Dead End Street (14 page)

I nodded. “When we were together, in that neighborhood, she seemed really committed to what she and Tyrone were doing. I don't know anything about him, either. Has he worked with a lot of people in this department?”

“Not me. But I know he's been working hard on clearing the titles to a lot of these properties so he can move forward.”

“He's not an investor, is he?”

Melanie shook her head. “No, and he's not working with the big developers, either. I think he just really cares about that neighborhood. He's a lot better with people than Cherisse was. Maybe that's why they made a good team. Sorry, that's really about all I know.”

“I appreciate your telling me. Now, what do I need to do with the property we apparently still own?”

“Why don't I take a look at Cherisse's desk and see if she left anything about it?”

“That would be really helpful,” I told her as I followed her out into the big room. Melanie headed for a desk that looked like a fish out of water in the room: while there were still files and documents stacked up, they were all carefully labeled and aligned and sorted into categories in a tiered rack. There was a single container with pens and pencils, and a middle-aged phone, but not much else on the desk.

“What did you say the address was?” Melanie asked.

I told her, and she riffled through one of the stacks from the middle of the rack—presumably the “pending” category.

“Oh, yeah, here it is. I can't let it leave the building, but I can make copies for you. You got a lawyer?”

“Of course, but as president I like to keep on top of things. And our lawyer charges by the hour, so the more I can take care of, the more money we'll save.”

“I hear you. I'll just be a minute.” Melanie grabbed up the file and headed for a copy machine on the other side of the room.

I looked around the room, trying to match the number of people working—and they all looked busy—with the tens of thousands of properties that needed attention. It was still mind-boggling to me. What a terrible waste that someone like Cherisse, who was eager and committed, should be wiped out for no reason, when she was only doing her job. Not that I'd learned anything more about Cherisse with this visit: quiet, competent, kept to herself. Nothing there to guide me. I knew I hadn't been the target. Had she? Or had Tyrone? Or no one at all?

Melanie returned with a neat stack of photocopies. “Here you go! Thanks for stopping by—we don't see many of the owners here. Mostly they want to disappear and we have to hunt for them.”

“Thank you for your information. I'll try to get this sorted out quickly and take at least one file off your stack. Oh, let me know if there's any kind of service for Cherisse, will you? I'd like at least to acknowledge her.”

“Sure. You have a card?” I handed her my business card, and she said, “Thanks. I'll be in touch if I hear anything.”

I exited the building, smiling at the guard at the desk, and walked out into the plaza in front. What now? I had no idea.

Still a nice day. I strolled across City Hall Plaza, taking my time. The city hall building itself was amazing. William Penn had set the open space in the middle of what would become a major city; he had called it Centre Square. I was sure he had never envisioned this massive wedding cake of a building plunked down right in the center of it. One of the largest municipal buildings in the world. Tallest masonry building. Supporting walls twenty-two feet thick. It was roughly the same age as the Society building, although they bore no resemblance to each other. I'd been walking past it for years, and it still never failed to impress me.

I picked up a sandwich on the way back, carefully avoiding thinking about what to do next. Luckily when I returned to the Society, the answer provided itself, in the form of Detective Hrivnak. She did not look happy,
but then, she seldom did. “Were you looking for me, Detective?”

“No, I'm here to look up the history of the Hrivnaks,” she all but snarled. “Of course I'm here to see you. Got a minute?”

“Sure. Upstairs?”

“Nah, that room in the corner will be fine.” She turned on her heel and marched toward it, and I had no choice but to follow. I shut the door behind me.

“What's up?”

“Nothing, is what. This investigation is going nowhere, and I've been told to wrap it up. There's a whole list of more important crimes lined up, and my boss thinks this is a waste of time. I can't say that I blame him—a lot of crime happens in that neighborhood, and we can't follow up on everything. Don't hold that against us.”

“I don't. I know it's a problem—too few cops, too much ground to cover, too much violence. No money to hire more cops. You have to pick and choose.”

“You got it.”

I wondered if this was just a courtesy call, or if she was trying to send me a message. “You know, we still own that property, at least at the moment. Now that our title has been established, we can't just walk away.” I carefully left aside that someone had died in front of that property—in front of me.

