Restoration Heights

by Wil Medearis

  He went home—Dean still out, giving him space—and sat at his computer. He started on the investors list and found his way to an opposition blog. It was hackish, frantic—the pages an acrid yellow, the text jarring blue, peppered with images of white men in suits, hyperlinked to evidence of corruption and insider dispensation. It was a blend of conspiratorial mania and shrewd investigation. There were photos of black leaders, city council reps, church elders and lists of what it took to buy them off—appointments, seats, endowments. It veered at times into hysteria—anti-Semitism, rants about neoliberal overlords. There was a blog roll on the side, links to community sites that had posted about the project, however briefly. He followed it, tried to corroborate the accusations, pin down facts. The other sites were less wild-eyed than the first, with posts that ranged from chronicles of the various protests—he recognized the one he had met Sensei at—to hard-nosed looks at the blows the community around the project had already suffered. He read complaints from landlords who were bought out early, before the plans were announced, and watched helplessly as their properties were flipped for double the amount that, just weeks prior, they had been thrilled to accept. Testimonies of displaced families that were bullied into selling homes they had lived in for generations, taking buyouts because they could see the scope of the pressure arrayed against them, the will of a system that seemed constructed for no purpose other than to take what they had, a teleology of plunder. When they can no longer profit from your body they will profit from your history—the soul of a place is just another consumer good.

  He looked for connections to Hannah. She didn’t appear on any of the blogs. He changed tacks. Maybe she worked for one of the investors. He went to the New York State website, where LLCs were registered. He found filing addresses, occasionally a name. He searched the addresses—sometimes they pointed to development offices, sometimes to some other business entirely. Looking for context, he found that individuals and companies often created a separate LLC for their real estate holdings, to quarantine the risk. Returning to the list, he followed each connection as far as he could take it.

  After an hour he went out for a sandwich, came back and kept working. Another hour in and he was halfway through the list—nothing that connected to Hannah. It didn’t help that he knew so little about her, that he was reduced to looking for references to Portland or to her name. He picked up his ball, spun it, dribbled into the living room and back. He settled down again. A little over an hour later he was finished, with no hits.

  But there were two ends to any transaction, buyers and sellers—maybe she and the Sewards were on opposite sides. He went back to the blogs, compiled a second list, of the landlords and homeowners who sold. Depending on the blogger the sellers were alternately treated as turncoats or as victims. He grabbed many of the names from a threadbare watchdog site. It was haphazardly maintained, with calls to rallies that had already passed and notes on rulings that had already been superseded. There were dead links to petitions. The list of landlords was compiled before many of them had sold, in the hopes of encouraging their continued resistance.

  He went back to the State website. He repeated his system with the sellers, working through the list methodically, pulling the addresses they were filed under. He was so worn down from the monotony of entering the information, the fruitlessness of it, that he nearly missed it.

  Tompkins Mac LLC, registered to 229 South 2nd Street, Fifth Floor, Brooklyn.

  That was the address for Franky Dutton Properties.

  He went back to the watchdog site. The Tompkins Mac property had already sold when the writer compiled her list. Looking at the time frame of the other posts, it appeared that the LLC was one of the first to cash out of the area—how did that affect his bottom line? Should he have held out for a better offer, did Buckley pressure him into selling quickly? Tompkins Mac wasn’t mentioned on any other blogs or sites—it was out of the game before most protestors started cataloging victims and traitors. And he didn’t see FDP listed at all—Franky had been using Tompkins Mac to protect his personal holdings, keeping his company separate.

  Did Buckley fuck his friend over on the Restoration Heights deal? And was Hannah a pawn for revenge? How would that have played with Franky if she then rejected him—her desires frustrating his retribution? It might have compounded his rage, perhaps been what finally pushed him all the way to murder—a way to pay them both back while sating his anger.

  It amplified the motive but it wasn’t evidence. It wasn’t anything he could take to Clint, not yet—but it was worth more digging.

