It was a beautiful night and the Parkway’s walkways were filled with pedestrians, some strolling hand in hand enjoying the early spring evening, another sign Philly was awakening from its decades’ long decline.
As he drove past the newest addition to the Parkway, the soon-to-be-opened Barnes Foundation Museum, he almost laughed out loud at how typically “Philadelphia” the battle over where and how the Barnes Foundation’s treasured art collection would be housed had played out over the past decade. Millions of dollars in legal fees had been wasted as the power brokers of the region contested the legality of moving the exhibition eight miles from Merion, a Philadelphia suburb, to Center City. His mother, a former student at the Foundation, and a cadre of her fellow denizens of the Main Line establishment, were right in the center of the mess.
Regan loved his mother and respected her passion to defend the causes and people she loved. He realized her latest cause célèbre, her effort to reunite him with Courtney Wells, was well intended. After all she only wanted her son to be happy.
Did he really want to rekindle his relationship with Courtney, he wondered as he drove past the Art Museum and on to the Kelly Drive. They had been high school sweethearts. Once Courtney graduated from the Notre Dame Academy in Radnor and was exposed to the unsupervised life of a college coed in Boston, she became uninhibited and embraced her new found freedom with a fervor that was reckless and out of control. Regan went to Princeton, and neither of them could sustain the pressure of a long distance relationship. There had been no big breakup, they just moved on and drifted into new relationships. No bitterness; no recriminations.
As he approached Main Street, flashing lights from several parked police cruisers and news vans lit up the normally quiet side of Manayunk. This section of the city had once been an independent mill town nestled along the banks of the Schuykill River. The former borough had been incorporated along with other municipalities that bordered the city as part of Philadelphia in the early19th century.
Manayunk got its identity from the dam, canal and locks that had been built to power the mills and factories that for nearly 100 years made it one of the manufacturing centers of Philadelphia. Even after the decline of manufacturing and the shuttering of the mom and pop businesses along its Main Street, Manayunk retained its small-town charm with its two and three story row homes that were crammed onto the hilly, cobblestone streets within walking distance of the mills and factories where generations of the workers lived. Now, because of its proximity to Center City, Manayunk like many other Philadelphia neighborhoods that had seen better days was undergoing a transformation into a gentrified, hip place for young professionals and college students to live, much to the consternation of the original ‘Yunkers,’ the mostly Irish and Polish descendants of the mill workers.
One of the former industrial sites, the old Shupak Pickle Works, had been cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape. As Regan slowed down he noticed a Crown Vic with distinctive dents carelessly parked with its front wheel on the sidewalk, announcing the unmistakable presence of Detective Isodore Ichowitz of the Homicide Division. Regan parked his car next to Ichowitz’ vehicle and showed his ID to the officer guarding the entrance to the parking lot.
“Yo, Jack. Are you doing your James Bond thing, or is this a black tie only Homicide?” One of the local media had reconigzed him and alerted the rest.
He ignored the catcalls. “Tell Detective Ichowitz Assistant District Attorney Regan is here.” The young Police Officer radioed the message and Regan was logged in and permitted access. He walked across the parking lot to Ichowitz, who was standing outside the door of the smaller of the two buildings in the courtyard.
The former pickle factory had been converted into condos. Regan was impressed with the quality of the exterior renovations that had maintained the historic character of the industrial buildings.
“Nice threads, boycik. To what do I owe the honor?” Ichowitz reached over and touched the lapel of Regan’s tuxedo. “Armani?”
“Izz, I was on my way home from my folk’s shindig at the Union League. I noticed the new dent on your Crown Vic. Just wanted to make sure you were OK.”
“Well as you can plainly see, I survived. Since you’re here, would you like to see how I occupy myself when I’m not testifying in one of your cases?”
Regan smiled at the big man. Isodore Ichowitz was acknowledged as the best detective in the division. He was Regan’s godfather. Jack’s father and the homicide detective went all the way back to their Police Academy days.
“Izz, you know I only live a couple blocks from here. We’re not used to all this excitement in the hood.”