“Join the club. Let your lawyer take care of it and dump it as fast as you can.”

Was that bitterness I was hearing? “That has been my
plan, so far. But the more I think about it, the more I wonder if there's anything the Society can do.”

“Oh, jeez, you're not going to stick yourself in the middle of another mess, are you?”

“I don't plan to. Look, until this week I never paid any attention to the housing and property issues in the city, even though maybe I should have, since I've worked in the city for years. And now I'm horrified.” When Hrivnak started to protest, I raised a hand to stop her. “Yes, I know, typical liberal white guilt. But I can't just crawl back into my nice, safe elitist hole here and ignore it now.”

“You want to join the force?”

Was that actually humor from the detective? “No, not exactly. But if there are agencies or groups who are trying to reclaim their neighborhoods, the Society can help by giving them the history of the way things were, when those neighborhoods were thriving. Pictures, letters, newspaper clippings—the kind of stuff that makes a place seem real to other people, when all they see now is a gang battle zone.”

Detective Hrivnak sat back in her chair and studied my face. “Nell, you are a piece of work. Somebody tries to kill you, and you turn it into a do-gooder opportunity.”

“Is that wrong?” I challenged her.

She slumped. “No, I guess not, as long as you do it from your nice, safe building here. Don't go wandering around drug turf.”

“Believe me, I won't. The history is here in this building. Look, do you mind if I get in touch with Tyrone? Might
as well start with his group, his neighborhood. Our neighborhood.”

“I guess. You know any local journalists?”

“I can probably find some—I know there are a few who come in now and then to go through our archives looking for pictures. Why?”

“Get one on your side, get him interested. No offense, but anything that comes out of this place isn't going to attract a big audience, and you don't have a heck of a lot of members. Now, a smart guy with a local paper—or even a blog—will reach more people.”

“I see your point. We need a voice that people will listen to.”

“Exactly. Just don't stir up any trouble while you're at it. Don't pick a hothead who wants to make a name for himself.”

“I understand, Detective—Meredith. I will look into it. But I still want to start with Tyrone. He's out of the hospital, I assume?”

“Yeah, since yesterday.”

“You have an address for him? Home? Office?”

Hrivnak reached into her pocket, pulled out a card, and scribbled something on the back, then handed it to me. “Here.”

“Thanks. Before you go, did you do any background on him before your boss shut you down?”

“Some. Local boy makes good—born in North Philly and dragged himself up and out. Still knows some people there. Good community organizer.”

“Any of those people hold a grudge against him, that he got out when they didn't?”

“We never got that far. Don't you go looking!”

“Detective, I doubt that anyone in that neighborhood would talk to me.” I certainly didn't feel like attracting any more gunfire.

“You got that right. We good?”

“I hope so. I promise I will do my best to stay out of trouble, and I don't plan to go anywhere near that neighborhood again.”

“Amen.” The detective stood up. “Well, that's all I wanted to say. Good luck with your project.”

I thought she sounded skeptical. “You don't think it can help?”

“People have tried before. You might as well give it a shot.”

That was probably as close to her blessing as I was going to get. I escorted her out of the building and went up to my office to eat my sandwich and think.

As I passed his desk, Eric said, “We've got RSVPs from three board members, and nos from two. Is that about normal?”

“Probably. We need a quorum to vote Eliot in, but apart from that there are no big issues on the table.” Unless I got this neighborhoods project whipped together by next week, but that was unlikely, and I didn't want to rush it and blow my chances. “I'm going to eat my lunch now. I think I'll get some coffee first. You want anything?”

“No, ma'am—I'm good, thanks.”

Still restless, I wandered down the hall to the staff room. There I found Latoya helping herself to coffee. She was the only one there, since it was still early for lunch. “Latoya,
you knew Tyrone. Can you tell me anything more about his background? Education, experience, that kind of thing? I'd like to talk to him about this neighborhoods project, but I don't know much about the community development organizations around the city. Is he effective at what he does? Or haven't you kept up with his activities?”

