Dead End Street

by Sheila Connolly

  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.”

  “Thanks, Eric.” In my office I sat down at my desk and sifted through the short stack. None of the calls seemed urgent; probably staff writers were looking for a tidbit to flesh out a story. Their interest in me would probably die down quickly, so I figured I’d ignore them.

  The next time I looked up, Marty Terwilliger was standing in the doorway.

  CHAPTER 7

  She slouched against the door frame and grinned at me. “To mangle Mark Twain, the reports of your death are greatly exaggerated.”

  “I’m so glad you noticed. Come on in and have a seat.”

  She did. “Seriously, Nell, I’m glad you weren’t hurt. That must have been a scary thing.”

  I wasn’t about to lie. “Yes, it was. Of course, I only realized that afterward—the shooting part happened so fast that I didn’t have time to think. I just threw myself out of the way.”

  “Good instincts. Make yourself a smaller target.”

  “Assuming the bad guys didn’t hang around. If they had stopped and come around the car to finish me off, there wasn’t a lot I could have done. And I don’t know how I would have coped without James.”

  “Knowing you, you would have put on a stiff upper lip and tried to pretend being shot at was a normal event in your life.” In a softer voice she added, “I’m glad Jimmy was there for you.” Even though she had a wealth of cousins, Marty had a soft spot for James.

  “Probably. I think it’s called denial. I’m told that’s bad for your mental health. So, what brings you here this morning?”

  “Apart from making sure you were alive and functioning? My usual rounds to be sure the reshelving of the collections is on schedule and checking that the Terwilliger papers are safe.”

  Marty’s family had been among the leaders of Philadelphia for more than two centuries, and she could recite the entire family tree and tell you which houses they had lived in and what china patterns they had used. But she was not a pretentious snob, and she was involved in a number of worthy causes, quietly. When she couldn’t give money, she gave her time and energy, which was boundless. Her grandfather and father had left the extensive family papers to the Society, but they had each in turn kept an eye on them, as Marty was doing now. Terwilliger funds were paying part of the salary of an intern, Rich Girard, to help with processing the collection, but the recent renovations to the building had made that more complicated than usual. It was no surprise that Marty was keeping a sharp eye on both the collections and Rich.

  “And I wanted to kick around some way to follow up on what happened yesterday. To talk about Eliot’s board nomination. That enough for one morning?”

  “Well, you’ve already made sure that I’m alive, and that James is looking out for me, so let’s focus on your next point. How much do you know about what happened yesterday?”

  “Start from the beginning.”

  I complied, filling her in on the first contact with Tyrone and Cherisse, and my agreeing to visit the site, and everything that had gone wrong after that. She didn’t interrupt.

  When I was done, she said, “I have a vague memory of some comment at a board meeting that the Society had unloaded all the properties. It made sense: there was no way to try to manage them, especially when the staff was a lot smaller, and nobody wanted to pay someone else to do it. But there were quite a few of them, as I remember it. I can’t say I’m surprised that the paperwork got misplaced for one of ’em. Might be more, if anyone goes looking.”

  “I hadn’t even thought of that, but I suppose we should check now, just in case. Who should I ask to look into it?”

  “Start with the law firm. If they don’t have the records, they’ll tell you who to ask next.”

  “Not someone at the City?” I asked.

  She cocked an eyebrow at me. “Seriously? You know how backlogged they always are. Why do you think it took so long for them to notice this little snafu? I’m not criticizing, but the problem keeps growing, and the staff and funding don’t. Start with the lawyer.”

  “Will do. But on that note, I talked to the staff this morning about what we should do about neighborhood projects like this one.” I gave Marty the gist of what we had discussed earlier in the morning. “Is that just my guilt talking, or do you think it makes sense?”

  Marty smiled. “A little of each, but it’s not a bad ide
a. I don’t think there’s any way we can or should work with the City itself, but we can probably carve out a niche for the Society, and we all benefit. Make us look more relevant—and less like a bunch of old fogies looking up their family history.”

  “That’s kind of what I was thinking,” I said. “If life hands you lemons—or in this case, bullets—make lemonade. So, Eliot? Things going well there?”

  “With the Society or with me?”

