Sorrow's Anthem lp-2

by Michael Koryta

  “No. But she came by one day last week and spent an afternoon with the kids. She was very sweet. They all loved her. She was supposed to come back today. That’s why I had to tell them.”

  “Why was she here?”

  “Well, actually, Mitch brought her by. The kids love Mitch. He’s always around. That’s why you scared me so much when you asked about him. I couldn’t bear to have to tell them something had happened to Mitch, too.”

  In the pauses of our conversation, I could actually hear the squeak of crayons and pencils on paper. It was that quiet.

  “Do you know why Anita Sentalar was with Mitch Corbett?” I said. “Were they a romantic couple?”

  She shook her head. “I’m fairly certain they weren’t. He said he was showing her the neighborhood.”

  “Showing her the neighborhood,” I echoed.

  “Staaaacey.” A long whisper, this from the girl with the brown braids.

  Stacey started back around the table and motioned for me to follow. The girl with the braids asked if she could go to the bathroom. Her face was flushed and streaked with dried tears. Stacey told her she could go. When the girl left, we stood at the edge of the table where she’d been seated. I looked down at her picture. This one was perhaps the most disturbing yet. It showed a tall house with almost a dozen windows, carefully drawn, gleaming with bright colors. At the top of the house, though, a ragged black hole had been drawn in the roof, orange flames around it.

  I frowned and pointed at it. “You told the kids how Anita Sentalar died?”

  Stacey shook her head. “No. I thought it was a bit too scary for them. I’ll leave details like that up to the parents. I just said she was dead, and that we should all be grateful we got to spend a day with her.”

  “Then how’d this girl know to draw a fire?”

  “Like I said before, Lily has had a family crisis this week. They were all set to move into a new house by the end of the month. She was so excited. Then their house burned down.”

  “It wasn’t the house on Train Avenue?”

  “No. It was right here on Clark. Just a block down the street, actually. But it was one of Anita’s houses.”

  “Pardon?”

  Stacey held up a finger, indicating that she wanted me to wait, then walked across the room to a rack on the wall that held a collection of papers and brochures. Enrollment forms for various rec center leagues and activities, that sort of thing. She selected a brochure, crossed the room again, and handed it to me.

  The front page of the trifold brochure showed two pictures of the same house. The photograph on top was of a crumbling building with faded paint and broken windows. The lower photograph showed a shining home, fresh paint, new glass, completely restored. THE NEIGHBORHOOD ALLIANCE it read. RESTORING PRIDE TO THE WEST SIDE.

  “There’s a picture of her on the inside,” she said.

  I opened the brochure and saw a few more before-and-after pictures of houses, and a small block of text explaining that the Neighborhood Alliance was a Cleveland community effort to improve housing options on the near west side with the aid of federal funding. Run-down houses were being restored and then sold to low-income buyers with the assistance of federally insured mortgages. There was no picture of a woman, though.

  Stacey was leaning over my shoulder. “Maybe it’s on the back.”

  I closed the brochure and turned it over and stared at a small headshot of Anita Sentalar. The picture was familiar—it was the same shot that had been on the front page of the newspaper the day Sentalar’s body was pulled from the ruins of the house on Train Avenue. Beneath the photograph was a caption labeling her the director of the Neighborhood Alliance.

  “This is why Corbett was showing her the neighborhood,” I said. “Because she was involved with the urban renewal project?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Corbett’s working on the houses,” I said, remembering the Neighborhood Alliance sign outside the house where I’d found Jeff Franklin.

  “Is he?”

  “Yes.” I was still staring at Sentalar’s picture, thinking about her in this building with Mitch Corbett just a few days before she’d died.

  “The fire on Clark Avenue burned one of this group’s houses down?” I said.

  “That’s right. Lily’s family was working out the purchase details. They’ve never had a house before, always small apartments, and there are four kids. They were so excited. It broke my heart to hear what happened, but Anita promised them she would make arrangements for them to buy another house. That’s why Lily was extra-sad to hear Anita was dead. I’m afraid she thinks her family’s house died with her.”

