her if she knew how he was living.”

“Existing is more like it,” I said.

Next, we told Bree about the other crime that Hawk, aka Alejandro Rodriguez, had mentioned, the homeless man who’d been killed and his body burned. Sampson and I had gotten in touch with the precinct covering New York Avenue and found out more details.

“Happened two weeks ago,” Sampson said. “Behind a condemned apartment building east of New York Avenue where a bunch of homeless folks were squatting until the wrecking ball came. That morning one of them woke up, smelled something awful, looked outside, and saw a body smoldering.”

Two veteran homicide detectives had caught the case. “Tommy Hayes and Judy Winthrop,” I said.

Bree rolled her eyes. “Let me guess—they didn’t push it very far.”

“Correct,” I said. “No ID on the body. No witnesses to the killing—he was shot in the head—or the corpse getting set on fire. Or at least, no witnesses willing to come forward and talk about it with the police, so the detectives back-burnered the case.”

“But cause of death was the gunshot?”

“Right,” Sampson said. “Same as the John Doe from the Bridge to Nowhere.”

“Same combustible used in the immolation?”

“We’ve asked for that test to be done.”

“Any other commonalities?”

“A guy who goes by Choir Boy and lives under the ghost ramp off and on told Rodriguez that he was in the New York Avenue squat near where the first homeless person was shot and burned. No government name known yet,” I said, anticipating Bree’s next question. “Described as in his mid-twenties, angry. Supposedly became homeless after being thrown out of a seminary. Anyway, Hawk said Choir Boy told him he saw the burned body behind the squat and that Choir Boy was definitely under the ramp yesterday.”

“Rodriguez saw this guy near the crime scene himself?”

“Swears to it. And he claims that Choir Boy was acting stranger than usual. Last time Hawk saw him was around one p.m. heading toward the river.”

Bree asked, “What’s your take on this Hawk character?”

“Complicated man,” Sampson offered. “He came off as relatively stable in our talk, all things considered. But the other people we’ve spoken to—Sean Brundage, this kid Boog, and Lainey Locket, the other leader type in the area—they all say Hawk’s wildly up and down. And that he’s got a hair-trigger temper and serious fighting skills.”

Bree thought about that. “In my research, I learned that there’s a hedge fund trying to buy the land. They want to tear the ramp down and build a little neighborhood, restaurants and high-end apartment buildings with views of the river and the Capitol.”

“Leaving the citizens under the Bridge to Nowhere with literally nowhere to go,” I said before something struck me. “Could you do me a favor when you get a chance? If I send you the address of the squat near New York Avenue, can you look into who owns it?”

“Sure. I’m going down to the cafeteria to get something to eat. I’ll start after.”