He chinned up at the television in the corner. “Channel Four's all I get in here, Detective.”

    “How about any new games opening up?” Bree asked. “Players we might not have heard about? Somebody who would wipe a family out?”

    “Hard to keep up,” Ramirez said and shrugged. That's when Glazer gave him a look. “But yeah, matter of fact, there has been some talk.”

    His dark eyes flicked almost involuntarily past me and Bree. “Africans,” he said to Avie.

    “African American?” I asked. “Or-”

    “African African.” He turned back to Avie. “Yo, Toto, I'm gonna get something for this? Or this a freebie?”

    Avie Glazer looked at me first and then at Ramirez. “Let's say I owe you one.”

    “What kind of African?” I asked.

    He shrugged and blew out air. “How'm I supposed to know that? Black-guys-from-Africa kind of African.”

    “English speaking?”

    “Yeah,” he said, nodding. “But I never spoke to them. Sounds like they're into a little bit of everything. You know, four-H club? Hits, ho's, heroin, and heists. This ain't your graffiti-and-skip-party kind of gang.”

    He opened a glass-fronted cooler and took out a can of Coke. “Anyone thirsty? Two dollars.”

    “I'll take one,” Glazer said. He cupped a couple of bills into Ramirez's hand, and they didn't look like singles.

    Then Glazer turned to me. “And I will collect from you too. Count on it.”

    “Africans,” Ramirez repeated as we headed toward the door, “from Africa.”

Cross Country

Chapter 9

    THIS WAS THE last place I wanted to be in DC, or probably anyplace else.

    So unbelievably sad, and eerie, and tragic. So many memories rising to the surface for me.