Dead End Street (18 page)

“I am at your disposal,” Shelby said.

“Edward Perkins,” I said.

“Ah,” Shelby said sagely. “What do you need?”

“Aren't you going to ask why I'm looking at him?”

“I think I can guess. His name is on a lot of the lists that I see. Besides, I've already talked to Marty about him.”

That startled me. “What? Why?”

“You don't know? She didn't say. She just wanted a quick snapshot of his financials, and his contributions history.”

Now I was confused. Alice had told me that she had come to me first. Was Marty already thinking along the same lines? “Have you done it yet?”

“Ha! No, I've been doing my job here, but I'll get right on it.”

I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “Detective Meredith says they've caught the shooter.”

“Well, hey, that's good news. Isn't it?”

“I suppose. I hope she'll find out whether this was random or whether there was a reason for the shooting.”

“Well, lady, I don't see you as a threat to drug traffickers in North Philadelphia, so I can't imagine it's personal.”

“I agree. It's just one of those things that feels unfinished. I'm not ready to file it away and forget it. How long will it take to get a quick profile on Mr. Perkins?”

“You want financial status, domiciles, friends, other affiliations, the whole nine yards?”

“If you please, ma'am.”

“I should have it by the end of the day.”

“Thanks, Shelby.”

I wasn't surprised when Marty walked into my office shortly after lunch. Sometimes things seemed to pick up speed of their own accord, and Marty was just keeping up the cosmic pace.

“We're meeting Edward Perkins tomorrow morning,” she said bluntly.

“About what?” I asked. “By the way, thanks for clearing it with me first.”

“Eric said you were free,” she retorted. “That's the time Edward had available.”

“Hang on—is this because of what you and Alice talked about?”

Marty looked a little guilty. “Oh, well, I guess I might have said something to Alice. She talked to you?”

I was beginning to feel like I had wandered into
somebody else's comedy routine. “Let's start over. Why are we talking to Edward Perkins tomorrow?”

“About the Oliver house, of course,” she said. “What else?”

“You've talked to him about this?” I asked, trying to sort through the scenarios.

“No, but I asked if we could have an hour of his time. You have a problem with that?”

“I guess not.” After all, I had a whole day to figure out what we were supposed to talk about—which project, and how much money. “As it happens, I've asked Shelby for his dossier, and she told me you did, too. She said she'd have it by the end of the day. Are you going to fill me in on what I need to know? Is he now or was he ever employed, or is he retired, or does he live off family wealth?”

“Nell, actually you don't need a whole lot of information, and he's pretty much an open book. One of the last of the Titans, you might say.”

“Marty, I don't want to walk in cold.” Especially if I didn't know what I was pitching. “I prefer to be prepared. I've met the man, but I can't say I know him.”

“What do you think you know?”

I mentally reviewed what I had gleaned so far. “Never married. Solid philanthropist, and gives to all the predictable causes and institutions. Has a soft spot for his niece Alice, maybe because he's never had kids of his own. He's got money. Where'd it come from?”

“You've hit the high points. The money came from
both sides of his family—steel on one side, banking on the other. All on the up and up—no skeletons in his closets, or bodies buried anywhere. He really is old-school, and I wish we had a lot more like him.”

“How did you come to know him?”

“Family connections that go way back.” Marty didn't elaborate. I didn't really need to know; I knew enough about Marty's family to know that the links were complex and extensive.

“You on a first-name basis?” I asked, mostly out of curiosity.

“When I was a kid, he was Uncle Eddie, but that doesn't mean he's a pushover. He's a smart man when it comes to managing his money, which is why he still has most of it. He's getting up there in years, obviously, and he's looking to solidify his legacy.”

“He's not leaving a chunk to the Society, is he?” I had to ask, although I didn't expect it.

“Nope. But he's got some other ideas, although I don't have all the details.”

“For the Oliver house?”

“Yes. By the way, there's one thing that you might want to know: he was once engaged to Penelope Oliver.”

“What? You didn't think this was worth mentioning before this? That puts things in a whole new light.”

“I suppose. It certainly means he might be willing to work something out for the sisters.”

With a personal connection like that, it seemed foolish to approach him about the neighborhoods project. I hoped Alice wouldn't be disappointed.

