Dead End Street (7 page)

“That's pretty common for street punks, isn't it?” I said.

“Yeah—it was nothing fancy. Not in the system, either—I had our lab check.”

We all digested that information for a few seconds. Then I said, “Why'd you push to get the casings identified so quickly? I didn't think autopsies and forensic stuff happened so fast.”

“Because you were there.”

“What?” Marty and I said in unison.

Hrivnak's mouth twitched. “How many crimes you been involved in? Five, six? Maybe I'm superstitious, but I figure if you're involved, it ain't gonna be an easy case.”

“I don't know whether to be horrified or flattered,” I told her. “So what you're thinking is, there's some motive for this shooting that we aren't seeing—yet. What do you plan to do about it?”

“I do my job. I look at the victims. I look at other crime in that neighborhood. I look to see if anyone has an interest in that property, either seeing it stay up or fall down.”

“And is there something you want me to do?”

“Yeah. Blakeney and Chapman brought you into this—you're the wild card, at least until we find some dirt on either of the other two. Look at the history and why you were there. I'll take care of the rest.”

We had little more to say to each other, so I signed the statement she had indeed brought with her, and handed Detective Hrivnak over to Eric to be escorted downstairs, after promising her that I'd contact her with any ideas I came up with, even if they seemed trivial. Then I went back into my office and dropped into my chair.

“Well, that was interesting,” I said to Marty.

“Sure was. I do believe she trusts you now,” Marty said.

“Enough to follow her gut, even if her bosses want this closed? I'm impressed. Do you agree with what she said?”

Marty didn't answer immediately, and she finally said, “I think so. I think we all agree that the guys in the car checking you out more than once is suspicious. Like maybe they were looking for somebody specific, not just any old body. Who else knew you were there?”

“Me, singular, or we, plural?”

“Whatever you know.”

“Heck, I had no clue where we were going. No, I take that back: I had the address, but I had no idea where it was. I told Shelby to look into what we had on it, so she knew. But apart from that, we didn't even decide to go there until that morning. I told Eric I was going with Tyrone and Cherisse, and I told Shelby to look up any records she could find about the property, going back a ways. And that was it. You think Eric or Shelby told some drug thug to take me out?”

Marty stifled a smile. “Not hardly. So it doesn't sound like they were gunning for you, since they didn't know you'd be there. Unless, of course, the guys followed you—the plural you—from the Society to wherever you went. Which would mean they were following one of the other two. What do we know about them?”

“Not much. I met them both for the first time twenty-four hours ago. You said you'd met Cherisse—what do you know about her?”

“I met her, which is not the same as knowing her. There was some fuss when I inherited the family house when my father passed on, and I had to go to Licenses and Inspections to sort it out. I lucked out with Cherisse—she seemed to be the sharpest apple on that particular tree.”

“How long ago was this? Because she looked like she was in her early thirties.”

“Maybe three, four years ago? She was efficient—figured out what was wrong, fast, and fixed it. Best experience I've had, dealing with a City agency.”

“That matches what little I know about her. I haven't had a lot of interactions with the City. Are you hinting that she wasn't a typical City employee?”

Marty shrugged. “You said she was interested in this community redevelopment stuff? Maybe she figured working on the inside would be useful for that. Otherwise it's not usually a great springboard for a career, from what I've heard.”

“Probably not, in most cases,” I agreed. “I could see that Cherisse was using it as a way to get up close and personal with how the City works, and to see where the opportunities lay.”

“Where'd she come from? Local?”

“I don't know. We never had a chance to talk about stuff like that. Let Hrivnak figure that part out.” She had access to far more resources than I did.

“It could make a difference—you know, if she grew up in the city, or if she attended Temple or Penn here. Was she a poor kid looking to make a name for herself? Or was she a middle-class suburbanite who still thought she could save the world after college?”

“Are there any of those left?” I asked, feeling almost wistful.

“I don't know. I haven't met any lately, but I don't spend a lot of time with kids that age. Well, maybe Alice, or Lissa.” Alice was a young intern, not a longtime staffer; Lissa was kind of a hired gun whom we turned to when we had a single project that needed research.

I nodded. “Alice may still cling to a few shreds of idealism, although she's pretty levelheaded. Lissa's been banged
around a bit, so she's not as starry-eyed. They might know people who still cling to some idealism, though. Worth asking.”

