Dying Brand

by Wendy Tyson

  “You really think those boys killed Scott?” Allison asked.

  Berry took a pack of cigarettes from inside one of the pockets and tapped it against the palm of one hand to retrieve a cigarette. Frowning, he said, “I think Scott’s life spiraled out of control. He made a series of bad choices that landed him in a heap of trouble. People don’t really change as they get older. They just become more of whatever they were to begin with. Scott found out the hard way that bad choices meet with bad consequences.”

  Allison, thinking of her sister Amy, could understand his point of view. “That’s a depressing perspective, Detective. I’d like to believe people can change.”

  Berry stuck the cigarette in his mouth and offered the pack to Allison. When she declined, he cupped the tip, lit it and drew a long breath. After blowing it out, he said, “In your line of work, I guess you need to believe in the ability to change. In mine,” he shrugged, “we see the evidence every damn day. The shortest distance is a straight line. Simplicity. And the simplest answer is that people do what they’ve always done. A fact that helps us catch criminals again and again.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Mia hung up the phone. She knew he’d come through.

  She put Buddy on a leash and ran out to the barn. The chickens were hungry and they let her know with their frantic squawking. She picked up Stevens, huddled in the corner, and stroked the chicken’s head until she calmed down. Scalia, always a bully, strutted around the barn. As the only rooster, he was the loudest of all, and not for the first time, Mia considered getting rid of him. But she knew she couldn’t. She’d never been good at ending relationships.

  She wondered what Vaughn was doing now. A stab of loneliness and regret ran through her. She toyed with the idea of calling him. A call now would give him mixed messages, she reasoned. Better to let some time pass. As much as she loved him and missed him already, it had been the right choice for both of them. Of that, she was certain.

  Mia scattered feed for the chickens, gave the nervous Stevens a last stroke, and loaded Buddy into the truck. She was meeting Svengetti at a bar not far from her house. She’d known he was in the area. She just didn’t realize how close.

  On her way, she received a call from Allison. Did she know where Jason was?

  “He’s not answering his mobile or his work numbers,” Allison said. “I even stopped by his office, where he said he’d be, but no one was there. I’m worried.”

  And she sounded worried. “I talked to him this morning,” Mia said. “He mentioned something about going for a bike ride or a hike after doing some paperwork at the office. He’s probably out somewhere, letting off steam.”

  “Without telling me?” Allison asked.

  “You’ve been pretty distracted.”

  “I have.” Allison paused, and Mia heard traffic noises in the background. “If you talk to him again, let him know I’m looking for him?”

  “I will,” Mia said. “Allison?”

  “Yes?”

  “Have you given any more thought to what I said earlier? About giving the pictures to the police and walking away.”

  Allison sighed. “I tried. The police don’t see a connection between the pictures and Scott’s death.”

  “There you go—”

  “But they’re wrong.”

  It was Mia’s turn to sigh. “And you wonder why Jason went for a hike without you?”

  “Without telling me. There’s a difference. Where are you, anyway?”

  Mia debated telling her where she was headed but thought better of it. “Trying to get you information on Eleanor Davies,” she said instead. “Like I promised.”

  “And how will you do that?”

  “I have my sources.”

  “Svengetti?”

  “That transparent?”

  “He’s sweet on you, Mia.”

  “Please,” Mia said, but she felt a shiver of pleasure nonetheless. “Where will you be?”

  “Here and there,” Allison said cryptically. “I have a few things to check out.”

  “Nothing dangerous?” Mia asked, feeling her stomach tighten. After the events of last summer, Mia knew quite well that Allison’s idea of dangerous and others’ idea of dangerous were summer and winter.

  Allison laughed. “Nothing dangerous.”

  “Famous last words.”

  Night was falling fast. Allison turned off Broad Street and onto Green Street, feeling conspicuous in her Volvo. This wasn’t a great area of town, period. She shouldn’t have come. But she needed to see the spot where Scott had been murdered.

  On Green Street, Allison wedged the Volvo between an old Town Car and a newer Honda. She killed the engine. Based on what she’d read in the papers and what Edith had told her, this was the block. She climbed out of the car.

  The night was still. Allison heard traffic noise, police sirens in the distance and the far-off beat of someone’s jazz music, but here, along this block of Green, no one stirred. A row of connected homes lined each side of the street. On one side, the homes were largely intact. Rundown and dark inside, but intact. On the opposite side, across from where she’d parked, three-quarters of the homes were in utter disrepair. Roofing had collapsed, porches sagged, and stained glass windows were shattered reminders of what had once been. In the home on the corner, one of the few with an undamaged roof, a light shined from the basement. It flickered, went out and then came on again.

  Squatters, Allison thought.

  The wind picked up, scattering bits of litter across the sidewalk. A block and a half away, Allison could make out three silhouettes, all carrying lit cigarettes, coming down the street. In the pools of darkness between the street lights, she saw only the tiny red glow of the cigarettes bobbing in what looked like nothingness.

  What had Scott been doing here? Allison wondered. Why the hell was he in this neighborhood on that day? She studied the houses on this side of the block. Although a few looked as though they might be occupied, there were no signs of life. Aside from the light in the basement of the abandoned house.

