Dead End Street (5 page)

I managed to walk into the house, and then stood wavering in the middle of the hall. I had no idea what to do. Eat? Sleep? Pitch a fit? Were there instructions? I looked up to see James watching me with a worried expression. Oh God, how had I dragged him into this? Our first major crisis since we'd officially become a couple. (Well, my saving him from a knife-wielding psycho had occurred before we were really together, so I wasn't going to count that.) And he was supposed to take care of me? Me, who had always prided myself on my independence and self-sufficiency. Funny, I hadn't made a plan for dealing with near-death experiences.

James didn't say anything, just came up to me and held me.

“I'm not going to cry again,” I said into his shirt.

“You can if you want. I won't think less of you. I never did admire stoic people.”

“Gee, thanks. I'll hate myself if I blubber; you'll hate me if I don't.”

“Nell . . .” he said helplessly.

“I know, I'm being completely unreasonable. You're doing everything you should.” I didn't want him to let go. I didn't want to need him so much. Who the heck was I?

After some endless amount of time, James cleared his throat. “Nell, here's what I suggest. We go upstairs and change clothes—we've both got blood on ours. We can burn them if you want. Then we get some food into us. Strong drink if you want it. Then we can talk, but only if you want to. I'm not going to tell you how to handle this—it's up to you, and there's no one right way. But I'm here. You can't offend me, but I hope you won't push me away, shut me out.”

“You are too good to be true. All right, I approve your plan. Let me get out of this and scrub the blood off my hands. God, I never thought I'd say that again, after . . .”

“Yes, I know,” he interrupted me. “Let's get comfortable, and then I'll make you dinner. One step at a time, okay?”

“Deal.”

We managed to make it up the stairs, and in our bedroom I stripped off my stained clothes as fast as possible. The shirt and jacket were beyond salvage, or at least, I didn't want to try. In reality the stains extended only a bit beyond the wrists—how was it possible that those two people could have bled so much, so fast? I pitched the clothes into a heap on the floor, and pulled on warm sweats,
socks, slippers. Comfort clothes. The damage to James's wardrobe was confined to his shirt, which I also tossed onto the pile. In the bathroom I turned on the hot water in the sink and scrubbed my hands with a nailbrush until they were red, but at least not with blood.

Then on to comfort food. Childhood food: scrambled eggs and English muffins. And Scotch. I didn't need to think coherently; I didn't want to think at all.

Dinner didn't take long. We retreated to the living room, where we'd finally put a well-padded couch that could hold both of us. I refused to turn on the television. Maybe there was something on the news that I should hear, but I didn't want to. I'd been there; I knew what had happened. None of it was my fault. How could anyone spin any part of it to make me or the Society look bad? Maybe there was a form someone had forgotten to fill out back in 1923, but he was long dead, so it was a little late to point the finger at him.

“Nell,” James said softly, his arms around me.

I was feeling warm and mildly drunk, enough to take the edge off. “James,” I replied.

“It's hard for you to lean on someone, isn't it?”

I'd already figured that out. “Yes. For a long time, there wasn't anyone to catch me when I fell. You learn to take care of yourself. You should know that.”

“I do. We're alike in that way. Plus I'm supposed to be a professional defender of the law, and I carry a weapon. Double burden. No self-doubt allowed.”

“I know. But I don't like feeling helpless.”

“You're not helpless, you're human. You've been through
something awful. If you didn't have a strong emotional reaction to that, I'd be worried about you.”

“Mmm,” I said by way of answer. I was definitely feeling better now than I had a few hours earlier. How I'd feel in the morning was anybody's guess. But, as the quote went, tomorrow was another day.

The phone rang.

“Damn,” I said. “It can't be the press, can it? They don't know where to find me, and I don't think anyone who knows this number would give it to anyone.”

“I'm going to hazard a guess that it's one of those people who does have this number.”

“Marty,” I said.

“Exactly,” James replied.

“I guess I have to answer it,” I said, disentangling myself reluctantly and wandering toward the phone. I checked the caller ID: yup, Marty.

Martha Terwilliger occupied a unique place in our lives, individually and together. She was a board member of the Society, as her father and grandfather had been before her. Her family name was on one of the largest and most significant collections the Society had. She knew everyone worth knowing in the greater Philadelphia area, past and present, and was related to half of them. And somehow she and I had become partners in sorting out crimes—starting with one that led to her orchestrating my elevation to president of the Society—and she had introduced me to James, who happened to be her cousin. That all added up to Marty assuming she had a right to know all the details of whatever happened at the Society as well as to James,
to me, and to us as a couple. She was a good-hearted person, but sometimes I wished she'd put a little distance between us.

