Dead End Street

by Sheila Connolly

  Philadelphia’s police headquarters, often called the Roundhouse, was only a matter of blocks away, and I’d been known to walk there from the Society. I wish I could say I didn’t know the building fairly well, but somehow I kept ending up there. At least I hadn’t been arrested yet, but I’d provided evidence for more than one homicide. No one had ever mentioned that working for a staid nonprofit organization could be dangerous; I was learning the hard way.

  James parked and handed me out of the car. I stood up and smoothed my clothes. There wasn’t much I could do about the bloodstains. He took my arm and led me to the entrance, where he explained our presence to the gatekeeper while I stared blindly into space. Three minutes later my favorite (well, the only one I knew personally, thank goodness) homicide detective emerged from an elevator.

  “I can’t believe it’s you two again. Can’t stay out of trouble, eh?” Detective Meredith Hrivnak greeted us. Then she noted the blood and our grim expressions—she actually was a pretty good detective—and escorted us through the entry procedure, alerting the desk to James’s weapon. She remained silent as we took the elevator up to her floor, and she led us to an interview room. “You want coffee? Something else?”

  I was about to decline when James nodded. “Coffee for her. With sugar. Thanks.”

  She hesitated a moment, then nodded and went off to get it.

  “Standard treatment for shock?” I asked.

  “It helps. It also helps to have something to hold on to, and to do something that requires some coordination, like swallowing. Trust me.”

  I clasped his hand under the table. “I do. Are you just going to observe?”

  “Yes. I wasn’t there and I don’t know what happened. I’m here strictly for your sake, not in any official capacity. And I think Hrivnak plays fair, so she’s not going to badger you. Just tell her what you saw.”

  “That I can do.” We lapsed into silence again, James’s hand warm in mine, until Hrivnak returned with coffee in a foam cup. I took it and sipped. It tasted of sugar more than anything else, but at least it was hot. James was right. Having to focus on getting it to my mouth and down my throat helped, in a weird way.

  Detective Hrivnak took a chair opposite the two of us and looked us over. “Okay, I got the preliminary details from the street cops. Bad neighborhood, drive-by shooting, one dead, one wounded. And you. What the hell were you doing in the middle of it, Nell Pratt?”

  I sat up straighter in my chair. “This morning Cherisse Chapman and Tyrone Blakeney came to my office to tell me that the Society owned the property where the shooting took place. I didn’t know, because I thought we had disposed of all real estate decades ago, but apparently the paperwork got messed up on this one.”

  “So you had to go running over to look at it?”

  “Not exactly. Normally I would have called our attorney and let her handle it, but Mr. Blakeney and Ms. Chapman wanted something more. Apparently they are—or were—both involved in some kind of neighborhood rescue program, to reclaim dying neighborhoods, and once they discovered the Society’s connection, they thought maybe we could be useful to that effort. We didn’t have time to get into the details, but the fact that we owned a piece of it gave us a reason to get involved, at least in their eyes. Of course, I told them that it wasn’t my decision to make, that the board would have to be involved in anything like that, and that would take time. They were impatient, since I gather that house is scheduled to be demolished shortly, and they asked me if I wanted to see it, to get a sense of what they were talking about. Since I don’t know that neighborhood well, I agreed—it seemed fair. They picked me up and drove me over at two.”

  “Why am I not surprised that you don’t know that lovely neighborhood?”

  It was a snide comment, and I didn’t know what to say, so I settled for saying nothing.

  “Okay, then what happened?” Hrivnak resumed her formal interrogation.

  “We drove over to the house and parked. Tyrone and Cherisse didn’t seem eager to get out of the car. I didn’t see anybody around, or at least, not very close. Then Cherisse noticed a car that had driven past before. It drove past us slowly—that was the second time—and then went around the block. The next time they went by, the guy in the backseat of the car started shooting.” James’s hand tightened on mine.

