Chapter 4 #2
There was a brief flicker of light in Loretta’s expression.
“There was someone. He didn’t talk about her much, not directly.
But a mother knows.” She touched her cheek, wiping away a tear that had escaped.
“He’d get this look on his face sometimes when his phone buzzed.
This little smile, like he had a secret.
I asked him about it once, and he just said it was early days, he didn’t want to jinx it.
Said he’d bring her to meet me when things got more serious. ”
“Do you know her name?”
“No. He never said. I didn’t push.” Her face crumpled again. “I should have pushed. I should have asked more questions, made him tell me—”
“Mrs. Washington.” I reached out and covered her hand with mine. “You couldn’t have known. None of this is your fault.”
She looked at me with eyes that wanted to believe it but couldn’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
“What about friends?” Jack asked after a moment. “Anyone he spent time with regularly?”
Loretta drew a shaky breath. “Some buddies from the Marines. They’d get together now and then, have a beer, watch a game. And there was his trainer—Vic something. Italian name, I think. They’d been working together for a while now.”
Jack and I exchanged a glance. “His trainer?”
“From the gym.” Loretta’s brow creased. “Andre used to box in the Marines. He was good at it, won some competitions on base. When he got out, he wanted to keep it up. Said it helped him clear his head, burn off stress after work.” A sad smile touched her lips.
“He always did have too much energy. Even as a little boy, couldn’t sit still for nothing.
I used to say he was like a firecracker looking for a match. ”
“Do you know the name of the gym?”
“Iron something? Iron House, maybe?” She shook her head. “He didn’t talk about it much. Just said it was good for him, kept him focused.”
I hesitated before asking the next question. It felt intrusive, poking at a mother’s wounds while they were still fresh and bleeding. But we needed to know.
“Mrs. Washington, did Andre have any health issues? Anything he was being treated for?”
Her fingers stilled on the shredded tissues. Something crossed her face—a shadow of worry that had nothing to do with the news we’d just delivered. An older fear, one she’d been carrying for a while.
“He started having seizures about a year ago.” Her voice dropped, like she was sharing something shameful.
“The doctors said it was from getting hit in the head too many times back when he was boxing. All those blows, they add up, I guess.” She stared down at her hands.
“They put him on medication for it. Klonopin, I think it’s called.
He’d been doing better—no episodes in months, he told me.
But I still worried. Every time my phone rang, I thought… ”
She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to.
“Did anyone else know about the seizures?” I asked gently. “Friends, co-workers, his trainer?”
“No. Nobody.” Her chin lifted, a flash of her son’s pride showing through the grief.
“He was embarrassed by it. Said it made him feel weak, like his body was betraying him. He didn’t want anyone to see him as anything less than strong.
” The tears spilled over again. “My strong boy. He worked so hard to be strong.”
Jack gave her a moment, then asked, “Did Andre ever mention owing anyone money? Gambling debts, loans, anything like that?”
“Never. Andre was careful with his money. Responsible.” A watery smile flickered across her face. “He sent me a little every month, even when I told him I didn’t need it. Said it was his job to take care of me now. Said I’d spent enough years taking care of him.”
“What about anyone who might have wanted to hurt him? Any conflicts, disagreements?”
Loretta looked at Jack like he’d asked if the sun might rise in the west. “Andre didn’t have enemies.
Everyone loved him. He’d give you the shirt off his back and apologize it wasn’t warmer.
” Her voice splintered. “He held doors for strangers. Called his mama every week. Who could want to hurt someone like that? Who could do this to my baby?”
I didn’t have an answer for her. Neither did Jack.
We asked a few more questions—about his daily routine, his habits, whether he’d seemed different lately—but Loretta had given us everything she had. Her son had kept his life compartmentalized, showing her only the parts he wanted her to see.
Jack leaned forward, his voice softening. “Mrs. Washington, is there someone we can call for you? Family, a friend, someone from your church? You shouldn’t be alone right now.”
She blinked, like the question surprised her. “My sister. Gloria. She lives over in Fredericksburg.”
“Would you like us to call her?”
“I—” Her voice faltered. “Yes. Please. I don’t think I can… I can’t say the words again.”
Jack made the call while I sat with Loretta, holding her hand while she stared at nothing. Gloria answered on the second ring and said she’d be there in thirty minutes.