I pushed “talk.”

“That was you, right?” Martha Terwilliger said without preamble. She had a way of cutting through the underbrush and getting straight to the point.

I didn't need to ask what she was talking about. “How'd you guess?”

“Trouble seems to find you. You all right? Is Jimmy there?”

“I'm managing. And yes, James arrived in time to scrape me off the pavement—literally—and hold my hand at the police station, and guide me home.”

“I'm glad,” she said, uncharacteristically softly. Then she ramped up the volume again. “So, what the hell were you doing in that neighborhood at all?”

“Society business. Something you and I need to talk about, and probably have to take to the board.”

“You're kidding. Aren't you?” Marty asked anxiously.

“I wish I was. Even I know enough to stay out of that part of town, unless there's a really good reason, but this kind of was. The shooting part was unexpected. I have no idea whether it has anything to do with the Society, but it seems unlikely.”

“The news says somebody was killed. Who was it?”

“A woman named Cherisse Chapman. Do you know her?”

“Sounds familiar . . . Wait—she worked for the City? Short, in her thirties, smart?”

“That's right. How do you know her?”

“She was . . . oh, now I get it. She was working in neighborhood redevelopment, handling vacant properties. That's why you met her?”

I had long since given up being surprised that Marty knew everybody in Philadelphia and what they were doing, and half the time, what their parents and grandparents had done. “Exactly. We were looking at a property that she said the Society owns. Yes, before you interrupt, we all thought we'd gotten rid of all of those, but something got fouled up years ago, and we're still the owner of record. Of a place that's about to collapse, in the middle of a dangerous slum. And Cherisse is dead.”

“What a waste,” Marty muttered. Then she collected herself. “Well, you must be a wreck. I'll come by the Society tomorrow and we can figure out what happened. You going to produce a press release?”

“Oh, shoot—I meant to work on that tonight, so I can send it to Eric and he can get it out first thing in the morning. Although I have no idea how coherent I can be, and how much I can say.”

“Hrivnak on this one?”

“Who else? I seem to be her special project, and I'm keeping her busy these days. I'd better go draft that release. Talk to you tomorrow.”

I hung up, suddenly exhausted, before she could say anything more. Somehow James was behind me again.

“Want me to unplug the phones?”

“We can just ignore them. Unless it's our favorite detective, calling to let me know that they've solved the case
and everything is taken care of. But I think that's beyond even her superpowers.”

“Then come upstairs.”

“I've got to draft a press release so Eric can get to work on it.”

“Saying what?” James asked. “That you were a witness to a shooting that had nothing to do with you? That's not exactly the kind of news you want to announce.”

“What if it did?”

“Involve you? Why on earth would you think that?”

“Because that's the way my luck works? I don't believe I'm the center of the universe, but I do seem to keep stumbling into dangerous things. And they don't exactly involve me, more often the Society, but in a way I
am
the Society—the public face. I'm responsible for what goes on there, both inside and outside.”

James grabbed my shoulders and turned me to face him squarely. “Nell Pratt, somebody tried to kill you today. It doesn't matter whether he knew who you were, or was aiming at you, or just liked the noise his gun made when he pulled the trigger. You could have died. Don't try to brush that off. If it doesn't matter to you, it does to me.”

“Oh,” I said. I couldn't meet his eyes. He was right, in a way: I was being selfish by trying to pretend it didn't matter that I'd come within inches of dying. I hadn't taken his feelings into account. If he loved me (
If, Nell?
), he would have been deeply hurt himself. I'd laid my life on the line when I'd stopped his attacker a few months earlier, and I had no doubt he would do the same for me. He was probably angry with himself that he hadn't been there
on that street today to protect me, even though that was ridiculous.

Damn, this relationship stuff was tricky!

So inside I let something go. He was right: the stupid press release could wait. Right now we needed each other. “I love you, James. I'm just still trying to get my head around being ‘us' instead of just me. I'm sorry.”

“We're learning together, love. Now come upstairs, will you?”

“Of course.”

We spent some time celebrating life. After, I lay awake for a while, watching James sleep. I'd been happy on my own, hadn't I? Not long before, I would have said yes. Now . . . well, it was a whole new world. He was a good man—smart, capable, strong. And he loved me. And I loved him, thought I didn't say it enough. Something else to work on. I drifted off to sleep . . .

