Cold City Streets

by L.H. Thomson

  “Cobi Tate.”

  “Have a seat, Mr. Tate.” He took one of the two chairs across from her desk. “My office manager says you’re interested in the in-house investigator job, is that correct?”

  “Yes ma’am, that’s right.”

  “You’re from Edmonton?”

  “Uh huh, I live here now. Detroit, originally.”

  “That’s a long way from home…”

  “Yeah. I came up here to play football.”

  “For the Eskies?”

  “Long story. You know how it is with pro sports. Sometimes guys just don’t stick.”

  She smiled awkwardly. “I’m not much of a sports person, I guess you’d say. So how did you come to be a private investigator?”

  He’d been waiting for a question like it, but Cobi still wasn’t sure he knew how to answer. “Well, I guess you could say I’m more a private security contractor, ma’am. I have a broader range of skills. My father was a police officer, and he taught me a whole lot about what he did…”

  “In Detroit?”

  “Uh huh, yeah. I mean, yes, ma’am.”

  Jessie studied him. He was good-looking, angular and fit, his head shaved down completely. “Where have you worked?”

  “Well, I’m presently employed by a local businessman to handle his private protection. It’s just basics; you know, bodyguard stuff.”

  “Okay. And you’re enjoying that?”

  “It’s a job. I guess that’s about all I can say on that front. It has its moments.”

  “Any agency experience or formal related education?”

  “Not yet, no. But I’m a quick study.”

  “Uh huh.” Mom is right about the genetics, Jessie thought. But he had absolutely no professional qualifications to handle a criminal investigation.

  Mom was going to be pissed.

  “Mr. Tate, this job really requires someone who has police or investigative training, at the very least, not a bodyguard. I’m sorry, but I just can’t see how…”

  “Ms. Harper, I promise you I paid a whole lot of attention when my father was lecturing me. He spent thirteen years as a detective in Detroit’s fifteenth precinct, which was a real difficult place to work, more dangerous than anywhere in this city.”

  “Be that as it may, Mr. Tate, you have no professional credentials…”

  He wasn’t sure what else to say. She didn’t seem ready to move on past his lack of experience. What can I say? What’s going to make her see how badly I need this? I can’t go back to Buddy and Gordon and Vespy…

  Cobi thought about the receptionist. “Office manager,” Harper had called her. “Ms. Harper, is the woman out front a relative of yours? Because from the way she was gushing when I came in, I just got the sense…”

  “My mother, yes. Please, don’t pay any attention. While she’s an absolutely awesome administrator, she’s also my mother, and prone to a somewhat mysterious agenda.”

  “Yeah, we all got ‘em.”

  “Your parents are still in Detroit?”

  “My mom. My pops… my father passed on four years ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It’s okay. Life, you know?”

  He had an uneasy intensity about him, Jessie thought. “Still, he got to see you play football…”

  “Yeah… not his biggest thing. He really wanted another police officer in the family.

  He pushed it right up until the day I rejected it, and then some. And you know what? Even though I didn’t want to be forced into choosing the same career as him, I still loved him for trying. I want to be there in the same way for my son, Michael.”

  Jessie had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Don’t pull out a picture. Don’t pull out a picture. Don’t pull out a…

  Cobi pulled a thumbnail shot from his wallet. “Here; he’s four. Be five in three weeks. He’s a great kid.”

  Jessie stared at the photo; the boy beamed, dark brown eyes and wild, dark hair, clad in a cute denim overall bib, both hands up in the air as if celebrating a joyous victory, cynicism dashed in the face of undaunted cuteness. Oh hell… look at that cute little button nose and those bright white teeth. Look how happy little Michael is. Mike. Mikey.

  “If you had a case of some sort you needed help with, Ms. Harper, I could work for free on it some, to prove I can do the job…”

  Before she could choke out another rejection, Rhonda popped her head around the door. “Think about the Sidney case, hon. You know you’re not going to get anywhere without some help, and the PIs in town aren’t exactly beating down our door.”

