Adventures of RealtorMan

It was all generally hopeless, Greg despaired. There was play dough in every conceivable color, everywhere but in the little pots it had come from, all smeared together into appalling combinations, pebbled across the table strewn with plastic molds, while the girls, tired of their school project, had deposited motley footprints, a clay trail into the living room. He hadn’t bargained for getting stuck into this kind of mess with hours left before they went home. He remembered doing homework alone, in tidy notebooks, with a plain pencil, at a short desk in his small bedroom.

“Mrs. James, it’s Greg. Could you come up for a minute? I need your advice. They’re watching a show.”

Entering minutes later, she took one look at the table, then a longer one at him.”This is unacceptable. They know better than this.”

“I was hoping you’d say that. On the other hand, what can I do about it?”

“First, you say it’s unacceptable. To one of them at a time, if necessary, so they don’t outnumber you. Then, they clean it up, before they do anything else. It is their assignment, is it not?”

“OK. I’ll try that. I suppose their mother doesn’t really want this to work out. Wish she hadn’t made me take this on for my first shot but I couldn’t very well say no, after I asked for it. She’s so much better at this, being an artist.”

“Is she? I understood her to be a police photographer.”

“That’s fairly recent. She’s an art director, by education. Never really worked at it, though. Twins came before she had the chance.”

“Indeed. Well, doesn’t that just give me an idea!”

“Want to say?”

“It doesn’t address your difficulty. Let’s finish this first. You can be perfectly capable of handling them for a few hours after school. Just slow it down and have only rules that you can keep. Tell Georgia that a project of this size and duration is best managed in one place – hers – in your judgement. You’d like to try something else. Sorry, but you did ask my advice.”

“And your other idea? Just curious.”

“I might approach Georgia myself, to ask her if she’d volunteer for the cookbook. We need an art director, Gertie says. I’m shameless when it comes to this project, as you see.”

“Serve my ex right, huh?” Greg chuckled. “But she never comes here, avoids it like the plague.”

“I met her here, remember? I’ll never forget. And you never took the girls mid-week either, ’til now. Maybe we could work a swap. Keep your kids on their toes. But Greg, deal with this mess sooner than later. You’ll be fine.” Mrs. James left marveling at the personal dynamics of a coach ably managing a horde of two hundred pound plus hockey players careening around on ice and the hapless father of twin girls armed with tiny pots of colored dough.

Before she lost courage, she rang the number Georgia had left her. “Georgia, Mrs. James, and yes the girls are fine. They’re not why I’m calling you. Do you have a few minutes to talk? I realize you’re having a few hours free so don’t want to intrude on those.”

“No, Mrs. James, not a lot going on here.” Georgia laughed. “You’re in on Greg’s little ‘if it’s Tuesday, it must be my turn again’ scheme, by the sounds of it. Kind of expected this would be him calling, throwing in the towel early. What’s on your mind?”

“I’m calling to ask you to volunteer as an art director.”

“Wow! You don’t mince words, do you?”

“It’s an enormous request, I know. I’m relying on the kindness of strangers, to borrow a phrase, in getting our cookbook project done well. Greg said you had expertise, so I’m asking you.”

“No expertise at all. Merely ambition, unfulfilled. Gina told me that a cookbook is in the works. She met, how did this happen now, the daughter of some guy with a dog? Sorry. I wasn’t there, so it’s all a bit confusing.”

“More or less. Gina met Bert. His daughter, Gertie, is publishing our book and says we could really use an art director. Interested?”

“Suppose I meet with you and Gertie, before I say. I’d need to know what’s involved, first. Fair enough?”

“Absolutely. And thank you. I’ll have Gertie call you.” Another world up-ended, Mrs. James sat down and put her own feet up, for a quick rest. Mull instantly determined to keep her there.

Awaking later from her sunset snooze, she remembered she’d promised to go over and talk to Lee, about her worries. No sense avoiding it; sleepless nights hinder recovery, even in the generally healthy young. She collected some treats and walked across the hall. This time the door was closed. She tapped gently, and waited. Guy opened the door and welcomed her inside, finger to lips, then beckoned her into the kitchen, bypassing the sleeping Lee.

“She’s been asleep for awhile. I suppose that’s good, isn’t it?” whispered Guy.

“Any she can get, I agree. She’s pretty uncomfortable most of the time. But this gives us a chance to talk, if you don’t mind?”

“Please.” Guy held out a chair. “May I get you anything?”

“No, thanks. Let’s just talk. She confided in me that she’s worried that someone’s after her, or you, or your sister.”

“She said that to me, too, and I tried to reassure her that everything’s just fine. She shouldn’t have to think about it.”

“But she does. She’s not a child, though you may feel that she is, especially when she’s been hurt and you want to protect her. Point is, none of us has been able to protect her, have we? Terrifying, but true. So why shouldn’t she think about it as we do, as adults?”

“I don’t want to know this. She’s my baby girl.” Carrie slipped into the room, hearing this last from her brother.

“Guy, you’re pathetic. She’s your very nearly grown up daughter. Who do you think you’re fooling?”

“Two – and when Lee’s better – three against one, just isn’t fair!” Carrie gave him a look, then turned expectantly to the decidedly more realistic Mrs. James.

“What do you suggest we do?”

“We need to listen, and not dismiss her concerns. She’s frightened. I’m frightened! Aren’t you, both of you? It’s not an unreasonable response. If it’s not a random attack of tampering, and how strange is that, I ask you, then it’s a specific one, possibly even stranger. Why would someone want to try and hurt her, of all people? So, what could prevent her from dwelling on it? Is this part of a plan, to worry us all into madness? We don’t like to think about it but it’s there, isn’t it? She could easily have been killed. We have to look that square in the eye. So, who is angry enough, or deranged enough, to have done this?” They were both teary, neither of them having had the courage to admit fear to each other.

“Problem is, I don’t have any answers. So what can I say to her?” spluttered Guy.

“Maybe just that, that you’re a bit scared and still trying to think it through, just like she is. If you all begin to think together, instead of hiding from the truth, that someone apparently means you great harm, maybe together you’ll remember something. Sorry to be sounding impatient. Perhaps you don’t know how much I care for her.”

