“Then I can only say thank you. I hope we can live up to your faith in us.”
“I’m sure you will.”
We muddled through good-byes after shaking hands all around with Edward. Alice and I stood on the front stoop while Marty and Eliot exchanged a few private words in the vestibule before joining us.
My head was spinning. Had I really heard what I thought I had? The nonprofit landscape of greater Philadelphia had just changed before my eyes, and the Society was going to be part of it. Whee!
I turned to Alice. “Were you your uncle’s mole at the Society?”
“No,” she said. “But I did tell him I thought the Society was doing an excellent job, despite limited resources and funding. And he listened.”
“Well, whatever role you played, thank you. Is he going to want us to name something after him? Because we will.”
Alice waved a hand at that idea. “No, this is not about his ego, or his legacy—well, maybe the Penn part. He wants to do the right thing. In doing it this way, he helps everyone—the university, the Society, the college, and the Oliver sisters. It’s a quadruple-win situation.”
“It certainly is.”
Marty joined us, and we started walking toward the Society. The crowded sidewalks gave us little opportunity to talk about the extraordinary meeting we had just left. I didn’t mind; I was trying to process the implications of Edward Perkins’s amazing generosity. I thought possibly Latoya would welcome the chance to serve on the board of the new institute; she had a long-standing interest in abolitionist history in the city, and she was deeply immersed in the collections management side of things, having worked for years with the Society’s collections. As long as this possible new role didn’t take too much time away from her Society responsibilities, of course. Alice could handle the Oliver collection—she had already proved more than qualified, and also willing to ask for help when she knew she needed it. It was unclear how much time that process would take, but since her salary was effectively being paid by her great-uncle at the moment, it didn’t really matter. Maybe it would keep her around longer than originally planned. I often wished more intelligent young people like Alice would fall in love with history and its artifacts, but places like the Society were seldom at the top of the list when new college graduates went job hunting.
Alice peeled off to the cataloging room when we arrived at the Society, and Marty followed me to my office and dropped into a chair, while I collected messages from Eric.
“Good meeting, Nell?” he asked, as he sorted through phone messages.
“Amazing, actually, but I can’t talk about it just yet. Have I missed anything important?”
“Two calls you might want to return. One from your detective, the other from a Vee Blakeney at a bank. The rest can wait.”
“Thanks, Eric.”
I went into my office and fell into my chair, feeling a bit like Alice in Wonderland after she had fallen down the rabbit hole. The view was not the same as it had been the day before. I looked down at my messages. Hrivnak’s said Call—typically terse.
“What’s up?” Marty asked. As usual, she had followed me into my office without asking.
“Our detective wants me to call. Give me a minute.” I punched in her number and waited until she answered. “This is Nell Pratt—you called earlier?”
“Oh, yeah, right. We got lucky. You know that shooter? He cut a deal: he fingered the guy that sent him after you guys last week, in exchange for a reduced charge on the gun possession and general mayhem on the other offense. The name Raheem Hill mean anything to you?”
“I can’t say that it does. Should it?”
“Seems like this Hill character paid our shooter to do the deed. Not a heck of a lot—he works cheap. He was probably looking to score points with his gang.”
“Who are these people?” I said, more to myself than to the detective.
“Raheem’s a midlevel dealer. The shooter is lower down the food chain. Raheem says to jump, he jumps. Only now he’s given Raheem up, which isn’t good for our boy in custody.”
“I don’t suppose anybody has explained why Raheem wanted him to shoot at us?”
“Nope. He didn’t ask; he just did what he was told. But it wasn’t a mix-up—he made sure he had the right car.”
“I figured that much, since he drove by more than once. Well, I suppose that’s more than we knew before. Thanks for letting me know.”
“No problem,” Detective Hrivnak said, and hung up.
“What?” Marty asked, staring at me.
“The shooter was paid by his drug-dealing boss to shoot at us. Damn, I didn’t think to ask whether he was told to shoot to kill or just scare us off.” I knew he had scared me. Was Tyrone unwelcome there now? Was he involved in something outside of his community efforts that we didn’t know about? And what about Cherisse? She didn’t share Tyrone’s history with the neighborhood, but had the police looked past her squeaky-clean suburban credentials?
I hit speed dial and got the detective back on the line. “Did you ask Tyrone if he knew Raheem?”
“Yeah, of course. He said he knew about him, but he couldn’t remember ever going face-to-face with him.”
“One more thing: Was the shooter supposed to kill anyone, or just send a message?”
There was a moment of silence on the other end. Then the detective said, “The way he put it, he was just gonna shoot up the car. If anyone got hit, too bad. But he didn’t say anything about killing someone on purpose. That all you’ve got?”
“For now. Thanks.” This time we both hung up at the same time.
“And?” Marty asked. She seemed to be enjoying herself.
“Tyrone didn’t know Raheem, or so he says. Hrivnak didn’t think to ask if this was supposed to be a killing. Tell me this: Why would anybody hire someone to shoot at someone else if he didn’t know him?”
“If you think I understand the way a drug dealer’s mind works, you’re definitely misguided,” Marty told me. Then she changed the subject. “So, what do you think about Edward’s plan?”
