Razing the Dead (8 page)

When I got back to my office, I found Lissa there waiting
for me, chatting with Eric. “Hi, Lissa,” I greeted her cheerfully. “How come you're here? Did you hear?”

“Ethan asked me to check some references for him. Hear what?” she asked.

“Wakeman wants to go ahead with the project—he apparently isn't the type to let a little problem like a dead body stand in the way of progress. Was that why you're here?”

“I'll admit I wanted to know if you'd heard anything. Does that mean I can get started? “

“Come on in and we can talk about where we go from here. Eric, did you manage to figure out what paperwork we need? Mr. Wakeman and his crew may have plenty of money, but that doesn't mean they pay their bills on time, and I'd rather get this on his desk before he gets distracted.”
By more than a body
, I added to myself. But busy men were busy men, and I should send paperwork to him before he forgot who we were and what he'd asked us to do—and what he'd promised to do for us.

“On your desk, Nell.”

“Thank you. Lissa, come on in.”

She followed me into my office and took the chair I pointed to. “I should start by asking, are you okay?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” she replied, looking confused.

I sat down behind my desk. “Well, after finding the body yesterday. Sometimes you think you're fine at the time, but it catches up with you later. I won't hold it against you if you want to back out, after what you saw.”

She looked down at her hands briefly, then back at me. “It's not a problem, really. I mean, I know I threw up, but after that I found the whole procedural part kind of interesting. I hope you don't think that makes me weird or something.”

I thought I'd reserve judgment on that for now. People cope with traumatic events in different ways, and if Lissa's way was to observe details in order to distance herself, that was fine with me.

“Besides,” she went on, “I really do need the money.”

“I understand. Mr. Wakeman seems to approve of you, so I'll get the paperwork in the pipeline as soon as possible. So tell me, how do you plan to approach this? I don't intend to interfere with however you want to do it, but I'm curious. You should know up front that I got into this field via fundraising, so I wasn't trained as a historian or a researcher. I don't always know all the details.”

Lissa nodded once. “Okay. As I understand it—before having done any real research—Mr. Wakeman bought a thousand acres of Chester County farmland that has been continuously owned and managed by the same family since the seventeen hundreds. I'm sure he's got a small army of real estate lawyers who have done title searches to make sure the title is clear. I would review all of those, because who knows? Sometimes modern lawyers don't understand the language of seventeenth-century deeds. Just double-checking, plus I can give Wakeman a nice folder of reproductions of all the original documents, even if all he does with them is use them for PR and impressing the homebuyers.”

“Do I detect some cynicism?”

She shrugged. “Maybe. But this is the modern world, and nobody's going to buy that land just to keep the pretty views. I'd rather see Wakeman follow his vision than watch another cookie-cutter development go up.”

“I agree, for what it's worth. So, say you've made sure the title is clear—what next?”

“I think I mentioned that it's worth checking for any old factories or trades that occupied any part of the farm. For example, early paint factories left a lot of nasty chemicals in the soil, and remediation is expensive. And there are other polluters. Again, he's probably covered all that, but sometimes nobody recognizes the hazards from a factory that's not even there anymore.”

“Okay,” I said cautiously. I was way out of my depth here, but it all sounded interesting. “You're familiar with the Duffy's Cut story?”

“The Irish cholera victims? Of course. Really sad. But that should have nothing to do with the Garrett property—the railroad is a couple of miles away.”

“But what about other historical events? I guess my question in this context would be: what kind of archeological discovery could delay the project? Say, the equivalent of an ecologist finding that some rare and unique tree frog has made its sole habitat in the middle of the property?”

“My guess is that's Mr. Wakeman's primary concern, or at least why he invited the Society to the party. He can hire plenty of biologists and pollution experts, so my task is to look at the history of the place. As I said, I'd start with the deeds. And then I'd start looking at contemporary accounts in local collections. Here at the Society, of course, but a lot of things still hide out in other institutions. And even if they've been transcribed, there are often things that are missing or misinterpreted, so it's best to see the real documents. I'm sure the people at the Chester County Historical Society will help.”

