The Stolen Ones (15 page)

Rachel Gray had not taken the traditional path to her real estate license.

When she was in high school she carried enough credits so that she did not have to attend every day, and began a work–study program when she was sixteen. By the time she got to Drexel University – where she attended on a five-year, co-op plan, a plan that allowed her to achieve a bachelor’s degree and work at the same time – she found she could sell anything. As part of her co-op she got a job selling high-end women’s fashion at seventeen, and became one of the youngest key holders at a woman’s clothing retailer at the King of Prussia Mall.

That was the month she moved out of the hell on earth that was her home life.

In her final six months of co-op she landed a position with a chic women’s clothing store near Rittenhouse Square. While she didn’t get along particularly well with the store’s owner, a woman who felt threatened by Rachel, she did get along with the owner’s husband, who had a number of real estate ventures working at any given time around the city.

The man offered to send Rachel to real estate school.

At just twenty-one, Rachel thought the idea of selling real estate was the craziest thing she’d ever heard. Who buys real estate?

In short order, she accumulated the sixty hours needed to take the test for her real estate agent’s license. She passed the test on her first go, and within a month she was off on her first sale, which she closed within days.

Armed with that one sale, she marched into the main office of Prudential Roach at 530 Market Street, and was promptly hired.

After two years in the trenches at Prudential, Rachel networked her way over to a new, upstart independent realtor, started by two women who had been in Rachel’s shoes about twenty years earlier.

Of the thirty or so agents employed by the company, only a handful came into the office every day. In this age of the smart phone, it was possible to be a Realtor, a broker, even a manager, without putting in any face time, but Rachel noticed early on that the highest producers were the ones who showed up every morning.

At the moment, in the world of the Philly condo, it was a buyer’s market. Granted, the commissions were not what they were ten years ago, but Rachel, and every other ambitious Realtor in the city, had every intention of making it up in volume.

Rachel had a dozen condo showings this week alone. Twelve that were on the books, that is.

She had other appointments that were not.

Rachel sat at a table at Marathon on Market Street with her friend Denise Sterling. Denise, who was just a few months older than Rachel, was a home stager. Home staging was a boutique profession of stylists brought in by either brokers or sellers to decorate or ‘stage’ a home in the hopes of turning hesitant looky-loos into love-struck buyers.

‘How was your weekend?’ Denise asked.

‘There was a weekend?’

Denise smiled. ‘Yeah. That’s the thing that starts Friday afternoon and doesn’t end until Monday morning around nine.’

‘Oh, yeah,’ Rachel said. ‘I did a half-dozen walk-throughs in Bella Vista.’

‘Sounds exciting. Anything for me?’

‘Maybe. What did you get up to?’

‘I met this guy at Blurr on Saturday night.’ Blurr was the nightspot
du jour
in Old City. ‘Why do men still think silk sheets are sexy? It’s so
Penthouse
. Ugh.’

‘How would you know about his sheets?’

‘I’m a home stager. It’s what I do.’

‘Slut.’

Denise smiled. ‘I prefer consort.’

Rachel laughed, sipped her coffee. She told Denise her story about the house in Fishtown.

‘There were really two kids there?’ Denise asked.

‘Two that I saw.’

‘So, what you’re saying is there were no casually deployed Tiffany bags or Jacobsen Egg Chairs?’

Rachel laughed. One of the tricks home stagers used was to bring in their own furniture and décor. Denise and her partner Arnaud maintained a small warehouse in Port Richmond from which, at short notice, they could deploy sofas, dining-room sets, artwork, area rugs, even linens, or anything else that might reverse the invasion of poorly thought-out design decisions.

‘No, but I’m pretty sure there were
scrambled
eggs on the kitchen floor,’ Rachel said.

As they finished their coffee Denise glanced at the calendar app on Rachel’s phone. ‘Uh oh.’

Rachel looked up. ‘What?’

Denise pointed to Rachel’s four o’clock the next day. ‘Mrs Backfire again?’

Mrs Backfire was a term they’d come up with for a woman named Gloria Vincenzi.

‘Yeah,’ Rachel said. ‘What are you gonna do?’

‘Um, you could say no?’

Rachel shook her head. ‘I just can’t. Not yet.’