*   *   *

The next morning James had turned off my alarm but woke me with a cup of hot French roast coffee. He sat at the foot of the bed, watching me sip it. “You're going to work, I assume?”

“I thought so. Why? Do you think I shouldn't?”

He gave the question some thought. “Part of me would like to lock you up until we figure out why yesterday happened at all. I realize that is ridiculous, but that doesn't stop me from feeling that way.”

I smiled. “That's all right. Part of me would like to crawl into a cave—preferably with you—and wait it out.
But we're grown-ups, so we can't do that. And I do have obligations that involve this incident that are going to be more pressing than they were yesterday morning. Are you going to be involved?”

“It's unlikely that Detective Hrivnak would enjoy my participation.”

“Hey, she didn't bite your head off yesterday.”

“No, but you will notice I kept my mouth shut. I was there to support you, not to solve a crime. I can see only one circumstance that would even suggest the FBI's involvement.”

“Which would be?”

“If this was determined to be a hate crime.”

Much as I would like his active participation, I didn't see much chance of that. “Black men shooting at a couple of black people in a largely black neighborhood. I don't think I was the target.”

“You're saying you think the only kind of hate crime involves race?”

“Oh. Well, no, not exactly. But this is Philadelphia, so it's never far away. What else qualifies?”

“Congress has defined a hate crime as ‘a criminal offense against a person or property motivated in whole or in part by an offender's bias against a race, religion, disability, ethnic origin, or sexual orientation.' Civil rights violations may also fall in that category, but the FBI can investigate only if it applies to an individual, not a group.”

“I don't see how any of that fits, but who knows? I'll keep you informed if anything pops up.”

“Are you okay with going in today?” he asked.

“I'll be all right, James. But thank you for worrying.”

“I'm driving you to work.”

“I won't argue. Now, let me get ready, will you?”

I took a shower, then chose my clothes with an eye to appearing on camera, although I hoped that wouldn't happen. I was not the news here—the bright lights should focus on Tyrone and Cherisse and the cesspit that was North Philadelphia. I was sure the police would make all the right noises and would put on a show of looking for the shooters. I had little faith that they would find them. But right now I had a smaller, simpler task to focus on: what to do with that cursed property.

James dropped me off in front of the Society. If there had been a parking space open, I had no doubt that he would have escorted me into the lobby and handed me off to Front Desk Bob, who had once been a cop. As it was, he had to content himself with a serious kiss, and then he stayed at the curb, idling, until he saw me walk in the door. Apparently yesterday's events had really rattled him, which surprised me. And moved me: he really was worried about me.

Inside it was cool, clean, and peaceful. Bob was already at his desk. “You all right, Ms. Pratt?” he asked.

“I'm fine, Bob, just shaken up.”

“Bad part of town,” he said. I realized I didn't know exactly where he lived. I doubted it was in that part of town, but as a former cop he would know exactly how bad it was there.

“Yes, it is. I guess I hadn't realized how bad. Thanks for asking.”

I went through the main reference room and headed for the elevator. If Bob's solicitous reaction was any indication, it was going to be a very odd day.

My arrival in front of Eric's desk confirmed my suspicion. I was afraid he was going to jump over his desk and hug me. While I considered us friends, we weren't exactly on hugging terms, but I braced myself just in case. Luckily he settled for jumping out of his chair.

“Nell, are you all right? I heard the news, and then when you didn't call or leave an e-mail or a message or anything, and you weren't on the late news, I really started to worry.”

“I'm sorry, Eric. It never occurred to me that other people would be worried. Well, Martha Terwilliger called, but she's a special case. I didn't mean to scare you. I thought about sending you a draft of a press release, in case the public is interested, but I decided it could wait until this morning. We're only a footnote to the story.”

“Well, I'm glad you're okay. I'll go get you some coffee right away.” He hurried down the hall, leaving me feeling both guilty and amused.

Shelby arrived next, and she didn't hesitate to hug me. “What were you thinking, lady? I'm pretty new to Philadelphia, but even I know better than to wander into North Philly.”

“It was business, Shelby,” I said feebly. “I wasn't exactly sightseeing. And I didn't know where they were going to
take me.” Although I probably should have guessed, after what we'd discussed.

“Business, my butt. And you gave me the address yesterday, remember? You should have known.”

“Well, yes, but that doesn't mean I recognized where it was. I don't know every street in the city. Especially in neighborhoods I've never seen.”

“Well, next time you go off like that, do your homework, will you? Or better yet, send a large lawyer to handle it. We need you here. Did Mr. Agent Man swoop in and save the day?”