I sighed, although either Marty didn't notice or chose to ignore me. “Where are we meeting?”

“His house, just off Rittenhouse Square.”

That should be nice to see, at least—it was a beautiful neighborhood. “Should you and I meet here? Or at your place?”

“I'm closer. Have Jimmy drop you off at my house and we can walk over. Meeting's at ten.”

“Got it. You don't mind if I read Shelby's file, though, do you?”

“Knock yourself out. Anything else going on?”

“Detective Hrivnak says the police have the man who shot at us, and he's in custody. They picked him up for another crime, but he used the same weapon.”

“Huh. He said anything yet?”

“Nope. He asked for a lawyer right away—maybe he's been through this before. But I'd guess that Hrivnak wasn't finished with him yet.”

“I'm still surprised she cares about this case. Maybe she actually likes you.”

“Could be. I'm not going to argue, and I'd certainly like to know what really happened, and why.”

“Yeah, but you may never find out. Let's focus on moving forward. You ready for the board meeting?”

“I keep trying to blot it out of my mind, but at least the members have had all the info they could want—and you should know that, since Eric mailed it to you last week. Wait—is that why you're moving so fast on the Oliver property thing? So you can take it to the board?”

“Maybe. The board won't meet again until after New
Year's, and who knows how poor Penelope will be faring by then?”

“Does it really matter if the Society doesn't take part in facilitating this thing, whatever it turns out to be?”

Marty faced me squarely. “Nell, there's a possibility that we can do a good thing here. It matches the Society's mission. Yes, it may require commitments of time and effort, and yes, even money. We have a great opportunity here, and I don't want to miss the chance because we're being too cautious. Things move fast these days. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

That, coming from Marty, was passionate. “Don't forget that we're voting on Eliot for the board this meeting. Everything good there?” I wasn't sure whether I was asking professionally or personally, but I'd let her choose.

“We're good. And we'll be talking with him after we meet with Edward.”

“About?”

“You'll see.”

It was clear that Marty was planning something. It was also clear that she wasn't going to share it with me, at least not until tomorrow. There was nothing to be gained by prying now. “I will look forward to it.”

Shelby delivered the information on Edward Perkins about four o'clock, and sat waiting while I skimmed it. I made comments as I read. “Wow, he's older than I thought, considering that Alice is his niece. Or should I say grand-niece? Three houses—town, country, and shore. Memberships in the right clubs—I guess we can't ask how often he shows
up there. Collects . . . Georgian silver?” I looked up at Shelby.

“Yup. My guess is that he inherited a lot of it, but he adds bits and pieces when they come to market.”

“One other little piece of information you should add to the file: he was once engaged to Penelope Oliver.”

Shelby's eyes lighted up. “One of the sisters who own the Oliver house? Well, that means something, although I couldn't quite say what. I wonder if they parted amicably.”

“Marty did not choose to share that with me, if she knows. But neither party has ever married, for what that's worth.”

I went back to reading until I finished what she had given me, then sat back in my chair. “I wish we could clone him. He's the perfect member.”

“I know what you mean. He seems like an all-around good guy—with money. And he likes us.”

“Exactly. Marty and I are meeting with him tomorrow morning.”

“Ooh, do tell! About this Oliver property?”

“Yes. Marty's hatching something, but she won't say what. Still, I have to trust her—she pulls some amazing things out of her hat.”

“We're lucky to have her here. You think any of the next generation will care as much?”

“About history? Or supporting nonprofits? I won't hold my breath. What's your daughter think?” Shelby's daughter had gotten married just around the time I'd hired Shelby.

“She's too much caught up in her own life right now. I hope I laid the groundwork for historic appreciation, but we probably won't know for quite a while.”

“Seems odd to mourn the passing of the past, if you know what I mean,” I said.

“I hear you. Anything else you need from me? Because that government report is due this week, and they ask for the weirdest information!”

“Go! And thank you for this stuff—I'll try to put it to good use.”

“Bring home the bacon, lady,” Shelby said as she went out the door.

And then it was time to meet James downstairs. Where had the day gone?

I was waiting on the steps when he pulled up, and I got in quickly to avoid holding up traffic. “Hello.”

