Razing the Dead (4 page)

We strolled slowly, given that the heat of the day still
lingered in stone and concrete. Since the restaurant was only a couple of blocks away, we arrived quickly despite the leisurely pace, and once inside we were seated immediately.

“Wine?” James asked.

“Please,” I said, and watched as he ordered a bottle of white. When the waiter had departed, I said, “You know, you look very pleased with yourself.”

“Shouldn't I be? I'm fit again, I've got a job I enjoy—plus my boss now figures he owes me because he didn't listen to me when it counted—and I've got you. Not necessarily in that order. Nell, I can't thank you enough for sticking by me over the past month. I know it wasn't easy.”

“No, it wasn't, but I wanted to be there. After what happened . . .” I stopped, unsure how to go on. “The aftereffects linger on,” I finally said. When he started to protest, I held up a hand. “No, I'm not having flashbacks or waking up in a sweat at night. It's just the stress of being understaffed at work, and we're having trouble filling this registrar position, which keeps getting bigger and more complicated. We're still not done with the conversion to the new software system, and then there's the flood of new items, thanks in part to all the FBI stuff you dropped on us, and we'd barely made a dent in that when things hit the fan. So, as I said, it's not over until we're fully staffed and things are running smoothly again.” I took a sip of my wine. “Marty said I should ask whether you knew anyone who might be interested in the job. You don't, do you?”

James thought for a moment. “Actually, I might know somebody who would be a good fit for that position, but he may surprise you. Let me talk to him and see if he's interested.”

“Does he have a résumé?”

“I don't know if he's written one lately. It's kind of an odd situation . . . No, let me check with him, and then we can talk about it.”

We lapsed back into silence for a moment. “Is there something else that's bothering you?” James asked.

“You told Marty about what you asked me this morning,” I said bluntly. It still rankled, although I wasn't sure why.

“What? Oh, you mean about finding a place together? Is that a problem?”

“I guess I'm not happy that she knew before I did. You might have asked me first.”

He cocked his head at me, looking genuinely confused. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to overstep, but you know Marty . . . Wait, are you saying you don't want to?”

“No, not exactly. But I want to think about it, okay? I mean, spending this past month with you has been . . . interesting, and parts of it have been intense, but I haven't had time to look at the big picture.”

He looked down at his wine glass and swirled the contents rather than look at me. “Is that one of those ‘it's not you, it's me' lines?”

“No! I'm happy that you've asked, but I need to figure out what I want, and what works for us together.”

He looked at me then, and his eyes were less warm than they had been. “I told you, my lease is up at the end of the month. When do you think you'll have an answer?”

Suddenly my eyes were filled with tears. “Oh, James, you only asked me this morning. It's a big step for me. Just give me a little time, please?”

The waiter appeared to refill our glasses and take our orders, providing a welcome break. Why was I being such an idiot? I loved James. He was smart, sexy, gainfully employed, and he said he loved me. What else could I possibly want?

The problem
was
me. I had trouble trusting people, and I didn't let them get too close. I knew it was an issue, but I'd never figured out how to get around it. Yet, if there was ever a time to work it out, this was it. I knew it was an insult to James, that my hesitation signaled I didn't really trust him, not all the way, when he'd been up-front about how he felt without pushing too hard. Heck, he had every right to push—he wanted to get on with his life. Why didn't I?

Once our food arrived, it gave us something else to focus on. The wine was smooth, the food was delightful, but the company was . . . subdued. It certainly didn't feel much like a celebration anymore, and that was my fault, which I regretted. After passing on dessert but agreeing to espresso, James settled the bill, and said, “Are you coming home with me?”

“If you want me to,” I said.

“Always,” he said, and he smiled to show he meant it.

I woke up in the morning before James and I lay still in
bed, thinking. James and I had been thrown together intimately, in more ways than one, for the past month, but I still knew in the back of my mind that I had a place that was all mine, one I could escape to if I needed. Was I ready to give up my escape hatch? To the world it looked like I had all my ducks a row—great guy, good job, nice life. What more did I want? I rolled over to find James watching me. I smiled at him. “How many bedrooms?”

He smiled back with what looked like relief. “Three? That way we each get office space.”

I liked the idea of a hidey-hole with a door, all my own. “Sounds good.”

