"OK," I said. "So he belongs there," I offered. "He's a local."
She took a couple of bites. Thought about it.
"Someone who stays a lot to himself because you know how word gets around," she said. "He's not somebody who's going to be out bragging about it, or some cop's informant would have used it by now."
"True," I nodded.
"So what does this hit man do when he isn't killing old ladies, or if we lump them, also raping and strangling street walkers and addicts?" she said.
"Maybe he's buying things," I said, the thought coming to me. "With hundred-dollar bills."
The grinding was starting in my head, but it was new, something I'd have to roll around to get the size and shape of. She took another bite, then reached over and stole another sip of my coffee, leaving a trace of lipstick on the cup. I brought the coffee cup to my own mouth and she watched me.
"You know, you're not too bad at this cops and robbers stuff. You ever think of coming back? I mean down here, not Philly?"
Unconsciously my fingers went to my neck and touched the circle of soft scar tissue.
"Yeah, I might have thought about it," I said and then let it go.
"Hell, Freeman. I might even write you a recommendation." And there was that smile again.
She gathered up her paperwork while I paid the bill. As we left she was stopped by officers coming in.
"Hey, how's it going, Sherry?" Or "Detective. Long time. You mean they let you guys out for lunch?"
Each one of them nodded at me, maybe waiting for an introduction, maybe just sizing me up, trying to place me into a category. It is something cops do. I was doing it, too.
Outside I walked her to her car. She stopped before opening the door.
"You know why I like you, Max?" she said, pulling my attention to her eyes. "Because you're careful."
The question must have risen into my face. It was the second time she'd brought it up.
"You're careful because you see the bad possibilities in everybody."
I couldn't think of a response.
"Call me on my cell," she said. "We're sharing here. Right?"
"Yes," I said, and walked away.
19
I drove back toward the northwest, heading to Ms. Thompson's house with a purpose that wouldn't pan out without the right people. And it was there that I'd last seen them.
When I rolled past the front of her house only the carport door still held the yellow crime scene tape across its threshold. At the next corner I turned back south, this time using the narrow alley. Behind the Thompson house, I stopped and got out, assessing the way a stealthy man on foot might have approached. The alley-side street lamp was a jagged cone of broken glass.
From here he would have been able to see the windows of the back bedroom, but not the front, where Ms. Thompson might have discreetly let her man in.
I sat down on an upended paint can and watched the back of the house, guessing at the difficulty a killer would have getting across the darkened lawn to the storage shed behind the carport. None. A trail of ants worked in a line across the breadth of the alley like a fishing line on the surface of nervous water.
He could have sat back here for hours. But who might have seen him? Trash collectors? Kids on their bikes? Neighbors using the alley to park instead of circling for a street-side spot?
I moved the can closer to the hedge and estimated the cover he would have had in the dark to work on the carport door. Behind me I picked up the sound of shoes scuffing to my left. They weren't sneaking, just walking slow and sure, like athletes showing up for practice.
The three young men I'd first mistaken for the neighborhood drug posse had gathered behind me. The one who seemed to be the leader was watching me with a curious head tilt. The other two had cut off any escape route to the north. My truck clogged the path to the south. Their hands were out of their pockets this time. One of them was wearing a thin black glove with the fingers cut off. It was impossible to tell with their baggy, calf-high shorts and long shirts whether they were carrying or not.
They let me check them before the leader took a couple of steps closer and then squatted on his heels to bring his face down even to mine.
"This part of the investigation, G?"
He had put a derisive emphasis on the "in" syllable.
"I'm not with the government," I said, holding his eyes but watching for movement from the pair behind him. I could probably kick through him and scramble for the truck. But if they were armed, I wouldn't make it.
"This the second place you showin' up after somebody did wrong in the off-limits," the leader said. "Ms. Mary said you was helpin'."
It was a statement, and it is my practice not to answer statements that are phrased as questions. Some people think I'm a smart-ass when I do it.
"I'm working with an attorney," I answered. "A friend of the women who have recently died like Ms. Mary's mother."
"Workin' on what? Takin' they money?"
His eyes betrayed no anger in the accusation. They only drifted off my face to the direction of the Thompson house. He was three feet away. I could see the two gold caps on his back teeth when he spoke. His breath was odorless.
"Some people don't think those women died naturally," I said. "Some people think they might have been murdered for their life insurance money."
"Family gets insurance," he said, this time his voice held a sense of dismissal.
"In these cases, some investors bought up the policies. But the longer the women lived, the less the policies were worth."
He kept his eyes on the house for several beats, assessing my words.
"Ms. Thompson ain't dead," he finally said, finding the flaw in my explanation.
"Some people think whoever's doing the killing didn't know she was being visited by Mr. Harris."
One of the two standing close behind now snickered, and the sound pulled at the corner of the leader's mouth.
"Hell," he said. "Everybody know Mr. Harris be visitin'."
When the leader went quiet, the others followed. He shifted his feet and the movement made me flinch, but I covered by asking my own question.
"What did you mean by 'the off-limits?' "
He assessed me again and decided to answer.
"They's parts of the neighborhood that business ain't done," he said. "People here know you don't mess in the places where the old folks live. 'Specially the great-grands."
The two behind were nodding.
"You wanna sell and smoke some shit, they's a place for that. We don't mess with that. They leave the off-limits alone."
I nodded my head. It was an odd truce, but admirable in some way. Again the silence had its time.
"I think the man who's killing the elderly women, including Ms. Mary's mother, is somebody from the neighborhood."
He again gave me the head tilt.
"I see," he suddenly said, changing the mannerisms in his voice to a mocking, officious tone. "Once again it is the notorious black- on-black crime pattern."
I started to think I'd made a mistake in tactics, trying to turn him into a source.
"Look, this guy knows the streets, the layout of the homes, the habits of the people," I said, trying again. "You know how a stranger would stick out here. You're the first ones who would see it. Maybe this guy is someone who moved in years ago, started to fit in."
The leader was staring again at the house, thinking.
"Maybe it's somebody that flashes money around. Acts like everybody's friend so no one suspects," I said.
"He got his needs?" the leader said, catching me off guard. He saw that I didn't understand.
"You know, habits. Dope, women, gamblin'?"
"Hundred-dollar bills," I said, dropping the only signature I had.
Now it was his turned to be confused.
"If he's got habits, he might be paying with hundred-dollar bills," I said.
The leader looked around at his boys. They shook their heads. He turned back to me.
"You got a cell or somethin'?" he said.