On Tuesday afternoon, there was a knock at Kitty’s door. She looked through the peephole and spotted one of the cops, from last week.

“Miss Doyle, Police.” Martin announced to the closed door. “We know you’re back today. Your car’s in the garage. I’d like to speak with you.”

“What do you want?” came the snarled reply. “I’m busy.”

“Do you really want me to yell through the door, out where everyone can hear?”

She opened the door, not really caring what anyone heard. She was packing up, preparing to leave this stupid building, for good.

“Moving, are we? Anyplace special?” Martin observed the boxy state of the place, sniffed the lingering odor of smoke damage loosed in the upheaval of removal.

“I told you last time I was moving, for a new job. What do you want?”

“Where were you yesterday between ten in the morning and one in the afternoon?”

“Here. And then out.”

“I want to know more about ‘the out’ part. What time did you go, precisely?”

“After noon. Ask that pesky secretary. She was there, in the garage, with her nose in everything.”

“Did you see anyone else?”

“Only her.”

“What were you doing, stopped in the driving lane?”

“I heard a clunk. Something shifted in the trunk.”

“Do you carry wire cutters, by chance?”

“I keep stuff in there, like a tool kit – for shows – so maybe.”

“And driving gloves – do you wear those?”

“Sometimes.”

“Did you see a bike in the Karon’s parking space?”

“Which space is that?”

“The one next to where you stopped.”

“Can’t recall.”

“Do you know Lee Karon?”

“Which one is she? Carrie has a spa.”

“Lee is her niece. Know her?”

“Wouldn’t know her if I saw her.”

“She does live here.”

“So do lots of other people. Not my job to know them. It’s a condo, not a group home.” Kitty opened the door, inviting him out.

“Please leave a forwarding address, when you do go.”

“What for?”

“We’re in an ongoing investigation. You’re a witness.”

“To what? This is my legal address. Is that all?”

Martin waited for the elevator and discovered for himself that the complaints about it were valid. It was slow. Slow to arrive, slow to depart. He took it up to the fifth floor, to the Karon’s unit, where he had an appointment. The hall door was open. He knocked and called out a hello. Voices from inside summoned him in and in the living room he found Lee, propped up by pillows on a sectional, her legs elevated on a hassock, Mrs. James hovering beside her, and Guy, fetching and carrying. An end table was littered with ice packs, towels, water, magazines, and an array of TV remotes.

“Afternoon all. How’s the patient today?”

“Home now at least, thanks.” replied her distracted father. “In pain, but safe. Badly broken arm, badly sprained ankle, bruises, strains. She’ll have her feet up for awhile.” Lee made a face, refuting the recuperation period. “You heard what they said. Rest, ice, compression, elevation.”

“Dad, I have to go to school, remember. It’s nearly exams.” She wanted to fuss but heard her voice strangely cracking with fatigue. Mrs. James adjusted her pillows.

“Nothing new to report today. I’d like to arrange a time when we can fingerprint the family, when your sister is here too, so we can eliminate those prints lifted from the bike. We’ll have somebody come in to do it, as Lee here can’t easily make it to the station. Is it OK if your friend, Gwen, comes over at the same time?” They agreed on Wednesday evening, giving Lee another day to rest.

“So, Lee.” Mrs. James sat down after Martin had left and offered Lee some quiet conversation, hoping that she’d comfortably nod off. She often had this effect on people, she realized. “There’s a new game plan this week. Thought you’d find it interesting.”

“What’s that?” Lee rested her head back on the pillow. Sticks and Oblio materialized, also ready to hear this news, once comfortably sprawled on Lee.

“Their father has arranged it with Gina, who called to tell me, that he’ll pick up the girls from school this afternoon and spend the time with them ’til their bedtime, when he’ll take them back to the house.”

“Are they going out someplace with him?”

“No. This is what’s interesting. He’s promising to do this every week ’til school lets out for summer. He told me he’s going to bring them here and do homework. They have book reports due that are turning into giant art projects. He’s supposed to work with them.”

“I remember those reports. You had to read a non-fiction book and then do a write-up. Then the teachers made us do fancy covers, add artwork, make a storyboard, whatever, so it all turned into this huge competition. Aunt Carrie used to grumble we were doing all the work so the teachers’ rooms looked good for conferences. I did a clay castle once, then decorated it. It took over the whole dining room, for weeks. Then we couldn’t figure out how to get it to school without breaking it. To make it worse, I got a crummy grade.”

“Sounds maddening.” Mrs. James thought of her own, already crowded, table. ” A bit strange for me, knowing they’re here, and not with me.”

“Bet you,” Lee supposed, her eyes closing, “you end up with them anyway. Cutting and pasting.”

“It’s supposed to be quality time, spent with him!”

“Guess he’s not used to it, and neither are they. They always said all they ever did there was watch TV.” Lee sighed. “Always thought it’d be fun to just watch TV but when you’re stuck with it, it’s not so great.”

“Sounds like we all have some adjusting to do. Uncomfortable?” Lee was squirming.

“Could you please get me a new ice pack?” Mrs. James made a beeline for the freezer, then gingerly placed the cold pack around Lee’s ankle.

“I’m sure we can find something else for you to occupy your time, other than TV. You’ll be on the road to recovery, in no time.”

“Bit worried about school, actually, and getting too far behind.”

“You know we’ll all help you. Your school friends, like Gwen, will too. She stuck with your bike like glue yesterday.”

“Shouldn’t I be worried that somebody’s still out to get me, or my family? Nobody wants to talk about it with me.”

“Let the police do their work, first. Your job is to heal up, get back on your feet. Rest now.”

“I want to forget…” Lee’s eyes drooped.

“I’ll be back to see you later. Then we’ll talk.”

Mrs. James would never say so to Lee, but she worried, too. Could this possibly have something to do with the drowning? Guy might have made some connections by now. There must be one. Otherwise, why that bike? The world, though odd, wasn’t completely random, was it? Not like that.

