“You say he was a demolitions expert?”
Jeff started to nod, then stopped and narrowed his eyes. “You thinking about that fire?”
“Maybe.”
He shook his head. “Mitch is a good man, mister.”
“So was Ed.”
“I agree. And that’s why I like to think neither of them had anything to do with it.”
“You seen Mitch since Ed died?”
“No, I haven’t. Last time I saw Mitch was the day before all that got started.” He crumpled the Coke can and looked at me. “You think those two were into something together, don’t you?”
“Could be. You got any ideas?”
He shook his head, and I believed him. He looked as if he would love to help me if he could.
“I need to talk to somebody who was close to him,” I said. “Hell, close to either of them. I’m starting from scratch here. Take what I can get.”
Jeff Franklin frowned. “I dunno what I can tell you. We all worked together, but not much was said other than the usual, you know? Sports and trucks and women and such. I got four kids, so when it’s quitting time I’m done and gone. Didn’t have much chance to hang out with the rest of the boys. Mitch and Ed ran around together some, I know, but that’s about it.”
“You don’t know anyone else that Corbett spent time with?”
He chewed on his lip. “Well, this isn’t a person, but he had a volunteer job in the evenings and on weekends, working down at some gym on Clark Avenue. Refereeing basketball and keeping the kids in line, that sort of thing.”
“Clark Rec Center?” I said, and he nodded.
“It ain’t much,” he said, “but it’s all I got for you.”
When I left, Jeff Franklin asked me to call him if I learned anything about Mitch, and I told him that I would.
“Nobody around to worry about Mitch,” he said. “No family to speak of, and not many friends. Man kept to himself. I keep wondering if we shouldn’t talk to the police, but everybody else told me not to sweat it. Said Mitch was fine and that he’d be back when he got ready to be back.”
He cocked his head at me. “But you know? I’m not feeling so sure about that anymore.”
CHAPTER 13
Clark Rec had been a special place to me as a kid. Even then, it had been a relic from another time, but that was what made it special. There’s an indoor pool, which is damn exciting to a Cleveland kid during the winter, but it isn’t the stainless-steel tank and glaring light of your modern YMCA pool. It’s a narrow lap pool, the floors tile and the walls painted with murals, everything lit with a sort of mellow aquamarine glow, skylights filtering in some natural light from above. I learned how to swim there, and, when no adults were looking, how to do one hell of a cannonball.
There’s a basketball court, too, and it seems like a cage in a way, the court sunken and bordered closely on every side by stone walls. There aren’t any bleachers for spectators alongside the court, but a balcony rims it, and that’s where you’d sit if you wanted to watch, looking down on the action. CLARK WARRIORS is painted across the side of the balcony, a nickname that probably used to apply to the rec league team, even though I always connected it to West Tech High School’s Warriors when I was a kid. I learned to shoot in that time warp of a gym, learned how to watch the offensive player’s midsection to avoid being faked out on defense, how to box out for a rebound, run the fast break.
Out in front of the court is a room filled with picnic tables and games like air hockey and Ping-Pong. This is the room I entered from the street when I came from my talk with Jeff Franklin. Kids were coloring with crayons and construction paper at one of the picnic tables, a trim black woman standing over them. I moved left, looking for a less occupied adult, and then I couldn’t resist walking down to peek in at the old pool. Brightly colored fish were painted on the walls now, along with two signs declaring that it was illegal to carry a firearm into the building. There was also a photograph of a young girl, the word MISSING written above her head in bold, black font. I took a deep breath of the chlorine-scented air, shook my head, and walked back into the front room.
It was surprisingly quiet. Maybe a dozen kids were huddled around the tables, but there wasn’t the jumble of voices and loud laughter that you usually hear when kids are gathered together. The black woman was kneeling beside one of the children, a girl of maybe eight who had tears on her cheeks. The woman whispered soothingly to her, and the girl nodded and sniffed. She had long brown braids and big eyes and she looked tired. There’d probably been some sort of an argument or fight between the kids. The woman had probably responded to it by ordering a silent period. That would explain the odd quiet in the room.
Killing time till the woman was available, I walked over to the table and stood a few feet behind the group, glanced over the shoulders of the kids, at their artwork. What I saw made me raise my eyebrows and step closer. One of the girls had drawn a group of people with frowns and big blue teardrops on their faces. A child’s rendition of anguished, grieving people. Above that group she’d drawn clouds, a woman hovering in them, a halo on her head. The boy beside her was working with a pencil instead of crayons, and he had some real artistic ability, more talent at nine or ten than most adults would ever have. His sketch was of a graveyard. A cluster of small headstones surrounded a larger monument. All of the stones were drawn with hard, dark lines, the earth beneath them and the sky above them shaded a light gray. The only color on the page was on the petals of the few flowers he’d drawn near the large monument, their bright hues standing out stark against the black and gray background. It was a hell of a good picture for a child of that age, and I was captivated by him as he worked, handling the pencil so naturally and confidently. He’d probably never had any formal training.
I looked back and forth at the two pictures, then at the weeping girl at the far end of the table. The room was as silent as the empty gym I’d been in a moment earlier. The black woman finally spotted me, whispered a few final words in the girl’s ear, then walked around the table to talk with me. Her nametag identified her as Stacey, and her face was about as cheerful as the artwork on the table.
“Welcome to Clark Rec,” she said in a low whisper. “What can we do for you?”
I forced a smile, which felt out of place in the room. “I used to spend a lot of time here, growing up.”
“A nostalgia visit then?” she said, no return smile.
“An unintended one,” I admitted. “But the real reason I’m here is to ask about a guy named Mitch Corbett. I heard he does some volunteer work around here.”
“That’s right.” She was looking with concern at the girl she’d just left, who was now wiping at her eyes with the heels of her hands. “Mitch is a big help with the basketball leagues. Has been for years. These kids would tell you he’s also the best air hockey player in the world.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
Her expression immediately became alarmed. “What’s happened?”
“Nothing’s happened. I’m a private investigator, and Mitch Corbett might have some background information that could help me in a case. I’ve been hoping to catch up with him, but I haven’t had any luck.”
She folded her arms across her chest and took a step back. “I see. Well, I don’t know what to tell you. He isn’t scheduled to he here until next weekend.”
“When did he work last?”
“Saturday.”
Saturday was four days ago, before the fire on Train Avenue.
“So that was the last time you saw him?” I asked.
“Yes. Are you being honest, sir? Are you sure nothing’s happened to Mitch?”