Dead End Street (3 page)

I felt mildly embarrassed as I read along. I knew about the early settlement of the city, along the waterfront, and its gradual migration inland as the city grew, but much of my knowledge ended with the construction of City Hall, finished in 1901, which was kind of hard to miss. I had never had much cause to pay attention to the rise of industries and their shifting distribution, and had given little thought to the impact of those changes on the inhabitants of various parts of the city. Did that make me a snob? Concerned only with the rich and important citizens and what buildings and artifacts they'd left behind? It seemed that I was not doing my job, or not all of it.

Shelby and I went out and grabbed a quick sandwich, and then returned to our respective desks. I did a little more reading, so at least I could ask the right questions during our excursion. At five before two I was waiting in the lobby for my zealous escorts.

Tyrone and Cherisse arrived in a nondescript four-door sedan that had seen better days. I wondered if that was a reflection of their modesty, or recognition that we were headed for a neighborhood that would welcome a high-end car—for all the wrong reasons, like seeing it as a source of spare parts.

North Philadelphia begins only a few blocks north of Market Street, which runs east to west and extends for miles. This I knew from looking at maps and reading the papers. I couldn't recall that I'd ever set foot in any part of it, unless I was with someone who was most likely lost. It could be Mars for all its kinship to Center City. It is a slum, a ghetto, a blot on the city.

Once upon a time, long, long ago, it had been a prosperous family neighborhood, full of tidy row houses that housed working-class people, and neighborhoods revolved
around the factories, the churches, the union halls, the front stoops, and for some, the bars. Now, after the early families had fled to the suburbs, the factories had moved to China, and poorer minorities had moved in, it was known as the Badlands, or Killadelphia. Those guys we passed, standing on street corners, were drug dealers, and they weren't hiding it. Much of the time the cops were part of the problem rather than the solution. Not only was there widespread corruption, but I'd read very recently that the US Justice Department had reviewed shootings by cops in the city and found that while New York's population and police force were each five times larger than Philadelphia's, Philadelphia had far more police shootings.

And the Society owned a property smack in the middle of it. I was ashamed. And I had to do something about it.

“Is it far?” I asked Tyrone, who was driving.

“Closer than you might think. You didn't find anything in your records?”

“Not yet. I have my director of development looking into it, but I didn't have much to work with. What is it you want me to look at here?” Apart from the poverty and crime and depressing ugliness.

“What do you know about row house history?” Cherisse asked, turning in her seat to face me.

“Less than I should, I'm sure. What can you tell me?”

“Short version?” Cherisse asked. I nodded. “Row houses were built to accommodate a growing artisan and commercial population—you could call them early middle class,” she began. “They were built quickly—which is not the same as badly—and often left unfinished so that the
purchasers could add their own details. There were also a lot of row houses built as rentals, and they tended to be plainer. Usually three rooms deep, but narrow, with a small yard behind and an alley at the back between the rows. Front room was fancier, and that's where the heat was. Dining room and kitchen behind—the kitchen was usually pretty small, more an ell than a room. Or even in the basement, sometimes. Upstairs, two bedrooms in the front, either side of the staircase, and a bathroom at the back, over the kitchen. That pretty much sums it up. That's what you've got.”

“I see.” I did—but I saw much more. I saw streets where vacant lots alternated with abandoned buildings interspersed with a few houses that looked like someone was living—or squatting—in them. People hanging around, watching any car that passed with suspicion. Trashed cars parked at clumsy angles to the sidewalks. A few scraggly trees, usually at the back of the properties, where they'd sprung up untended. It was possible to see that these houses had once been nice, or at least respectable, but not anymore. “Can you answer something honestly for me? Are you taking me along the worst possible route, or is this actually typical?”

The two in the front seat exchanged glances. “Half and half,” Cherisse answered. “I know it's going to sound racist, or maybe I mean elitist, but you people in your nice, pretty antique buildings or your shiny glass skyscrapers in Center City really need to get out and see the real world now and then. This is it, and it's not pretty.”

Was she trying to annoy me? “Point taken. I get it. So where's our house?”

“Next block over,” Tyrone said, and we all fell silent for the remaining short distance.