We stayed until she arrived—a woman who looked like an older, softer version of Loretta, with the same kind eyes and the same grief now carved into her face. She gathered her sister into her arms without a word, and Loretta finally let go, sobbing against Gloria’s shoulder like a child.
Jack left his card on the coffee table, along with the number for victim services. “We’ll be in touch,” he said quietly to Gloria. “If she thinks of anything else, anything at all, have her call.”
Gloria nodded, her hand stroking Loretta’s back. “Find who did this. Find them and make them pay.”
“We will,” Jack said.
We let ourselves out. The door closed behind us with a soft click, and Loretta’s muffled sobs faded as we walked down the stairs and into the parking lot, where the kids were still playing soccer and the sun was still shining like the world hadn’t just ended for a woman in apartment 2B.
Neither of us spoke until we were back in the Tahoe.
“She said nobody knew about the seizures,” Jack said. “He kept it private.”
“Somebody always knows.”
Jack started the engine. “Let’s go check out his apartment.”
* * *
Andre’s apartment was on the other side of King George Proper, in a newer complex that catered to young professionals and military personnel from the nearby base.
The kind of place with a fitness center nobody used and a pool that got crowded on weekends.
Clean lines, neutral colors, utterly forgettable.
You could live here for years and never learn your neighbor’s name.
The landlord met us at the entrance to building D—a heavyset man in his sixties who jingled a ring of keys like worry beads. Sweat stained the collar of his polo shirt, and he was breathing hard by the time we reached the third floor.
“Terrible thing,” he said between breaths. “Terrible. Kid was quiet, never caused any trouble. Paid his rent on time, kept his place clean. You couldn’t ask for a better tenant.”
The refrain of the dead. I’d heard it a hundred times. Nobody ever said the victim was a jerk who played loud music and let his dog crap in the hallway. Death had a way of sanding down the rough edges, leaving behind only the smooth and the polished.
“Did you see him recently?” Jack asked.
“Thursday, I think. Maybe Friday morning.” The landlord scratched his chin. “After that, no. But that’s not unusual. Lot of these young folks keep odd hours. Work, gym, whatever. I don’t keep tabs.”
Thursday or Friday. Right before his world collapsed.
He unlocked apartment 312 and stepped aside with obvious relief, eager to hand off the responsibility of whatever we might find.
“A crime-scene unit will be here shortly to process the apartment,” Jack told him. “They’ll need access to the building.”
The man’s face went a shade paler. Nobody wanted to stand too close to murder. It had a way of rubbing off.
“I’ll be in my office,” he said, and retreated down the stairs faster than he’d climbed them.
Jack and I pulled on gloves and stepped inside.
The apartment was small—a studio with a kitchenette along one wall, a bed against the other, a bathroom tucked in the corner.
But what hit me wasn’t the size. It was the order.
The bed made tight enough to bounce a quarter off.
Clothes in the closet arranged by color.
Shoes lined up like soldiers awaiting inspection.
Andre Washington had carried the military home with him. He’d built his life around discipline, around control, around everything being exactly where it should be.
“Tight ship,” Jack observed.
“Once a Marine.” I moved toward the kitchenette. “These habits don’t fade.”
The refrigerator confirmed what I’d suspected.
Chicken breasts in the freezer. Vegetables in the crisper.
Meal prep containers stacked neatly, each one portioned with rice and protein for the week ahead.
On the counter, a high-end blender sat next to a tub of protein powder. No beer. No soda. No junk food.
This wasn’t a man who trained casually. This was someone who treated his body like a precision instrument.
“No liquor,” Jack said, checking the cabinet above the stove. “Not even a bottle of wine.”
“He was serious.” I closed the refrigerator door. “Whatever he was training for, he was all in.”
The nightstand was next. I pulled open the drawer and found the expected evidence of a personal life—condom wrappers, a half-empty box of Trojans, a bottle of lubricant. Someone had definitely spent time in this bed.
But it was what I found tucked behind the condoms that made me stop.
A slip of paper, folded once. I opened it carefully. Numbers, initials, a date from three weeks ago. Handwritten in pencil on cheap paper, the kind you’d tear off a pad.
Not a lottery ticket. Not a receipt.
“Jack.” I held up the slip of paper. “What do you make of this?”