“I didn’t know bone-crunching paid so well. What about the Strawberry Mansion ones?” I studied the addresses. “Are these all next to each other?”
“Good eye. Yup. The dude owns a whole block down there.” She took out another set of papers.
“Rentals?” I flipped to the pictures. Apparently, the Google camera cars weren’t afraid to buzz through the ’hood to map the region. “Are these current? They look like they could be condemned.”
“Right? These pictures are a couple years old, but do you want to put a bet he wasn’t sinking all his dough into renovations?”
“Slumlord?”
“That’s where the smart money is stacked,” she said. “To be fair, you might want to cruise by there to make sure.”
“This was all in his computer?”
VP gave me a crooked grin. “In one of them. He’s kind of paranoid, it took a bit to find the second system at the house.”
“I thought you didn’t do fieldwork,” I said.
“I don’t. He left the door open so I walked right in.”
“I don’t understand.”
“On his office PC. Turns out Mr. Oliver has a smart home and I found an application that showed me all the remote controls.”
“Really? And his alarm?”
“Yup, that too, but that isn’t the coolest. I piggybacked onto the login and it let me plant software and ghost that drive as well.”
“Okay, you are good.”
She stood and took a little bow. “Barely slept, but it was so worth it.”
We clinked energy drink cans and I took a swig and felt my face grimace. I’d had plenty of the things over the years, but never got the taste.
“This guy is a big-time douche,” VP said. “I mean, you still have to pay me, but I’d take this asshole down for free if I knew about him.”
“How does this guy have time to manage all these rentals and run his practice, not to mention his insurance scam?”
She pointed to the dilapidated buildings. “Even if he puts in minimal effort, he’d have to have a manager. I found a guy on the payroll. Based on the deposits, he does okay.”
“You have access to Oliver’s bank info?”
“Of course. There isn’t too much on the manager, just a name and bank. Franklin Smith. He’s pretty low key, looks like. He lives in one of the units as far as I can tell, but it could be a front.”
“I’ll definitely have to go by there. In the meantime, do you think you could pull up a list of the clients for the Barnaby office?”
“Easy. And before you ask, here’s the address for that Dr. Park guy who it looks like is feeding him all that business.”
“Do you hack brains, as well?” I smiled. “Don’t tell me you were able to get his records?”
“Nope.” She pulled out another flash drive. “But I did cook up another sneak-attack program.”
I saw the address for the man’s office. Downtown. Pulling another late-night break-in might be pushing it. It’d be harder to get in and out, I noticed, and we’d have a building guard to get past. I explained the difficulty.
“I can’t help with that, but I did some tweaks and this bug infects an active system. All you have to do is cut the power, put the drive in and power it back up. It loads fast and puts up a bogus crash screen. When you see that you are all set. When they power it back up it will boot up and run like normal, but I’ll have my back door.”
I was getting an idea. “So, all I need is a couple minutes?”
“If that.”
“If I got it, do you think you could get the same list of clients?”
“I don’t see why not.” She nodded. “I bet you could get the guys to turn on each other if you wanted.”
“The name of the game is leverage.”
“Don’t worry. Bonesy-boy’s going to have so much shit thrown at him he won’t know where to turn.”
Chapter 15
Strawberry Mansion, Philadelphia
Rollie rode shotgun with me while we drove over to check out the rental places in the Strawberry Mansion neighborhood. Despite the benign-sounding name, the area could be one of the toughest in Philly. I figured my old truck would fit in okay and Rollie, while not actually packing a shotgun, did have his old .45 tucked under his shirt.
“Turn right up here.” Rollie pointed to the next intersection.
The trash-strewn streets were barely wider than an alley. Cars pressed to one side and battered plastic chairs guarded precious open spots. Public parking or not, I wasn’t about to take my life in my hands over stealing one of those spaces.
The state of the tightly packed rowhouses went from bad to worse and the boarded-up places made me think of a mouthful of rotten teeth.
“This is the block.” Rollie checked the addresses.
“I saw nicer places in Baghdad ghettos,” I said. People sat on narrow stoops and wandered the sidewalks eyeing the passing traffic with suspicion. I saw black, brown, and white faces, the only common thread being evident poverty.
Open windows and the occasional battered window A/C units told me that when heat waves crashed onto this street it would be sweltering inside some of the spaces. Luckily, it was a mild morning.
“Hey, one of the units is available,” Rollie said.
He was right. Several homes down from another house owned by Oliver/Barnaby that looked in good repair, I noted the “For Rent” sign. I double-parked the truck and put on my flashers, then stepped outside.
Rollie slid over to the driver’s seat. “I’ll circle the block. Try to stay out of trouble.”
As I circled the truck, several Hispanic women looked me. I wasn’t exactly dressed for success in beat-up jeans and an old T-shirt. I had a battered baseball cap and hadn’t bothered to shave this morning.
I pointed at the sign. “Is this still available?”
Two ladies just stared at me. Quiet neighbors, one for the plus column.
“You live here?”
“Si.”
“Cuonto cuesta?” I dredged up my high school Spanish to ask her the rent.
“Demasiodo.” Too much.