  “How many shooters?” Hrivnak barked.

  “Just the one, in the backseat.”

  “Weapons?”

  “Hard to tell, it happened so fast. And I don’t usually see them from the barrel end. It wasn’t a rifle or an Uzi, but it looked pretty big to me.”

  “How many shots?”

  “Lots. More than enough. The shooter kept on firing. I’d guess fifteen rounds.”

  James and the detective exchanged a glance, but I wasn’t about to explain why I knew that. “Blakeney and Chapman were both hit multiple times. Why’d they miss you?”

  “Because I threw myself out of the car onto the pavement, and waited until the shooting stopped. Either they didn’t notice me, or they didn’t care.”

  “Then what?”

  “I waited to see if they were going to get out of the car or come back. They sped off. I don’t know which way they went. When I thought it was safe, I got up and checked on the others. I was pretty sure that Cherisse was gone, but Tyrone was conscious. Then I called nine-one-one.” And James.

  “Describe the car the shooters were driving.”

  I did, to the best of my ability. I’m not a car person, so I couldn’t give more than general details. Dark, oldish, no distinguishing marks that I could remember. Of course I hadn’t thought to look at the license plate—and then I remembered that Pennsylvania didn’t even require front plates, so I couldn’t have seen it anyway.

  “The guys in the car—black, white, something else?” Hrivnak asked.

  “I think black. Not kids—maybe in their thirties? Male. They were wearing something with long sleeves—maybe sweatshirts, but I couldn’t tell you what color. Not pink or yellow at least. If they had tattoos, I couldn’t tell. I really only glanced at them, when Cherisse first pointed them out. After that all I saw was the gun.”

  “So you didn’t recognize them?”

  “No. As I said, I’ve never been in that neighborhood before.”

  “You think they recognized Blakeney? Or the woman?”

  “You think one of them was the target?” I countered.

  “Too soon to tell. “

  “Do you know anything more about them, beyond what they told me?” I asked.

  “Chapman is—was—a City employee in L and I. Blakeney was part of a nonprofit community redevelopment organization that’s been working to save neighborhoods around the city. Just like you said. The two of them worked together—the City knew that Chapman was doing it, part of some city-sponsored program. Even got some good PR about it. Made them look like they cared.”

  That fit. “I can’t see why anybody would want to hurt them. Weren’t they trying to do something good?”

  “As far as we know, but it’s early days. We’ll be checking into their backgrounds now. Based on what you’ve told us, this doesn’t sound like a random drive-by, not if they scouted you out first. They didn’t say anything?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Question is, did they see you?”

  I felt a chill. “I’m not sure. Again, as I said, I got out of the car and hid, and they didn’t come back after me. So either I didn’t matter, if they had a plan, or they didn’t see me. I’m pretty sure it’s the first. They didn’t know me, they had no reason to know who I was or why I was there. And it wasn’t worth eliminating me.”

  “You want to look at mug shots? Try a sketch artist?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think I saw enough. Maybe if I saw the driver again, I’d know him, but I doubt it.”

 
“Would he know you?” Hrivnak said, surprisingly quietly.

  Now my stomach was churning. “I . . . don’t know. You think he’d come after me?”

  “If he knew Blakeney or Chapman, maybe worked with one of them, he could find out who you are—you kind of stick out in that neighborhood. He doesn’t know that you didn’t see squat.”

  Maybe I should try to convince myself that it really had been a random drive-by. No, that wasn’t working. “What am I supposed to do about that?”

  “First, give us some time to do our jobs. Second, watch your back. Third, you’ve got him”—she nodded toward James—“to cover you at home, right?”

  I wondered how she knew that. “How long is this going to go on?”

  “’Til we catch the guys.”

  “And if you don’t?” Philadelphia Homicide did a fair job of clearing cases, but this one didn’t offer much to work with.