Back at her place, her glance fell on the growing but set aside pile of recipes, pet stories, and photos on her table, this response a good start from the Saturday flyer. Gervase said more were dropped off at his desk. Perhaps she could rope Lee into sorting these, give her something to do, a little each day. Maybe Gertie could be some in-house, more youthful company for Lee.

“Gertie? Mrs. James. Told your Dad I’d get back to you yesterday. Waylaid by this business with Lee. What? You hadn’t heard? Why don’t you come down now? I’ll put the kettle on. It’s a two teapot story.”

Martin yawned and tilted back in an uncomfortable, meeting room chair.

“That wasn’t there before, was it, boss?” nodding at a wide, sweeping stain in one corner, where the ceiling met the wall.

“Hey, you’re a detective, aren’t you? Trained, precise mind?”

“If it’s not blood, I don’t do walls. Just wallies, and morons.”

“We do deal with fools, it’s true, though between you and me, I heard that a wally is a derogatory term used by a detective for a policeman, too, so we’d better watch it. Speaking of derogatory, we’ll be calling Miss Doyle down next. If she’s back. Mrs. James didn’t say what she drives. Let’s ask Gervase.”

Gervase was still racking his memory and regretted to repeat that he’d left his desk only once during the three hours in question, roughly ten in the morning until one in the afternoon, when Lee reported returning from her first ride of the morning and setting out on her last, more unfortunate one. Mrs. James had been in the lobby when he’d stepped briefly away. Only residents had entered, and left. He was sure, other than deliveries straight in to his desk and out, that there had been no one else.

Miss Doyle drove a sporty, red BMW – hard – he added. She owned one parking spot, and he pointed to it on a plan of the garage. The space owned by Hans was not currently in use, as least as far as he knew, but as he wasn’t there all the time he couldn’t confirm that for certain. Residents did sometimes rent spaces to each other; not unusual, at all.

The ceiling stain was new, the result of an overflowing toilet directly upstairs in Miss Doyle’s unit. It was scheduled for repair tomorrow, and the detectives should know that the meeting room would be closed and unavailable to them, during that time.

Martin took the awaited report from the officer responding to the accident scene. Both brake lines were very cleanly cut. The girl was lucky she wasn’t going at full speed, when she tried to brake. There was a mish-mash of prints. They’d need to get prints to match up from the family, and from her friend, who had offered at once to have hers taken, if that would help catch who’d done this, she’d said. Nobody else at the scene had touched the bike, after she’d moved it out of the way, she’d seen to that.

“Karon told me downstairs that he and his sister sometimes handled the bike, to move it around in their space, but that it was brand new and only his daughter rode it. He’s pretty hot under the collar.”

“I get that, don’t you? What I don’t get is what this has to do with before. Something’s missing, isn’t it?”

“We’ll need prints from the whole family. I’ll set that up for when the girl’s back home. Tricky if her arm’s broken, like her Dad says.”

“I’m thinking more like a missing link, not a matching fingerprint. We don’t have any decent prints from the drowning scene, remember?”

“What’s the connection, you mean? Does there have to be one?”

“Oh, come on Martin, we’ve nearly had a second ‘murder’ on our hands. This time a young girl. In my experience, kids are involved only when they know something. Something that gets in somebody’s way.”

“Which brings us back to Kitty Doyle.” Martin knew that when Martinelli tetchy with him, it was because he was very unhappy with the way a case was going. “How do you want to handle her?”

“We have to find her, first. If we can’t see her in this room tomorrow, it’ll have to be in her place. Let’s hope they don’t all close on these deals in the night, and creep away. Let’s go home. I want a drink.”

Kitty returned to her unit that evening, supremely satisfied with her day, anticipating no need for ritual candles, no purging in her oily tub. Her ploys had worked the charm, instead. Herbert Minosa, her new pastor, officially as of this afternoon, inhabited a land of untold opportunities, and he’d tossed off her letter of recommendation like he was born to a life of hype; that was safe in her pocket, letter-headed with his logo, ‘Plenty For All’. He wanted to work with her, closely, on some local initiatives, understanding that her speaking talents would soon thrust her onto some larger stage. He hoped that she would remember, when a spear carrier in that arena, of her love for her earthly church home and of those who nurtured her along that road; the need was so great.

Her Herbie was aware for instance, through the jungle drumbeat of an ever reverberating, hierarchical grapevine, of a new position, requiring local expertise, that could swing the ideal candidate into the rarefied regions of full-time, thoroughly compensated testimony at the very canopy, the tree-tops of truth. Might she possibly be interested in such work, without the prior testing, the rigors of regional work and its resultant humility, that so often led an aspirant to acceptance, to the quietude and the poverty of the parish?

She lowered her head, modestly, at hearing this news, then brightened, suggesting that if it were a calling, she would, reluctantly, serve her turn. This organization, he  sadly explained, was a national, not a neighborhood one but blessed, he assured her, all the same. Blessed in vision, even more blessed in resources. They were recently possessed, in response to a heavenly summons to act in this area, of numerous properties, real estate of necessary kinds, of houses for their poor, itinerant preachers, of studios for fulfilling and delivering their relentless message, of consoling, restful residences for over-burdened leaders of the flock.

If she accepted this position to liaise between these outstretched arms, she would be welcomed into them, and completely provided for, at church expense.  She murmured docile appreciation. She would accept. What must she do? She must wait. Wait until her own Herbie spoke for her, until he approached those from whose hands delights dropped to the chosen, those deemed to be grateful and willing enough to be bidden. A prayerful evening, a time of preparation was the customary course. Then, be ready. Patience must be her standard.

Kitty, unleashed from the morass of compliance, stepped into her unit, treading on a plain envelope. Ignoring the hole pierced in it by the heel of her spiky shoe, she scanned the contents, a letter from the secretary, the loathed Mrs. James. Savagely, she ground it back under that same heel. Then, smirking, preparing for the circumscribed night of prayer, bent to retrieve it, as if to offer it a revived purpose, crossed the room, struck a match and lit the letter, watching the flame eagerly rise along its length and reaching for some new place to burn. Kitty, aroused by ignition, clustered her candles, and on her knees, seared the willing wicks, one by one.