Ichowitz smiled and said, “I know Jack. Except for the occasional domestic, you Yunkers play nice. But we got us a real doosey on our hands here.”
Ichowitz led him into the building. In its former life it must have been where the Shupaks had stored pickle barrels for curing. It had been transformed into a dramatic multi-level living space. The loading doors at the back of the building that faced the canal path had been replaced with floor-to-ceiling windows that provided an unobstructed view of the Center City skyline several miles down the Schuylkill River. Regan, who was renovating his own far more modest home, marveled at the scope and quality of the workmanship. It must have cost a fortune, he thought.
“Izz, I had no idea that this site had been renovated,” Regan said. “It must have cost millions to convert the factory and this storage area into condos.”
“You’re probably right. Funny thing though, despite their best efforts, the place still smells a little like a kosher pickle,” the big detective remarked.
Regan and Ichowitz had donned foot covers to make sure they would not contaminate the crime scene. Blood had splattered all over the back of the room. There were bloody footsteps immediately around the corpse, leading to a partially opened rear doorway. “We haven’t identified the victim yet,” he said as he lifted the sheet that covered the corpse.
The victim had been a beautiful young woman. The corpse was in full rigor and there was some discoloration around her eyes and mouth, but except for the bloody wound to the back of her skull, she looked as if she were asleep.
“Jesus Christ, Izz, it’s Meagan Larson. She worked for Dorothy Wiggins.”
“Jack, are you sure?”
“Izz, she was scheduled to be a witness in the Wiggins’ Grand Jury Investigation. I interviewed her for hours to prepare her testimony. Anyway, once you met her, if you had a pulse you weren’t about to forget her.”
Regan filled Ichowitz in on his history with the victim. She had been an associate attorney in Wiggins’ office. She delivered documents he had subpoenaed as part of the Grand Jury investigation of Wiggins’ involvement in insurance fraud and improper payments, kickbacks to local politicians and union officials. The interviews ultimately led to further investigation and her eventual agreement to provide testimony to the Grand Jury. The gossip on the street was that Larson’s relationship with Wiggins was something other than that of a regular employment situation.
“Who owns this place?” he asked the detective.
Ichowitz told Regan the Nooris brothers had developed the entire complex. The Nooris were famous for their ruthless approach to the real estate development business. They claimed that the manner with which they conducted their business was the way it was done in their native Israel. The Nooris had developed and financed the Manayunk renaissance that had transformed the north end of Main Street into a collection of tony shops, expensive condos and restaurants. The redevelopment that had stalled at Shurs Lane was now moving east. They were in the unit owned by Ari Nooris, the older of the two brothers. According to Ichowitz, Ari was presently residing in Jerusalem.
“So what was Megan doing here? As far as I know, she had no connection to the Nooris brothers, or Manayunk for that matter.”
Ichowitz sighed. “Jack my boy that is why we conduct investigations.”
FOUR
Th
e next morning Regan followed his normal Saturday routine: Up at 6 AM; stretch for twenty minutes; jog south on Main Street to the Kelly Drive; pick up the pace for fifty minutes and turn back. This time he made it all the way to the Art Museum steps, nearly four miles, before he made the turn for home. He was training for the Broad Street Run, the annual event that hundreds of Philadelphians ran from Central High School at Broad and Olney in North Philadelphia to the Philadelphia Navy Yard, at the southern most part of Philadelphia, ten miles south. The proceeds from the event went to the Cancer Society. This year Regan would raise over $10,000 in pledges in honor of Susan.
As he jogged back his thoughts turned to the status of the Larson murder investigation. The Medical Examiner had preliminarily fixed the time of death between 3 PM and 10 PM, on Friday. From the evaluation of the crime scene the police had so far determined that Larson had been killed at the condominium owned by Ari Nooris at the old Shupak Pickle Works. The cause of death was severe cranial trauma. The instrument of crime was the fireplace andiron the killer had left at the scene.