“Kind of, after the fact. After the shooting stopped, I called the cops and then I called him. And he got there fast. He was so sweet.” His simple kindness brought new tears to my eyes.

“You've got a keeper there, Nell. So, what happens now?”

“With what?”

“That blasted property that started the whole thing.”

“I haven't a clue, and I haven't had time to think about it. But I'm here, and I'm going to look into it.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Shelby rolled her eyes, then winked at me. “Let me ask you this,” Shelby said. “Do you have any reason to think that this shooting had anything to do with you, the Society, or that particular property?”

“Not that I'm aware of. It could have been a random event, and that's what the police are likely to think. I suppose there's a slim chance that it was directed at either one
of the other people in the car with me. I don't know anything about them, although Marty seems to have met the woman. But that's for the police to look into, not me. James and I went over to police headquarters yesterday and I gave them my statement, which I still have to sign, and that may be the end of it, at least for the Society, and for me. You didn't happen to find anything interesting about the house or the street, did you?”

“Not yet, but I've just started. Not that I'm expecting much. But I'll keep looking, and I'll check with the business office to see if they have anything on file. At this place you never know what might turn up.”

“Thank you, Shelby. I was wondering if I should get the staff together and tell them what happened, in case anybody asks them about it. Even simple questions like
What was Nell Pratt doing there?
”

“I think you should, just so everybody can see you're still alive and kicking. People were worried, you know.”

I fought back more tears. I was beginning to wonder just how long I'd feel so emotional, but as James had told me, I had the right to be upset. “That's really nice of them. Okay, I'll ask Eric to tell people to gather in the boardroom at ten so I can get this out of the way.”

“Sounds good,” Shelby said. She wavered a moment, then dove in for another hug. “I'm so glad you're all right—this place wouldn't be the same without you.” Then she fled to her own office.

I went back out to Eric's desk and said, “Could you send out a staff e-mail and ask everyone to gather in the boardroom at ten? I might as well get the story out, in case any
patrons ask about it. I haven't dared look at the paper this morning—is there any mention of me or the Society in the news coverage?”

“Way down at the bottom. You were described as a witness.”

“Well, that much is accurate, I guess. Tell the staff I'll keep it short, will you?”

“Yes, ma'am!”

Back in my office, I sat down in my damask-clad antique mahogany chair and tried to think. My mind was blank. Whatever I'd been doing yesterday seemed incredibly trivial right now, but I needed to get my head back in the game.

Much as I hated to think so, Tyrone and Cherisse had made a good point yesterday, when they came to see me. The Society had a measure of status in the Philadelphia cultural community, not to mention a wealth of varied resources—and not all high-end silver and genealogies of famous people. We also had accounts from small businesses, and architectural histories, and shipping and bank records. I realized that it would be easy for us to pull together a sort of profile of almost any neighborhood in the city, based on our own collections. Which, as Tyrone had suggested, would make the Society a very useful partner in any redevelopment project. I was somewhat surprised that no developer or neighborhood group had approached us before now, looking for ammunition to use in their own efforts. It would be a smart move, to craft an appeal not just to community activists but also to the higher-end movers and shakers who cared about the city
and its past but weren't familiar with what had happened to the old neighborhoods because they didn't want to see it and were looking the other way. In other words, a lot of our members and donors. Tyrone and Cherisse had no doubt wanted to recruit me as an ally, and they were right to do so. We could help, if the project they had described was going to go on.

Which of the two had been the prime mover, Tyrone or Cherisse? They had made a good team, because they approached the problem from different directions, and each of them was in a position to know the real issues. But alliances between the City and private organizations were rare. What had brought them together? What were the specific details about the project they had most likely intended to pitch to me, if our tour hadn't ended in disaster?

By the time I was done wading through this thought process, it was time for the meeting I had asked Eric to arrange. I marched down the hall to the modern boardroom (far less formal, but also less attractive, than the former boardroom on the ground floor) and walked in to find the majority of the staff was already assembled—and they burst into applause at my entrance. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

“Thank you, I think. I didn't do anything but duck, but I seem to do that pretty well.”

“What happened?” Felicity Soames, our venerable head librarian, asked. “The news reports were kind of vague.”

I launched into a brief description of the visit by Tyrone and Cherisse the day before, which had culminated in the
tour of the dying neighborhood, and the events that followed. When I was done, our relatively new registrar, Ben, asked, “What were they hoping to accomplish, dragging you down there?”