The next morning, Kitty opened her e-mail. There was the vile letter, again, from the association, assigning her costs of repairing the room downstairs. There was a message, a reminder from the No Pupik to the effect that his financing was good and that his lender wanted to communicate with her title company, to arrange a closing date. Who was her contact? She called the offices of White, Choyce, and Wong to offload the work on them with the instruction that she wanted out of her place sooner rather than later. In her new vision of the future, there was a free ride on tap.

R.M. waved a tearful Mrs. James goodbye and exited the lobby, weighing whether to put off any showings until things in the building settled down, again. Guy left to return to the hospital, with assurances that he could call Martin or Martinelli, who would follow up with the police report, from the accident scene. They returned to the meeting room.

“Not much to go on. And we’re back in a common area, where any owners can legitimately be, though not messing with somebody else’s vehicles.” Martin reported that both the Karon cars went out, even before Lee’s first ride this morning, and that the space was otherwise empty.

“But it’s moot. No vehicles there, then – well, they were – and the bike was, earlier.” Martinelli often struggled with tenses, a disadvantage in police work. He knew what he meant, anyway.

“So a resident did this, sometime late morning, noon-ish,” hypothesized Martin, “if Gervase didn’t see anyone else besides the realtor, who was in the garage too late.”

“Begins to look that way.” There was a knock at the door. “Come in!”

Mrs. James stepped in, stuffing away a telling tissue up her sleeve. “This is so upsetting! But I have to explain what I saw.”

“Please, sit down, Mrs. James.” Martin invited. “What is it?”

“Hans and I were returning from an appointment with the association attorney a little after noon, probably half-past. I was driving my car. I always wait a moment before pulling into the garage – for my eyes to adjust to it being darker inside – and we saw Kitty Doyle’s car stopped in the lane opposite Karon’s spaces. We were still at the top of the ramp.”

“What she was doing?”

“She was near the back of her car, with the trunk open. I couldn’t see what she was doing. I got the impression when she reached up to grab the lid that her hand was darker, like she was wearing gloves.”

“Did you speak to her?”

“No. It’s usually best avoided, most people find.” Martin suppressed a grimace. “She ignored us. I heard her slam down the trunk. I drove in, pulled into my spot.  She tore up the ramp before we even got out of the car. Hans and I talked about it, that it was odd behavior, well maybe not for her.”

“How so?”

“Most people would do that sort of thing in their own space, before starting to leave, so as not to inconvenience another driver.”

“Would she have been in your way?”

“Not in mine. I’m talking about common courtesy.”

“Could you see if the bike was still there?”

“Let me think. Their spaces were empty of cars. Not sure about the bike. Maybe Hans can tell you.”

“Thank you again, Mrs. James.” Martinelli gently teased. “Be sure to tell us if you remember anything else you didn’t see!” She had the grace to smile.

Hans was home and had no excuse to defer the request for another interview, though he had no idea why they wanted to see him. He was unaware of the incident with the bike. In the meeting room, he corroborated the details of the account given by Mrs. James, saying that he hadn’t specifically known that it was opposite Karon’s that Kitty had stopped. He wasn’t in the garage much, he explained, having no car of his own. He remembered seeing a bike way in back in that otherwise empty space, though. He wanted nothing more to do with the police, or with Kitty Doyle; she seemed to be taking over his life.

“Do you own a parking space?”

“Yes.”

“That you don’t use, you say. Could you rent it out?”

“Only to another resident. That’s the rule.”

“And you don’t because…”

“I’ve thought about it. It hasn’t been empty for that long. I did have a personal arrangement with another resident until recently. But he moved away.”

“Do you have a personal relationship with Miss Doyle?”

“God, no!” Hans protested.

“You live on the same floor, don’t you? Wouldn’t you run into her more often than some?” Hans now had to quickly think. Need he disclose to them that he was buying her unit? Was this relevant? Would he have to tell them why? He took a bit too long.

“Another relationship, then? Something that might influence what you say about her?”

“More a financial one.” Hans took the plunge, thinking abandoned, caution overlooked. It was something about the way Martin was holding his pen, balancing it across the top of his forefinger, poised to snap it up when it inevitably flipped one way or the other.

“Go on.”

“I’d say the same thing to you anyway but I’m in the process of buying her unit, the one across the hall, as you said. It’s a private sale. Hers has a den, that I’ll use as a home office.”

“She’s moving out? Where? When?” Martin bluffed; she’d already said she was moving out.

“Soon. Not sure. She didn’t ever say.”

“And you’re putting yours up for sale?”

“No. Well, listen, this is all private, nothing to do with anything else happening here. I’m not free to tell you all of this.”

“I’d suggest to you that you are. Assisting police inquiries is a wise choice, Mr. Knopupik.” Martin choked it out, straight-faced, with true side-kick panache. For this, he earned the stony face, the approving face, of his superior.

“I can’t see that it’s relevant.” Hans threw it out, last-ditch.

“You don’t have to. That’s up to us.” Martinelli authoritatively stepped in, detective fervor familiarly nipping at his heels.

“Another private deal.” sighed Hans. “The Cabot brothers are selling their parents’ unit – it’s listed with R.M., he’s a realtor – and are buying mine, for a place to stay when they’re in town. They like it here.”

“And this has been arranged since, when?”

“Since a week ago.”

“After the drowning?”

“After, yes.” Hans felt himself going in deeper and deeper.

“When does this real estate daisy chain go into effect?”

“It’s all privately done with our own banks, so it usually goes a bit faster.”

“How does that work?”

“She’s accepted my offer, and I’ve accepted the Cabots’. I’m trying to set the same closing date for each, and after that, everyone moves.”

“Is Miss Doyle still living in her unit?”

“I guess, if she was going out today.”

“Do you live with anyone?”

Hans inwardly winced but said as straightforwardly as possible, “No.”

“And you say that, other than the residents involved, that these moving arrangements are not generally known? Why?”

“It’s perfectly legal, just private. Any change in ownership, once completed, will be public record and be noted by the association.”