He pulled up at the curb in front of the house, its number painted roughly on the stucco front. An orange sign tacked to the door said the building was condemned. The houses on either side were long gone, their lots now grassed over. At least there were some mature trees behind the building, providing a small amount of softness. The only window on the ground floor was covered with plywood, but in the upstairs windows tattered lace curtains fluttered, which made me sad. Someone had once lived here, cared for the place. Now it was an eyesore, unsafe, and about to be destroyed. And it belonged to the Society. I wasn't sure yet when the Society had come into possession of it, but I thought it was a safe bet that nobody had been collecting rent or paying taxes on it for a long time. It had truly fallen off the map for both the Society and the City.

“This is kind of far gone to save, you said?” I noticed that neither of my companions had made a move to get out of the car.

Tyrone turned in his seat. “To be honest, yes. We weren't exactly pitching it to you that we could ‘save' the building. That's why we're calling it a ‘funeral.'” He made air quotes. “But we wanted to make a point. Obviously this building has been neglected for years. The houses that stood next to it have long since fallen down or been razed. I could tell you who owned them, years ago, but those people are either dead or untraceable. You and your Society were easy to find, once we located the record. I
wanted you to see firsthand what neglect and abandonment can do, not just to one building but to the whole neighborhood. You can multiply what you see here over many, many city blocks in any direction from here.”

Gee, thanks for the guilt trip, Tyrone.
“What do you want me to do, apologize? I didn't know. Back when the Society divested itself of what it thought was all its real estate, conditions were very different, and the properties were at least livable. I agree that this is tragic, on many levels, but I'm not sure what you expect from me. You want me to step up and do public penance in the papers and the media?” I was really getting upset, although I wasn't quite sure why. Maybe I was mad at myself: I'd made a point of avoiding looking at scenes like this not only because they were dangerous, but because they were damned depressing. They certainly clashed with the calm and dignity of the Society and what went on within its walls, where I was privileged to spend my time. This was as much a part of the city as the Society's environs.

Cherisse had been quiet for a few minutes, letting Tyrone carry the ball, but now she nudged him. “Tyrone, that car's driven past us before.” She nodded toward a nondescript dark sedan coming toward us, moving slowly. Tyrone and Cherisse exchanged looks again.

“What?” I demanded. They were making me nervous. I glanced around the street. The nearest corner was maybe a hundred feet away, ahead of us. There were few people on the street, none on this block, and I could count only a few parked cars in the distance. Okay, so a car circling the block at this particular location was suspicious—I got that.

“I think we've seen enough,” Tyrone said, and turned the key to start the engine.

Not quickly enough. I could see the same car rounding the corner ahead of us again. Then, like a bull in a ring, it accelerated rapidly toward us. Its windows rolled down, and a hand with a weapon emerged from the backseat. For a second I froze—could this really be happening?—but then I realized we were all like goldfish in a bowl, targets for whoever it was. The only thing I could hope to do was to get myself out of the line of fire—let Tyrone and Cherisse fend for themselves. I ducked, quickly opened the door on the curb side, and rolled out and lay flat on what was left of the pavement, just as the first bullets hit the car. And continued to hit it, sending window glass spraying, thunking against metal, until I estimated any and all magazines had been emptied—I hoped. If someone got out of that car to check, I had nowhere to go.

Luckily the shooters seemed satisfied, because they revved their engine and sped off down the block, tires squealing, leaving heavy silence behind. I lay there for a moment, taking stock. I couldn't see anyone up or down the street, much less a concerned citizen who would already be calling the police. I wasn't hurt. Lying flat on my face had been a smart move, although I didn't recall thinking, only acting. I rose to my knees and peered into the front seat. Windshield reduced to shards, blood everywhere. Tyrone seemed to be moving, but Cherisse was ominously still. I crawled over to the open rear door I'd thrown myself out, retrieved my purse, found my cell phone, and punched in 911. When someone answered, I said in a voice that was
surprisingly calm. “There's been a shooting at three eighty-seven Bickley Street. Two wounded, one possibly dead. The shooters are gone.” Although they could come back.

The dispatcher on the other end made soothing noises and told me to repeat the information, which I did. Cool under pressure, that was me. No problem, although I noticed as if from a distance that my hands were shaking, and I wasn't sure I could hit a phone button. She promised she was sending someone. She asked me to stay on the line. I hung up on her—and hit James's speed dial.