Latoya looked surprisingly uncertain, and I wondered if she had something to say. Finally she said, “Come to my office.”

I followed her down the hall, and we turned right before we reached my end. I didn't want to jump to any conclusions: Was she being private, or did she have something on Tyrone? When we reached her office, she set down her coffee and gestured at a chair. “Please, sit.”

“Is there a problem?” I asked cautiously.

Latoya appeared startled. “What? Oh, no. I just don't like to broadcast my personal business to the entire staff, but in this case, you have a legitimate reason for asking. I didn't grow up around here—I was raised outside of Pittsburgh and came to Philadelphia for college. I liked the area, so I stayed on and got a master's degree. Tyrone was a couple of years ahead of me at Penn, but he was—how should I put this?—a high-profile figure on campus, even then.”

“Was that good or bad?”

“Good, in general. He was an activist, but not an angry one, if that makes sense to you. He had his causes, and he worked hard to bring attention to them. Saving his old neighborhood was one of those causes, even then, and apparently the one that stuck. He made it out, but he felt he owed the place something.”

“Does he do it professionally now? I mean, how does he support himself? A nonprofit in that part of town can't pay much, if anything.”

“You're getting ahead of my story, Nell,” Latoya chided. I shut up; I wanted her to keep talking. “As you might guess, Tyrone was charismatic. Charming. Interesting. He came from a world that I knew nothing about. He could have downplayed his origins, but he chose not to. As I think I told you, he doesn't do this for egotistical purposes—he's a true believer. In any case, we kept crossing paths, and eventually we started seeing each other.”

I could easily visualize that: cool, reserved Latoya and outgoing, rapid-fire Tyrone. They would have been a complementary pairing. “But it didn't last?” I prompted.

“No, but we parted as friends. I'm not sure I've seen him in the past five years—we run in different circles, I guess you'd say. It was something of a shock when someone shot at him this week—I'd heard nothing but positive things about his activities.”

“I don't mean to pry, but you can understand my curiosity—I'd still like to know if he might have been the target of the shooting. From what you've said, it doesn't sound like it, but he could have changed since you knew him well. Can you tell me anything about his personal life? Partner, kids, where he lives?”

“I know only a few details. I believe he's married, to a woman he met when the City issued municipal bonds to support the Vacant Property Initiative a few years ago. I think she's a banker, but I've never met her. I wouldn't know about children. As for where he lives, I have no information.”

“Wait a sec,” I said, and pulled the detective's card out of my pocket. “Here's his address.” I handed it to her across the desk.

She read it and nodded as though it meant something to her. “Do you know that area?” she asked. When I shook my head she said, “It's what I'd call a compromise neighborhood—on the brink of gentrification, safe, with some nice older homes if you're willing to put a little effort and money into them. His professional wife would have no reason to apologize for the address, but Tyrone wouldn't have to feel defensive of turning his back on his origins, if that seems logical to you.”

“I think it does. That's an interesting comment. At least he hasn't moved out to the suburbs. So it's his wife's income that supports them?”

“That would be my guess, although I have no direct knowledge.” Latoya was always careful about accuracy. “Is that of any help to you?”

“To be honest, yes and no. What you're telling me is that there is no obvious reason—that you know of—why anyone would take a potshot at him when he's in his childhood neighborhood, which he is still trying to help.”

Latoya nodded. “Yes, I think it's fair to say that. Are you still clinging to the belief that it was
not
a random drive-by shooting?”

“I'm trying, but so far I'm not finding much support for that idea. Still, it just doesn't feel right.”

“Don't make it too personal, Nell—the shooting is just a reflection of the kind of neighborhood that it's become.”

“I know. I understand. I just don't like it.” I stood up.
“Thanks for filling me in. If I should happen to see Tyrone again, should I mention you or would you rather I didn't?”

“If I come up, fine.”

Back in my office with my coffee I finally had a chance to eat my sandwich. The random-drive-by theory was looking better and better. Still, I felt compelled to talk with Tyrone again. We might not have any answers to the shooting between us, but his neighborhood could be the subject of the Society's first neighborhood profile, with his help and that of his organization. It could serve as a model for any others. And he could help me shape the plan.