Upstairs, Mrs. James was composing a letter to Kitty Doyle. She couldn’t remember a time when her role as association secretary had afforded her so much enjoyment. She referenced association policy, as stated in the documents, that it was in the interests of all of the residents that repairs to common areas be completed promptly, regardless of any pending, private insurance claims, with damage costs assigned to the owner whom the association underwriter determined to have been negligent. The estimate the association had received in this instance was in the neighborhood of $1,000. Miss Doyle would shortly be receiving a bill from the association, upon the satisfactory completion of the required repairs. Pleased with her matter-of-fact effort, she made four copies, and kept one for her own records. She e-mailed the letter to Kitty Doyle, to Hans, and to Earnest, then slipped a paper copy under each of their unit doors.

Martin and Martinelli were pulled over in a cul-de-sac, taking a ‘break in the action’ chat. These helped to focus their investigations, gave them a less scatter-shot, more rounded-up summary of what they knew.

“We keep going back to where Mangold changed his clothes, to give us a handle on who let him in, and so far, we’re thinking that it must have been one of the swimmers.” reasoned Martin.

“We processed as much of the scene as we could but not any units at all. No evidence.”

“And the only tip we ever got was from Mrs. James, about there not being a towel, and you’d already noticed that. Either nobody wants to give, or there’s nothing else to say.”

They observed a city marked vehicle pull up at the corner. It’s four, annoying, attention getting lights repeatedly blinked, two up, two down. At least it wasn’t also backing and bleeping into their quiet reflections. The versalift expanded slowly, the cherry picker extending in bumps and starts, taking the worker, vested in fluorescent lime, up to the dizzying height of the stop sign. He was apparently engaged in swapping this perfectly good one, clearly visible – it said ‘STOP’ – from the required distance down the street, for a different one.

“How do you think they wore out the old one?” Martin drily observed. “What happens to used stop signs?”

From inside their unmarked car, with the windows shut, a pantomime show unfolded before them. A passing rider, swathed in camouflage topped with a blaze orange skully, dropped his bike on the merge, raving and shaking his fist, hat in hand, at the startled worker.

“Wanna play?” Martin was always intrigued by eccentricity. Martinelli was weary of it.

“Nah. This is why the gods invented local cops.”

In scene two of the drama, it seemed to occur to the workman that this crazy wanted a turn in his jerky, up and down conveyance; a carnival ride without the tin-can tune. His demands ignored by the steadily paced workman, the rider stoked the feud by grabbing the old sign, now laying on the grass, and making off with it on his bike.

“Well, Martin, there’s the answer to one of your questions. Used signs become the property of the lunatic fringe.”

“Wish our case was this definitive, minus the fringe.”

“Without the likelihood of a successful prosecution, we’re usually done. No case, even with suspicious circumstances. No further police interest, except to conclude the investigation. At a dead end, like this place.”

At the sound of an incoming call, they both shifted to attention. “Breaker, breaker, break over.” muttered Martin. He listened, then reported to his partner. “Call just came in on our POPS hotline, from Guy Karon. Says that somebody’s trying to kill his daughter and would we please come right away.”

“Trying to kill! She’s – what did he say – sixteen? Any details?”

“Tampering at the POPS. Bike brakes cut. That’s us ‘back to the scene of the crime.”’

When they arrived, Guy, agitated, was waiting for them in the meeting room. He explained that his sister had gone from Pluto’s straight to the hospital, where his daughter was receiving treatment. At his request, Lee’s friend had stayed at the accident scene with the bicycle, awaiting an officer to take a report. The bike was still on the grass, had not been moved.

“They’ll take prints off the bike?” Guy insisted.

“Go back to the beginning, as you understand it.” requested Martinelli. Guy’s brief tale told, Martinelli said, “This time we will want to speak to Lee, when she’s ready. And to her girlfriend, Gwen. In the meantime, I’d like to ask Gervase a few questions and then go take a look in the garage.” Gervase, summoned, came in and sat down, morose.

“This tampering must have happened while I was here, you see.” He was shaken, less composed than in previous interviews. “I’ve either been at my desk or in the lobby area during the time this happened. I’d have seen anyone coming in from the street.”

“And you saw nobody?”

“That’s what I told Guy but now I remember I did let R.M. in earlier. He’s a Realtor.”

“How did you overlook him?”

“He’s often here. He doesn’t seem like an outsider anymore.”

“Is he still in the building?”

“I’ll check.” Gervase called R.M.’s cell. “Are you still here? OK, thanks. Police want to know. Just a second…” Addressing Martinelli, Gervase said, “He’s in the garage. Do you want to see him?”

“Yes, we’re heading that way, now. Ask him to wait.”

To save time, Martin, Martinelli, Guy, and Gervase all headed down the steps to the garage. As they went, Gervase detailed the POPS policy on bicycle storage.

“Lee said that the elevator was taking too long, so to meet Gwen on time, she took the stairs down.” Guy explained.

“I wouldn’t have seen her leaving, either way.” Gervase mentioned. “And I didn’t see the girls meeting out front.”

“They took off right away, Lee said.” Guy reported. “Long way to go, up to Bayshore.” R.M. walked forward to meet them.

“Martinelli, and my associate Martin.” said Martinelli. “Why are you in the building this afternoon?”

“I’ve just listed a condo unit with the Cabot brothers. Today is the first day of showings and I came to set up a lock box outside the lobby entrance. After that, I went up to the condo to check that the keys going in the lock box work, to place data sheets and other information, and to double check on readiness for showings. I came down to the garage to see that the parking spaces are clearly numbered and the storage area there cleared. We Realtors call it due diligence.”

“What time did you arrive?”

“Awhile ago now. I couldn’t get the first lock box to work so I had to swap it for another one. Then the keys didn’t work so I had to wait for Sebastian Cabot to show up with a correct set. We got to chatting for a bit before he had to go. I returned some calls. Cell phone reception can be iffy in some buildings, and this is one of them. Do you remember exactly, Gervase? We passed the time of day when I first came in?”

“Did you see Mr. Karon’s daughter at anytime?”

“No. From the time I got up in the elevator and back down here, I’ve seen no-one, other than Sebastian, and Gervase. Not even Mrs. James, this time.” R. M. chuckled, as if at some private joke, until Gervase laughed, too.