One of the great challenges of selling real estate in a city like Philadelphia, one that a lot of people who were not in the business might not imagine, was signage. Not the creation of the sign, or the materials out of which it was made, but simply where to hang it.

More accurately:
how
to hang it.

The easiest ones were the row houses that had a railing. The ones that did not meant you had to drill into the brick, many times using an anchor. Rachel had become quite proficient in the art of drilling into stone, even to the point of discussing carbide drill bits with the friendly gentleman at Home Depot. In addition to her Windex, rubber gloves, paper towels and disinfectant, she often walked around with a power drill. As well as a spare battery, one that she kept on a charger in her car.

And while there were certain challenges indigenous to all Realtors in Philadelphia, or any major city, Rachel Gray had her own set of trials – some might see them as advantages – that most others did not.

Rachel was four-feet eleven inches tall.

Early on in her career she learned that one of the toughest aspects to being a businesswoman under five feet tall was that some buyers did not take her seriously, a fact that made her work twice as hard as almost every other agent at the agency.

The first perception was that she was too young. She’d actually had a buyer who asked if she needed to clear her offer with somebody older at the agency. She had one client who actually patted her on the head. He nearly retrieved a bloody stump.

Rachel knew all the tricks: wearing vertical striped suits, finding just the right heels for work, choosing V-necks and three-quarter sleeves, always wearing monochromatic outfits. She’d recently gotten rid of a lot of the length to her hair, opting for a boyish clip – shorter on top, with the sides combed down and back. It was also the lightest color she’d ever gone with, a medium blond with lighter blond balayage highlights.

In the end, despite the head-patters and the oh-so-hysterical Munchkin jokes, she was consistently in the top three salespeople at Perry–Hayes. Her motto?

If your feet touch the ground, you’re tall enough.

Her two o’clock showing, Justin and Paula Bader, were ten minutes late. While Rachel often used this time for a few last-minute touches, it was unnecessary today. This property – ably and creatively staged by Denise Sterling of Sterling Interiors – was perfect. There was soft rock playing on the stereo, a table full of place settings from Crate & Barrel on the dining-room table, even a trio of huge pillar candles alight on the dresser in the master bedroom.

At ten after two Rachel heard a car door slam. She walked to the front door. She assessed the Baders as they came up the walk. He was tall, looked to be about forty-five, wore casual slacks, cowboy boots, and one of those dark blue boiled-wool sweaters with the quilted shooting patch on the shoulder. The woman was almost as tall, late thirties, Bottega Veneta pleated slacks, matching shawl-collar jacket, white blouse. She carried what looked like an Anya Hindmarch satchel, although from this distance it could be a knockoff.

Rachel glanced at the car at the curb. It was a new Audi A8.

The Hindmarch was real.

Rachel smoothed her face, gave her cheeks a quick pinch. Showtime. She opened the door. ‘Hi! I’m Rachel Gray.’

The man was on the porch first. He towered over her.

‘Well, aren’t you the cutest itty-bitty thing?’ he said.

Yeah, like your dick, pal.
 

‘I get that all the time.’ Rachel smiled. ‘Please come in.’

At home, four hours later, Rachel studied the huge map on the wall in her kitchen. Of the ninety-five dots on the map, sixty were in red, the rest were green. In the past three years more than seventy-five per cent of the homes in this area had gone up for sale, and Rachel had visited them all. Gaining entry, without any paperwork involved, had taken some doing. On the wall next to the map were a series of photographs, taped together to form a crude panorama. On each photograph was a legend chronicling precise dimensions, elevations and distances.

She took one of the pictures down, placed it on the table. She dialed the number.

‘USS, this is Bancroft.’

Bancroft Tyson was an old friend from real estate school, and one of the prettiest men Rachel had ever met. In her line of work she ran across her share of handsome men, men who carried themselves well but weren’t all that good-looking, as well as men who oozed sex appeal based on some physical trait or ability. Bancroft was just pretty. And, somehow, he wasn’t gay. Rachel would kill for his lips and lashes.

‘Hey there,’ Rachel said.

‘My favorite dirt merchant!’

Bancroft was the only person Rachel would let get away with calling her that.