  He called Derek.

  “This is what we do now? Talk on the phone like it’s 1993?”

  “It’s about Franky.”

  “It’s only been a few hours, man. I haven’t had time to look at that flash drive.”

  “Not that.” He told him about Franky’s other LLC, and that he owned property that was swallowed by Restoration Heights. “From what I can tell he sold pretty early. I was thinking Buckley might have pressured him or something—maybe he missed out on a big payday?”

  “I doubt it. These deals usually go down the other way, the friends and insiders make out like bandits.”

  “Well, is there any way to check one way or the other?”

  “I could do that. Pretty easily, actually. There are public records for those transactions.”

  “Just tell me where to look.”

  “It will be easier if I do it.” He sighed as though it was a burden, but Reddick heard enthusiasm beneath it. “It might take me a bit to get to it.”

  “I really appreciate the help. And not just about this.”

  “You mean this morning? I told you it’s all good.”

  “I know. I just—It was nice having some backup.”

  “Bro, that guy is an asshole. I did it for everybody.”

  “Thanks all the same, though.” His phone buzzed. “Hey, I got another call coming in. Talk to you later.”

  “Be safe.”

  Reddick hung up and switched to the incoming call.

  “Reddick?” It was Lane.

  “Hey, Lane, what’s up? Did you need me to come in this week?”

  “I’m afraid not.” His voice was nervous and firm.

  “Okay. What’s going on, then?” Reddick was buzzing with optimism, with the rush of new information. Whatever was bothering Lane couldn’t possibly touch him.

  “I’m calling to hear your side.”

  “My side of what?”

  “Why you wandered around the Sewards’ house while everyone was at lunch. Why you ignored the one thing I asked you to do. How you could be so selfish as to put this ridiculous agenda of yours ahead of Lockstone’s relationship with our most valuable client.”

  “Agenda?”

  “I don’t know what else to call it. Obsession? I mean, what is wrong with you?”

  Reddick’s confidence was upended. He scrambled to recover it. “Lane, I—”

  “Just stop.”

  “I thought you wanted to hear my side.”

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “I was just late coming back from the bathroom.”

  “I’ll need a better story than that if you want me to save your job. Dottie emailed Mrs. Kruger.” The Krugers owned Lockstone. They followed the progress of their company from their Westchester village, rarely getting involved in the day-to-day. “I have a call with them tomorrow morning. Do you even care what I tell them?”

  “I mean. I need a job. I need money.”

  “Yeah. Well, don’t get your hopes up. You’re a nice guy, you work hard, but you’re an art handler. You wouldn’t be that hard to replace.”

  “Insult to injury, Lane?”

  “You’re the one who is so interested in the truth.”

  * * *

  There was nothing to do but wait—on Derek, on L
ane. It was nearly six and dark as midnight, the bright afternoon wasted on his laptop. He was out of leads but restless. He put on his coat and boots and left.

  He went to his usual spot on Tompkins, a narrow coffee shop that had been in the neighborhood as long as he had. His restlessness was manifesting as nervous energy; he made small talk with the barista, played along when she answered with bored flirtation. He took his coffee with him and left.

  Someone was waiting on his corner, tall, a dark parka zipped tight around his thin frame. Reddick couldn’t see his face but felt him staring, noticed his aggressive, focused posture. His first thought was Braids—somehow finding out where he lived and coming back to talk more shit. But this guy was too tall, and as Reddick got closer he could see him clearly.

  “Ju’waun.” He seemed younger in person, and even better looking than his friend. Large feminine eyes, cheekbones like cliffs, hair stacked high over a crisp fade. His pulchritude undercut his attempt at menace.

  “You’re Reddick, right?” he said. “The man with all the questions.”

  Reddick kept his face composed, forced his muscles to relax. He felt himself sliding into his body the way he often managed to during a game, the way he had failed to do this morning; both hyperconscious and distant.