I nodded in approval. “I would think so. I've heard they've got good people there. It all sounds great, Lissa—exactly what Mr. Wakeman needs. Let's hope there are no more unpleasant surprises. Will three months be long enough?”

“I think so, unless I have to travel. But most of the materials should be right here. Thanks for giving me the chance, Nell.”

“You're qualified, and better yet, you're here on the spot. And you've already started.”

“Thank you.” She cleared her throat. “If you don't mind my saying so, I read some of the online reports about other . . . complications you've been involved in.”

“And yet you came back?” I said in mock horror. “I'm sorry that my abysmal luck seems to be slopping over to this project.”

“Not your fault, is it? How could you have known there would be a body there?”

“Thank you for the vote of support. I really was hoping that this would be a clean-and-simple project, but I should know better by now.”

“That's okay. The history will still be there waiting, no matter what happened to that poor man. And no doubt Mr. Wakeman has enough pull to see that it's all cleared up as quickly as possible. All quite legally, I'm sure.”

I couldn't argue with that. “You want me to show you around the office, introduce you to the rest of the people you're likely to run into here?”

“Sure, that would be great.”

Outside my office, Eric stopped me. “Latoya confirms Mr. Hartley will be starting tomorrow morning. You want to see him then?”

“Sure. I'll see if Latoya has shown him around. He'll have to figure out the software for himself, because I'm clueless about it, but he can ask her. You can go ahead and set up a time, unless I've got something else scheduled that I don't know about.”

“Will do, Nell.”

I guided Lissa in the direction of the processing room, where the collections and items that needed to be cataloged were kept, awaiting attention. It was a large, open space with shelving around the perimeter and large tables in the center of the floor. Normally it was a comfortable space, but since the FBI had deposited what could be years' worth of items seized under a wide range of circumstances and had asked us to figure out exactly what they had, the space had become a lot more crowded. I pushed open the doors, led Lissa in, and gave her a minute to scope it out.

Interns Rich and Alice were already in the cataloging area. Ben would sort of be their boss, officially responsible for cataloging and entering all collections into our electronic database.

“Rich, Alice, meet Lissa Penrose,” I said when I had their attention. “She'll be working on a short-term project looking into the history of the land for Mitchell Wakeman's Chester County development project.” It wasn't like the project was exactly secret anymore, since George's Bowen's murder had been splashed all over the news media.

“Hey, Lissa,” Rich said, raising a hand in greeting. “Whoa—that the place where they found the body yesterday?”

Just as I'd guessed. “That's it. And before you ask, yes, Lissa and I were there, along with Mr. Wakeman.” I moved on quickly. “Rich, if you come across any references to the Garrett farm or Goshen among the Terwilliger stuff, please pass it on to Lissa. Oh, and I don't know if Latoya has told you yet, but we've filled the registrar position. Ben Hartley should be starting here tomorrow—I'll check with Latoya and let you know if that changes. I hope you'll help him out, because I don't think he's worked in a cultural institution before, although he knows computers and information management. But most of his experience is military.” I debated about explaining more, like his accident, but decided to let Ben work things out for himself.

“Will I have some place to set up, or do you want me to work in the reading room?” Lissa asked.

I hadn't thought of that. “Normally I'd say you could snag a space in here, but as you can see it's kind of chaotic. Let me think about it. Anyway, this is where the photographic and scanning facilities are. You have a laptop you can use?”

“Of course. I'll figure something out.”

“Are you familiar with our stacks? As an official researcher you'll have full access to them. I'll have to see that you get a key—ask Eric about that. You want a quick tour?” I was asking as much for myself as for her—I always welcomed the chance to prowl the stacks and marvel at the wealth of original materials we had at the Society, and I seldom had enough time to indulge myself.

“Sure,” Lissa said promptly. “Rich, Alice, good to meet you. I'll probably see you tomorrow.”

We spent a happy hour prowling the stacks. I have to admit I used the stacks tour as kind of a litmus test for new hires. If they wrinkled their noses at the scent of mildew and crumbling leather, I didn't think they'd last long here. I might not be a trained historian, but I loved old books and documents because of the window they gave us into the past. That's why I was willing to fight hard to preserve them and make them available to other people, so that they could share my love of them. An uphill battle, but one worth fighting, I thought. Lissa passed my test with flying colors.