“I think it’s amazing. Can he make it happen?”
“I think so. He’s made plenty of friends over the years, and very few enemies. When he promises something, he delivers. And he doesn’t do it for his own glory. Too bad there aren’t more like him.”
“I agree. Did Eliot fill you in beforehand?”
“He talked about the institute, early on when Penn first brought it up—these things take time to plan. He did not talk about Edward’s plan for supporting it.”
“And now you’re pissed at him?” I asked.
“Yes. No. Well, maybe. He could have told me something. I do know how and when to keep my mouth shut.”
“Does this Perkins Institute mean Eliot will be too busy for the Society board?”
“I don’t think so. And maybe I don’t care—he committed to that a while back, and I’m going to hold him to it. Besides, the two roles dovetail so nicely.”
“No conflict of interest?”
“I’d call it collegiality. Stop worrying, Nell. It’ll work out, and if it doesn’t, something good will come of it.”
“That is an understatement. I want to elevate Edward Perkins to sainthood. Maybe Shelby knows how to make that happen. Admit it, Marty—this is an amazing outcome. I bet you’re just mad because it happened without you.”
“Maybe,” Marty mumbled, avoiding my gaze.
“I’ve got one more call to make. You want to have lunch?”
“Nope. I’ve got to check up on what Rich has gotten done and see how this collections shuffling is going.”
“Go on, then.” I figured she wanted to crawl into the stacks and lick her wounds, but even she couldn’t argue with the excellent outcome. When Marty had left, I picked up the phone and called Vee. A secretary answered in plum
my tones and reluctantly put me through when I identified myself. “Hi, Vee. You called earlier?”
“Yes, I did, Nell, and thanks for calling back. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you—I would have mentioned it earlier, but I wanted to clear it with the partners before I started spreading the word around. And I’d rather not do it over the phone. Unfortunately I’m jammed up for most of the day. Could you come by my office around four?” She rattled off the Center City address, which I recognized.
“I think that works for me. I’ll let you know if anything changes. See you later.”
One more enigmatic phone call. Interesting. Was I really out of the loop on all fronts? What kind of hush-hush project could she be involved in that would interest me? I guess I’d have to wait and see.
All this walking around the city had left me hungry, so I went down the hall and stuck my head into Shelby’s office. “You want to grab a sandwich?” I noticed her desk was appreciably clearer than it had been the day before.
“Sure. I’ve just about wrapped up this grant report, so I can celebrate with a ham on rye.”
“You do know how to live!” I waited as she gathered up her bag and jacket, and we walked out of the building together, and down to our usual sandwich place on the next block. We ordered, then found ourselves a table next to the window.
“Thanks for that information on Edward Perkins.”
“Oh, that’s right—you were meeting with him this morning. How’d that go?”
“Very, very well. There are some interesting things in the works, but I can’t talk about them yet. But let me say that the Society will benefit mightily. Not necessarily with money, but with prestige and visibility, which might ultimately lead to more money.”
“Well, that’s nice to hear. Did the information help?”
“Yes, it helped to confirm that Mr. Perkins is a man of his word and has the resources to back it up. That’s rare these days.”
Our sandwiches arrived, and we settled down to eat. Halfway through my sandwich, I commented, “I had another odd call this morning, from Vee Blakeney. You know her?”
“Can’t say I recognize the name. Who is she?”
“She’s Tyrone Blakeney’s wife, and she’s a hotshot investment banker at a big firm here in the city.”
“What do you think she wants with you?”
“I haven’t a clue. It sounds like another mysterious project. I have to say, we must be doing something right, because at least people are looking to include the Society in their hush-hush projects. You can take some of the credit for that, getting our name out there.”
Shelby smiled. “What about you? You’ve been in the paper plenty recently.”
“Yes, but usually for the wrong reasons. I’m not sure how crime solving fits in with high finance or community development. But I’m more than willing to listen to other people’s ideas.”
“Well, here’s to us!” Shelby and I clinked our bottles of iced tea.
After lunch I returned to my office and let Eric know that I’d be leaving for a meeting at about quarter to four. Then I called James.
He answered with his professional voice. It occurred to me that I’d never seen his office at the FBI. Did he occupy a desk in a bullpen situation, or did he have his own office with a door that closed? Was there anyone who could overhear his conversations? Or were they all being recorded? “James Morrison. Oh, Nell, hi. Something up?”
“Three things.” I could be businesslike, too. “One, the meeting with Mr. Perkins was great, and I’ll fill you in later. Two, Detective Hrivnak told me that a drug dealer named Raheem Hill paid one of his flunkies to shoot at the car last week. And three, I’m meeting Tyrone Blakeney’s wife, Vee, at her office at four to discuss something she wouldn’t reveal to me over the phone. Can you meet me there?”
“Five thirty work for you? Give me the address and I’ll park somewhere and meet you downstairs.”
“That’s fine.” I told him where to find me coming out of the building. “See you then.”
The FBI listeners would have nothing to giggle about after that romantic conversation.