“So, nothing coming or going in the garage, either?” Martin inquired of R.M., irked by the inside joke.

“I’m quite sure that the garage door hasn’t opened, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Or anybody moving around?”

“Not that I saw. Can’t say that for certain.”

“Can you identify the Karon’s parking spaces?”

“Um, in that general area,” he pointed, correctly, “as I recall from my trailer park days here.”

“Can you remember if you saw anyone in that area?”

“I’m sure that I saw nothing over that way. It’s close to where I was checking myself.”

Martin, with Karon, went to inspect the Karon’s parking spaces. Martinelli, Gervase, and R.M. took the steps back up to the lobby. Mrs. James was now in her customary chair. Looking up,  she was startled to see them all together. “What’s happened?”

“I’ll tell her.” offered Gervase.

“Tell me too, please.” requested R.M., co-operative but still unclear about the questions in the garage.

Perry Frazing proceeded, instructing his client with a logical, if insensitive, explanation of death by drowning.

“With me?” he quizzed. Morrie nodded; best get this part over with. “His body was found floating face down. That means there was still air in his lungs that couldn’t get out. He went in alive and breathing. So, odds are the weighing down happened after he died. He was more sunk down because of the extra weight but there were no marks of a struggle. If he was dead, no blood was circulating to make bruises from the weighted ropes. There were no marks from the rescue pole, either, so it was likely used to fish him out, not to try to hurt him, after he was already drowned, then it was left in the pool.”

“So if they killed him first and then threw him in, there might be marks still visible, or bleeding from injuries, and with no breath left in him he’d have sunk more?” Morrie found this hard to say; his words forced to a crawl by the slow replay in his mind’s eye of cruel imported images of his nephew, too near the water, so unlike the happy, poolside families portrayed in endless vacation videos. “But if he’s in the water and still alive, and drowns, and then they hurt him, there’d be no marks from those injuries and he’d sink less, with still some air inside to keep him up?”

“Plus, he’s in a warm pool, not a cold lake, so things don’t happen as fast. The beer cans could have been planted as evidence but tests did show that he’d been drinking, with no signs of forcing that into him. Blood alcohol levels can go down significantly after drowning but in your nephew, they were still right up there. They’re going to say he was drunk and drowned.”

“A drunk trespasser gets the hole in the donut?”

“That’s what they’ll say.”

It had bothered Morrie right from the beginning about Rusty drinking while at The Prospect on Prospect that night. He was supposed to be there for work purposes and Wrested Development had company policy about that. Of course, Morrie regretted his own bad example the evening of The Alchemy grand opening. Had Rusty taken a first and then a second drink, for courage as he had done on that occasion? And without a sea of faces warning him, as Morrie had seen in his audience, that he was off track as a result, had Rusty taken a third, or more? Maybe the kid had needed even more courage. What for? What’s so hard about looking out a window? Maybe best to steer clear of these questions, for now.

“It’s an offense to mutilate a corpse, though. You can’t be willful, reckless, wanton, unlawful, or negligent or disfigure a body, by mishandling.” Perry ran through this list.

“You talking about using those jugs to hold him down? I get the mishandling bit but if he was already dead, like you say he was, and there was no bruising and no disfiguring, does that mean those can’t count?”

“We could likely consider motivation, if we get that far. The weighing down is probably an individual act, or maybe two people. The somebody who used the rescue pole should have reported a man in the water, and so should anyone who found him under the jugs.”

“If I can’t sue them all for it, who can I sue?”

“Depends on the investigation.” He disliked repeating himself; some people just didn’t listen. “Some facts. The police will want to know how he got in and with whom. If we know that, or where he changed his clothes…”

Morrie’s attention drifted away. The more he kicked around his own role in this mess, he couldn’t, wouldn’t tell what he knew. He hadn’t openly suggested any wrongdoing or trespassing, only advised Rusty to use his legitimate MLS access to get into the building, to see listed properties in there. What he did when he got in, well, that he’d left to Rusty to figure out, only proposing that Rusty try to view The Alchemy site from the solarium, as a backup plan. So, if the original plan was to go high up in the building to look out, why, and how had he ended up down, and drowned, in the pool? Rusty had talked about and understood the assignment and wanted to get it right, to prove to his uncle that he was capable of pulling it off. So, when Rusty had told him he was going in soon, with some guy, Morrie hadn’t paid much attention to the who, only that he was finally going to get inside. Was this ’some guy’ a potential buyer, or maybe a resident thinking of selling? Who else could it be? If Morrie or Rusty had really known somebody living there, wouldn’t they have tried that door long before now?

Morrie attempted to rewind the memory tape from that conversation with Rusty, searching for details. It hadn’t been that long ago, maybe not quite yet consigned to ‘Filed – under forgot’. And there it was.

Rusty had mentioned something else about the ’some guy’. It was someone he’d just met, who could get inside alright but wasn’t sure when. This began to smell bad to him, revolting like the sometime piles of dead, stenching alewives on the Lake Michigan shores; shores, when he was newly arrived, he was expecting to be so clear and compelling.  Coming from his desert homeland, he had hopes and dreams for all of this liquid bounty – it informed his paradigm for development – of rosy, shining sunrises to greet his very best customers, those eager to pay to look at the lake. Better to pay to look at it from a lofty distance than pay to smell it close-up, to see those silver cold and rotting black fish eyes fixedly staring up from the sand. Dogs, disgustingly, rolled in dead fish, then their owners petted them and brought them home, through hallways and into their condos. He shuddered. It was because of filthy dogs that he spent so little on common area carpeting and installed lurid colors to mask the stains.

“Mr. Mangold? Morrie? Still thinking, or are we done with questions for today?” Perry had a court reservation for noon at his club.