  Hrivnak looked at me directly, her expression serious. “You know I can’t answer that, and I won’t sugarcoat it. We’ll do our best.” She stood up. “I think that’s enough for now. You can come back and sign your statement tomorrow. You gonna be at work?”

  I hadn’t really thought about that, but I realized I’d feel safer behind the solid walls of the Society than rattling around our more isolated Victorian in the near suburbs. “Yes, I will. Listen, will this be on the news? Will my name come up?”

  Hrivnak cocked her head. “You want it to? Or you want to be kept out of it?”

  “I’m not asking for any favors. But I should give my staff a heads-up, if there will be news coverage, and maybe figure out what we should say in our own press release.” I looked at my watch and realized it was already five o’clock—too late to alert anyone. I’d have to send an e-mail from home to Eric and ask him to distribute it to the rest of the staff—but there would probably be some kind of report on tonight’s news broadcasts. Damn. Would whatever this program was go on without Tyrone and Cherisse? The neighborhood issues of Philadelphia were far larger than two people.

  “Any word on Tyrone’s condition?” I asked suddenly.

  “Not that I’ve heard. He’s in no shape to talk to us. Maybe tomorrow.”

  I nodded. “Will you keep me informed? After all, I’m part of this.”

  “I’ll tell you what I can, when I know anything,” Hrivnak promised.

  James stood up, putting his hand under my elbow and helping me to my feet. “Nell, we should go. You’ve had a rough day, and there’s nothing more you can do now.”

  Too true. My earlier vision of curling up in his arms flashed by. “Take me home.”

  I could feel Hrivnak’s eyes on us as we left, and I realized I had no idea if she had a husband or partner or children waiting for her at home. She knew far more about me than I knew about her.

  The ride home to Chestnut Hill was slow due to the usual traffic delays. James was a soothing companion; he didn’t ask stupid questions, and he didn’t talk just to make noise. I knew he would let me find my own way as I processed the fact that I could easily have died earlier today for no apparent reason. Okay, we all know, on some level, that life is uncertain and could be derailed without notice, but as a professional in the cultural community I did not expect to be shot at while doing my job. Not surprisingly, I didn’t like it. I didn’t like watching a person, and maybe another, die in front of me. I did not like trying to make myself invisible, plastered to the pavement, hoping nobody would notice me and shoot me.

  It did not matter that I had done nothing to bring this about. I’d been doing my job as a responsible manager. Was I supposed to stay out of large parts of the city where I worked because they were dangerous and dirty and scary? And where did I draw the line? Where was it safe? I’d spent time in other cities—New York, Boston, Washington. Was I supposed to map those out, too—chart the places I couldn’t go? Would it be different if I were a man? If I carried a gun?

  I felt James’s hand on my arm. “Nell, we’re home.”

  I dragged my imagination back from what-if land. “Then let’s go inside.”

  I hoped I’d feel safe there.

  CHAPTER 5

  I managed to walk into the house, and then stood wavering in the middle of the hall. I had no idea what to do. Eat? Sleep? Pitch a fit? Were there instructions? I looked up to see James watching me with a worried expression. Oh God, how had I dragged him into this? Our first major crisis since we’d officially become a couple. (Well, my saving him from a knife-wielding psycho had occurred before we were really together, so I wasn’t going to count that.) And he was supposed to take care of me? Me, who had always prided myself on my independence and self-sufficiency. Funny, I hadn’t made a plan for dealing with near-death experiences.

  James didn’t say anything, just came up to me and held me.

  “I’m not going to cry again,” I said into his shirt.

  “You can if you want. I won’t think less of you. I never did admire stoic people.”

  “Gee, thanks. I’ll hate myself if I blubber; you’ll hate me if I don’t.”

  “Nell . . .” he said helplessly.

  “I know, I’m being completely unreasonable. You’re doing everything you should.” I didn’t want him to let go. I didn’t want to need him so much. Who the heck was I?