Of course, they did not know who did it or why. Nor was there any apparent evidence of a connection between the victim and Ari Nooris, or how Larson had ended up at his condo. When Regan had left the scene, Ichowitz was in the process of recovering the security video from the condominium parking lot. The detectives would begin their canvas of the neighborhood later this morning. You never can underestimate what nosey neighbors, especially Yunkers, might have seen and remembered. What was Megan Larson doing at Nooris’ condo?
As Regan approached the tavern at Grape and Main he saw workmen preparing to paint the exterior of the building. He looked through the open front door and saw the proprietor, Mike O’Malley, behind the bar. O’Malley was a classic Yunker. He looked like a leprechaun gone to seed. Five feet, two, a former bantam-class boxer, now many pounds over his fighting weight, he was nevertheless still a force to be reckoned with.
“Mike, giving the Grape a face lift?” Regan asked as he entered the bar. Regan noticed a red headed boy sitting at the corner of the bar using a shot glass and crayons to draw circles on a piece of butcher paper.
The boy, who looked no more than eight or nine years old, looked up as Regan entered the room.
“Not my idea,” O’Malley responded. “No, it’s my niece from Dublin. She says, Uncle Mike, ya better fix up the old joint now. She says, don’t ya see what’s happenin around you? The neighborhood’s becoming the next thing. The next thing I says. What’s that supposed to mean I says.”
O’Malley stopped his rant when he noticed the boy at the bar staring at Regan.
“Liam, say hello to Mr. Regan.”
“Lo,” the boy said and returned to his drawing, while he continued to keep one eye on Regan.
“Jack, Liam’s my great nephew, my niece’s boy. Liam and his Ma are stayin with me for a piece. Katey, Liam’s ma, knows a thing or two, or so she says, about runnin pubs. She managed the family operation in Dublin for a spell.”
“Hello, Liam.” Jack offered his hand.
The boy reluctantly put down the crayon and solemnly reached up to shake hands with Regan.
“What kind of a watch is that, Mister?” the boy asked.
Regan smiled. “Liam, it’s a watch that can change to a compass when you press the stem. It displays the time and also lets me know the direction I’m running, so that I won’t get lost. See, the arrow always points to the north. So no matter where I’m headed, I can always know how to get back home.”
O’Malley poured Jack a cup of coffee and continued to gripe about the changes his niece had planned for the Grape.
As he caught the aroma of the coffee, Regan realized there was more than a new coat of paint going on at his friend’s bar. The coffee had a hint of chicory, this was something new. He took a sip and was rewarded with a rich and subtle flavor that was a far cry from the normally bitter brew he had grown accustomed to at this establishment.
“Mike, where did you get this coffee? It’s great!”
“Think so?”
Regan nodded as he took another sip.
Before O’Malley answered, a pretty young woman stepped out of the kitchen and said, “It’s from a local brewer in Northern Liberties; they made the blend special for the Grape. Glad you like it.”
“I’m Katey O’Malley, the dragon lady from Ireland Uncle Mike’s been grousing about,” she said as she extended her hand.
“Jack Regan, nice to meet you,” he said.
There was no mistaking the fact that Katey O’Malley was Irish. She had red hair and freckles and green eyes that fixed you when she looked your way. She was tall and lean and struck Regan as a woman of substance.
She walked over to her son and mussed his hair she smiled and said, “Liam, are you minding your uncle?”
“Yes Mum.”
The boy looked up from his drawing and said, “Will we be going to the park soon? I want to practice my football. Uncle Mike says there’s a league I can join.”
“Ah son, I’m sorry, but there’s a problem with one of the burners. I’m afraid we’ll have to go tomorrow.”
Regan could see the disappointment on the boy’s face, and his mother’s reaction was also apparent.
“Mrs. O’Malley, I could take Liam to the park, it’s only a block away, and I know the folks who run the soccer league. If that’s all right with you and Liam,” Regan said.
She fixed him with a serious stare.
“Katey, I know what you’re thinkin. Jack’s all right, he’s not one of those perverts like you were readin about from the Archdiocese. And besides, he’s got this fancy watch that will tell him how to find his way back here in case he gets lost, doesn’t he, Liam?” O’Malley said.
