It was a small step, but not an insignificant one.

"I can help you see Terrence again, and you can be a part of his life. But you have to get

clean, and stay clean."

"How do I do it?" she asked, her eyes unable to meet mine. She cradled her coffee, the

steam rising to her face.

"Are you going to Naomi's today?"

"Yes."

"I talked to the director over there. They have two meetings today, alcoholics and drug

addicts together. They're called AA/NA. I want you to attend both of them. The director

will call me."

She nodded like a scolded child. I would push no further, not at that moment. She nibbled

her doughnuts, sipped her coffee, and listened with rapt attention as I read one news story

after another. She cared little for foreign affairs and sports, but the city news fascinated

her. She had voted at one time, many years ago, and the politics of the District were

easily digested. She understood the crime stories.

A long editorial blistered Congress and the city for their failure to fund services for the

homeless. Other Lontaes would follow, it warned. Other children would die in our streets,

in the shadows of the U.S. Capitol. I paraphrased this for Ruby, who concurred with

every phrase.

A soft, freezing rain began falling, so I drove Ruby to her next stop for the day. Naomi's

Women's Center was a four-level rowhouse on Tenth Street, NW, in a block of similar

structures. It opened at seven, closed at four, and during each day provided food, showers,

clothing, activities, and counseling for any homeless woman who could find the place.

Ruby was a regular, and received a warm greeting from her friends when we entered.

I spoke quietly with the director, a young woman named Megan. We conspired to push

Ruby toward sobriety. Half the women there were mentally ill, half were substance

abusers, a third were HIV-positive. Ruby, as far as Megan knew, carried no infectious

diseases.

When I left, the women were crowded into the main room, singing songs.

* * *

I was hard at work at my desk when Sofia knocked on my door and entered before I

could answer.

"Mordecai says you're looking for someone," she said. She held a legal pad, ready to take

notes.

I thought for a second, then remembered Hector. "Oh yes. I am."

"I can help. Tell me everything you know about the person." She sat down and began

writing as I ratfled off his name, address, last known place of employment, physical

description, and the fact that he had a wife and four kids. "Age?"

"Maybe thirty."

"Approximate salary?"

"Thirty-five thousand."

"With four kids, it's safe to assume at least one was enrolled in school. With that salary,

and living in Bethesda, I doubt if they'd go the private route. He's Hispanic, so he's

probably Catholic. Anything else?"

I couldn't think of a thing. She left and returned to her desk where she opened a thick

three-ring notebook and flipped pages. I kept my door open so I could watch and listen.

The first call went to someone with the Postal Service. The conversation changed

instantly to Spanish, and I was lost. One call followed another. She would say hello in

English, ask for her contact, then switch to her native tongue. She called the Catholic

diocese, which led to another series of rapid calls. I lost interest.

An hour later, she walked to my door and announced, "They moved to Chicago. Do you

need an address?"

"How did you . . . ?" My words trailed off as I stared at her in disbelief.

"Don't ask. A friend of a friend in their church. They moved over the weekend, in a hurry.

Do you need their new address?"

"How long will it take?"

"It won't be easy. I can point you in the right direction."

She had at least six clients sitting along the front window waiting to seek her advice.

"Not now," I said. "Maybe later. Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

Don't mention it. I'd planned to spend a few more hours after dark knocking on the doors

of neighbors, in the cold, dodging security guards, hoping no one shot me. And she

worked the phone for an hour and found the missing person.

Drake & Sweeney had more than a hundred lawyers in its Chicago branch. I had been

there twice on anti trust cases. The offices were in a skyscraper near the lakefront. The

building's foyer was several stories tall, with fountains and shops around the perimeter,

escalators zigzagging upward. It was the perfect place to hide and watch for Hector

Palma.

________________________________________________________________

Twenty-six

The homeless are close to the streets, to the pavement, the curbs and gutters, the concrete,

the litter, the sewer lids and fire hydrants and wastebaskets and bus stops and store-fronts.

They move slowly over familiar terrain, day after day, stopping to talk to each other

because time means little, stopping to watch a stalled car in traffic, a new drug dealer on

a corner, a strange face on their turf. They sit on their sidewalks hidden under hats and

caps and behind drugstore sunshades, and like sentries they observe every movement.

They hear the sounds of the street, they absorb the odors of diesel fumes from city buses

and fried grease from cheap diners. The same cab passes twice in an hour, and they know

it. A gun is fired in the distance, and they know where it came from. A fine auto with

Virginia or Maryland plates is parked at the curb, they'll watch it until it leaves.

A cop with no uniform waits in a car with no markings, and they see it.

* * *

"The police are out there," one of our clients said to Sofia. She walked to the front door,

looked southeast on Q, and there she saw what appeared to be an unmarked police car.

She waited half an hour, and checked it again. Then she went to Mordecai.

I was oblivious because I was fighting with the food stamp office on one front and the

prosecutor's office on another. It was Friday afternoon, and the city bureaucracy,

substandard on a good day, was shutting down fast. They delivered the news together.

"I think the cops might be waiting," Mordecai announced solemnly.

My first reaction was to duck under the desk, but, of course, I did not. I tried to appear

calm. "Where?" I asked, as if it mattered.

"At the corner. They've been watching the building for more than a half hour."

"Maybe they're coming after you," I said. Ha-ha. Stone faces all around.

"I've called," Sofia said. "And there's a warrant for your arrest. Grand larceny."

A felony! Prison! A handsome white boy thrown into the pit. I shifted weight from one

side to another, and I tried my best to show no fear.

"That's no surprise," I said. Happened all the time. "Let's get it over with."

"I have a call in for a guy at the prosecutor's office," Mordecai said. "It would be nice if

they allowed you to turn yourself in."

"That would be nice," I said as if it didn't really matter. "But I've been talking to the

prosecutor's office all afternoon. No one's listening."

"They have two hundred lawyers," he said.

Mordecai did not make friends on that side of the street. Cops and prosecutors were his

natural enemies.

A quick game plan was devised. Sofia would call a bail bondsman, who would meet us at

the jail. Mordecai would try to find a friendly judge. What was not said was the obvious--