  The girl came back then, still long-faced, and pulled to a stop in front of us.

  “Who’s this?” she asked Stacey, pointing at me.

  “He’s Mitch’s friend,” Stacey answered.

  The girl swiveled her head to face me.“Our friend died,” she said.

  I knelt next to the table, bringing myself down to her level. “I’m very sorry to hear that. I know how sad that must make you. One of my friends just died, too. It’s tough.”

  “How’d he die?” she asked, a child’s blunt curiosity getting the best of her.

  “He got hit by a car,” I said, and then for some reason added, “It was right on this street. I’m still sad about it, so I know how you feel today.”

  “I’m sorry. You have to be careful crossing streets.”

  I nodded. “Look both ways, right?”

  “Right.” She climbed back onto the bench seat and picked up a crayon. I straightened up, then noticed that Stacey was staring at me.

  “Your friend was killed on Clark?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ed Gradduk?”

  “Yes.”

  Anger flooded her face. “Don’t you know? He’s the one—”

  “Who’s innocent,” I finished for her. “Yes, I do know that. And I think you might have helped me start proving it.”

  CHAPTER 14

  The lot on Clark Avenue was bare, the grass withered by heat, the soil baked dry. All the debris had been scraped clean, leaving only a decimated foundation behind. The scarred concrete surrounded by cracked, dried-out soil looked like something you might find alongside a lonely desert highway.

  I remembered the house, though. Two stories, pale blue paint, white latticework around the bottom of the porch. I’d never been inside, but I’d walked past it almost daily for several years. The old guy who’d lived there when I was a kid had owned a snowblower, the only one on the block, probably. In the winter he’d do his own driveway, each next-door neighbor’s, and then the sidewalk all the way up to the stop sign. Wore a big furry hat with earflaps that made me think of spy movies set in Moscow. Smoked a cigar while he worked the snowblower. Waved at everybody.

  This winter, if it snowed enough, the drifts might fill in the old foundation, cover it up completely, until you couldn’t tell there’d ever been a house there. I stood above the blackened stone and thought about Lily, the girl with the braids. It was supposed to have been her family’s first house. Four kids, Stacey had said.

  I walked around the yard, my shoes raising a cloud of dry dust as I moved. Stood in what had been the backyard and gazed out across the top of the foundation, took in a now unobstructed view of the avenue. Two days ago I’d walked hurriedly past, hardly pausing to glance at the vacant lot, as I’d gone in search of Ed Gradduk. Ed had actually been the one to come up with the Russian spy identity for the guy who’d lived here when we were kids. Called the old guy Agent X, the house, KGB Headquarters.

  That was all a long time ago.

  I left the yard and walked back up the sidewalk toward my truck, lyrics from an old Springsteen song dancing through my head. I heard the voices of friends vanished and gone.

  Good song, I used to think.

  Joe was on the phone when I got back, but hung up quickly.

  “You were gone a long time, LP.”

  “Yeah.�
�

  “Anything productive to show for it?”

  “The house on Train Avenue was owned by something called the Neighborhood Alliance, an urban renewal project. Anita Sentalar was the director of the Neighborhood Alliance. Cancerno’s construction crew is working on the houses, with both Ed and Mitch Corbett involved. Another one of the group’s houses burned down last week. A place on Clark Avenue. Corbett was a demolitions expert. Knew how to start an effective fire. He was with Sentalar last week.”

  “You were gone three hours,” Joe said, “and that’s all you got?”

  I gave that one a bit of a smile.

  “No, I’ve got to give you credit,” he said. “That’s impressive. Even in that clipped monotone you recited it with. Now run through it again. This time with details.”

  “Maybe work on the voice, too? Try a sweet soprano?”

  “That’s going to be different from your normal voice?”

  ______

  It took me a little longer to tell it to him with the details. I walked him through my afternoon, trying to recall anything of significance that had been said in either my conversation with Jeff Franklin or with Stacey at the rec center.