  After some endless amount of time, James cleared his throat. “Nell, here’s what I suggest. We go upstairs and change clothes—we’ve both got blood on ours. We can burn them if you want. Then we get some food into us. Strong drink if you want it. Then we can talk, but only if you want to. I’m not going to tell you how to handle this—it’s up to you, and there’s no one right way. But I’m here. You can’t offend me, but I hope you won’t push me away, shut me out.”

  “You are too good to be true. All right, I approve your plan. Let me get out of this and scrub the blood off my hands. God, I never thought I’d say that again, after . . .”

  “Yes, I know,” he interrupted me. “Let’s get comfortable, and then I’ll make you dinner. One step at a time, okay?”

  “Deal.”

  We managed to make it up the stairs, and in our bedroom I stripped off my stained clothes as fast as possible. The shirt and jacket were beyond salvage, or at least, I didn’t want to try. In reality the stains extended only a bit beyond the wrists—how was it possible that those two people could have bled so much, so fast? I pitched the clothes into a heap on the floor, and pulled on warm sweats, socks, slippers. Comfort clothes. The damage to James’s wardrobe was confined to his shirt, which I also tossed onto the pile. In the bathroom I turned on the hot water in the sink and scrubbed my hands with a nailbrush until they were red, but at least not with blood.

  Then on to comfort food. Childhood food: scrambled eggs and English muffins. And Scotch. I didn’t need to think coherently; I didn’t want to think at all.

  Dinner didn’t take long. We retreated to the living room, where we’d finally put a well-padded couch that could hold both of us. I refused to turn on the television. Maybe there was something on the news that I should hear, but I didn’t want to. I’d been there; I knew what had happened. None of it was my fault. How could anyone spin any part of it to make me or the Society look bad? Maybe there was a form someone had forgotten to fill out back in 1923, but he was long dead, so it was a little late to point the finger at him.

  “Nell,” James said softly, his arms around me.

  I was feeling warm and mildly drunk, enough to take the edge off. “James,” I replied.

  “It’s hard for you to lean on someone, isn’t it?”

  I’d already figured that out. “Yes. For a long time, there wasn’t anyone to catch me when I fell. You learn to take care of yourself. You should know that.”

  “I do. We’re alike in that way. Plus I’m supposed to be a professional defender of the law, and I carry a weapon. Double burden. No self-doubt
allowed.”

  “I know. But I don’t like feeling helpless.”

  “You’re not helpless, you’re human. You’ve been through something awful. If you didn’t have a strong emotional reaction to that, I’d be worried about you.”

  “Mmm,” I said by way of answer. I was definitely feeling better now than I had a few hours earlier. How I’d feel in the morning was anybody’s guess. But, as the quote went, tomorrow was another day.

  The phone rang.

  “Damn,” I said. “It can’t be the press, can it? They don’t know where to find me, and I don’t think anyone who knows this number would give it to anyone.”

  “I’m going to hazard a guess that it’s one of those people who does have this number.”

  “Marty,” I said.

  “Exactly,” James replied.

  “I guess I have to answer it,” I said, disentangling myself reluctantly and wandering toward the phone. I checked the caller ID: yup, Marty.

  Martha Terwilliger occupied a unique place in our lives, individually and together. She was a board member of the Society, as her father and grandfather had been before her. Her family name was on one of the largest and most significant collections the Society had. She knew everyone worth knowing in the greater Philadelphia area, past and present, and was related to half of them. And somehow she and I had become partners in sorting out crimes—starting with one that led to her orchestrating my elevation to president of the Society—and she had introduced me to James, who happened to be her cousin. That all added up to Marty assuming she had a right to know all the details of whatever happened at the Society as well as to James, to me, and to us as a couple. She was a good-hearted person, but sometimes I wished she’d put a little distance between us.

  I pushed “talk.”

  “That was you, right?” Martha Terwilliger said without preamble. She had a way of cutting through the underbrush and getting straight to the point.