One of his hands was clenched into a tight fist, while the other was stretched open. His fingers were as rigid as the pencils sticking up from the leather cup on his desk.

“You’re not fooling anybody, Cross, least of all me. I’m fully fucking aware that you’re investigating homicides in Southeast that you aren’t assigned to — the so-called Jane Does. You’re doing this against my explicit orders. Some of those cases have been closed for over a year. I won’t have it — I won’t tolerate your insubordination, your condescending attitude. I know what you’re trying to pull. Embarrass the department, specifically embarrass me, curry fucking favor with the mayor, making yourself some kind of folk hero in Southeast in the process.”

I hated Pittman’s tone and what he was saying, but I learned one trick a long time ago, and it is probably the most important thing to know about politics inside any organization. It’s so simple, but it’s the key to every petty kingdom, every fiefdom. Knowledge truly is power, it’s everything; if you don’t have any, pretend you do.

So I told Chief Pittman nothing. I didn’t contradict him; I didn’t admit to a thing. I did nothing. Me and Mahatma Gandhi.

I let him think that maybe I was investigating old cases in Southeast — but I didn’t admit to it. I also let him think that maybe I had some powerful connections with Mayor Monroe and God only knows who else in the City on the Hill. I let him think that maybe I was after his job, or that I might have — God forbid — even loftier aspirations.

“I’m working the homicides assigned to me. Check with the captain. I’m doing my best to close as many cases as I can.”

Pittman nodded curtly — one nod. His face was still heart-attack red. “All right, I want you to close this case, and I want you to close it fast. A tourist was robbed and gunned down on M Street last night,” he said. “A well-respected German doctor from Munich. It’s front fucking page in today’s Post. Not to mention the International Herald Tribune, and every newspaper in Germany, of course. I want you on that murder case, and I want it solved pronto.”

“This doctor, he’s a white man?” I asked, keeping my expression neutral.

“I told you, he’s German.”

“I already have a number of open cases in Southeast,” I said to Pittman. “A nurse was murdered over the weekend.”

He didn’t want to hear it. He shook his head — one shake. “And now you have an important case in Georgetown. Solve it, Cross. You’re to work on nothing else. That’s a direct order … from The Jefe.”

Chapter 15