Grave Apparel (41 page)

Lacey
poked
around with her chopsticks, searching for more
chicken.
“You
seem to
know
a lot about this
stuff.”

“Too
much,
Smithsonian.”

“Do you
want
me to call the
detective?”
She
didn’t
want
to,
she
didn’t
think
that
Charleston
would
understand.
The
last
thing Jasmine needed
was
to be hauled into the system without support. “Jasmine says
it’s
her
policy
not to talk to the
cops.”

“She’s
got a
policy,
huh?” Mac chuckled.
“She’s
heard a lot about the police then. Or seen them in action. Probably all bad, in her
mind.”
He
picked
up the last doughnut and contemplated it.
“They
could trace the
phone’s
location. If
they
have
a sub poena for the cell
carrier.”
Mac munched
down
the doughnut. He sat back and
rocked
in his
chair,
then leaned
forward.
“But
like
you said, the battery will go dead before
they
even
clear the
paperwork.
The Eye
has to
find
this
child.”

“Her name is
Jasmine.”

“Jasmine.
Twelve
and already swiping clothes and copping

attitude about the police.
I’d
say
she’s
about ten years too old for her
age.”

“I
don’t
know
how
to get in touch with
her.
When I call Cas
sandra’s
cell,
no
one
ever
answers.
What
about
finding
her
through the school district?
Who’s
on our school beat, Mac? Maybe
they’ll
know
who to
call.”

“Forget
about the schools.
They
won’t
tell you squat without a subpoena. Besides,
you’d
get this kid
sucked
into the system.
Worst
thing we could do to
her.
You
got a full name on her?”

“Jasmine Lee. I
offered
to
swap
her a
new
coat for the shep
herd’s
robe.”

“Good plan!” Mac smiled, much to her surprise. “If
she’s
like
any
female I
ever
met,
she’ll
want
that
new
coat. See, this
fashion
beat is really paying
off
for you, Smithsonian.
Now
go
find
that child. Reel her in,
Lacey,
reel her
in.”

Apparently,
it
wasn’t
some
sort
of
breach
of
journalistic
ethics to lure this kid with gifts.
Mac
ought
to
know.
I’m
just
a
fashion
reporter,
remember.

Lacey
gathered
up
the
last
of
her
lunch
and
returned
to
her
desk to collect her messages.
Over
the
weekend
she had called the number
Jeffrey
Bentley
Holmes had left on her machine
Friday.
He
hadn’t
answered, so
she’d
left a message telling him she
wasn’t
date material at the moment,
but
she
would
be
happy
to meet him for lunch on
Tuesday.

She found
she’d
missed
Jeffrey’s
return call,
but
his
voice
mail message said lunch the
next
day
was
fine.
He left the ad dress of a restaurant on
Fourteenth
Street not
far
from Consti tution
Avenue.
It
would
be a nice break, she thought, and maybe by then, the little shepherd girl
would
call back. She dialed Cas
sandra’s
number
again.
No
answer.

The
next
message on her
voice
mail
was
from
Pastor
Wilbur
Dean at the church of the plundered
Nativity.
He confirmed what
Lacey
already
knew:
The blueandwhite striped robe had been worn by one of his plaster shepherds,
now
a little
less
splendidly dressed. There
was
a soup kitchen
down
the street, and
Pastor
Wilbur
Dean assumed that
was
probably where the
thieves
had come from. He told her he harbored no
animosity,
especially if the person or persons who stole the clothes were
homeless.
He
only
hoped
the
robes
would
help
them
get
through the cold of
winter,
with the assistance of the
Almighty.

But if it
was
just a group of wild and malicious
boys,
he said,
well, that thought really galled him.

Lacey
called the soup kitchen. The
woman
who answered said she
couldn’t
remember
everyone
who came through the line. Sure there were kids,
but
they
had to be accompanied by an adult. The kids were just a
blur,
she said. She
didn’t
pay
any
special
attention
to
them.
“Why
you
asking
me,
lady?”
Lacey
had no answers, only questions.