We moved on to talk particulars. James's third-floor row house walk-up was probably better suited to a graduate student than to a senior special agent for the FBI, but it had worked for him, at least until now. He had few possessions and didn't seem to care much about “things.” In contrast, I was a collector—pretty items that caught my eye, heirlooms I treasured that had belonged to my grandparents, and a lot of stuff that just seemed to accumulate. As my stuff migrated, his place had become increasingly crowded. It hadn't been too bad when James had been laid up, but now that he was more himself, we kept bumping into each other. Not that that was always a problem, but still. We discussed parking spaces and the like, then James asked, “Nell, you're sure about this?”

“Yes, I am.” Maybe. I wasn't sure I was sure, but I was going to work very hard to convince myself. “Now, let's celebrate for real.”

I made it to work on time, but only by skipping breakfast. I picked up a large coffee on the way.

“What's on the calendar today, Eric?” I greeted him as I arrived at my office.

“Mr. Wakeman called again, asked if you had some time free this afternoon to look at something. You don't have anything scheduled, but I didn't want to book it without checking with you first. Should I call him back?”

“Sure. Anything else?”

“Ms. Terwilliger called, said she might have someone for that thing you told her about. I assume you know what she means?”

“I do. Did she say if she'd be coming in today?”

“She didn't mention it. You want me to call her, too?”

“I'll do it, after I've talked with Mr. Wakeman, since the calls are kind of related.” Eric looked game but confused. I decided to take him into my confidence. “Hey, come on into my office and I'll explain.”

Eric followed me in and shut the door. “Is this something secret?”

“Not exactly, but let's keep it low profile. You know who Mr. Wakeman is?”

“Kind of—I Googled him after that last meeting. Big local builder, right? I see his name on construction sites a lot.”

“Exactly. He's done a lot for the city. Anyway, he's hatching a new development in the suburbs and he doesn't want to run into any archeological or historical surprises at the site, so he's asked us to look into it for him. It's a very responsible thing for him to do, and I'm pleased that he came to us. But since we're a bit shorthanded at the moment, we'll have to recruit somebody short-term to do it. That's where Marty's call comes in—I asked her if she knew anyone who might fit the bill.”

“Got it. Is this project hush-hush?”

“It's still in the planning stages, so the less said the better for now. Not that I don't trust you, Eric, but you never know who's going to overhear something in the city and run with it. If everything goes well, the site will get a clean bill of health and we'll come out smelling like a rose. Maybe with a nice contribution to go with it.”

“Let's hope so. Thanks, Nell, for filling me in. I'll call Mr. Wakeman for you now.”

I barely had time to take a sip of my coffee before Eric told me that Mitchell Wakeman was on the line. I picked up. “Good morning, Mr. Wakeman. What can I do for you?”

“I wondered if you'd like a tour of the site, so you know what we're talking about?”

“I would like that. When did you have in mind?”

“This afternoon? I could pick you up about three—it's maybe an hour away, out toward West Chester.”

“That sounds good, if you're willing to drop me off in Bryn Mawr on your way back.”

“No problem. I'll come by at three, then. Thanks.” He hung up. He knew I wasn't going to be doing the research myself—I couldn't claim to be a local historian—but I figured that the big cheese at the Wakeman Trust preferred to talk to his counterpart at the Society, and that would be me. Actually, I was kind of intrigued by the idea of seeing a major development project like this from the ground up, literally. Assuming it was done responsibly and tastefully, without upsetting the neighbors or the ecology.

And I'd get a ride home out of it. Though “home” was a loaded term right now . . . I shook myself and picked up the phone to call Marty, and she answered quickly. “Hey, Nell. I think I've got a researcher for you. You want to meet her?”

“That was fast. Give me a quick rundown, will you?”

“Penn grad student, needs some cash because her grant funding dried up all of a sudden. Doing a masters on urban planning, majored in American history in college. Smart, and a hard worker.”

“Sounds just about perfect. Marty, how do you do this? Come up with people at the drop of a hat?”

“Ethan's her advisor. It's a good fit, isn't it?”

“It is. Look, Wakeman offered to take me on a tour of the site at three this afternoon. If this person's free, she could come over here and talk to me at two, and if I like her, I can introduce her to Wakeman and we could go out together and see what's what.”