By the time I had escorted Lissa to the front door and seen her off, after getting a key for her and starting her paperwork, it was almost the end of the day. I had promised James I'd be at his place to fix dinner. Somehow I couldn't bring myself to say “home for dinner,” because his apartment wasn't home. This was the first day of the new “normal,” with both of us working. And if things worked out, that normal would be changing pretty soon—as soon as we found a new place for the two of us. Something we still hadn't talked about in any detail. I found my cell phone in my bag and called him on his, since this wasn't official business.

“Hi,” I said when he picked up. “What time will you be . . . back?”

“Sixish, I think—nothing urgent has come up. Why?”

“Just wanted to know what kind of cooking time I have. Maybe I'll stop at the market on the way.” The Reading Terminal Market, that is—one of my favorite places in Philadelphia, and one that never failed to cheer me up, not to mention that it gave me great ideas for meals.

“Works for me. See you soon.” He hung up. Not exactly warm and fuzzy, but he was in his office.

I left shortly after five, to Eric's surprise. “Both Ben and Lissa will be here tomorrow?” he asked.

“Looks like it. Fully staffed once again, and then some. See you in the morning, Eric.”

I walked slowly over to the market. The streets were hot and steamy, although a breeze from the Delaware River blowing up Market Street helped a bit. I plunged into the market, struggling with myself about buying a Bassett's ice cream cone and resisted—which let me give myself permission to buy something luscious for dessert. I picked out meat and fish and a lot of fresh local vegetables, until I figured I couldn't carry any more home. Then I hopped on a Market-Frankford train, which brought me to James's neighborhood. I beat him home, so I started chopping and sautéing and so forth, aided by a glass of wine.

He walked in at six fifteen. “Hi, honey, I'm home.”

And I melted into his arms. Playing house did have its moments.

“This is great,” James said, as he all but inhaled the dinner
I had prepared. He must have been fully recuperated: his appetite was back. “You haven't said much.”

I poked what was left of my dinner around the plate. “Just thinking. I'm still getting back into the swing of things at work, and it must be even harder for you. Look, there are some things we should talk about.”

“That always sounds ominous,” James said cheerfully, as he topped off my wine glass. “Such as?”

Brave man, to jump straight into the fray. I decided to start with a less-personal item. “This case you're on, for one thing. This is all kind of weird. Look, if I didn't happen to be standing in the middle of the crime scene when you arrived, would you have been able to share any information with me? Talk about it at all? I'm not sure what the guidelines are.”

His expression turned serious. “That's a good question, Nell. Normally agents are discouraged from talking about any open case. I'm not saying that agents don't go home and share with whomever they're with, but we aren't supposed to go blabbing at a bar, for instance, no matter how important it makes us feel to show off. But you're special.”

“Thank you, I think. Are you talking from the FBI perspective?”

“Yes, for the moment.” He smiled. “You have amply demonstrated that you are both trustworthy and discreet, so if there was an FBI seal of approval, you'd have it. And personally, I value your opinion. Particularly in matters—all right, crimes—that involve the cultural community.”

“Which this one does, if one step removed. Look, I was there, and I've already got a public profile for finding myself in the middle of murder investigations, so de facto I am part of the cultural community and thus the cultural community is already involved. I should have stayed at work and sent Lissa to deal with it.”

“No, you were doing your job, cultivating someone who could turn out to be a major supporter.”

He was right, of course. I took another sip of wine. “You know, in the heat of the moment I didn't think about it, but how did you end up there so fast? I mean, aren't there procedures to be followed? Local police get first crack, and then they decide whether to ask anyone else for help?”

James looked pained. “You're right, in general, but Wakeman pulled rank. He was on the phone to the higher-ups before the first squad car arrived on the scene.”

“That must make for a lot of unhappy campers among the police on the case.”