I couldn’t tell if she meant something like if you have to ask you can’t afford it, or that she felt like she was getting ripped off. She pointed to the well-maintained place and I gathered that might be where I could find the manager VP had mentioned. Smith. It was clear she wasn’t interested in a long conversation. She glanced at the other lady and they went inside and locked the door without another word.
“Gracias,” I said to the faded white door.
I couldn’t resist a closer look at the rental unit and since it didn’t seem occupied, I tried the door, which opened, to my surprise. I figured it was an invitation so I stepped inside.
The smell hit first. I got a whiff of fresh paint as I stepped onto a drop cloth but the mildew, stale onion and fried fish reek lingered underneath. More drop cloths covered an old couch and a peek told me it was as ratty as I’d guessed. “Hello?” The place was small enough, I figured my voice would carry. Aside from street sounds the place was quiet.
Even so, I stayed in character. I went to the kitchen and saw right away that one of the burners on the electric stove was missing. Wires dangled from the ceiling and a faint ring of grime told me that was where the smoke detector used to be. There was an old refrigerator that kicked off its compressor in greeting.
Battered cabinets lined the walls and some of the doors canted down due to missing hinges. I tried the water tap at the sink and it coughed out rusty water before running clear. The hot water side just kind of groaned at me.
I decided to check the basement. The door creaked, but enough light spilled down to confirm the steps and let me find the light switch. A naked bulb lit the rest of the way, giving the roaches a chance to scatter.
I didn’t see a washer or dryer, but there was a furnace and a hot water heater, the latter drooling orange-tinted water toward a corner. Mildew spread across one wall and old mouse
droppings dotted the floor.
I’d seen enough.
The stairs were thick boards nailed to the riser and one in the middle gave a loud creak when I put my weight on it.
“Who’s there?” A deep voice boomed from the kitchen.
My heart jumped. “Hello? I saw the sign.”
“It don’t say come in, do it? Get up here, I got a gun.”
Great. I led with my hands before I stepped into the kitchen. “Don’t shoot. I’m sorry, I just wanted to see the place. The door was open.”
Dwarfing the small kitchen stood a big dude with graying hair wearing painter’s coveralls and carrying a blocky Glock in his hand, thankfully at his side and not aimed at my head. “You really wanted to ask about the place?”
“I think I’d like to change my shorts first.” I offered a weak smile.
“Clever. The place isn’t quite ready, but if you want to fill out an application, we can go down the block to my office. I’m Franklin, and you are?”
“Scared of guns.” I noted he hadn’t put away the pistol. “Jack Skipper.”
“When are you looking to move?”
“In the next couple of weeks. Everything happened kind of sudden and I need something quick. I just started looking today. How much?”
“Just you?”
My flimsy cover story wouldn’t stand up to a third degree, but he was still between me and the door. “No, my girlfriend and her kid. Is that a problem?”
“Nothing’s a problem if your money is green. It’s eight-fifty a month, for two bedrooms, first and last month’s rent up front. Cash is best.”
I wasn’t an expert, but that was cheap even for around here. “Not bad.”
“Let’s get you an application.” He stepped aside and let me by, but that damn pistol was still in his hand.
Just as I headed toward the front of the place, I saw another figure silhouetted in the front doorway. “Kid, you still in there?”
Rollie.
“Who’s that?” Franklin stepped back and now gripped his gun with both hands. It was by his head, pointed at the ceiling.
“Whoa, that’s my uncle.”
“So you say.”
“We startled the manager,” I called out to Rollie. “He’s got a pistol. Don’t freak out, Uncle Dave.” I hoped Rollie would take the hint to keep his own piece hidden.
“We’re double-parked here, kid.”
“Okay, be right there.” I continued to the door and turned to Franklin. “Can I meet you at your place? The one on the end, is it?”
“I never said which one. Why can’t he park while you get started?” He took a step forward.
I was almost running for daylight at this point. “You should see him drive. I better do it. But maybe lose the heat, huh? I don’t do business like that.”
He didn’t waver. “Sure thing. Just let me see your driver’s license.”
Damn.
“No problem. It’s in the truck.” I fought the urge to flat-out sprint.
“I’ll bet.” He leaned in the doorway, his right arm behind the frame.
Rollie had already made it to the truck and if I knew him, his own gun was in his lap now.
Another car turned down the street and honked. I’d never been so happy to block traffic. I gave the driver a big apology wave. “Be right back,” I said to Franklin.
I made the truck, put the thing in gear and barely avoided screeching the tires.
“Does this mean you’re not moving out after all?” Rollie flicked on the safety and tucked the .45 back under his shirt.
* * *
Rollie’s Place
I used a burner phone to reach Bishop. He seemed glad to speak to me, so things must have been slow at the property room. I caught him up on what VP had found out about the real Barnaby and our trip to see his properties.
“You should see these places,” I said. “I can’t understand why anyone would live like that.”
Bishop laughed. “What were you expecting? The Four Seasons?”
“No, but there are laws for basic service. I doubt half the systems worked in that place. Don’t they get inspected?”
“Give me the addresses again,” Bishop said, and I felt a glimmer of hope.
I read them to him.