  “The second fire seems like a big deal,” I said. “And Corbett’s a demolitions expert, now missing? Who was waltzing around the near west side with Sentalar just a few days before she turned up dead in one of those fires?”

  “Suspicious as hell,” Joe said. “But doesn’t necessarily clear your friend from the mix.”

  “I’m not saying it does. But the best way to clear Ed is to find the person who did kill Sentalar. Right now, Corbett’s looking like an awfully intriguing fit.”

  “Doesn’t mesh well with your theory about Padgett and Rabold, though. At least, not yet.”

  I nodded. “Not yet. But we’ve still got Padgett camped outside Corbett’s house. That establishes some sort of connection. You get anything useful on the background checks?”

  He waffled his hand. “Nothing like what you brought back, but still some interesting notes. They’re both lifelong Cleveland residents. Padgett is single, previously divorced, and Rabold’s married and has a kid. Both of them seem to live a bit beyond the means of a cop’s salary. Padgett drives a new Jeep and owns a bass boat that must go for about thirty to forty thousand. His house is modest enough but he’s also part owner of a time-share down on the Florida Gulf Coast. Could be he’s just good with money. Rabold’s house cost him almost three hundred grand, with a mortgage for only half that, and his wife doesn’t work, just helps out at the kid’s school library.”

  “You think they’re on the take?”

  “Reasonable candidates for it, at least.”

  “What about their history on the force?”

  “Working on that. You remember Amos Lorenzon?”

  “Of course,” I said. “He was the first cop I rode with when I was out of the academy. Good guy, but I learned fast not to ask too many questions. They seemed to make him nervous.”

  “They probably did. Hear too many questions from a green rookie and you start to feel like you’re working alone. Anyhow, Amos is a desk supervisor now, reads a lot of the conduct evaluations and keeps tabs on the patrol guys. I called him and told him what I wanted.”

  “I bet you made him awfully uncomfortable with that request.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I imagine so. But he told me he’d pull the records and get back to us. He’ll be more cautious about dispensing the information than some of the other guys I could have called, but the difference is he’ll also keep his mouth shut. That’s important.”

  “He’ll keep his mouth shut,” I said with a grin. “I remember when he had surgery and it was six months before anyone found out why he’d been gone for those two weeks. Said it was nobody’s business, so he just took his personal days and didn’t mention the medical reason. Talk about private.”

  “Right. That’s why I chose him for the job. I expect we’ll hear from him tomorrow.”

  “I want to see Jimmy Cancerno again today,” I said. “He worked with this Neighborhood Alliance group, and he hired both Ed and Corbett.”

  “Call him, then.”

  I grabbed the phone book and looked up the number for Pinnacle Properties. The secretary there had bad news: Jimmy was out for the day. I asked if she had a cell phone number for him, and she said she couldn’t give that out. I harangued her for a few minutes and got nowhere, then hung up.

  “What about your buddy?” Joe said when I told him the problem. “The one who owns the bar.”

  Another flip through the phone book, this time for the Hideaway. A minute later I was speaking to Draper.

  “Sure, I’ve got his number,” he said after listening to my request. “How about I give him a call instead of you, though. Chances are I can get him to come down here and talk to you, whereas he might just tell you to go to hell and hang up.”

  “Good,” I said. “Call me back, Scott. And thanks.”

  “Anytime, Lincoln.”

  It was only a few minutes before my phone rang.

  “Jimmy’ll be down in twenty,” Draper said. “He wasn’t real pleased with the idea, but I told him you’re a stand-up guy.”

  Was there a hint of sarcasm in his voice, or had my imagination dropped that in? I wasn’t sure.

  “Thanks, Scott. We’ll be there. I appreciate it.”

  “No problem. Want me to throw a couple cheeseburgers on the grill?”

  “Maybe next time.”

  I hung up again and looked at Joe. “Cancerno’s on his way to Draper’s bar. You want to come along?”

