Page 62 of Return of the Spider
“Ah,” he said after glancing at our badges.
“Why’d they run?”
“A learned response,” he said in a thick Haitian accent.
“Why didn’t you run, Valentino?” Sampson said.
“Valentine,”Rodolpho said, his eyes going cold. “And I cannot run.”
“We noticed that,” I said. “We also noticed you’ve spent the morning doing a whirlwind tour of known areas where hard drugs are sold.”
“Did you?” Rodolpho said.
“We did,” Sampson said. “What’s up with that, Valentino?”
Rodolpho’s nostrils flared. “It is my give-back. I talk with the troubled youth, try to get them out of trouble before they are in bigger trouble.”
I squinted at him skeptically. “You’re telling us you’re running some kind of street ministry?”
“If you want to call it that.”
John said, “We’re not buying it, Valentino. You tell your cousinthat despite his humanitarian work and your street ministry, we are not letting go of this. We know that you and Patrice were involved in the murders of Tony Miller and Shay Mansion, and no matter how long it takes, we are going to prove it.”
If Rodolpho felt threatened, he did not show it. “Good luck, because I do not know who those people are. Unless we have further business, I will go—my ride is here. Do not bother to follow me. Next stop is for the physical therapy.”
CHAPTER
49
We followed valentine rodolphoanyway. He did go to physical therapy, spent an hour there, then returned to his row house. We called off the surveillance at midnight and went home.
We were back in the morning in time to see Rodolpho go to his favorite café, where he stayed for an hour. We watched a visibly angry Nancy Donovan leave the café first, followed fifteen minutes later by an even angrier Rodolpho, who gave us the finger as he hailed a taxi.
This went on for two mind-numbing days. Rodolpho continued his daily trips to the café, though we did not see Officer Donovan again. By Saturday, figuring Rodolpho and Prince had gotten our message, we called off the stakeout.
It was time to enlist the public’s help.
That evening, Maria, Damon, and I had a nice dinner at anItalian place on Capitol Hill. The next morning, we met Sampson and Nana Mama before Mass.
According to Nana Mama, ten o’clock Mass on Sunday at St. Anthony’s was always the best attended service of the week. While Maria, Damon, and Nana found seats, Sampson and I went to see Father Nathan Barry back in the vestibule. We admitted to Father Barry that we were making little headway on the investigation into Tony’s murder and I asked if I could appeal directly to the congregation for aid.
Father Barry agreed, and before the parish announcements at the end of Mass, he called me up and introduced me: “Alex Cross, a longtime parishioner and now a detective with Metro PD.”
“Thank you, Father,” I said as I stood behind the lectern. “As Father Barry said, I grew up attending this church, as did my partner, John Sampson.”
I paused and saw many heads nodding. I pressed on with my plea.
“Because we’re from here and because we still live here, we have taken the investigation into the murders of Tony Miller and Shay Mansion as a deeply personal mission. We have been working hard to solve these murders, but to be honest, we have not made the kind of progress we would like. We need your help.
“As devastating as these killings were to the families of Tony and Shay, we have all been damaged by their murders. Two of our own young men were taken by what we believe was gang violence. For the mothers of these boys to get some kind of peace, their sons’ killers must be brought to justice. I believe this community needs that too.
“If you know anything, please call me or John Sampson through the Metro main number. If you wish to remainanonymous, you can leave your information on the department’s tip line. Thank you.”
I nodded to the parishioners and to Father Barry, then went back to my seat. Maria took my hand. Nana Mama whispered, “Well said.”
Damon had fallen asleep in my grandmother’s arms. I winked at her and squeezed my wife’s hand, hoping my words had been enough to shake something loose. When the service was over, we left the church.
I carried a still sleepy Damon down the church steps as many parishioners we’d known for years promised to help us in any way they could. Maria strolled over to my right to talk with Father Barry. Nana Mama was on my left, chatting with several old friends.
