Chapter Thirteen
Monday morning in the office, I was worrying about how to approach Tom
Lattimore
. I hadn’t forgotten Bella’s words that the development held the secret to Sonny Adams’ murder and the implication that
Lattimore
might hold the secrets to a lot more things. But I was not going to be a hypocrite and call to ask brightly how the plans for the presentation to the Historic Landmark Commission were going. I certainly wasn’t going to gloat over the Zoning Commission’s decision to delay their verdict. I hadn’t talked to Tom since—and our last two lunches had ended disastrously—so I was drawing a blank on a pretense to call him. Unless I just called and asked bluntly what he knew about Sonny Adams.
Not a good idea, Kelly. Cancel.
I’d shuffle papers, read a few new MLS listings, sit and stare, then shuffle papers again. Getting nowhere. Until the phone rang about ten, and Keisha said, “Certainly, Mr.
Lattimore
. I’ll put you through.”
“Put you through,” meant “I’ll hold my hand over the receiver and tell her it’s you.”
I answered as cheerfully as possible. “Hi, Tom, how’s it going?”
“Fine, Kelly, just fine. But I wanted to apologize for a couple of things. One is that I did not put Jake Southerland up to what he said the other night.”
“I know. His wife is a client of mine.”
He coughed self-consciously. “Ah, not any more, Kelly. I just sold them a house in Berkeley. Sorry. But Jake didn’t want to deal with you any more after that meeting.”
This conversation wasn’t going well, but I tried to tell myself that in real estate, as in any other business, you win some and you lose some. So my reply was honest: “I’m sorry to lose a sale. I had a house that his wife really liked.”
“Someone else will like it just as well. But, Kelly, we’ve been friends a long time, and I want to keep it that way. Our last two lunches were pretty, well…what’s the word I want?”
This time I couldn’t resist. “How about disastrous?”
That cough again. “Yes, they were disasters. I want to take you to lunch to make amends. We won’t talk about developments. Just visit for old times’ sake.”
If Tom
Lattimore
thought he wasn’t as transparent as a sheet of clean glass, he needed his brain examined. But it might be worth it to see what he wanted. And I could slip in my Sonny Adams question.
“Sounds good, Tom. Let’s mend fences.”
“Indeed. How about today or are you booked?”
Hmmm. I could pretend to have a busy schedule and fit lunch in a week from Thursday—or I could be honest and say today would be fine, which is what I did.
“Great. No tacos. No
Chadra
. How about meeting at
Carshon’s
? I love that place, and I don’t get there often enough.”
Claire and I had been there recently, but I was game. “Sure, I can meet you there—say twelve thirty?”
“I’ll be there,” he promised.
I took Mike home at noon, made him a sandwich, pleaded an appointment and left. He was preoccupied with a cold case file someone had thrown on his desk this morning and barely noticed that I wasn’t eating lunch with him.
“Sure, hon. See you tonight.”
Tom
Lattimore
had secured a table in a remote corner of
Carshon’s
. “It’s rarely quiet here,” he said, rising to greet me. “But this is the best I could do, and besides, we aren’t telling secrets, are we?” He grinned conspiratorially, making me his ally—or so he thought.
“My treat. What will you have? I recommend the Reuben.”
I love
Carshon’s
Reuben sandwiches and was sorely tempted. But I resisted and ordered lox and cream cheese but with rye toast instead of a bagel. Tom gave me a strange look but ordered a grilled Reuben with pastrami. “Kelly, I got you here under false pretenses. I want your help.” His smile was his most charming and disarming.
I was neither charmed nor disarmed. “How so?”
“It looks like the development is going down the tubes, and my backers want me to do whatever I can to pull it out. So I want your advice.”
“Move it to Eighth Avenue,” I said bluntly, spreading cream cheese on my toast.
He took a bite of his Reuben and chewed thoughtfully. “There’s not a perfect space there.”
“Neither is there on Magnolia.”