“Good idea. I'll call her and let you know.” She hung up. Why did I talk to so many people who hung up abruptly? Was that better or worse than the ones who rambled on and wouldn't get off the phone? Anyway, I was glad that the pieces seemed to be falling into place nicely.

Eric rapped on my doorframe. “Nell, there's a guy downstairs, says Agent Morrison sent him over to talk to you. You want to see him?”

I wasn't sure I knew what James's idea of a registrar candidate would be like, but I was willing to talk with the man. My goodness, this morning was moving at an incredible pace. Maybe the stars had realigned while I wasn't looking. “All right. Can you go down and bring him up?”

“Will do.” Eric disappeared.

I straightened what little there was on my desk and tried to get my head into interview mode. Maybe I should send this person straight to Latoya, but James had pointed him toward me, so I might as well talk to him first. At least I knew what the registrar's job required in the way of qualifications, having interviewed quite a few people for it in recent months. Whoever we hired needed to have solid computer skills and some serious database-management experience. A background in history, particularly for the Philadelphia area, would be extremely helpful. Someone who really cared about local history would be even better.

Eric returned quickly, and I looked up from the job description I'd retrieved from my file to greet the newcomer—and then adjusted my gaze down: the man was in a wheelchair.

The man didn't smile. “I'm Benjamin Hartley. James
Morrison said you have a position open. Don't get up.” He looked to be fortyish, with close-cropped hair, and not exactly happy. He rolled his wheelchair closer to the desk and extended his hand. I shook it; his grip was as strong as I would have guessed. “Not what you expected, huh, Ms. Pratt?”

“I'm Nell,” I answered with a smile. “Frankly, Mr. Hartley, I wasn't expecting anybody, not this fast. I only mentioned it to James last night. How do you know each other?”

“Went to college together. Then he went with the FBI and I went to into the military. We stayed in touch.”

All right then. A military guy? I wondered why he was here for this position, and how he could possibly fit. “What did James tell you about the job?”

“That it's mainly computers and historical stuff.”

“Do you have a résumé?”

“Nope. Just got out of rehab—physical, not alcohol or drugs—and I haven't had time for that kind of stuff. But I need a job.”

Nobody would accuse this guy of sucking up to a potential employer, or of pulling his punches. But if James vouched for him, I had to assume he had a good reason. Even out of loyalty to an old friend, he wouldn't send over someone totally unqualified. “You haven't interviewed for a job for a while, have you?”

“No. Why?”

“Because you're giving me a lousy first impression. Why are you here?”

“Because I need to work, and I've got the qualifications.”

I took a moment and counted to ten. “Okay, let's back up. You're no longer in the military?”

“Right. I'd had enough of that. And if you're wondering, I'm in this chair because of a stupid car accident, after I got out. At least I've got decent insurance.”

“You're cleared physically to work full-time now?”

“Yes.” He didn't elaborate.

I suppressed a sigh. To be honest, the registrar position didn't require a lot of interaction with other people, just technical skills. “Why the attitude, if you want a job here? Are you pissed off because you think this is a charity offer? I assure you it's not. We need someone in this position—but it has to be someone who can do the job.”

Ben looked at me for a moment, and finally he smiled, which changed his face altogether. “Sorry, you're right—I'm being rude. It's just that I'm kinda new to this whole disability thing, and I don't want anybody's pity. I want to work, and I can do the job. Can we start this over?”

“Happy to. Welcome, Mr. Hartley. Tell me, why do you think you're suited to the position of registrar at the Pennsylvania Antiquarian Society?”

“It's Ben, please. I've got an undergrad degree in history, and ten years in data management for the US Army. I'd just gotten out, hadn't even started looking for something new, when this happened.” He waved at his legs. “But the rest of me still works fine.”

“Thank you for telling me. I never know these days which questions are politically incorrect and which ones you could sue me for. Are you from Philadelphia?”

I was willing to discount his hostile entrance—he was having a hard time dealing with being in a wheelchair, both physically and psychologically. Once he started talking, Ben relaxed and became a much more pleasant person. He was intelligent and well-informed about computer issues—or at least, better than I was. And he knew something about history and the local scene. Mobility wasn't really an issue for the position, except for retrieving files off a high shelf now and then, but someone could help out with that. Could he maneuver through the stacks? Easy enough to find out. We already had handicapped access to enter the building from the side street. I decided I liked him.