  The bobbing cigarettes advanced. In the watery glow of the street light, Allison saw three young black boys, all dressed in baggy pants and hoodies. They barely glanced in her direction before they made a left at the crossroads and disappeared from sight.

  Perhaps Berry was right. Perhaps Mia was right. Maybe Scott hadn’t been reaching out to her for any reason other than blackmail. Or to rekindle an affair—an unwanted affair. Or for help. That was the bit she couldn’t shake, that maybe Scott Fairweather had needed help.

  Could she really have been that poor a judge of character? At one time, she’d thought she loved Scott. There had to have been some good in him.

  Allison headed back toward her car. She was about to get in when movement caught her eye. A woman, teetering her way up the road, had come out from the abandoned house on the corner. She seemed to be headed this way.

  Allison climbed in her car, waiting. The woman was alone. She wore spiky black boots, a skirt so short it could have been a bikini, and a sequined tank top. No coat. Long, unruly black hair framed an angular face hidden by shadows. As she neared, Allison saw multiple piercings in her ear, nose and lip.

  Allison kept her hand on the ignition, her foot near the gas. She felt oddly calm. If the woman was packing, she was hiding the gun well. There was certainly no extra room in her clothing. When the woman approached, she leaned down so that her face was framed by the car window. She was older than Allison had first thought, maybe in her late twenties, but it was hard to tell. She had the far away, hollow look of someone who had been on the streets for too long. Sharp cheekbones, sunken eyes, and stained, rotting teeth indicated heroin or meth. The bruises on her pale arms screamed abuse.

  The woman tried to smile, but the expression contorted into something painful and pathetic. She said something Allison
couldn’t hear. Allison cracked the window.

  “What’d you need?” the woman asked.

  “I just want to talk.”

  The woman grinned. “That’s what they all say. Whatever your flavor, I can deliver—”

  “Really, I just want to ask you a question.” Keeping her eyes on the woman, Allison pulled a photo of Scott from inside her bag. “A man was killed here a few weeks ago. This man.” Allison showed her Scott’s picture. “Do you recognize him?”

  The woman squinted at the photo, bending down to get a better view. “No, I’d remember him.”

  She looked certain, although Allison was unsure how much she could rely on her memory.

  “Did you know about the murder on this block?”

  The woman shifted from one foot to the other, either from cold or nervousness. She glanced again at the house and Allison figured there was a pimp in there, waiting for her to return with cash. She said, “Answer me and I’ll give you twenty bucks.”

  A hungry nod. “Yeah, I remember. The cops were all over.”

  “Do you know who did it?”

  “Gang kid.”

  “Did you recognize him? Is he one of the kids the cops arrested?”

  The woman shrugged. The frightened look returned to her face. “Dunno.”

  Frustrated, Allison said, “Did you see anything? Anything at all?”

  The woman shook her head slowly back and forth.

  Allison pulled out a twenty and a ten. The woman’s eyes widened. Allison glanced in the rearview mirror to make sure no one else was coming.

  “Think hard for me. This is all I have, but you can have it if you help me.”

  “I didn’t see it happen, but I hear things.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “You can’t tell nobody I told you. Understand?”

  Allison nodded.

  “Young guy did it. For money.”

  Not so different from what Berry said, Allison thought. Except that they pinned it on kids, not a kid. “Was he one of the young guys the cops arrested?”

  The woman looked nervously back toward the house. A light had reappeared in the basement.

  “Look,” the woman said. “I didn’t see it happen, but I hear things, like I said. Kid who did it got away. That’s all I know.”

  “Was it part of a drug deal?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “You don’t know this kid’s name?”

  “Told you. No.” She wrapped her arms tighter around her chest and rocked back and forth. Despite the cold, a line of sweat appeared above her lip. Goosebumps had sprouted along her arms. “That’s all I know. Don’t know his name, or why he done it.”

  “Did you tell any of this to the cops?”

  Her snort said she never spoke to the police.

  “But you’re sure the kid wasn’t one of the ones who was arrested?”

  She nodded. Allison, still not sure whether to believe her, handed her the thirty dollars. The woman backed away from the car, lingering just out of reach. “Thanks.”

  “Do you need help?” Allison asked, thinking of Amy. “Do you want me to take you somewhere…somewhere safe?”

  The woman smiled, a smile so sad and sweet that Allison felt tears well up in her eyes. “Ain’t nowhere safe,” she said. “But I ’preciate the offer.”

  Allison slipped her arms out of her coat and pulled it off. It was made of wool and cashmere, but built to withstand colder temperatures. She rolled down the window and held the coat out. “Take this. It’s warm.”

  The woman stared at it, not comprehending. She held out her hands and tentatively touched the fabric. Allison saw track marks along her arms. She’d sell the coat to buy drugs, Allison knew, or her pimp would. But maybe, just maybe, she’d be warm for a night. Or the gesture would mean something to her some day in the future, when she could see her path more clearly.

  “What will I tell…what am I gonna tell him?” the woman asked, sounding a decade younger than her late twenties. “How am I gonna explain a coat? Can’t tell him I gave you information. He’d kill me.”