“You've got that right. The FBI will assist any local force that requests help, but nobody likes to have us jammed down their throats. The Chester County detectives were not pleased, so in addition to whatever investigating I'm doing, I have to smooth ruffled feathers and make nice.”

“Welcome to my world. So Wakeman knows important people—no surprise there. Had you two ever met before?”

James shook his head. “No, not before yesterday. He's never been directly involved in any crime that I know of.”

“Is that an evasive answer? Directly involved? That you know of?”

“I didn't mean it personally—I was just being careful. I have no reason to believe that he has ever been involved in anything that he shouldn't have. Of course, the construction industry isn't exactly as pure as the driven snow.”

“Okay, you can stop waffling. What's your personal opinion of the man?”

James sat back in his chair and thought a moment. “Abrupt. Used to getting his own way. Doesn't play games. What about you?”

“I'd agree with what you said. But I'd add something: I spent a couple of hours with him on the site, before we found the body, and I think he really cares about this project. I know he's made a lot of money, but he's built some things that really made a difference, in a good way. And it's not all about ego, either—although I suppose that putting up tall buildings has a certain symbolic element. But I think he wants to do good, as opposed to doing well.”

“How far would he go to eliminate anything or anyone who gets in his way?” James asked quietly.

I considered. “I don't know. Maybe I
should
know—after all, what if poor Lissa finds something that the great man doesn't like, and he tries to suppress it? That's my responsibility, in a way.”

“So she's going to be working on it?”

“He gave the go-ahead this morning. Has the crime scene been cleared?”

“Yes. Everybody's forensic people have crawled all over it. Not much to show for it, unfortunately.”

“Has anybody figured out where the man died yet?”

“Nope. I think there was some talk of bringing dogs in to search the rest of the property. It's a pretty big parcel, and, I might mention, liberally sprinkled with cow pats.”

“Oh, you city boys. In case you didn't notice, Wakeman loaned us some muck boots, in case of mud or more likely cow pats—he'd been there before so he would know. So the FBI has dogs?”

“We know people who have dogs. The local force knows more people who have dogs. So we can get into a dogfight about dogs.” James stood up. “You want coffee?”

“If you make it. Oh, and you can do the dishes, too, since I cooked.”

“Later.” He went to the kitchen, or rather, the kitchen corner, all of five feet away, and put the coffee on.

“I assume there's more you want to talk about?” he said, keeping his eyes on the coffeemaker.

“Yes. How are we planning to go about finding a new place?” That large elephant in the room.

“How do
you
want to go about it?” he said cautiously.

This was not going anywhere fast. “I don't know. I haven't been in the market for a long time, and I'm sure things have changed. But don't we need to figure out our parameters?”

James waited until the coffee was done, then filled two cups and brought them to the table and sat down. “Such as?”

“Like how much we can afford. I have no idea how much money you make or how much you're willing to spend. How much does this place cost you?”

He named a number that was larger than my monthly mortgage payment, for a one-bedroom walk-up in a middle-aged building. I
had
been out of the market for a while. “Ouch.”

“I can afford more, if you're worried. I've stayed here because it's convenient and there hasn't been any reason to move. Until now. Were you assuming that we'd split the cost of whatever we choose? Or pay proportionately to our respective incomes?”

I realized I hadn't even considered that. “I haven't even thought that far. I'm guessing that I don't make that much less than you do, since you're a government employee and I work for an impoverished nonprofit, and I'm sure we could adjust if we needed to. If we pooled what we're paying now”—I named an approximate figure—“what would that get us?”

“Where? City or suburbs?”

“I like the suburbs,” I said, just a bit defensively. “Is that a problem for you?”

“I . . . don't know. I haven't given it much thought. But be warned: I'm not a mow-the-lawn, paint-the-house kind of guy.”

“Noted. Rent or buy?” That was a big issue, since it was kind of symbolic about the level of commitment, and I sort of held my breath waiting to see how he responded.

James regarded me with an expression I couldn't read. “You really don't trust . . . us, do you?”