She looked back at her son who waited for her decision.
“Liam, will you mind Mr. Regan then?”
“Yes Mum.”
“Alright, when you’re done I’ll have lunch ready for the two of you. Make sure you have him back by noon.”
Ichowitz and a squad of uniforms from the Fourth District canvassed the Pickle Works and the surrounding neighborhood looking for anyone who witnessed any of the comings and goings at the condo the preceding afternoon and evening. The old factory had been converted to twelve units, eight of which had been sold. The residents in Units two and seven were out of town. Unfortunately none of the neighbors who were at home the day of the murder could provide any leads. According to the Yunkers who lived across the street, the residents of the Works were a bunch of snooty posers who wanted nothing to do with the neighborhood folk, and that was fine by them. None of the locals saw anything that aided the investigation.
The surveillance video of the parking lot did yield a potential solid lead. Of the seventeen vehicles that had accessed the parking lot on Friday, six belonged to condo owners. Of the remaining eleven, five were identified as visitors, one was a Comcast truck. Ichowitz and his squad only had partial license plates for four of the five other vehicles and were still running them through the available data bases.
The videotape clearly showed a black Mercedes with the vanity license plate, “ILLSUEU,” owned by Dorothy Wiggins, Larson’s boss, entering the parking lot at 17:30. Unfortunately there was no clear view of the driver or where he or she went upon leaving the vehicle. The driver returned to the vehicle l7:55 and drove off. The techs also recovered Wiggins’ fingerprints, among others, inside the apartment. Since Larson was about to drop the dime on Wiggins, the timing of her proximity to the scene of the crime might be the smoking pistol Ichowitz needed to solve the crime. He knew this was, of course, too good to be true, but at the very least it might help the investigation fix the time of death, and could ultimately lead to the killer. Besides, it would provide Ichowitz with the opportunity to question Wiggins as a “Person of Interest.”
Ichowitz drove past the Manayunk Park and saw Regan standing on the sidelines of the soccer field watching the kids scrimmaging. He pulled the Crown Vic over a
nd jumped the curb, nearly hitting the fire hydrant. Ichowitz was probably the worst driver on the force. One more crash and the Commissioner warned him that he would revoke his driving privileges and force Ichowitz to use SEPTA, the city’s public transit system.
He walked over to Regan and said, “Jack, I was just thinking about you, and voila, there you are. I didn’t know you had any interest in soccer?”
“Izz, I’m watching one of the kids, the tall red-headed boy,” Regan pointed to Liam.
The two men watched the scrimmage as Liam took the ball nearly the length of the field and kicked it past the goalie. Liam was surrounded by his teammates and his coach gave him a high five as he crossed the sideline. Regan whistled and was rewarded with a rare smile from the serious boy.
“That kid looks like he knows what he’s doing,” Ichowitz said.
“Izz, Jimmy Mack the coach went nuts when I brought Liam over. He couldn’t believe a nine-year-old has those skills.”
“Jack is he one of your nephews?”
“No, he’s Mike O’Malley’s, you know the guy who owns the Grape Tavern, great nephew. Liam and his mother just came over from Ireland. I volunteered to bring the boy over to the park.”
Ichowitz gave him a look.
“What?”
“Jack, is Liam’s mother a comely lass?” Ichowitz asked.
Regan blushed and said, “So why were you thinking about me?”
“Oh yeah, I wanted to tell you that one of your favorite people in the world appears to be a person of interest in the Larson homicide.”
“And who might that be?”
“Dorothy Wiggins.”
“Really?”
“It’s the ‘emess’- the absolute truth” Ichowitz said and filled Regan in on the evidence.
Liam ran into the Grape and hugged his mother. “Mum, I scored a goal!”
She looked up at Regan and mouthed a silent thank you. He nodded.
She had prepared fish and chips for lunch. Regan had never tasted fried fish that light and flavorful before, and the chips were crisp and delicious.
Murder and Mayhem in Manayunk Page 2
