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.