  “Mom…”

  “Well it’s true! And what’s the worst that could happen…?”

  “Mom, it’s out of the question.” They could wait a few more days, Jessie figured. maybe a retired policeman or commissionaire would step up, someone who hadn’t paid attention to the case’s press coverage. “There are procedures, rules about chain of evidence, reporting, protocols for dealing with the public…”

  “I know all that stuff, ma’am, really.” Cobi seemed sincere.

  “Oh, come on, Jess,” Rhonda urged. “You need the help, and you need to fulfill the terms of the grant if we’re going to keep the position. What do you have to lose?”

  My sanity? My reputation? A murder case? “Out of the question. Absolutely.”

  “Jessica…”

  13

  The neighborhoods in northeast Edmonton reminded Cobi of suburban Detroit, made up of narrow two-lane streets with rows of half-century or older homes, stucco bungalows with shingled roofs, interspersed with in-fill rebuilds in more modern styles, townhomes and fourplexes, each fronted by a postage stamp of lawn.

  Most of the homes were smaller and from the post-war generation, when “open plan” meant putting a screen on the back door; there were a half-dozen on each side of the block, the sidewalks fronted by mature elm and maple trees spaced a perfect twenty feet apart. Bare, spindly fingers of branches reached up to the winter sun.

  Who knew? Maybe Detroit was this normal once, Cobi figured, until the white folk moved to the suburbs, afraid of the northern migration of black folk, decades of decay leading to memories that were boarded up, neighborhoods turned over to the street’s natural predators and those who’d take what they wanted if they saw no other way.

  Out front, the road had been cleared down almost to its base by the plows. Cobi parked at the top of the street and got out. He wore a light winter coat and ankle boots and was glad the weather co-operated, the mercury hanging around minus-ten Celsius. He crossed to the west sidewalk and wandered a half-block before stopping again to decide how to approach the residents. The Sidneys lived in the last house on the other side; starting with their opposite number and moving around in order would work as well as anything, he figured.

  The first house was empty, or no one came to the door. At the second, also a bungalow, a tiny elderly woman in a white t-shirt answered, saw Cobi and immediately closed the door again while waving “no” with one hand.

  I’d make one hell of a salesman, he thought. His shoes crunched in the sidewalk snow as he made his way to the third door. He rang the bell and waited. After a short while, he could hear footsteps inside approaching. The door opened on its chain.

  “Yes?”

  “Hello, sir, my name is Cobi Tate, and I’m working as an investigator. It’s regarding the Paul Sidney case.”

  “We already talked to the police,” the man said. He looked doubtful. “We already told them what we knew.” He was older, tall, his head balding with a light crown of white hair.

  “I understand that, sir; I’m just trying to cover all the bases, make sure everything comes up in the trial that should.”

  “You work for the lawyers?”

  “That’s right. Can I just have a couple of minutes of your time?”

  “Hmm. Okay, I guess.” He took the chain off and pulled the door open. “You want to come inside?”

  The home was
modest, with older forest green pile carpet along a narrow hallway that faced the front door, the wood-panel walls lined with framed family photos. Cobi followed the homeowner into the first room on the right, where two adjacent love seats, a chair and a coffee table served as a living room.

  The man gestured for him to sit. “Can I get you a coffee, Mr. Tate?”

  Cobi sat down and took out the pocket recorder, started it, then placed it on the table between them as the man settled into the opposite arm chair.

  “No, thank you, I’m good. I’m sorry, Mister…”

  “Oh… It’s Ed, Ed Martin. My wife’s at work, but I’m retired. Two years. Twenty-three years as a teacher.”

  “Rough.”

  “You got that right. We’re talking high school students.”

  “Still, it must have had its rewards.”

  “Yeah… everybody says that. You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But no, not really. Most of them were meatheads.”

  “Sure.”