  “I’m trying to find out what happened to Hannah.”

  “See, that’s what I’m talking about.”

  “You were the last person with her. Tyler went home with Trisha.”

  “I’m not here to help you man,” Ju’waun shoved him to make his point. Reddick held his coffee away from his body to keep the steaming liquid from slopping onto his clothes. “I’m here to tell you to lay the fuck off.”

  His voice was soft and laid-back in a way that made Reddick think of the beach. Despite it, and despite his romantic face, he seemed convinced of his ability to inspire fear. But there was nothing hard about him—he seemed exactly what Clint said he would be, a poseur. He pushed Reddick again, who barely moved. He had taken rougher shots on uncalled fouls.

  No way this kid killed someone.

  “First you get a warning.” He cocked his head to the side. “Keep poking your nose where it don’t belong and I’ll come back.”

  “Why?”

  “Fuck do you mean, why?”

  “I mean, why just a warning? You came all the way over here for that?”

  “So you understand that I know where you live.”

  “If you want to make a point, just make it. Why leave and then come back? Save yourself the trouble and do this right now.”

  “Fuck is wrong with you, dude? I’m trying to let you off easy.”

  To his credit, he wasn’t backing down. He looked surprised but unafraid. Reddick hadn’t been in a fistfight since junior high. He wondered whether he should ball up his fist.

  “Do you need help?” Neither of them had seen the woman approach. She was middle-aged, her pale face shining concern between her cable-knit hat and high collar. She stood in front of a double stroller, both bins sealed against winter, holding coffee in a cup that matched Reddick’s. “Do you need me to call the police?”

  “On which one of us?” Reddick said.

  Ju’waun looked at him. “You serious?”

  “I’m fine,” Reddick said to her. “That was a joke. I’m okay.”

  “He pushed you. I saw him.”

  “We’re friends. Aren’t we, Ju’waun?”

  Ju’waun turned and smiled at the woman. “Old friends, ma’am.”

  She looked at both of them for a moment, shook her head, turned and pushed her stroller away.

  “That’s racist,” Ju’waun said.

  The interruption had leached the air of violence, left Reddick feeling buoyant, playful. “You were threatening me,” he said. “Maybe she’s not racist, maybe she’s perceptive.”

  “Come on, man. She wanted to call the cops to help you, not me. Maybe that push was self-defense. Dead ass, that’s racist.”

  “Can pushing someone count as self-defense?”

  They were both almost smiling now, the stolen tension replaced by a kind of boyish giddiness. “Maybe,” Ju’waun said. “How is that lady in a position to know?”

  “At least tell me you see the irony in what you’re saying.”

  “It’s not irony, it’s—this isn’t a joke.” Ju’waun seemed to suddenly recall his purpose. He tried to put his scowl back on but it didn’t take.

  “Why are you here?” Reddick asked. “Really?”

  “I fucking told you.” Ju’waun was trying to amp himself back up. “Lay off the questions.”

  Reddick saw how off balance he was, and pressed. “Did Mia tell you about me? Was I close to something?”

  “You aren’t close to shit.”

  “Did you give her that black eye?”

  “Man, come on.”

  “Then who? The Genie? Who did she piss off?”

  He looked away, half mumbled. “What do you know about any of this shit?”

  “I know the Genie provides things. Drugs, guns. I know you and Tyler and maybe the rest of Sons of Cash Money work for her sometimes, running pickups back to Clean City. I know you’re not from Lafayette Gardens like the rest of them, and I thought you might have taken Hannah out to prove yourself to them, but now I know there’s no way that’s what happened, because if you were hard enough for that you would have popped me in the fucking mouth by now, no matter how many white ladies walk by with strollers.”

  For half a beat it seemed as though he would—the encounter had slipped outside of anything he might have rehearsed, and Reddick could see him searching for a way to retake control.

