The Turnaround by George Pelecanos Page A

swirled pink and red.
    “They call it Marionberry cheesecake.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    “They were going for cute.”
    “You want some coffee? I just brewed it.”
    “I’m parked on the grass,” said Alex. “I better get home.”
    “Thank you. This all looks great.”
    “My pleasure. How’s the library doing?”
    “We could always use more books.”
    “I’m gonna bring some paperbacks. Detective stuff. I got too many lying around. My wife is on my back to get rid of them.”
    “Okay, Alex. Bye.”
    He stopped by weeknights on his way home from work, but he never stayed to mingle with the soldiers or their families. He said he didn’t have the time to hang around. He didn’t want their thanks. He was parked on the grass. He had to go.
    RAYMOND MONROE walked the grounds of the facility, staying after his shift to catch a ride with Kendall, who was late getting off work. Especially going west, away from the hospital, the grounds were green and landscaped with old-growth oak, maple trees, and flowering cherry and magnolia. It had been announced that the Walter Reed complex would move out of D.C. in the next ten years. Officials had been wavering on the decision as of late, but the stay of execution would only be temporary. One hundred and thirteen valuable acres in the middle of the city—it was inevitable that the facility would go.
    Turning the corner of one of the Fisher homes, he nearly walked into a white man about his age, just coming out the back door. Monroe was used to deformity, what with all the wounded, amputees, and burn victims he treated. But there was something else about this man, aside from the horrible droop of his right eye, that unsettled Monroe immediately.
    “ ’Scuse me, buddy,” said Monroe, putting his hand on the man’s arm as he moved to step around him.
    “Excuse me, ” said the man, who went on his way.
    Monroe stopped at the back door of the Fisher House and looked at the man walking to his vehicle, a Jeep Cherokee parked on the grass. He studied the man for a moment longer, flashing on those days after, that painful time in court. He pushed on the door and entered the house.
    Peggy Stawinski stood in the kitchen, setting out some cakes and pies on the long counter. “Raymond. Funny how you just happened to stop by as soon I put these out.”
    “You know I like sweet things, Peggy. Like you.”
    “Stop.”
    Monroe often came in to say hello to Peggy. Both of them had sons under fire.
    “I’m waitin on my girlfriend. Killing time.” Monroe reached for something on the counter, and Peggy gently slapped his hand. “That does look good, though.”
    “Marionberry cheesecake.”
    “Clever.”
    “Want a cup of coffee?”
    “Nah, I’m good.” Monroe ran a finger along his thin black mustache. “Listen, who was that man who just left out of here? Had on a white shirt and work pants.”
    “He owns a lunch place downtown, at Connecticut and N. Brings us desserts every night on his way home.”
    “Just to, what, show his support?”
    “He lost a son in Iraq.”
    Monroe nodded.
    “His name is Alex Pappas,” said Peggy.
    “Pappas.”
    Alex Pappas had been the boy’s name. He knew Pappas was the Greek version of Smith or Jones. Still, there was the eye, and this erased any doubt. The boy would have carried that mark his whole life. Charles Baker had seen to that.
    “You know him?” said Peggy.
    Monroe didn’t answer. He was thinking.

Eight
    C HARLES BAKER sat in Leo’s, a neighborhood watering hole on Georgia Avenue, near a flower-and-tree cross street in Shepherd Park. On the wood before him was a glass of draft beer that he had been nursing for some time. He was reading a newspaper and waiting on his ride.
    Baker went through the Washington Post front to back. He did this daily. Though he had opened neither books nor newspapers in his youth, he had picked up the reading bug while in prison. The habit had stuck.
    One section he skipped was employment. With his