  “It wasn’t their fault. Usually, they came from parents who were meatheads, too. They’ll probably marry other meatheads and have meathead kids.”

  “You sound a little disillusioned by the whole process.”

  “Eh, if I sound that way, I don’t mean to,” he said. “I guess… well… twenty-three years teaching high school. You know.”

  It fell under “We were all kids once,” Cobi understood. “For sure, for sure. Now, what can you tell me about the night of Mr. Featherstone’s death?”

  “Yeah… well as you probably know, I called police when I saw the body through my front window. He was just lying in the middle of the road.”

  “Did you see anything of how he got there? Any vehicles or anything?”

  “No… I was in the bathroom until just a few minutes before. I came back into the living room to watch The Daily Show, and I sat down to read my book until it came on. Then I heard sort of a low thumping noise, really briefly, followed by what sounded like a car door slam. I didn’t register it right away, because it was outside and I had the television on. The volume was down so Cheryl could sleep. That’s my wife, Cheryl. Yeah, it was a thump, and then a car door slammed. Then I sort of clicked in a few minutes later that it was a strange sound, and I walked over to the window. I didn’t see anything, though, except the lump in the road, which turned out to be poor Mr. Featherstone there.”

  There was no mention of any car door in the background file Jessica Harper had shown him. “And you told the police about this?”

  “Uh huh, sure.”

  “When did the sound happen?”

  “Hmmm… well I figure the news was almost done, so maybe five to midnight.”

  “And when did the police arrive?”

  “That would’ve been about twelve-forty. Maybe a half-hour, forty minutes?

  “So what do you think happened, Mr. Martin?”

  “I was listening to the officers talking in the road, and one of them seemed to think maybe he’d been dumped there, eh? Which would sort of make sense, if you catch my drift, because the car door I heard might have been someone slamming it shut after they threw him out.”

  “But you said there was some kind of ‘thump’ before that? Not after?”

  “No, definitely before. And I wouldn’t hear a body hit the road from inside my house, now would I?”

  Cobi cursed inwardly for asking such a stupid question. He tried to keep his mind off of how much he wanted the job.

  “I’m just getting the chain of events together, is all, checking for consistency. Can you describe the ‘thump’ more specifically? Did it sound like anything else? Could it have been a gunshot?”

  The retired teacher squinted, taking on a pained expression as he tried to think of an equivalent. “That’s a tough one. Definitely not gun fire. More… thick, like someone thumping on a plastic garbage can, maybe? That’s about it.”

  “What did the officer say exactly that made you think the body was dropped off?”

  “He just said something about the amount of blood.”

  “Hmmm. That doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.”

  “How so?”

  “Not the blood, although maybe that’s what was tipping them… the fact that someone would drop the body of their own victim off in front of their own house. Because that’s what that suggests, if the police were right the first time. Why would Mr. Sidney have killed someone, then driven them back here and dropped them in front of his own house?”

  The older man scrunched up his face, puzzled. “That does sound weird, doesn’t it? Then again, the man is a drug dealer, and the few times I saw him around he looked pretty high to me. And I taught for twenty-three years, so I know high.”

  “Did anyone else hear the police talking that you know of?”

  “Maybe the Ellands, next door. I know they were up, because their light came on pretty shortly after ours. Mark is the father, and his wife is Carly.”

  “You know each other pretty well?”

  “Well enough, I guess. They’ve lived here quite a while, too, and are a few years older than us. Over the years you meet each other occasionally. Their daughter Abby went to the same school as our son Dean. He passed away.”

  “My condolences.”

  “Oh, it’s all right. It’s been a decade. You never get over it, but we have wonderful memories of him. Mr. Tate, do you have many more questions? I’m just thinking that if this is going to take much longer perhaps I should put that pot of coffee on?”

  The woman who answered next door was in her forties, Cobi figured, with bleached blonde roots, her hair slightly frizzed and mussed. He couldn’t tell if she had a nice figure because she already had a winter jacket on, ready to leave. But the look on her faced was pinched, annoyed.