  “But if you weren’t involved, why did someone tell my friend Harold not to ask about Hannah? And why did you tweet at Tyler that she ‘got caught slippin’?”

  Ju’waun stopped. The moment was as still as the cold air—until he blew it up with laughter.

  “What the fuck,” he said between gasps, bent at the belly, staggering away with the force of it. Now it was Reddick who was off balance, suddenly humiliated, their positions reversed.

  “Oh man,” Ju’waun said, wiping his eyes. “What do they say about a little bit of knowledge or whatever?”

  Reddick waited, with no option but to let Ju’waun enjoy his victory.

  “We was worried, is why it’s so funny. About nothing. About bullshit.”

  “Tell me already.”

  “Mia, man. We was talking about fucking Mia. We’ve been seeing each other for weeks now. You got your boy asking about some blonde chick and bringing up my name with her, what the fuck else is people going to think?”

  “I told him her name was Hannah.”

  “You think that drunk Harold remembered that shit?” He shifted into an unfriendly impression of Harold. “‘Uh, I was wondering about Ju’waun and this white chick, uh, um. Mia? Yeah, that sounds about right. Ju’waun and Mia, what’s up with them?’ And on top of that you said Sunday night. Crazy man.”

  “What happened Sunday night?”

  “Mia got fucking robbed, man. ‘Caught slippin’ means she got jacked, how white are you? That’s what happened to her face.”

  Finally Reddick began to catch up. “The drop. Somebody stole the money she owed the Genie, that’s why she was so worried.”

  “Not money she owed her. That’s the Genie’s money. Money leaves the dry cleaners dirty and comes back clean—how about you appreciate that irony.”

  “She launders money in a boutique liquor store? A dentist’s office?”

  Ju’waun shrugged. “That’s the neighborhood now. The Genie is adaptable. That dentist is working off debts, man. And Mia—well, her and Mia go way back. That’s how it is.”

  “The Genie would be that upset? She couldn’t just go to her and tell her what happened?”

 
“Yo, this clearly has nothing to do with that Hannah chick, so can we just drop it? It’s cold out here.”

  “Just tell me so I know what not to look for. So I don’t waste more time.”

  Ju’waun considered his logic, then shrugged. “Me and my cousin were at Black Swan, that spot on Bedford.”

  “Your cousin? Tyler?”

  “You want to hear this shit or what? That girl you’re talking about, Hannah? We met her at the bar. Tyler is trying to talk to her, you know. She says she’s gotta bounce for this party, so we go with her. Halfway through the night it doesn’t matter because Tyler is on this other chick, and he’s making pretty good time with her. But here’s what’s up. I was supposed to get Mia’s drop earlier that day, only I didn’t because I knew I was going to see her that night, after she closed the store, at like ten. But Tyler’s not trying to leave at no ten o’clock, you know? He’s about to hit. So I text Mia, I tell her to take the drop home with her, and I’ll come over after we leave the party.”

  “What was Hannah doing? Who was she talking to?”

  “I don’t know. I stopped paying attention. It was a party. That’s not what this story is about.”

  “Because Mia got jacked on her way home.”

  “Now you get it. Two dudes came up behind her, one punched her in the eye, the other grabbed her bag and took off.”

  “Was it a hit? Did they know she had the money?”

  “Nah, man. Not around here, not if they knew she was with Sons of Cash Money. More like it was a couple of punk-ass kids trying to cop a cell phone and a wallet and they ended up with the Genie’s cash.”

  “But the Genie holds you responsible.”

  “Both of us, to be honest. We lost the money—plus, you know, she has a strict no fraternizing policy, right? I’m mixing business with pleasure; she wouldn’t like it. She’d say it might cause complications—man, it did cause complications. And we’d have to own up to seeing each other to explain it right.”

  “So Mia was freaking out.”

  “Yeah, and that’s why my boy pushed back at Harold when he asked about me—he didn’t want what happened with her to get around.”