He worked for a company called USS – United Showing Service. The company acted as a clearing house for Realtors to gain access to properties. All the major brokerages in the Philadelphia area subscribed to USS. If you wanted to show a property that was listed with another agency, you called USS, and they portioned out a time for you, as well as supplied you with the combination to the lockbox on the door, the box that contained the key.

By using USS, you were guaranteed that there would be no one else showing a property at the same time.

They made their small talk, but soon got around to the reason for the call.

Bancroft lowered his voice. ‘I can only do that one on Linden tonight. There’s no one scheduled until tomorrow morning at nine.’

‘Who’s listing?’ Rachel asked.

Bancroft told her. It was the biggest broker in Philly. When this was the case, unlike a listing with a mom and pop agency, there was little chance of someone showing up unexpectedly.

Except for the owner. That was always a danger.

Bancroft gave her the information she needed.

‘Thanks, honey,’ Rachel said. ‘I owe you.’

‘Be careful,’ Bancroft whispered.

Always
, Rachel thought.

The dog was an English Mastiff, somewhere in the range of 160 pounds, most of it muscle.

Luther had no interest in getting an accurate reading.

After he had thrown the tainted meat over the fence, the dog had taken it – a full pound of fresh beef brisket, laced with sodium pentobarbital – into her mouth and all but swallowed it whole. If Luther’s calculations were correct, it would not take more than twenty minutes. He would have preferred to inject the dog with the drug, thereby assuring its effectiveness, but he was not about to risk getting that close.

If the dog had been older, or trained as an attack or guard dog, she would not have gone anywhere near the food. Luther had once been pursued along the Emajõgi River by a Russian bounty hunter who had, in his posse, a pair of young Alsatians. No amount of trickery with poisoned or drugged meat threw them off the trail. Luther was only saved by lashing spring rains, and his ability to hold his breath for great periods of time while crossing the Emajõgi.

On this day, the Philadelphia rain had relented for the moment. The street shimmered beneath the streetlamps. Luther sat at the bus-stop bench in front of the row house, glanced at his watch.

It was time.

He took the comic book from his messenger bag, placed it carefully, face up, just yards from the gate. A few minutes later he heard a noise coming from the end of the driveway.

The boy was taking out the trash, right on schedule.

Out of the corner of his eye Luther saw the boy preceded by the dog to the gate. The boy unlocked the gate, struggled with the two large Hefty bags. Luther saw the dog stop at the sidewalk line. He had been right. They did have an electronic fence.

‘Mister?’

Luther closed his eyes for a moment. The dream had begun.

He took the earbuds from his ears, looked around. Seconds later his gaze fell upon the boy.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Did you say something to me?’

The boy pointed to the comic book on the sidewalk. It was a copy of
The Spectre
#10, still in its plastic sleeve. It was a somewhat rare edition, but only in Fine condition, and by no means precious. Luther had purchased it at a comic book emporium in New Jersey for $28.50. He’d gone to New Jersey just to be on the safe side. He did not want any blowback in case the proprietor of a Philadelphia store knew the boy. The Spectre was not the most famous of the DC characters.

‘Is that yours?’ the boy asked.

Luther made a show of following where the boy was pointing. He regarded the comic book on the ground. ‘Oh,
man
,’ he said. He made an even bigger show of looking into his messenger bag, which was unzipped. ‘It must have fallen out. Thanks, buddy.’

The boy just stared. ‘You like the Spectre?’

Luther picked up the comic. He did not put it into his bag, nor did he approach the boy. He simply turned to address him. ‘He’s okay, I guess.’

The boy rolled his eyes. ‘O
kay
? Seriously?’

Luther shrugged. ‘I’m more of a Marvel guy myself.’

‘Dude.’

‘I’m not sure about Captain America yet,’ the boy said. ‘I don’t even know what his superpower is supposed to be. The movie was okay, but that’s just because of Hayley Atwell.’

Luther smiled. ‘I am
so
telling your father you said that.’

‘Tell him. He likes her, too.’

The boy stood with the gate open, half in and half out of the property. The dog sat at his side, every so often raising her nose into the air, in Luther’s general direction. Luther surmised it was a remnant of the beef brisket that lingered.