  “We’re not buying anything,” she said sharply.

  “I’m sorry… is this the Ellands’ residence?” Cobi wondered for a moment if he had the wrong side, the wrong neighbor.

  “Yeah. What do you want?”

  “You must be Abby…”

  She sighed a little. “I don’t know you, do I?”

  “No. I was just talking to Mr. Martin and he said your parents…”

  “They’re in the living room,” she said. “Look, I was on my way out, so just… I dunno, be nice or whatever; they can’t afford to buy shit.”

  And then she pushed past him, out onto the sidewalk, leaving Cobi standing there with the door wide open.

  A shaky voice from the other room called, “Hello?”

  Cobi closed the door and took his shoes off, then walked around the corner and gave a little wave, feeling uncomfortable. “Hi, Mrs. Elland. Your daughter let me in…”

  The Ellands were very elderly. Mrs. Elland looked wizened, with an impish smile and watery blue eyes. She occupied a seat on the small sofa, while her husband Mark sat in his armchair, long tubes stretching from his nose, across his blue dress shirt, to an oxygen bottle beside his chair.

  “Mark doesn’t talk much, dear, on account of his oxygen. How can I help you?”

  She reminded Cobi of Mrs. Guardiola, the homeroom teacher at his high school, years earlier. “I’m investigating the Paul Sidney case. I was hoping…”

  “Sorry, dear, you’ll have to speak up,” she half-yelled. “We’re both a little hard of hearing.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Cobi projected loudly. “I understand you were here on the night the body was found out in the middle of the road.”

  “Oh yes, dear. Very disturbing! Right in our own neighborhood.”

  “Your neighbors said they heard the police talking about the case…”

  “Yes, Mr. Martin said something about that. But of course, we both have poor hearing, you see? I went out onto the porch when it was going on, just to get a quick look, even though Mark said I shouldn’t.”

  “Did anything catch your attention, anything that seemed perhaps a bit strange or out of the ordinary?”

  The senior thought hard but ultimately
shook her head. “I’m afraid not; I was only out there for a few moments before Abby came out and told me to come inside, out of the cold.”

  “Do you think she might have seen something?”

  “I don’t think so, dear. She would have said something, I imagine. And she was inside until right before she came to get me.”

  “She still lives at home?”

  “Oh goodness, no. She’s just been staying here while she finds a new apartment. It’s a shame, really. I used to love the sound in summer of children playing in their backyards and out on the street.”

  “Had you seen anyone around the neighborhood who didn’t belong, Mrs. Elland, someone who might have known the victim?”

  She shrugged. “Not really. I know they arrested the young man at the end of the street, but he always seemed very quiet to me. Mark was quiet when he was young, quiet and shy. But he wrote lovely poetry.”

  Mrs. Elland loved to talk, and it took Cobi another twenty minutes to extract himself and beg out of the house. More door knocking proved fruitless, and he ended his rounds in front of the Sidney house.

  It didn’t add up, he thought. Paul Sidney was just a weed dealer, not a gangster. Cobi knew from back home that guys like that didn’t go around shooting and robbing people; they kept a low-profile, kept to their stoner selves. And nobody was dumb enough to shoot someone, drive the body to their own neighborhood and dump it two doors up in the middle of the road.

  It added up to the same thing: the cops had the wrong man.

  14

  Jessie considered what she’d just been told and put another spoonful of sweetener into her coffee, then walked back over from the machine to her office desk. Cobi was in the seat across, his hands in an arch as he waited for her reaction.

  “So they talked at the scene about blood loss and whether he’d been moved; but none of that is in the arresting officer’s report. The tech’s report mentions massive blood loss, but doesn’t discuss where he was shot, making it sound vaguely like that was the scene,” she rehashed.

  “Add that to it being Paul Sidney’s own block, and it smells pretty bad,” Cobi suggested.