“Hang on.” I could hear him tapping on a keyboard. “Well. You can forget that. The guy from Licenses and Inspections is Dexter Davis. L&I handles housing codes and violations.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
Bishop lowered his voice. “Because he makes me look like a boy scout. I’ll give up beer if he isn’t on the take big time from our guy.”
“You should have seen how crowded some of those places were.” I shook my head. “It’s fucking criminal.”
“You have a real squeamish conscience sometimes, Kyle. Life’s not so simple. Think it through. You said some of the places are holding multiple families?”
“No question.”
“There’s rules against that, too, and who do you think is choosing to ignore those? Not to mention try going down there wearing an ICE jacket and see if they don’t scatter.”
“But—”
“But nothing. Sure, the places might be dumps, but they’re still a roof over their heads and they aren’t chained to them. Maybe packing the place makes it affordable and if you rock the boat too much all you’ll end up doing is getting them arrested as well, maybe even deported.”
“There’s nothing anybody can do?”
“I’m no crusader. But that doesn’t mean you have no options if you just have to get involved.”
My mind had already returned to Ryan’s list.
Chapter 16
Fishtown, Office of Dr. Joo Won Park
The three-story building a couple blocks off Girard Avenue held a bunch of private medical offices, including dermatologists, dentists and, on the top floor, a rehab specialist. I was glad that it was a relatively small office and hoped at wasn’t filled with cameras. Even so, we were prepared. I wore a greasy baseball cap with a wig and a generic Eagles sweatshirt. Rollie had an antique flesh-colored hearing aid that he’d fuss with so it made squeaking sounds. I was glad I didn’t have that squealing assaulting my eardrums. He, too, wore a wig that gave him silver hair and I wondered how close it was to his actual hair color if he didn’t get his dyed.
“You sure you don’t know this guy?” I whispered to Rollie while we walked toward the door at the end of the hallway.
“I only look senile in this getup, Kid,” he said. “But I may need an audiologist when we’re done here.”
“Whatever you say, Uncle Al.”
We reached the door and stepped inside.
A low-pitched electronic chime announced our arrival. A middle-aged lady sat at a reception desk and tapped on a keyboard. She looked up. “May I help you?”
To my disappointment I saw another guy already in the waiting room. I wondered if they could be found on the client list of Barnaby Jones. No matter, we were prepared.
“Yes, my uncle has an appointment? For his sore back?”
She frowned. “With Dr. Park? Are you sure? What’s the name?”
Rollie looked around the room, doing his best confused old man bit.
“Albert Kennedy?” I glanced over at Rollie. “Uncle Al, you told me Thursday, didn’t you?”
Rollie looked at me like I was nuts. “Of course. Today is Thursday, the sky is blue and I served in the Air Force. I don’t need another memory test, just something for my damn back.”
“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “I have no record of a patient named Kennedy. Do you have an insurance card?”
“Sure, no problem.” I lowered my voice. “Sorry, he may have forgotten to call.”
Rollie looked over at the man slumped in his chair. “You here for shrapnel too?” The guy stared at his phone like he wanted to fall into it.
The receptionist clicked icons on the screen. I leaned over and saw the desktop case for the computer. “I
t’s not in there, is it?” I pulled away.
“I don’t see anything at all in here. Is he a new patient?”
Rollie’s hearing aid shrieked while he fiddled with the button. “Lady, I’m not a new anything. Is this guy going to patch me up or what?”
I shook my head and kept my voice low. “I probably should have made the arrangements. He’s getting worse. It’s not your fault.”
“We work by appointment only, but I could put you in the system and we could call you when there’s an opening. Do you have his insurance card?”
“Uncle Al? Do you have your card?”
“What card?” Rollie said.
“The one in the glove box I told you not to forget when we got out of the car.”
“Then whose fault is that?” Rollie flopped down in a chair. “Oof. That second egg sandwich was a mistake.”
The receptionist looked torn between being amused and wanting to call the cops.
I looked at her and shrugged. “Can I leave him here and go get it? I had to take off work today and …”
She shooed me out the door.
I waited in the hallway for a couple minutes. When the door opened and the patient from the waiting room hurried out, I walked toward him feigning being out of breath.
“You don’t want to go in there,” he said and pinched his nose closed.
“Don’t tell me that he …” But I could already tell he sure did.
“I think he needs a different kind of doctor.” The guy took the stairs.
Just inside, the sulfur stench of the stink bomb hit my nose with its full, room-clearing pungency. I heard the arguing in a back room.
“You can’t be in here.”
“I’m a vet. Let go of me.”
I stepped around to the reception desk and switched the machine off. I popped in the flash drive, then powered it back on while an accented voice tried to reason with “Uncle Al.”
“Sir, you have the wrong office. This is not the VA hospital.”
The system lit up and once it flashed a system error blue screen, I knew it was safe to remove the flash drive. I’d let her reboot it. Once she did, VP’s magic would go to work.
“Hello? Uncle Al?”
“Back here,” the receptionist called out. I followed the sound to a back room where Rollie was struggling with a lean, gray-haired Asian man in a lab coat and the woman from the front.
Short Cut (The Reluctant Hustler Book 2) Page 9