At quarter to four I gathered up my things again, said good-bye to Eric, and set off for Vee Blakeney’s office. It was located in one of the high-rises that lined Market Street on the other side of City Hall. I was certainly getting some exercise this way, but it felt good. When I reached the building I had to check the listings in the lobby: Vee worked for Dillingham Harrington, one of those firms that had resulted from multiple mergers of the old-guard firms after the financial ups and downs of the past decade or more. I didn’t pay much attention to who was who these days, since I had nothing that vaguely resembled an investment, unless you counted my half of the Chestnut Hill house. And the Society had been using the same small, local bank for decades.
The building was gleaming, the elevator was swift and silent, and the lobby of Vee’s firm was quietly impressive. I introduced myself to the receptionist, who announced my presence through her discreet earpiece/phone, and a minute later Vee came down a hallway to meet me.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice. I know that Tyrone appreciated your stopping by the hospital to see him.”
“I wanted to be sure he was all right. I was a bit surprised he left the hospital so quickly, with his injuries.”
Vee smiled. “I think he was trying to prove he was stronger than he actually is. Some men are like that. Are you married, Nell?”
“No, not at the moment.” I was still struggling with how to answer that. Well, I wasn’t married currently, although I had been once. I was in a committed relationship—that sounded stiff. I had a partner—silly. I lived with my boyfriend? For heaven’s sake, he was an FBI agent! Gentleman friend? Paramour? I stuck with the simplest answer: no. “Have you and Tyrone been married long?”
“More than ten years. We met just after college. He was already involved in community organizing activities then, but I decided to get an MBA at Wharton, so I went in a different direction.”
“You told me you’d been involved with John Street’s initiative—you must have been fairly new here then.”
“I was, so I ended up doing a lot of the tedious work. But Tyrone’s insights into the community were invaluable to me, and helped me capture the attention of some of the more senior members. And in a sense, that’s why I asked you here today. As I told you, that original project has had a fairly decent track record, and now that it’s wrapping up, the firm is interested in carrying it forward, at least in spirit, and has asked me to take the lead on it. Have you heard the term impact investing?”
“No, I can’t say that I have. What is it?”
Vee smiled. “Let me explain it to you, and tell you what it can do for the city of Philadelphia.”
CHAPTER 24
“I’m sorry,” Vee said, “I’m forgetting my manners—it’s been a long day. Would you like something to drink? Tea, coffee, sparkling water?”
I took her offer to mean that this visit would take more than a few minutes. “No, I’m fine.”
“All right, then.” Vee sat back in her leather swivel chair behind her spotless desk, her back to the spectacular view of city hall through the floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows. “In simplest terms, impact investing is investing that generates both a financial and a social return. It addresses social problems by making capital available from a variety of sources to fund programs that improve people’s lives and communities. It’s not new—it’s been around for perhaps two decades in an organized manner, and now one dollar out of every nine is invested in ways guided by social or environmental concerns. DH has decided to create a new department within the firm to address ways of bringing new capital to finance community and economic development.”
It took me a moment to translate DH to Dillingham Harrington. While I was not versed in the ways of pub
lic finance, I caught the drift of what she was saying. “You’re talking about raising money to support neighborhood projects? Like Tyrone’s?”
“Yes, in essence, although giving to his group would no doubt be construed as favoritism. But broadly speaking, we here at DH can bring together a range of investor types, combining different vehicles, in order to diversify the risk to the individual investors, who in turn are willing to accept a somewhat lower return with the knowledge that they are doing something worthy. Affordable housing has been the prime example, because there is an anticipated income stream of rental payments and subsidies. Public funding, from the City or the state, and pure philanthropy cannot meet all the demands of projects such as these, but we can work closely with those entities to assemble successful packages.”
It sounded good. It probably looked good on paper. Did I believe her? I wasn’t sure. “Do you need the City’s support, or at least their blessing, for this?”
“The mayor is firmly behind this. But we would also hope to pull in corporate financing from local companies, and on the flip side, to create equity investment opportunities to provide capital for other collaborative enterprises.”
“It sounds very persuasive. But isn’t there an intermediate step? I’m sure you know neighborhoods like the one I visited with your husband last week. They’re dangerous wastelands. How do you persuade anyone to invest in such a disaster zone?”
“That’s an intelligent question, Nell, and an important one. No one is promising that this will be easy, but it’s something that needs to happen, and we believe in it. We are still in the early phases, but we’ve spoken to some important construction firms who we think are on board, and as I mentioned, the City is behind us. As well they must be, since they hold a substantial number of properties in the areas we’re addressing. This has to be a collaborative effort.”
Time to cut to the chase. “I’m impressed. But why am I here? I’m assuming it’s not for the money, because the Society has none to give.”
“It was Tyrone who first approached you, right? I think he was on the right track. Your Society can provide the human element for what, for want of a better term, will be our sales pitch. You have the resources to show what the city’s neighborhoods once were, and what we hope they can be again. We can talk about numbers and wave handsome architectural drawings around, and then watch investors’ eyes glaze over; you can make the neighborhoods real to them.”
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