Pop Goes the Weasel

of the murders. The fact that the driver was white was the best lead we had so far.
    Sampson and I drove to my house rather than back to the station. It would be easier to work on the new leads from Fifth Street. It took me about five minutes to come up with more information from a contact at the Taxi Commission. No fleets operating in D.C. currently had purple and blue cabs. That probably meant the car was an illegal gypsy, as Booker had said. I learned that a company called Vanity Cabs had once used purple and blue cars, but Vanity had been out of business since ’95. The Taxi Commission rep said that half a dozen or so of the old cars might still be on the street. Originally the fleet had been fifteen cars, which wasn’t that many even if all of them were still around, which was highly doubtful.
    Sampson called all the cab companies that regularly did business in Southeast, especially around Shaw. According to their records, there were only three white drivers who had been on duty that night.
    We were working in the kitchen. Sampson was on the phone and I was using the computer. Nana had fixed fresh coffee and also set out fruit and half a pecan pie.
    Rakeem Powell called the house at around 4:15. I picked up. “Alex, Pittman’s watchdog is sniffing around here something fierce. Fred Cook wants to know what you and Sampson are working on this afternoon. Jerome told him the Odenkirk murder.”
    I nodded and said, “If the murders in Southeast are connected in any way, that’s the truth.”
    “One more thing,” Rakeem said before he let me go. “I checked with Motor Vehicles. Might be something good for us. A purple gypsy got a summons for running a stop sign around one in the morning over in Eckington, near the university, Second Street. Maybe that’s where our boy lives.”
    I clapped my hands and congratulated Rakeem. Our long hours working the Jane Doe cases were finally beginning to pay off.
    Maybe we were about to catch the Weasel.

Chapter 36
    HE HAD BEEN much more careful lately. The visit to Washington by George Bayer — Famine — had been a warning, a shot over his head, and Shafer had taken it seriously. The other players could be as dangerous as he was. It was they who had taught him how to kill, not the other way round. Famine, Conqueror, and War were not to be underestimated, especially if he wanted to win the game.
    The day after Famine’s visit, the others had informed him that Bayer had come to Washington, that he was being watched. He supposed that was his second warning. His activity had frightened them, and now they were retaliating. It was all part of the game.
    After work that night, he headed to the hideaway in Eckington. He spotted what looked like a half-dozen or so policemen canvassing the street.
    He immediately suspected the other Horsemen. They had turned him in, after all. Or were they playing a mind game with him? What were the cops doing here?
    He parked the Jaguar several blocks away, then headed toward the hideaway and garage on foot. He had to check this out. He had on a pin-striped suit, city shirt, and tie. He knew he looked respectable enough. He carried a leather briefcase and definitely looked like a businessman coming home late.
    Two African-American policemen were doing door-to-door questioning on Uhland Terrace. This wasn’t good — the police were less than five blocks from the hideaway.
    Why were they here? His brain was reeling, adrenaline rushing through his nervous system like a flash flood. Maybe this had nothing to do with him, but he couldn’t be too careful. He definitely suspected the other players, especially George Bayer. But why? Was this the way they planned to end the game, by bringing him down?
    When the two policemen up ahead disappeared down a side street off Uhland, Shafer decided to stop at one of the brownstones where they’d been asking questions. It was a small risk, but he needed to know what was happening. A couple of old men were seated on the stoop. An ancient radio played an Orioles baseball game.
    “They ask you about some kind of trouble in the neighborhood?” Shafer asked the men in as casual a tone as he could manage. “They stopped me up the block.”
    One of the men just stared at him, terminally pissed off, but the other one nodded and spoke up. “Sure did, mister. Lookin’ for a cab, purple and blue gypsy. Connected to some killings, they say. Though I don’t recall seeing any purple ones lately. Used to be a cab