She headed outside to
Farragut
Square, where a black man
named
Quentin
often
held
court
with
the
regulars
who
put
money
in his cup. He
was
erudite, intelligent, and homeless. A
fastidious
man, his clothes were clean, his manner often play ful
but
respectful. Quentin battled with bipolar disease, he told
Lacey,
and sometimes it had the upper hand. She wondered which Quentin she
would
meet
today.

As she approached, Quentin
was
reading
The
Eye
.
He prided himself on
keeping
up with current
events,
the better to pro claim his opinions to one and all. He seemed fond of the re
porters.
Lacey
wondered
what
he
had
done
before
hitting
bottom; perhaps
he’d
been a teacher? He
looked
up and
saw
Lacey
dropping a dollar in his cup.

“Hey,
Smithsonian,
how
you doin’?
You
still telling those idiot politicians
how
to dress?”

“I do,
but
they
never
listen. Quentin, I
want
to ask you some thing
important.”

“Ask
away!”
He gestured
grandly.
“My
knowledge
is your
knowledge.
A little
knowledge
is a dangerous thing.
Don’t
tell
Woodward
and Bernstein I’m your Deep
Throat.”

“Don’t
worry.”
Lacey
smiled.
“You’re
a
confidential
source.
I’m
interested
in
a
homeless
child
who
might
have
been
here
in
Farragut
Square on Friday
night.”

He rubbed his
face
and squinted up at
her.
He
affected
his best English accent.
“Ah,
yes, Friday night,
Milady.
Oi remem ber it well! All the swells! Dressed
fit
to kill,
they
was,
in furs and
tuxedos.
Moine’s
at the bloody cleaners, with me top
hat.”
“That’s
right, lots of people dressed up that night, lots of parties. But there might
have
been a child, about
twelve,
wear ing a
shepherd’s
robe. Blueandwhite stripes? Maybe home
less,
maybe
not?
Did
you
see
anyone
like
that
among
the
swells?”

Quentin laced his
fingers
together and dropped the accent.

“We’re
a long
way
from Bethlehem for a little shepherd
boy,
Smithsonian.”
Lacey
sighed in disappointment.
“And
ye
t...
I may
have
seen one.
Would
a shepherd girl do as well? A little lamb in
shepherd’s
clothing?”

“Quentin!
You
are
my
Deep
Throat!”
Lacey
could
have hugged him,
but
she
never
hugged her sources. “Where
and
when?
Have
you seen her before? What
was
she doing?
Was
she alone?”

Quentin had indeed seen Jasmine Lee that night, although he
didn’t
know
her name. He had seen her around in the past cou ple of weeks, recently wearing that blueandwhite
shepherd’s
robe. He
didn’t
know
if she
was
homeless or not,
but
several
restaurants near the square left food in their
alleys
in
takeout
cartons for the homeless;
he’d
seen her getting food there. But she
never
stayed in the square and ate, she took the food
away,
perhaps to feed her
family.

“She
doesn’t
converse
with
me.
Or
anyone.
Little
lamb
keeps
to herself. Smart kid. Seems on Friday night I caught a glimpse of her blueandwhite robe, running across Eye
Street.”
That
was
all he
saw.

“But
Quentin,”
Lacey
protested.
“Your
bench is right here
facing
Eye Street!
You
must
have
seen more than that!”

“Smithsonian, I am a
working
man!” Quentin
drew
himself up with
dignity.
“This is the Christmas season! Friday night, party time, lots of people on the street, jingle in their
pockets,
goodwill to men in their
wallets?
My best
business
hours, pal. Besides, this is not my only
office,
you
know.”
He seemed af fronted that
Lacey
might think he
was
some
slacker
lounging on a park bench. “I
was
heading for my branch
office
over
in McPherson Square,
two
blocks east of here. I got a prime bench on K Street!
You
want
to
make
the real
money
in the District,
you
got
to
be
on
K
Street,
where
the
legal
beagles
bark.
None
of this
twobit
Eye Street action, K Street is where
it’s
at. Am I right, Smithsonian, or am I right?”