  “Take your pick.” I knew that Marty and Eliot had been seeing each other for a while, but Marty was surprisingly closemouthed about what was going on with them, although she’d had no reservations about prying into my evolving relationship with James. It was Marty who had suggested recruiting Eliot as a board member.

  “Professionally he’s a good fit, right? Professor, specializing in urban planning, respected in the community, well liked by his students, no skeletons in his closet or scandals on his résumé.”

  “Hey, you don’t have to convince me. I like the guy, and I think he provides a much-needed balance to the traditional historians and lawyers on the board. Have you been hearing any resistance from other board members?”

  “Nope. Of course, they might not say it to my face. You haven’t heard any rumblings?”

  “No. I can’t imagine why anyone would object. Well, except for the issue of the two of you . . .”

  “You’re thinking that if we put him on the board, will I be putting myself in an awkward position?”

  “Yes. And that can be taken in more than one way. If you’re a couple, somebody might object—nepotism, or undue influence, or something like that. If you’re no longer a couple, you’re stuck with running into him regularly for as long as his term lasts.”

  “Let me worry about the personal side of things.”

  “Fine. We’ll nominate him and vote at the board meeting next week.” Then I had another thought. “You know, I told you I was talking with the staff this morning, about reaching out more to neighborhood redevelopment groups, offer them what we know of the history of various neighborhoods. But it occurs to me that neighborhood activists can be rather narrowly focused on more practical matters, like housing the people displaced or finding developers who will do the work at a reasonable price. Eliot might be a great person to serve as a go-between.”

  “Because he’s a minority?” Marty asked.

  Eliot was the son of an American soldier and his Korean war bride. I couldn’t honestly say that I and others at the Society hadn’t taken that into consideration when proposing him for a board seat: our board, and our membership, was definitely skewed toward middle-aged Caucasian men. But Eliot’s credentials spoke for themselves. “No, of course not. Because it’s his field of expertise. He’s respected and published. And we have untapped resources that he can use.”

  “Let me run the idea by him. Any word on Tyrone Blakeney’s condition?”

  I was embarrassed that I hadn’t even given that a thought this morning. “Not that I’ve heard, but I don’t expect anyone to contact me with updates. Do you know him?”

  “No. I told you I’d worked with Cherisse, though—too bad about her.”

  “They made a good team, based on what little I saw. Did you know that Latoya once dated Tyrone?” This didn’t count as gossiping, did it? Latoya seldom doled out personal information. It was Tyrone who had inserted himself into our lives, and I thought Latoya was right in mentioning the prior connection, in case the police happened to stumble on it.

  “I did not know that. Interesting—I wouldn’t have thought he was her type. So, what now?”

  “I have no idea. I might have had a plan yesterday morning, but that kind of flew out the window. I’ve got to pull together reports from departments, and from the construction guys, to send to the board this week. We’re hatching a new outreach effort, maybe, but it’s too soon to say anything about that. I don’t want to talk to the media. Can I go home now?”

  “Not hardly. Listen, I wanted to talk about . . .” And Marty was off and running. She was a tremendous asset to the Society, the third generation of her line to take a hand in managing the place, and she knew more about the Society than I ever would, even though I’d been working here for more than ten years now. But sometimes her exhaustive knowledge of details was simply . . . exhausting. I sat back and let her words flow over me.

  I don’t know how long that would have gone on if we had not been interrupted by a phone call. Eric stuck his head in the door. “Nell, Detective Hrivnak is downstairs, and she wants to see you.”

  Marty and I exchanged startled glances. “Maybe she’s just delivering my statement to sign?” I suggested.

  “You believe that?” Marty shot back.

  I shook my head. “Not the way my luck runs. I’d better go see what she wants. You going to wait here?”

  “Of course. She knows who I am, and she knows you’re going to tell me everything anyway. This saves time. Bring her on up.”

  I passed Eric’s desk and told him I would be collecting the detective, then took the elevator down and walked to the lobby. She was deep in conversation with Bob at the desk, but she looked up quickly when she saw me approaching.

  “Detective, what can I do for you today?” I said.

  “We need to talk,” she said bluntly. I’d heard that line before from her, and it didn’t bode well.

  “My office?” I suggested. I knew Marty was lying in wait there. Did I think I needed protection? Or a witness?

