Page 66 of The Family Cross

“Not yet,” he said.

“When was the last time he was a no-show?”

“No clue, man. Usually he’s right there at the front.”

The line had doubled in size when Lorraine D’Angelo came up from the basement and opened the grate.

“Take it easy, no pushing,” she said. “There’s more than enough. Wait your turn, now.” The people in line thanked her as they passed, and Lorraine had a kind word for all of them.

“That lady is a good person,” O’Hare said when she went downstairs to help her sister. “Glad there are a few left like her.”

“We are too,” Sampson said. A moment later, he leaned toward me and said, “There’s Anna Bananas.”

I looked where he was pointing and saw Anna, her nine-year-old son, Luke, and her fourteen-year-old daughter, Emma, at the back of the line. I strolled down to see them while Sampson waited with O’Hare for Choir Boy.

“Hi, Anna,” I said. I smiled at her kids. “Emma. Luke.”

“Pop-pop-pop, we’re late again,” Anna said. “Just the end pieces left.”

Luke said, “I like the end pieces.”

“Me too,” Emma said. “There’s always sausage in them.”

I went with them as the line moved toward the entrance to the kitchen, showing them the best photo we had of Aldous Campbell. “You ever seen this guy around?”

Emma glanced at the photo, frowned, and shook her head. “No.”

“I’ve seen him. Both here and under the bridge,” Anna said, looking at her daughter. “You’ve seen him.”

Emma glanced at the picture again. “I don’t think so, Mom.”

Luke said, “He’s usually at the front of the line for lasagna.”

His sister shrugged and studied the sidewalk.

59

I MADE A NOTE of the teenager’s reaction and then showed them the picture of Corey McGovern on the stoop in Georgetown.

Anna Stein squinted. “Can’t say.”

Her daughter studied the picture, chewed the inside of her cheek. “She lived on the other side sometimes. Under the bridge.”

“With Hawk?”

At the mention of Hawk, Emma looked at the sidewalk again. “Yeah, maybe with him. Why? Who is she?”

“Her name is Corey McGovern. She’s dead.”

Emma gazed up at me in shock. “What? When? How?”

“A few nights ago,” I said. “She was shot and burned like the guy in the Audi.”

The fourteen-year-old’s hand trembled as it traveled to her mouth. Tears welled in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.

“No,” she moaned, shaking her head.

Her mother said, “Emma, did you know her?”