  “Let’s go,” he said, standing up. I thought about thanking him right then, but it felt awkward, so I didn’t. I just walked out the door beside him, the two of us stepping together in silence.

  We got to the Hideaway five minutes before Cancerno showed. Draper wasn’t working the bar, and he came out to sit with us. He had a bottle in his hand and three glasses stacked atop one another. He dropped the glasses on the table and poured about three fingers of Scotch into each one. He slid a glass over to me.

  “Glenlivet,” he said. “Still the favorite?”

  “It’s a good one,” I said. “And so is your memory.”

  “You work in this business, you better remember drinking tendencies.” He pushed the second glass over to Joe, who shook his head.

  “Too early for Scotch?” Draper asked.

  “He doesn’t drink anything but water,” I said.

  Draper, who had probably been nursed on light beer, regarded Joe with astonishment. “Nothing but water?”

  “He exaggerates,” Joe said. “I also drink milk.”

  Draper handled the dilemma by dumping the contents of Joe’s glass into his own and draining a good portion of it in one swallow. Draper drank Scotch the way most men drank beer.

  “So, tell me what’s up,” he said. “Why you need to see Jimmy?”

  “You ever heard of the Neighborhood Alliance?” I asked.

  He frowned and scratched his shaved head. “Ed did some work for them, I believe. They’re buying up houses all over the neighborhood.”

  “Right. And it looks like Cancerno’s guys are fixing most of them.”

  “Could be.”

  “The woman who died in the fire,” I said, “was the director of the Neighborhood Alliance. I want to ask Cancerno what he knows about her, and how Ed might have come across her.”

  “Huh.” Draper sipped some more of the Scotch. If I’d hoped he was going to offer an opinion on the matter, I was wrong.

  Cancerno arrived then, again in jeans and a silk shirt, and again looking decidedly unpleasant. He nodded curtly at Draper and glowered at Joe and me.

  “All right,” he said, pushing into the booth beside Draper. “What the hell is this about?”

  “Mr. Cancerno, this is my partner, Joe Pritchard.” I pointed at Joe.

  “Terrific. Now let me repeat—what the hell is this about? I got shit to do this af
ternoon.”

  “Remember the woman who died in the fire?”

  “The one Gradduk killed?”

  “The one who died in the fire,” I said again.

  “What about her?”

  “She was the director of something called the Neighborhood Alliance.” Suddenly I wanted to test Cancerno, curious as to whether he’d be honest at all or just lie to avoid continuing the conversation. “You ever heard of that group?”

  His lip curled at one side. “Of course I’ve heard of the group. My guys are fixing all their shit-hole houses.”

  Okay, he had no problem with blunt honesty.

  “What can you tell me about the organization?” I said.

  “Not much. I don’t mind their business, you know, just my own. They want me to get the houses fixed up so they can sell them again, and that’s what I do. It’s some sort of a government project, city or county. They buy up houses that are all beat to shit, rundown and empty, neighborhood eyesores. Then they fix them up so they’re decent again, livable, and they put poor people in them. Got the Feds to insure the mortgages and finance it and all that crap. Supposed to make the neighborhood downright charming.”

  “If you’re doing a fair amount of work for them,” Joe said, “you must have known Anita Sentalar.”

  Cancerno shot him a glare that would have rattled anyone except Joe, who received it with a blank expression.

  “I must have known her?” Cancerno said. “Afraid not, buddy. You don’t know as much as you think. This is the first time I’d heard that the dead chick had anything to do with the Neighborhood Alliance. Guy who handled the contract with me was a consultant, you know, someone who actually knows a little something about construction. They aren’t going to let some little girl with a law degree contract out house repairs.”

  “What was the consultant’s name?” Joe said.

  “Ward Barry. He does a lot of work with HUD on those types of projects. Used to be a city engineer. You want to know about this woman, you talk to him. I never said word one to her.”

  “What about Ed Gradduk?” I said, “Would he have had an opportunity to meet her?”