‘Okay. She’s hot,’ Luther said. As he spoke to the boy he kept his eye on the four windows that overlooked the breezeway between the row houses. For the moment, there was no movement, no shadows. ‘I just think that, on the whole, Marvel is the way to go.’

‘Sorry,’ the boy said. ‘DC rules.’

‘You really think so?’

‘Uh,
yeah
? And if it was just Superman and Batman it would be enough.’

Luther held up
The Spectre
. ‘I just bought three of these.’

The boy looked stunned. ‘You have
three
of those?’

‘I do. One for my son and one for my nephew. They’re both about your age.’

‘Who is the other one for?’ the boy asked.

Luther looked at the windows, down the street, back at the boy. ‘Okay. I’m busted. The other one is for me. Don’t tell anybody.’

The boy laughed. ‘I thought you were a Marvel guy.’

‘Yeah, well, the Spectre is pretty cool.’

The boy glanced back down the driveway for a moment, then turned his attention back to Luther. ‘Would you consider trading one of them?’

Luther struck a pose. ‘I might,’ he said. ‘Depends on what the other man had to trade.’

Before the boy could answer Luther saw the curtains move in one of the second-floor windows. He prepared himself to leave, and come back another day. He could see that the dog was still fully alert, and he would never make it past her down the driveway.

A moment later the curtains were stilled. Luther turned his attention back to the boy.

‘Well,’ the boy began, ‘I might be able to part with
Spiderman
344.’

‘Interesting,’ Luther said. ‘344.’

‘It’s
only
the issue where they introduce Carnage.’

‘Now, see, I don’t know about that,’ Luther said. ‘Carnage is tight, but I think I’d be losing money.’ He held up the Spectre issue. ‘Not to mention that I would have to go back to the store and buy another one of these to replace this one.’

‘Well,
I
think it’s a good trade,’ the boy said. ‘And I trade all the time.’

The boy reached down and patted the dog’s head. As a negotiation tactic, it was not bad, Luther thought. Dealing from a position of strength.

Luther waited the appropriate amount of time before responding to the boy, and closing the deal.

‘You drive a hard bargain, young man.’

The boy grinned. The dog wagged its tail, perhaps sensing another treat. Luther noticed a tremble in the dog’s front legs.

‘So we have a deal?’ the boy asked.

‘We do,’ Luther said. He took the comic book out of his bag and handed it through the gate. The dog tried to sniff it. ‘So when do I get my merchandise?’

The boy turned, looked at the patio behind his house, then up at the windows. ‘I can get it for you now. But I can’t let you inside the house. You have to stay in the back.’

‘That’s okay,’ Luther said. ‘I understand. I’ll wait here. It’s cool.’

At the word
cool
the boy stopped, turned. He looked up and down the street. ‘You don’t have to stay out here.’ He glanced at the night sky. ‘It’s starting to rain again. You can come back. The patio is covered.’

Before stepping on the property, Luther asked: ‘Is your dog friendly?’

The boy smiled. ‘Who,
Dolly
?’

‘Dolly,’ Luther said. ‘Is she friendly?’

‘Oh yeah,’ the boy said. ‘She’s just a baby. Besides, if you’re with me you’re okay.’

The boy pushed open the gates fully. Luther stepped through. As he followed the boy down the driveway he slipped his hand into his overcoat pocket, through the inside flap, and caressed the handle of his knife, his senses on full alert. If the dog intuited danger, and moved on him, Luther would roll to the ground and try to cut her throat, hoping that the drug had slowed her.

A few steps later Luther saw the dog’s back legs wobble.

The patio behind the house was surrounded on three sides by a seven-foot-high fence, intertwined with ivy and dormant clematis. There was a wrought-iron table and four chairs, as well as a large barbecue grill covered with plastic, still tied down for the season.

Luther stole a glance at all the windows at the rear of the house. He saw nothing moving.

‘I’ll be right out,’ the boy said.

‘So, that was the Spiderman Death of Gwen Stacy issue and the framed Wolverine poster, right?’

The boy giggled, shook his head. He pulled open the sliding glass door, stepped inside the house, closed it behind him.

Less than a minute later, with the dog unconscious, Luther followed.