  “Okay,” the detective agreed. She followed me silently to the elevator and up, then down the hall to my office. When she walked in she was startled to see Marty there, but she didn’t protest. “Ms. Terwilliger.”

  “Detective,” Marty replied, equally curt.

  “Detective, do you mind if Marty hears whatever you have to say?”

  Detective Hrivnak waved a dismissive hand. “No problem. But this is off the record, kinda, for now.”

  That was curious. “You know you can trust us. Please, sit down. Do you want some coffee? Anything else?”

  “Nah. Let’s just get this sorted out. Ms. Terwilliger, you know what happened yesterday?”

  “I do. Nell filled me in this morning. Please call me Marty—it’ll save time.”

  “Right. Marty. Okay, a drive-by shooting in North Philly. Not exactly a rare event. One dead—a City employee named Cherisse Chapman. One wounded: Tyrone Blakeney. One—what do you want me to call you, Ms. Pratt?”

  “Nell. How about, one person completely out of place there?”

  “That’ll do. One shooter, one driver. In a car that you and Tyrone tell us was checking you out before they started shooting.”

  “How is Tyrone, by the way?” I asked. Better late than never.

  “Stable. Shot multiple times, but none of the bullets hit anything vital. Chapman wasn’t so lucky. Anyway, Tyrone’s talking, but he didn’t say anything we didn’t already know from you.”

  “He told you why we were there?”

  “He did. Hopeless cause, but I guess somebody’s got to try. You told me it was the woman who noticed the car first, right?”

  “Yes. Tyrone was turned away, talking to me in the backseat. Cherisse saw the car on its second pass by us, and mentioned it, but Tyrone was too busy to look. The third time by was when they started shooting.”

  “Cherisse didn’t recognize anyone? Or the car?”

  “She didn’t say. Only that she’d noticed the car passing us more than once. They were going pretty slowly, and it was clear they were looking at us. There was nothing else to see on that block.”

  “Did Chapman seem nervous?”

  “Only after she’d seen the car a second time. Detective, what is this all about?”

  Detective Hrivnak sighed. “Look, the department wants to close this case, call it a random shooting. I’m not so sure, but I don’t
have much to go on, and nothing that’s going to change their minds. Not yet.”

  I knew the detective could be a bulldog when she wanted to find something, and she didn’t take the easy way out. “Why are you not sure?”

  “So far we haven’t found any reason why anyone would want any of you dead, or at least out of commission or scared off. Of course, it’s only been one day, but nothing jumps out. No attempt at robbery, right?”

  I shook my head. “No. They could have stopped and grabbed wallets, purses, phones, whatever. They should know how long it would take the cops to show up, and they would have had time, right?” I hoped she didn’t take that the wrong way, but I’d seen myself that the cops had been skeptical about the 911 call.

  “Probably. So they didn’t want your cash or phones or whatever, and they kind of messed up the car, so it wasn’t so they could take that.”

  “This about drugs?” Marty said.

  “It’s a problem in that part of town, all right,” Detective Hrivnak told her. “And gangs—Puerto Ricans, Irish, black, Dominican, Polish, Asian. You name it, they’re on the street dealing.”

  I was beginning to wonder why I worked in Philadelphia at all, if it was so dangerous. Ignorance was bliss, maybe, but I couldn’t claim to be ignorant any longer. “Any evidence that the house we were looking at was a drug, er, den?”

  “Nope—it was too far gone to support a lot of traffic. This one was pretty exposed, so nobody could go in and out easily. Although that could cut both ways—no one could sneak up on the house without being noticed. But there are plenty of other houses to use.”

  “Detective, what are you trying to tell us?” I finally asked.

  “Unless it was some gang member proving himself, there’s no reason for anyone who didn’t know you to shoot at you. How old was the shooter?”

  “Not a kid, if that’s what you’re asking. I guessed thirties, or maybe late twenties. Do you know what the weapon was?”

  “What, you can’t identify a make and model from twenty feet while it’s firing at you?” she said snidely, then quickly corrected herself. “Sorry, that’s not fair. I know you know guns, but I’ll give you a pass this time. The slugs we removed from both victims were thirty-eight caliber.”