“Ben, I think they wanted to drive home the point that that part of the city was once a vital neighborhood, and now it's a disaster area. I'm sure you all know better than I do that we're talking about a large area within a short walk of some of the nicest and most visited parts of town.” I turned from Ben and looked at each of the others around the table. “Before you start protesting, I know that it's not our responsibility to take on all the problems of the city of Philadelphia. We're scrabbling to keep up with what goes on within these walls. And we're not in any way a political organization. But we are the keepers of the city's history, and we can provide a wealth of information about any part of the city. I think that was all Tyrone and Cherisse wanted, although we never had a chance to get to the details. And maybe they were on the right track: we should be more proactive about it, instead of waiting for some of the activists out there to stumble over us. I'm betting that a lot of those activists are not among our regular patrons. But we as an institution need to broaden our reach and increase our visibility if we're going to survive.” I stopped, surprised at myself. Where had that speech come from?

Latoya Anderson, our vice president for collections, who happened to be a black woman, had come in while I was speaking. I was trying hard not to sound racist, and many of the neighborhoods of the city had flourished
under a wide range of ethnic groups, but I knew Latoya could be prickly and occasionally defensive.

I was pleased when she said, “I think you make an excellent point, Nell. I know in recent years we've focused most of our energies on keeping this institution viable, financially and physically, and that's an ongoing challenge. But we may have lost sight of our mandate along the way. We do have an obligation to all populations in this city, both past and present, and this might be an excellent way to fulfill that.”

I smiled at her. “I'm happy to hear you say that, Latoya. Look, everyone, I haven't had time to think this through since yesterday, and it may come to nothing, but I'd love to hear your ideas on the subject. Feel free to spitball. I hate to say it, but I'm not even sure which neighborhoods each of you live in. How many of you live within city limits?” About half of the people around the table raised a hand. “So you know what the real day-to-day issues are—that's great. Anything that pops into your head, anything you come across while looking for something else, write it down, and we'll see where it leads, okay?”

“Give those ideas to me,” Latoya said. “I'll be happy to coordinate.”

That was a surprise: Latoya seldom volunteered to take on anything outside of her job description, although that job was certainly demanding. “Thank you, Latoya—that would be great.” I turned back to the others. “As I said, think creatively. I don't want to sound crass, but stories about people in the neighborhoods, small shops, festivals,
even plant openings—we can pull those together. We have the information, but we have to dig it up.”

I swallowed. “What happened yesterday was awful. A woman died. A man was seriously wounded. I was lucky to escape without harm. The news will focus on those two, not me. If anyone comes to you and asks,
What was Nell Pratt doing there?
tell them I was acting as an historical consultant, okay? You don't have to say anything more. Unless, of course, you want to give them the full description of our amazing collections.” Several people laughed at that. “Okay, that's all I have. We'd all better get back to work now.”

The staff members drifted out of the room, a few stopping to speak to me. I was surprised that Latoya lingered until they were gone. “Thanks again for stepping up, Latoya,” I told her. “You think anything will come of it?”

“Maybe. You're right about the role we
could
play, but it remains to be seen whether anything happens. Look, I wanted to tell you that I know Tyrone Blakeney . . . We've been friends for years. We even dated for a time, long before he married. He's a good man, and a smart one. I haven't seen him for quite a while, but the press might dig up our connection. I didn't want you to be surprised.”

“Thank you. I've had more than enough surprises already this week. But it seems unlikely that the press would dig so deep into Tyrone's past life. Does he have anything to hide?”

“Not that I know of. He's been an activist of one sort or another for years, but not a troublemaker or a rabble-rouser.
He honestly believes in the causes he pushes—it's not just for his own glory. And if it means anything, I think he grew up in North Philadelphia, so he has his own history there.”

“Is there anything I should or shouldn't tell the police about him, if they come calling? Not that I believe they will.”

“Just tell them what you know. I believe Tyrone is an honest man. That's all I wanted to say.”

“Thank you. Let me know if any interesting ideas pop up, will you? It's not urgent, but I'd like to be ready if an appropriate opportunity turns up.”

“Of course, Nell. And I'm glad you're all right.” She turned and left. While I wouldn't say it was a warm and fuzzy talk, she'd been more open with me than at any time I could remember. Interesting.

I went back down the hall to my office. “Anything I need to know?” I asked Eric when I paused in front of his desk.

“Some calls from the media—I said you were in a meeting, which was true, and I put the messages on your desk. Let me know if you want to put any of them through to you.”