“You considering other people?” he asked after several minutes.

“To be honest, we had a fair number of applicants for the position because of the general economy, but most of them don't have the credentials. You're the best qualified by any standard. Let me bring in my VP for collections, Latoya Anderson. The position reports to her.”

I picked up the phone and punched in Latoya's number. “Latoya, could you come to my office for a moment? I'd like you to meet a candidate for the registrar position.”

She appeared thirty seconds later—not hard, since her office was just down the hall. “You might have given me some warning, Nell.”

“I would have, but I was as surprised as you. Latoya, meet Ben Hartley. He's applying for the registrar position. Before you ask, no, I haven't seen his résumé.”

Latoya appeared bewildered for a moment, looking at Ben and then back at me as if to see if I was joking. Then she pulled herself together and sat down in the chair in front of my desk. “Tell me about yourself, Ben. What interests you in working at a place like this?”

Now that he was warmed up, Ben handled himself well, and I watched the two of them interact, feeling encouraged. Latoya and I had had our disagreements, but she was a professional, and she had the best interests of the Society at heart. I didn't think she'd be petty enough to reject Ben just because I'd been the one to bring him in, and he was responding to all her questions appropriately. After a few minutes, Latoya stood up. “Thank you for coming in, Ben. Nell and I need to discuss your application, but I promise we'll get in touch with you shortly. I'll be down the hall, Nell.” She left quickly.

“How'd I do?” Ben asked me.

“Not bad. Could you work with her?”

“She always have a stick up her butt?”

I stifled a snort of laughter. “Yes, she does. But she is good at her job, and she knows the collections.”

“Fair enough. Yes, I believe we could work together.”

“What do you think of the work? Feel you'd be up to the job?”

He nodded once. “I believe I could handle it, if you'll give me the chance.”

“Let me confer with Latoya. But I will call you either way, I promise. Thanks for coming in. Oh, by the way, the job would start, like, yesterday. We are so behind, you would not believe it. Is that a problem?”

“Nope. Except I'd need some time off on a regular basis for rehab sessions.”

“We could work that out. I'll see you out.” I escorted him out of the office and to the elevator, then called to alert the front desk that he was on his way down so they could take him to the handicapped lift. Then I headed for Latoya's office.

She was at her desk. “What do you think?” I asked.

“He's qualified.” She said it with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm, but then, I'd seldom seen Latoya excited about anything. “Where'd he come from?”

“James Morrison recommended him—he's a personal friend of James's. But that doesn't mean we're obliged to hire him, if you object.”

“Why would I object? He's the best of the lot so far, or at least he talks a good line, and I have no reason to doubt him. And there's a kind of symmetry—bringing in a guy the FBI recommended to handle a load of stuff that the FBI dumped on us. You want to call him, or shall I?”

“I will. And he's available to start immediately. Do you have time to acquaint him with the software and the collections?”

“I'll make time.”

“Latoya, are you sure you don't have any issues with hiring Ben? I'd rather hear them now than have you looking for him to fail.”

She gave me a cold look, but I didn't flinch. Finally she said, “All right, I'll admit I feel as though he's being shoved down my throat. The collections staffing is my responsibility.”

“Latoya, I recognize that, and I'm not challenging you here. You've done a good job with attempting to recruit suitable candidates. If Ben can't do the job, he should be treated like any other employee. Agreed?”

Latoya straightened up and looked me in the eye. “Fair enough. I didn't mean to imply—”

I cut her off before she could finish that statement and erase any positive progress we'd made. “Thank you for agreeing to give him a chance.”

My, weren't we all sweetness and light? But I wasn't going to complain. And just like that, we'd filled the position. I needed to let James know. Back at my office, I hit the speed dial for him.

“Agent Morrison,” he responded crisply. “Oh, sorry. Hi, Nell—I was trying to get back into the routine. What's up? Did Ben call you?”

“Was he supposed to call first? He showed up, interviewed, and it looks like he's hired. Even Latoya seemed to like him. So, thank you. But if he's faking it, it'll be on your head.”

“I'm not worried. He's a good guy who's had a hard time lately, but I'm sure he can handle it. You're welcome. I may be home late tonight—lots to catch up on here.”