“Kelly, what would make it acceptable to you?”
I thought seriously about his question. “My big objection is disrupting the small businesses currently in that strip of historic buildings. That’s a biggie, and I don’t see a way around it.”
“What else?” he prodded.
“Off-street parking. I guess, if you could find a non-historic site and put the parking behind the store it would help a lot. Then dispense with the auxiliary stores. Just the one big store.” I thought I should toss him a bone. “It does sound like someplace I’d like to shop.”
“I knew you’d see it my way.’
Well, not exactly.
“What’s your best advice, Kelly? I’m serious. I need help here.”
“Find another location. How about Hemphill? There must be a lot of property there that you could buy reasonably and tear down with a clear conscience.”
He scoffed. “Hemphill is the other side of the tracks as far as people in Berkeley, let alone Fairmount, are concerned.”
“There’s not much on Rosedale.”
“Out of my target area.”
“And no side streets in Fairmount would allow it. I don’t know, Tom. I’m back to Eighth Avenue. It seems to me your best bet. I saw a vacant lot next to
Pendery’s
Spices, but I suppose it’s not big enough.”
He shook his head.
“Who owns that property on the north side of Windsor just across the tracks from Eighth?”
“No idea. I guess I could investigate. But here’s an idea: how about if I got all the tenants of the historic buildings to agree to sell their businesses and renovated those buildings into one huge store, with parking in the rear?”
“John Henry Jackson already told me about that plan. It might just work, but I don’t think those tenants want to move. And I own two of the buildings. I won’t sell easily.”
“I understand, but I can explore possibilities there. Oh, and the property on Eighth. You’ve given me some good ideas, and I’m indebted enough to buy you chocolate pie.”
I laughed and said no, but I’d sit while he ate a piece. I still hadn’t gotten to my question. Tom ordered pie, and while we waited I said, “Tom, did you know someone named Sonny Adams?”
He thought for a long minute…or appeared to… then shook his head. “No, doesn’t sound familiar. Why?”
“I heard by the grapevine that his death was related to the development plans on Magnolia.”
“And you’re interested
why?”
“He was driving the car that hit Mike’s patrol car.”
“And he’s dead now?”
“Yes. Apparently knifed on the North Side. He was a small-time criminal and that’s pretty much where he operated.”
“North Side? I own quite a bit of small rental property up there and hire people to collect rent for me. I don’t recall the name but I can ask my accountant—he handles all that for me.”
Slumlord!
That proverbial light bulb went off in my head, but I said, oh so casually, “Would you ask and let me know what you find out?”
“Sure thing,” he said, taking a bite of chocolate meringue pie that looked beyond tempting. “They brought two forks. Sure you don’t want a bite?”
I was sure. I didn’t want to seem so intimate with him.
We parted cordially, at least on the surface, but I felt tension between us. I was sure he knew more about Sonny Adams than he let on, and I knew in a day or so I’d get a phone call saying, “No, my accountant says he never hired anyone by that name.” I also knew he wouldn’t investigate that property for sale on Eighth Avenue. He knew I didn’t trust him. We were at a Mexican standoff.
What I needed now, of all things, was Bella. And I hadn’t seen her car in days. Just when I wanted to be stalked, my threatening shadow disappeared. I made one of my infamous spur-of-the-moment decisions, jumped in the car, and got out my cell phone.
“Keisha, I won’t be in the office this afternoon. Going to do some field work.”
“Why do I have the feeling I should go with you?”
“Don’t be silly. Just
checkin
’ out a few things.”
“Uh huh, sure you are.”
I headed for the Garza house. If I thought Joe was off, I’d have taken him, but Joe was increasingly uncomfortable about doing things behind Mike’s back. I guess I was more used to it. Mike would have a fit if he knew, but he’d never know. I’d be back in time to get the girls as usual.