“You can do that if you want,” Marty said. “I wish we knew more about Tyrone.”

“I know what you mean,” I said. “Cherisse didn't seem like the type that someone would try to kill. Tyrone has more ties to that neighborhood. And of the two of them, he seemed to take the lead, and not just because he was the man. More like he was the more passionate of the two. But I could see that they'd make a good pairing to get things done. He had the passion, and she had the expertise, as well as access to all of the property documents.”

“That's for Hrivnak again. Ask her to send you whatever background they find on those two. And whatever organization Tyrone was representing,” Marty said firmly.

Good thing we were starting off with Hrivnak on our side, for a change. “You know, this isn't going to get us very far.”

“It's a start, isn't it?”

“Yes, but Hrivnak is better equipped to handle this than we are. What do we bring to this?”

“History,” Marty replied quickly. “What we do is to find out what we can about that neighborhood, that block, that house. Who built it, owned it? Who left it to the Society? Maybe there's buried treasure under it. Or George Washington kept his mistress there. No—sounds like the building was built too late for that. Unless he buried that mistress under an earlier house on that lot. Or Martha murdered her and had her buried there.”

“Marty, this is ridiculous.” Although I had to admit it was funny, and we needed a little humor right about then. “I will find out what I can about the site, but most likely it will turn out to be an ordinary street with ordinary row houses, where ordinary factory workers and their families lived until the factories went away for good.”

“At least then you'll know and you can cross it off your list. Okay, let's take a step back. Why does anyone shoot at anyone else?”

This was one very odd conversation, but Marty and I seemed to have a fair number of those. “You mean ever? Well, there's anger, jealousy, hate. Money. Fear. Revenge. Am I missing anything?”

“Those are the biggies. Most things trace back to one of those, or a combination. Drug deals gone wrong—they come back to money, or maybe power. Maybe somebody wanted the property, or didn't want someone else to have it. Money again, maybe mixed with anger. Or fear. Like I said, if there's a body buried under the house, or walled up inside, maybe somebody doesn't want that found.”

“Marty, the place is falling down, and the City plans to demolish it. That hypothetical body would be found no matter what. It would have been simpler if someone had just burned it to the ground. I'm sorry, but none of these ideas is really working for me.”

“Give it time. If all else fails, you can go back to the random shooting theory. Would you like something else to distract you?”

Coming from Marty, that was always a dangerous question. “What?” I said cautiously.

“I was going to bring this up anyway, before yesterday happened, but now is just as good a time. The Oliver mansion is up for sale. You know the place?”

“I can't say that I do. What is it?”

“It's a late colonial house, built by a Loyalist around 1760, but he couldn't hold on to his property during the Revolutionary War—the local patriots got kind of pissed at him and burned his main house to the ground. The one that survived was built for his son. Then his heirs bought it back, in the nineteenth century, and they've lived in it continuously ever since. The last two descendants, a pair of maiden sisters, are in their late eighties now. Still mentally sharp, but they're not going to last forever. They want to make sure the old place doesn't end up as a shopping mall or condos, and they're looking for someone to take over in a custodial capacity. They'll give it away to the right organization, along with about eight generations of the furniture.”

“Wow! Seriously?”

“For real. Interested?”

“I don't know how to begin to answer that. The Society is out of the real estate business, you know—or at least, we thought we were. We can't exactly pack up and move to wherever it is. Where is it?”

“Montgomery County. Not too far outside Philadelphia city limits.”

“Okay, not convenient—our base is the city. I assume the gift is contingent upon keeping the property and maintaining it according to their guidelines?”

“Yup. You can't sell it, and you can't sell the
furniture—some of which is pretty nice, I might add—and fill it with stuff from IKEA. They've got a damn good lawyer, who's going to make sure it's in trust forever.”

“Any money come with it?” I asked.

“Some. An endowment that might—stress that
might
—be enough to cover taxes and insurance and keeping the lights on. But I think it's safe to say that whoever gets it will end up shelling out some cash along the way.”

“Is it something that would attract tourists? Historians?”

“Maybe. If you marketed it right.”

“Which would then require money and staff time. Marty, what are you suggesting?”

“The sisters told me I should look around and find the right person or institution. I'm offering you and the Society right of first refusal. If you—we—don't want it, I understand, and no harm, no foul.”

“I need to see it before I make any decisions.” Hmm, the last time I'd said that, I had come to regret it. Still, it seemed unlikely that anyone out in Montgomery County would be gunning for me.