Morrie was ruminating why it took going into the office of his attorney, at ridiculous rates passed off as reasonable ones, to get him to really begin to focus. Absorbed with retaliation and lawsuits going in to see Frazing, the subject of his preoccupation was now Rusty. Rusty, whom Morrie never much thought about, who’d been always just there. Much as he had overlooked Rusty alive, maybe all this time he’d been looking at his death in the wrong way too, or at least in a limited way, like that tower lady gazing into her mirror to see beyond her window; had everything she’d ever seen always been through the dark glass, an implied promise taken back, become a flat, prospect-less picture? How could he gaze beyond the surface, of that mirror of a lake and this reflection of a Rusty, for explanations. Might his own reputation, his treasured legacy, be seen as tarnished?

“Sure.” Morrie finally said, his train of thought sputtering to the the end of its line. “We’re waiting to get the facts before we do anything.” Perry Frazing rose to conclude the appointment.

“Bear in mind, things take time.”

Perry Frazing, as he liked to quip, was a one man show, with only one low-rent office, and only one part-time secretary. By cutting corners and fine words, he could offer his services at a competitive rate. If a client wasted time by asking tedious and irrelevant questions, Perry Frazing compensated by saying as little as possible in reply, just to keep the appearance of mounting fees in check. He wanted to keep the clientele he already had, not take on new people and new problems. To some of his fellow attorneys, his methods seemed counter-productive and inefficient as well as less lucrative but Perry preferred playing squash at his club to listening to people moan on about their difficulties. He defended himself by reminding his peers that, in England, a barrister, the lawyer who went to court, was actually called a brief; aptly named, he argued. He intended to uphold that sterling tradition, even if it was not entirely his own.

Through years of such dedicated service to this clientele, he had come to know some people pretty well but socialized with only a preferred few; Morrie Mangold wasn’t one of them. Morrie was cheap and had heard that this attorney dabbled in a lot of areas in the law. It had worked out, over time; Perry Frazing could quickly summarize a lot of law in a short time, the kind of law that Morrie wanted to know.

“Can I sue them,” Morrie cut to the chase, “those shmucks who killed my nephew? I want to sue them.”

“You want to know if there are any grounds for a suit.” Perry re-worded the question.

“What law covers this? I’ve never heard of anybody drowning somebody in an condo pool before, and I know a lot about condos.”

“I can look that up – a precedent – it’s called.”

“How much do I have to prove about what happened in there? Who did what to him?” Perry re-phrased the question.

“You want to know if there’s any indication of a wrongful death?”

“I guess. This death didn’t happen by itself, did it?”

“I can give you some basics. You should remember as you go forward with any of this that you too are a condo developer. Anything that gets decided, because of this, will include all developers and all condo buildings,” Perry concisely added, ‘including you.”

“Not me. I’ll never put in a pool. Too much trouble.”

“This will include any common elements or amenities. There are usually more of those in upscale condos. I don’t need to restate the many possibilities for you.”

“So when I try to get back at them I have to watch my own back. What else is new?” Perry overlooked this remark.

“Wrongful death grounds, then. Basically, it’s after a death caused by wrongdoing or negligence. Family can bring an action against a responsible individual, company, or entity. It’s usually spouses or children or parents that do, not uncles.”

“He didn’t have any of those any more – all dead – it’s just me, and his cousins.”

“Closer to the nub, then. You’re the immediate family. I know you’re his personal rep. We drew that up here. You also have to show you’ll have a monetary loss. That’s how the amount of pecuniary damages is awarded. It can include loss of support or services, and funeral expenses.”

“A loss? You bet I will. Spent ass pockets full of money for his school and training to be my right hand man.”

“That won’t count. It’s what you’ll lose because he’s not going to be working.”

“OK, so he was going to keep working for the family business, big time. All gone.”

“You’ll replace him and that person will bring in the money, instead?”

“Not for a long time, no. This needs personal training. I’ll lose the money I could be making, if I’m bringing a new guy up to speed. What else do we need?”

“Proof. For wrongful death, the standard is preponderance of evidence, that is, more likely than not likely. It doesn’t need to be beyond a doubt, or clear and convincing. ”

“Is there some other way to sue them?”

“This is where the road divides.” Perry didn’t want to explain all the possibilities, only to say that they existed.

“What road? I don’t get it.”

“At some point, we have to know what happened. How did he die and was anyone else or any group, shall we say, responsible?”

“Must be.”

“But there are no charges yet, correct? No individual’s been arrested?”

“Far as I know.”

“So far then, we’re talking about suing the association, not a person. The rules change if that happens.”

“That’s who I want to get anyway, the whole snobby bunch of them.”

“Then you have to show that something they did, or didn’t do, partly or totally caused the death. You don’t have to show that it was intentional. In other words, it was their fault, even if they didn’t mean to do it.”

“Oh, they meant it all right.” Morrie’s jaw clenched. It was he who had encouraged Rusty to get into the building. To be killed, just for a little commercial spying? But he wasn’t going to tell about that. He’d look for another loophole.

“To condense this then, there have to be these things. A death caused by negligence and a survivor who can claim pecuniary damages, because of it. You may, or may not, meet that standard. If there’s a case, there will be evidence to gather and witnesses to interview, though so far no eye witnesses, is that right?”

“That’s what I heard.”

“So, you could wait to see what the investigation turns up, if anything. If something like this happened in one of your buildings, you’d be here seeing me so this kind of suit wouldn’t be happening to you.”

“You bet I would. Shoes on the other feet, you mean.” Rusty’s shoes hadn’t been found; anybody could be wearing them, now.

“Shoe on the other foot, yes.” Perry neatly halved the expression.

“You drew up all of our condo docs. How would you be working, if you were working for them?”

“They’ll be looking to see if they were negligent in any way, as an entity, and trying to establish that your nephew was a trespasser.”

“But there was nothing to provide a reasonable rescue – that’s obvious – he’s dead.”

“They’ll be saying they wouldn’t have to rescue a trespasser. But if one of them let him in, then he was a guest.”

“And they have to rescue a guest?”

“They have to show that they can try, yes, by meeting a reasonable standard.”

“So all we have to do is show, how did you say it, that it’s ‘more likely than not’ that somebody from there let him in?”

“Possibly, but you’re assuming that they won’t meet the standard.”

“What about what they did to him – like the bogus rescue, and weighing him down, and leaving him there – all that crap in the police photos?”