That hit me in the gut, but he was probably right. I took a deep breath. “I . . . I don't trust anyone easily. Look, I've known you less than a year, and under some pretty strange circumstances. And the last month has been . . . really eye-opening. James, I trust you as much as I've ever trusted anyone. And I'm pretty sure I love you, although I haven't had a lot of practice. But this is a big step for me. No one would say that we're rushing into anything, and we're not young—or stupid, I hope. But I'm still feeling my way here. Look, we can say, let's find something we like, run the numbers, and make the decision based on the best financial outcome? But that's not what we're really talking about here, is it?”

“No.” A long pause. “Look, Nell, if you're not ready to deal with this, I'll just renew my lease. No big deal.”

I couldn't sit still any longer, so I got up and started pacing in the small space. “No, it is a big deal, because I
want
to make this decision. I just want to get it right.”

He stood up and came over to me, and put his hands on my arms. “Nell, there are no guarantees. In some alternate universe, either one of us could have been killed one way or another in the past year. We weren't, and here we are. I know what I want: to live with you. But I don't want to make you miserable. It's your call.”

Damn, why did I have to fall for a guy who was not only smart and good-looking, but also empathetic and patient? He made me feel small. “Where do we start?”

“Online Realtors,” he said promptly, which led me to guess that he'd been looking already. “You can virtually walk through just about any place these days.”

I leaned into him and laid my head on his chest. “You are unbelievable.”

He tilted my head up. “No, I'm not—just practical. Saves time.”

“And no doubt you want to show me six places you've already bookmarked?”

“Yup.” He grinned.

“The coffee's getting cold.”

“Let it. I have a microwave. And an idea . . .”

Which led to the bedroom. I went happily. Whatever our living arrangements, some things worked very well between us. Later, in the dark, I ran my hand lightly along the scar on his arm. It would take some time to fade; the memories of how he'd gotten it would take longer. I'd come so close to losing him, before I even knew what we had. “So, city or suburbs?” I murmured into his chest.

“Both? There are some pretty nice places on the periphery of the city. Old place or new?”

“That should be obvious: old. I work with history, remember? And I like old buildings.”

“Fine. Nineteenth-century houses have a nice sense of scale—high ceilings, big rooms.”

“No closets, though. You don't want a yard, so we don't need much land to go with it.”

“Nope. Garage?”

“Shoot, we'll have two cars. We need a big garage with a small house? That could get complicated. Oh, and don't forget—near a train line. I do some of my best work on trains.” I rolled over to face him. “Do you want me to look online? But not at work, I guess—bad example for the rest of the staff, and I've taken enough time off lately as it is.”

“Maybe tomorrow, after work, we can look together. That way we'll both get a feel for what we like.”

“Okay. Oh, Ben's starting tomorrow. Things are moving fast. I told the guys in the processing room to expect him, but I didn't say anything about . . . the wheelchair. Obviously they'll figure that out quickly.”

“Yes. But as I told you, nobody has to coddle him. He doesn't want pity.”

“I can understand that—I wouldn't, either. He should be judged on the quality of his work, period.”

“Amen. Did you say something about dessert?”

“Ah, you know me too well. Yes, there's dessert, and I don't mean me.”

Back in the kitchen, eating chocolate cake with an inch of mocha buttercream, washed down with lukewarm coffee, I said, “I don't know if we ever settled what we started out talking about. Your case, I mean. I'm not officially involved beyond being a peripheral witness. Of course I'm interested, but I don't feel I have the right to ask for day-by-day updates. And I don't want you to feel you have to report everything to me. So how do we work this out?”

“I'll tell you what I can. And you and Lissa should tell me whatever you find out, if you think it's relevant.”

“Before we tell Wakeman?”

“How about at the same time? Unless you find a bloody weapon with the initials
MW
etched on it—then you should call me first. But he doesn't have to know you're reporting to me.”

“It's not like we're going to come up with a lot of confidential information about a block of land.”

“You never know. And, objectively, if you were to find something that threatened the project in any way and word got out, it could have a serious financial impact on Wakeman et al., and you and the Society could be liable. So be careful. And remind Lissa, too.”

“Got it. You finished with that?” I pointed toward his dessert plate, which looked polished. “And you're still doing the dishes.”