Mrs. Garza greeted me warily, but she opened the door. I looked around more carefully than I had last time. Inside, the house gave the same appearance as it did outside—a house someone had begun to redo and then suddenly stopped. The living room had worn bare floors, but there were strips of carpet tacking around the edges—someone had pulled up carpet, perhaps with the intention of redoing the floor or laying new carpet. The walls were freshly painted off-white, but the blinds were still old and crooked, the furniture worn and dirty.
We exchanged pleasantries. Well, at least I did. I asked about the younger boys, Michael and Alex, and she allowed herself a slight smile.
“They’re good boys. That Joe, I owe him the world. He’s got them back in school and going to that club where they play basketball and stuff. Evenings now, they mostly stay home and do their homework. I think it’s better with Ben and Bella gone. I…I don’t speak bad about any of my children, but those two, they’re not a good influence….”
I started to cough uncontrollably (and deliberately) while she watched and finally made an attempt to pat me on the back. “You all right, Miss?”
Finally I squawked, “Water. Could I have a drink?”
Without a word she turned, presumably to the kitchen, and I followed. As I suspected, some of the appliances were old—the stove and the dishwasher, which apparently didn’t work at all because dishes were stacked in a draining basket. But the refrigerator was new and a shiny microwave sat on one worn counter.
I took a healthy drink of, ugh, lukewarm water, cleared my throat, and apologized. “I don’t know what got into me. Thank you so much.” Another sip. “You were saying about Bella and Ben…they’re not here?”
“No. They come by some but they don’t stay here.”
I sent silent thanks to Joe for opening up Mrs. Garza’s mouth. Compared to last time, she was positively chatty, and I could only think she trusted me, at least a little bit, because of Joe’s work with the younger boys.
“Mrs. Garza, do you rent this house?”
She nodded.
“Who is your landlord?”
“You mean who owns it? I don’t know.” A negative shake of the head. “I pay rent to some company.”
“What company?”
She shuffled through some papers in one kitchen drawer and came up with a receipt that she showed me. She was paying $400 a month for what appeared to be a two-bedroom, ramshackle house. The receipt came from something called North Side Properties.
I thanked her and returned the receipt. “Do you mail them a check?”
“No. Someone comes by to collect each month, first day, prompt. I don’t dare be late.” Then she offered a surprising fact. “That’s how Rosalinda met that Sonny Adams who killed her. He came by collecting rent.”
Something flickered in the back of my mind. “Did he start to fix up the house? Buy new appliances, that sort of thing?”
“Yeah, until that accident. Then we didn’t see him no more. Someone else came to collect the rent.”
The front door opened and banged shut. A too-familiar voice called, “Ma? Where are you?”
I suspected Mrs. Garza spent most of her time in the front room in front of the TV and that’s where Bella expected to find her. The look the older woman gave me was one of panic. She was afraid of her daughter!
“In the kitchen. With company.” The last two words were meant to warn Bella away, but they didn’t. She came striding into the kitchen, looking as fierce as before.
“I saw her car.” To me, “What are you doing here, Ms. O’Connell? Leave my ma alone. She don’t need you pestering her.”
“Hello, Bella. Are you all right? I haven’t seen you following me lately.”
She looked directly at me. “I been busy. I got other responsibilities. Me and Ben, we got us a tiny apartment. Did you send that Joe fella after me? You know the cops found me soon after? They fingerprinted us but the prints didn’t match the knife they found here. We’re innocent, like I told that guy.” She paused for dramatic effect and then said menacingly, “Maybe they should fingerprint Ma.”
“Ma” looked terrified, even though they had already fingerprinted her.
Bella softened a bit. “Just joking, Ma. We know you wouldn’t hurt anyone. That’s what’s wrong with you.”
Talk about a dysfunctional parent/child relationship!
“I didn’t know that. I’m glad you’re not under suspicion. I’m also glad if you’re not following me anymore.” Did her comment mean someone hired her to follow me, as a paid responsibility?