  “Tell him you negotiated well.”

  “He can see me from here. He’ll know we didn’t do nothin’.”

  “Then tell him I’m a missionary. A minister. Something like that.”

  The woman nodded. She slipped on the coat. It was several sizes too big, but she slid her hands gingerly down the length of the material.

  Allison started the ignition. She pulled away from the curb and watched in her rearview mirror as the girl-woman fumbled her way back toward the house and whatever waited within.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Allison returned home to a dark house. Even Brutus took his time greeting her, coming down the steps with the startled, slightly dazed look of someone who’d been awakened from a deep sleep. The cat didn’t bother with an appearance.

  After giving Brutus a vigorous petting, Allison slid off her shoes and checked her phone. She had a text from Jason: “Heading back to my place. –J”

  Odd, Allison thought. His normal routine was to stay here, or at least call. They never ended a day without an “I love you.” It was only eight o’clock, so she tried to ring him. He didn’t answer. She was about to put her shoes back on and head to his apartment when her phone beeped. Relived, she glanced down at the caller I.D. Only it wasn’t Jason. It was Faye.

  “Can you take the baby tonight?” Faye asked. “I’m sorry to call so late, but I forgot that Mom has an appointment first thing in the morning.”

  “Of course,” she said to Faye, surprised but delighted, and more than a little apprehensive. “I can be there in an hour.”

  “Thank you,” Faye said, sounding like a burden had been lifted. “You’ll bring her back tomorrow?”

  “Sure. What time?”

  “Any time between twelve and three,” Faye said. “Just in time for Little House on the Prairie reruns. We all watch those together.”

  Thomas Svengetti pushed away a half-eaten plate of Shepherd’s Pie. “You want me to track down this Doris Long?” he asked. “Using federal tax records?”

  Mia smiled at him from across the table. The spot he’d chosen for their rendezvous was a wood-paneled, noisy sports bar. But her veggie burger had been tasty and the beer in her hand, a local pale ale, went down easily. The company, she hated to admit, wasn’t too bad, either.

  “Can you do that?”

  Svengetti nodded. “Sure, mostly public records anyway. But why do you need the information?”

  “Favor to a friend.”

  Svengetti arched an eyebrow. “Why do I think you’re up to something?”

  “Me? What would give you that idea?”

  Svengetti smiled, an expression Mia hadn’t seen much on the man, and his vibrant blue eyes lit up. “You’re a wily one, Mia Campbell.” He ran a finger over a long scratch in the wooden table. He had strong hands, Mia noticed, and neatly trimmed fingernails. “You want to find this Doris Long? Why?”

  Mia shook her head. “We want to find a woman named Eleanor Davies. She’s forty-two and single, as far as I know anyway. Lives in Exton and worked at Transitions, Inc., a former brand of Diamond Brands, Inc. Disappeared from her home a few weeks ago.”

  “Foul play suspected?”

  “Maybe,” Mia said. “Her sister was murdered soon after Eleanor disappeared.” Mia went on to explain Scott Fairweather’s death and his relationship with Eleanor. “Something seems off.”

  “Heard about that. Man was killed in North Philly. Gang-related. They just arrested the perps.” Svengetti raised his glass and frowned. “Sounds like a matter for the cops.”

  “I agree. Unfortunately, my friend does not.”

  “Why are you involved?”

  “I’m not, really. This friend is worried. She thinks s
omething happened to Eleanor. Or Eleanor knows something and ran.”

  Mia watched his face. While she wasn’t lying, she wasn’t being completely truthful, either. After everything that happened with the Benini and Edwards families almost a year ago, Mia trusted Svengetti. He was a smart man, and resourceful. But she also knew he was a maverick and he would do what he felt was right, not necessarily what someone else wanted him to do. She needed to play it cool.

  “You’re holding back on me, Mia,” he said. “But I get the sense that you’re not directly involved so I’ll help you.” He took a sip from his mug of beer, wiped his mouth with a white paper napkin, and leaned forward, eyes commanding. Mia found herself thinking he was a handsome man, in a Paul-Newman-in-his-later-years sort of way. “Don’t go putting yourself in danger again.”

  Mia smiled. “This one isn’t my fight, Thomas.”

  Svengetti stopped a waitress and asked her for a pen. She handed him one and he jotted the names down on another white napkin. “So you think that finding Doris Long may help you locate Eleanor.”

  “That’s what my friend thinks.”

  Svengetti stared at her. “And your friend is Allison Campbell?”

  “You’re either smarter than you look or I’m an open book.”

  “You just seem to be that loyal.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  Svengetti laughed. “Loyalty has its place, Mia. But it can also get you killed. Or worse.”

  Mia knew he was talking about his own life: his murdered wife, killed at the hands of the Russian mob, and others whom he’d seen gunned down or emotionally tortured over the years. She felt bad for bringing him into this.

  “Thomas,” she began.

  But he waved away her concern. “I’m right where I want to be, Mia. So don’t say another thing.” He caught her eye, making the meaning of his words clear. “My hotel room is not far from here. If you want an answer right away, you’re welcome to join me in the search. Otherwise, I can call you later.”