“Of course. Tomorrow morning all right?”

Once again my life seemed to be spinning out of my control, although this was decidedly more pleasant than the last round. I considered. There was nothing on my calendar of any particular urgency. A ride in the country might be nice, although the weather and the landscape were kind of uniformly gray and gloomy at this time of year. At least in that case I could look at the place with a jaundiced eye. If the lady heirs were now in their eighties,
there were probably any number of maintenance issues associated with the house that they hadn't dealt with lately, and it was important to take things like that into account. “Okay, I'll look at it. I doubt it makes sense for the Society, but at least we could put some feelers about for other prospects. You want me to drive?”

“Nah. Have Jimmy bring you into town and I'll take you from here.”

“Do I need to dress up for these venerable ladies?”

“Don't wear blue jeans. You have pearls?”

“Yes, my grandmother's.”

“Wear 'em. There aren't many people left who recognize the real thing.” Marty stood up abruptly. “My work is done. I've got a date with Eliot tonight—maybe I'll run some of our ideas by him.”

“Have a nice evening. And see you tomorrow morning?”

“Sure. I'll alert the sisters so they can polish the antique silver tea service.”

After Marty had left, I stared stupidly at the pile of papers on my desk. Oh, right, the board reports. I decided they were the perfect antidote to murder and mayhem, so I dug in.

I was finished by late afternoon, feeling virtuous, when James called. “When do you want me to pick you up?”

“Anytime, I guess. You have any reason to stay late?”

“No. I'll be there at five thirty.” He hung up quickly. Another call from the office—not exactly romantic, but that would have been rather out of place.

I couldn't think of anything to start, knowing I would
be leaving in half an hour, so I pulled out a pad and started making a list. For a long time I contemplated the blank sheet of paper. What did I need to know? I decided to start with motives for an apparently senseless shooting. I put “Random Act of Violence” at the top. It was necessary to include it, but it wasn't exactly helpful.

Next I added “Professional.” What did I mean by that? The occupations of the victims? Do-gooder and City employee—I decided to leave myself off the list. Both working in a housing-related area, which was why they were together at the time. But that did not mean that they were killed because of that. Somebody else's profession? (A hit man who needed the work? No, that was ridiculous.) A developer who wanted the land? For what? It would still be a slum. Someone looking for a pipeline to government funds to put up subsidized housing for the poor? Maybe. Worth looking into? Maybe.

All right, now “Personal.” Someone who hated Tyrone or Cherisse—or me. I thought I could eliminate myself, not because I had no enemies, but because the shooters could probably have hit me if they wanted to, or followed me and finished me off. Ergo, they hadn't wanted to kill me. Maybe scare me or drive me away from that area. The problem was, I didn't know enough about either Tyrone or Cherisse to imagine who in their lives might want them dead. Were they married? Seeing anyone? I thought I recalled Latoya mentioning that Tyrone had married. Were they now or had they ever held jobs that made enemies who cared enough to kill? Were they the
secret children of a major drug lord and had betrayed him and he'd had to make an example of them? But both of them? Or two drug-lord fathers? Or didn't hit men care who else they took down? Did they get paid by the number of kills?

Nell, you are losing it. Leave it for tomorrow.
I laid my pad neatly in the center of my desk, then claimed my coat. On the way out I said to Eric, “I'm leaving for the day. I'll be in tomorrow, but Marty and I are planning an excursion to Montgomery County, so I'll be out in the middle of the day. Anything else I need to know about?”

“You said to remind you about the board reports.”

“Almost done. I want to give them a quick look in the morning, and then you can pretty them up and copy and mail them. See you tomorrow.”

Down the hall, down the elevator, through the lobby (waving at Bob), out the door. I was early, and it was chilly, so I stood in the lee of one of the massive pillars and watched people go by on the street. Everything looked very ordinary. Close to rush hour, there were plenty of pedestrians, as well as a few cars. This street, this neighborhood, had always seemed reasonably safe to me, although I had to remind myself that a high-profile murder had taken place in the parking lot directly across the street, well before my time. The killer was still in jail, but his name popped up in
where are they now?
kind of op-ed pieces every now and then. How long ago had that been? Long before I was reading newspapers, I was sure. A black activist, a journalist, convicted of shooting a cop. He still had his supporters in
the larger community. How much had changed in the last generation?