Four Blind Mice

But Alex, suddenly I feel my age. I’m
eighty-two
. Give or take.”
    She took my hand in hers and squeezed it. The sadness was back in her eyes, maybe even a little fear. I felt a lump in my throat. Something was wrong with her. What was it? Why wouldn’t she tell me?
    “I’ve had a pain lately in my chest. Shortness of breath. Angina or whatever. Not so good, not so good.”
    “Have you seen Dr. Rodman? Or Bill Montgomery?” I asked.
    “I saw Kayla Coles. She was in the neighborhood treating a man a few houses down from us.”
    I didn’t understand. “Who’s Kayla Coles?”
    “Dr. Kayla makes house calls in Southeast. She’s organized about a dozen doctors and nurses who come into the neighborhood to help people here. She’s a fabulous doctor, and a good person, Alex. She’s doing a lot of good in Southeast. I like her tremendously.”
    I bristled a little. “Nana, you’re not some charity case. We have money for you to see a doctor of your choice.”
    Nana squeezed her eyes shut. “Please. Listen to me. And pay attention to what I’m saying. I’m eighty-two and I won’t be around forever. Much as I’d like to be. But I’m taking care of myself so far, and I plan to keep doing it. I like and trust Kayla Coles. She
is
my choice.”
    Nana got up slowly from the table, kissed me on the cheek, and then shuffled off to bed. At least we were fighting again.

Chapter 58
    LATER THAT NIGHT, I went up to my attic office. Everyone was asleep and the house was quiet.
    I liked working when it was peaceful like this. I was back on the army case; I couldn’t get it out of my mind. Didn’t want to. The bodies painted in bright colors. The eerie straw dolls. The even spookier all-seeing eye. Innocent soldiers punished by wrongful executions.
    And who knew how many more soldiers might be scheduled for execution?
    There was plenty of material to go through. If even only some of these executions were linked, it would be a huge bombshell for the army. I continued my research, did some spadework on the straw doll and the evil eye. I did a search on Lexis-Nexis, which held information from most local and national newspapers and the major international ones. A lot of detectives underestimate the usefulness of press research, but I don’t. I have solved crimes using information passed on to the press by police officers.
    I read reports about a former PFC in Hawaii. He’d been accused of murdering five men during a sex-slavery-and-torture spree that occurred from 1998 to 2000. He was currently on death row.
    I moved on. I felt I had no choice but to keep going on the case.
    An army captain had killed two junior officers in San Diego less than three months ago. He’d been convicted and was awaiting sentencing. His wife was appealing. He’d been convicted on the basis of DNA evidence.
    I made a note to myself:
Maybe talk to this one.
    My reading was suddenly interrupted by the sound of footsteps pounding the stairs up into the attic.
    Someone was coming up.
    In a hurry.
    Adrenaline fired through my system. I reached into a desk drawer and put my hand on a gun.
    Damon suddenly burst into the room. He was soaked with sweat and looked like hell. Nana had told me that he was asleep in his room. Obviously, that hadn’t been the case. He hadn’t even been in the house, had he?
    “Damon?” I said as I rose. “Where have you been?”
    “Come with me, Dad. Please. It’s my friend. Ramon’s sick! Dad, I think he’s dying.”

Chapter 59
    WE BOTH RAN down to my car, and Damon told me what had happened to his friend Ramon on the way. His hands were shaking badly as he spoke.
    “He took E, Dad. He’s been doing E for a couple of days.”
    I knew about E, which was one of the latest drugs of choice around D.C., especially among high school and college kids at George Washington and Georgetown.
    “Ramon hasn’t been going to school?” I asked.
    “No. He hasn’t been going home either. He’s been staying at a crib down by the river.”
    I knew the river area and I headed there with a red lamp on my car roof and a siren bleating. I had met Ramon Ramirez, and I knew about his parents; they were musicians, and addicts. Ramon played baseball with Damon. He was twelve. I wondered how deeply Damon was involved, but this wasn’t the time for questions like that.
    I parked and Damon and I walked into a dilapidated row house down near the Anacostia. The row house was three stories, and most of the windows were