“Nell?” he answered in a cheerful voice. “What's up?”

It took me a moment to string words together. “There's been a shooting. I'm, uh, kind of on the scene.”

James's next words could have come from a different person, as he snapped into official mode. “Are you hurt?”

“No, but the other people in the car are.”

“Have you called the police?”

“Yes.

“Where are you?”

I gave him the address.

“I'll be there in ten. Rough neighborhood. If you have to move, let me know.” He hung up.

I slumped back against the car after looking both ways. Still nobody in sight who seemed to care. Apparently random shootings were the norm here. Was I supposed to attempt first aid on Tyrone and Cherisse? Not one of my strengths. Besides which, I was pretty sure that Cherisse was beyond help.
Nell, what about Tyrone?
my inner conscience demanded. I wanted to tell her to shut up, but then I considered how I would feel if Tyrone bled to death
within a couple of feet of me while I cowered on the pavement. I'd have to live with that. I didn't want to.

I hauled myself to my feet and glanced around again, then came around to the driver's side and opened the front door. Tyrone was held in by his seat belt, but he seemed to be bleeding from more than one place. When I touched his neck, feeling for a pulse, his eyes opened and focused on me. “What the hell . . . ?” Then he appeared to remember where he was, and he turned quickly, wincing, to Cherisse. “Damn,” he whispered, then reached out and brushed a lock of hair from her face. His hand lingered on her cheek for a moment before he turned back to me. “You call the police?”

He hadn't asked whether I was all right, but the fact that I was standing in front of him with no blood on me was probably enough. “Yes. And the FBI.” Tyrone raised one eyebrow, so I explained, “My boyfriend's an agent.”

Tyrone leaned back and shut his eyes. “Boyfriend'll probably be here before the cops.”

The blood on his clothes kept spreading slowly, but at least there was no spurting. I had no idea what I could do to help—I was more likely to do harm than good. It seemed like an eternity but was probably no more than five minutes before a black-and-white and James arrived at the same time. The cops looked wary, peering in all directions, hands on their weapons, as they approached. “Are you the one who called in the shooting?” one asked.

I nodded and gestured toward the front seat. “No ambulance?” I asked in a hoarse croak.

“Sorry. We get a lot of false alarms in this
neighborhood. Sometimes they just want to draw us in and take potshots at us. We'll call for one now. You okay?”

I nodded. “I wasn't hit. Just them.”

“You were in the car with them?”

“Yes, in the backseat. I saw a car approach slowly, and then I saw the gun. I ducked.”

“Did you see the shooter?”

“One guy in the backseat, plus the driver. I don't think I'd recognize him. I was too busy ducking.”

And then James was there, wrapping me in his arms and pulling me close, and I burst into tears.

“Uh, excuse me, sir,” one of the cops began, and without letting me go, James flashed his badge. The cop retreated.

I tried to burrow into James's chest. I didn't want to open my eyes. Or maybe I did, because with my eyes closed I kept seeing the same scene of car and guns over and over.

“You're not hurt?” James's voice rumbled through his chest. I shook my head.

“But you saw what happened?”

I nodded. “Part of it,” I mumbled. “I kind of got out of the way before the shooting started.”

“Smart woman,” James said.

I snorted. “If I was a smart woman, I wouldn't be here at all.”

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“Long story. What happens now?” I pulled back maybe an inch, which kind of helped my breathing.

“The police will want to know what you saw. Are you up to it, or do you want to go home? I can stall them if you want.”

I made a quick assessment. Part of me really,
really
wanted to go home and curl up with my ratty bathrobe and a fuzzy blanket and drink a large Scotch or two, neat, with James's arms around me. The grown-up part of me vetoed that. I swabbed away tears with the back of my hand. “I think I'd better get this over with now—I might forget something.”

“I've got your back,” James said. “I'm going with you.”

“Thank you.” I had no idea what to do with my hands or any of the rest of me. I grabbed James's lapels and kind of tugged on them—assuring myself he was real?—and then realized my hands were bloody from when I'd looked for Tyrone's pulse. “Oh, sorry.”