“Oh, about that—Mitchell Wakeman invited me to go tour his development site in Chester County, and I asked if he could drop me off in Bryn Mawr after. Is that all right?”

“So you'll stay out there?” He kept his tone neutral.

“Yes, for tonight.” I started to make excuses, like I needed to find some clean clothes, but then I stopped myself. It was still my house, and I wanted a little alone time with it.

“Okay. We can talk tomorrow. Gotta go.” He ended the call.

Which left me feeling vaguely unsatisfied. But, hey, I'd said yes to him starting a real estate hunt, hadn't I? I got up and ambled down the hall to Shelby's office.

She was surrounded by stacks of paperwork but looked up when I arrived. “Hey there. Before you ask, I don't have time for lunch if you want me to finish this anytime soon.” She waved at the piles in front of her. “You need something?”

I flopped into a chair. “No, not really. Things just seem to be moving awfully fast. In a good way. James sent us a possible registrar candidate, and he's already been interviewed and I think we're offering him the job. Marty says she has a good possibility for the Wakeman research slot, and I'm going to meet her this afternoon. And the man himself invited me to go out and look at the development site this afternoon. Oh, and I told James we could go ahead and look for a bigger apartment.”

Shelby sat back in her chair and laughed. “Lady, you weren't kidding when you said things were moving fast! But it
is
all good, isn't it?”

“I think so. I hope so.” I hauled myself up out of the chair. “I'll let you get back to work. I'm going to go find a sandwich and wait for Marty's pick of the day to arrive.”

I left the building to get a sandwich and was surprised that the streets of the city seemed positively calm compared to the whirlwind that had been my morning. At least things were falling into place, although it might have been easier if they'd been spread out a little more. But I couldn't complain. I rewarded myself with a bag of potato chips to go with my tuna on rye and ate lunch in the break room at the Society.

Lissa Penrose, Marty's latest find, arrived seven minutes before her scheduled appointment at two. At least I'd had time to finish my sandwich. She turned out to be a tall, self-assured woman who looked to be in her later twenties, with straight, shoulder-length brown hair and glasses that hovered between hip and nerdy. Given what I guessed her age to be, I wondered if she had worked for a while or traveled or done something else before returning to school—she seemed a bit past the usual age, although these days a lot of younger people were returning to school rather than trying to find satisfying work.

I stood up and offered my hand. “Welcome, Lissa. I'm glad you could make it on such short notice.”

She shook briefly but firmly. “Thank you for seeing me so quickly.”

“Please, sit down. How much did Marty tell you?”

She sat. “Just the outline—that there's a developer who wants to vet a large suburban property before he proceeds with a major development project there, and he wants the Society to review any potential historical problems. I assume he has other people working on other aspects, such as any possible contamination of the site and the water supply.”

A smart young woman. “Good heavens, you're already way ahead of me! I hadn't even considered the contamination question. Are you thinking there might be some overlap with the Society's part, if there was an old factory or something on the site?”

“Exactly. We should be prepared to coordinate. If I get the gig, of course.”

“Good thinking. So give me the snapshot version of your credentials.” Good thing I was in interview mode today.

“Born and raised in the Philadelphia suburbs—north of the city. Went to Juniata as an undergrad. Then my mother got sick, so I spent a couple of years taking care of her. She died last year, and since she left a little money, I applied for a graduate program at Penn and got in. But the money didn't stretch as far as I'd hoped, even with a grant, so something like this would be perfect.”

“It is short-term, you know. Three months max.”

She nodded. “I know. But Marty gave me an estimate of what it pays, and that would go a long way for me.”

“How do you know Marty?”

“I don't, really. I know Ethan—he's my advisor—and I've run into Marty several times in his office. She's like a walking encyclopedia of who's who in Philadelphia, isn't she? Ask her what a particular neighborhood in the city was like in 1840 and she can tell you who lived there and who built the houses on that block. It's amazing.”

Either Ethan kept people waiting, or Marty was at his office a lot. “It is a gift, and we're very lucky that she's involved with the Society. You know Philadelphia yourself, obviously. Your undergrad degree was in history?”

“History and urban planning—I hoped to work for the city, in their community redevelopment department, but then life kind of got in the way.”

“Have you used the Society's collections before?”

“I have, although not extensively. But this would be a very focused project, wouldn't it?”