“Hello.” He focused on getting us out of the worst of city traffic before speaking again. “How was your day?”

“Busy, although I barely left my desk. Hrivnak called—she said they made an arrest for another crime, but it turned out the gun the guy used was the one that shot Cherisse, so they've got the shooter. What're the odds of that?”

“It is a bit surprising. I suppose he never thought about tossing the gun, or maybe trading it for another.”

“Based on my extensive experience,” I said wryly, “most criminals are not very smart. Anyway, the detective said he was known to them, so it's not his first crime. I suppose a lot of people in those neighborhoods, particularly
drug dealers, feel kind of invincible. I know if I were a cop, I wouldn't want to venture in there, not without plenty of backup. Oh, before I forget, Marty and I have an appointment in the morning, so could you drop me at her place?”

“No problem. Something I need to know about?”

“Nope, just Society business. She's plotting something, but she won't say what. Oh, and remember I have the board meeting on Thursday after work, so I suppose I should drive in that day.”

“Fine.” James glanced at me briefly. “You'll park in the lot across the street?”

“You mean the one with bright lights and a twenty-four-hour guard and surveillance cameras? Yes, I will. Safe enough for you?”

“It will have to do.”

“Is there any way to find out what the police learn from the guy they arrested?”

“Are you asking me to find out?”

I backed off quickly. “No, you know I wouldn't do that. Heck, I'd probably have better luck with Hrivnak than you would right now.”

“Exactly,” James said. “You can leave me out of it.”

We arrived home quickly, and after changing into comfortable clothes, set about making dinner, or at least an approximation of a meal. Good thing we weren't hung up on the conventions of polite society. I could probably quote chapter and verse from Emily Post, the doyenne of cultural arbiters of the early twentieth century (I needed how many forks? Placed in what order?), but I didn't want to live it.

Halfway through the meal, I started musing, mostly to myself. “You know, now they have a man in custody, and his possession of the weapon kind of points to him as the shooter.”

“I'd say the odds are about eighty-five percent,” James agreed.

“So if there's a decision tree or something here, then this is a fork: either this truly was random, or he knew one or another of us in that car, or knew
of
us and where to find us, thanks to someone else fingering us.”

“Are you going somewhere with this, Nell?” James asked.

“Well, if we set aside the random branch, then we arrive quickly at another fork: either the guy had something personal against one or us, or someone who did paid him to shoot at us.”

“Okay,” James said cautiously. “How far do you plan to take this?”

“I'm just thinking out loud. I could talk to myself, but that looks a little odd.”

“Fine. Proceed, but keep it short, please.”

“Right. Fork A of branch B: the guy didn't know me, but he might have known either Tyrone or Cherisse. Fork B of branch B: someone wants one of us dead, and in this case it could be me.”

“Theoretically,” James said. “But could you possibly have done something to make someone that angry?”

“I doubt it, although every time the Society raises its dues, which are ridiculously low, quite a few people get angry. Angry enough to kill? I don't think so, but
researchers can be a bit maniacal. Okay, let's set that aside. Which leaves us with Tyrone and Cherisse. The police have checked them out, and while I don't have the details, I gather they passed muster—no dark past or seamy associates. He grew up in North Philly; she was a suburban girl. He's a community activist; she was a City employee. They met through a shared interest in neighborhood revitalization. While there could be an individual who got hot under the collar about what one or the other of them wanted to do with their abandoned or derelict property, it seems more likely to me that a person with a beef would get in their face on the spot, not hire a hit man. And the economic side of that equation doesn't work; sure, that person would lose the property, but the property isn't worth anything anyway and probably has a lot of back taxes and such attached. If it's their favorite drug house, there are plenty more empty ones to choose from.”

“Nell, do you have a point?” James asked.

“I think so,” I said, and was surprised; I had thought I was just spitballing. “Nobody had a professional reason to shoot at either one of them, unless maybe there's someone in Tyrone's organization who wants to play a bigger role. But killing someone seems kind of extreme, just to move up the ladder of a struggling nonprofit. Which leaves only one alternative: it was personal.”

James pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair. “Say that it is. Don't you think Hrivnak has looked into that?”

“Maybe, but not very hard—her higher-ups won't let her. The case is closed, more or less.”

“And what are you going to do about it?”