“Not sure. You think a bunch of them ganged up on him?”

“Yah.”

“Let’s review some facts about drowning. This might offend you but you need to know. A medical examiner is going to want to know if a victim died before, or after, going in. The post mortem or autopsy rules things out, what didn’t happen. Then, it’s a process of elimination.”

Morrie was bluntly spoken himself, but ‘elimination’? He expected his attorney to choose words somewhat better.

Hans hoofed it up two flights of stairs from the garage retracing, he realized, Peter and Rusty’s steps up to his unit.  Mrs. James decided to stop in at the lobby on her way back upstairs, in hopes of seeing Gervase. She wanted to test her ability to summarize what she’d learned at the morning meeting. He’d be done with the usual Monday catch up, she correctly assumed, and there he was, diligently manning his post.

“Hello!” he greeted her as she exited the elevator, “Are you coming or going?” then deduced that, minus her work bag, she must be returning.

“Coming back from our appointment with the attorney. Thought I’d test my mental powers on you, if you don’t mind, and tell you what got said, as I’ll be having to write it all up later today and you can be my sounding board.”

“As always, Mrs James.”

“Speaking of coming or going, though, that Kitty Doyle woman was down in the garage just now, as Hans and I were coming in. Wasn’t sure what she was doing.”

“Why?”

“She was parked in the driving lane opposite the Karon spaces, with her trunk open and dithering with something or other. And having a good look around, too, if I must say. Thank goodness I could get to my space without having to ask her to shift.”

“She can holler pretty good when she wants to, eh. Doesn’t seem to care who’s on the receiving end.” And excels at the chop, too, he reflected. “I’ve been employing your methods of observation, Mrs. James, so I’ve something to tell you as well, seeing as you’re not with Hans, any longer.”

“What about Hans?” She was curious, apprehensive.

“It’s about what I didn’t see, you know, like you said. Thursday, I was here when Hans and Sebastian Cabot asked to use the meeting room. I didn’t give it a thought really, until later, after I’d seen them standing together, waiting for the elevator. It came to me that I used to see Hans and his friend…”

“Peter.” supplied Mrs. James.

“That’s him, standing together there, just like that. Lately, I haven’t seen Peter, either with Hans or without him.”

“I rather think that will continue to be the case, from what I understood Hans to say, this morning. Peter will no longer be serving on the cookbook committee and Hans has nixed his recipe from inclusion in the book. Conclusive enough to my mind.”

“So Peter’s gone away, eh? Is Sebastian the new Peter?”

“As I never really knew Hans’ relationship with Peter, your guess is as good as mine. I do know that they like each other well enough, go out for coffee, that sort of thing.”

“Is Peter police worthy, do you suppose? Though I can’t see why, can you?”

“Maybe just keep it in mind for now?” She felt uncomfortable discussing Hans and Sebastian, even with Gervase, and wanted to change the subject. “So, let me tell you about the meeting…”

“No wait, first I want to tell you about the meeting room ceiling.”

“Oh, right.”

“Our insurance adjuster and a drywaller came to look at it Friday. Adjuster suspected negligence upstairs, in ‘overtaxing the reasonable capacity of a fixture’ – based on the plumbers’ report – and that her insurance, if she calls them, would deny her claim.”

“The association secretary,” here she took a small bow, “will piggyback on the denial and write, assigning damages to her, according to our condo docs. So she’ll know soon she’s on the nick for it. How much?”

“A grand, anyway, the drywaller estimated.”

“Expensive bouquet. Did you deliver it to her?”

“I did, and barely escaped, by the sounds of it.”

“At least she didn’t take it out on you, Gervase.”

“Small mercies, as my mother says. Now, tell me the gospel according to Hough.”

When the brakes failed on Lee’s bike, she was pulling up the ramp to the Brady Street bridge. She yanked the bike a sharp right to halt her forward momentum. The bike torqued; she and it parted company, each going in a different direction. The bike rolled briefly, crashing along the side of the path. She tipped lopsidedly forward, awkwardly crumpling on the grass. Gwen was right behind her and to her aid at once.

“Lee, what happened? Oh,” she wailed, “don’t move.” Lee was alert, not bleeding but the pain had already set in, contorting her face.”Try and stay still.” Gwen pleaded to her now rocking friend.”Where does it hurt?”

“My arm.” Lee gasped. “It won’t move.”

“Then don’t!” Gwen demanded. “I’ll get help.” A passer-by gently draped a beach towel across Lee’s shoulders. Gwen managed to locate and pull Lee’s phone from a pocket and dialed ICE, living in hope. Lee’s father answered.

“Mr. Karon, this is Gwen, Lee’s friend.” She tried to keep her voice from shaking, as her whole body now was.

“Yes, Gwen. I got Lee’s message that you’re together. Everything ok?”

“Sorry, Mr. Karon. She’s had a bad fall from her bike and her arm is really hurting.” Gwen turned her back on Lee to add softly into the phone, “And her foot looks twisted. What should I do?”

“Where are you?”

“Prospect and Brady, by the bridge.”

“I’m nearby. I’ll get there as quick as I can.”

Guy, arriving in minutes from his downtown office, quickly ascertained two things. First, that his daughter, at the very least, had a broken arm; second, that both brake lines on her bike had been cut. He also called 911 and was referred, in a non-emergency situation, to the local precinct. He briefly explained that he had to get his injured daughter to hospital and requested that an officer come to take a report. When told it might be some time, he turned to Gwen and asked her if she could stay awhile with the bike. She nodded. He brought the car round as close as he could and bundled her in as best as he could, instructing Gwen to phone him when the police arrived. He wanted that police report.

“Lee, what time did you leave our building, for this ride?”

“Just a few minutes ago, Dad. The brakes were working fine when I got back this morning, around ten.”

“We’ll sort it all out, honey lamb. You just take it easy now.”

While Lee was wheeled into x-ray, Guy first called his sister and asked her to meet him at the hospital, then the phone at Gervase’s desk. He was relieved to hear him answer directly, though he knew that when on duty, Gervase promptly returned missed calls.

“Gervase, Guy Karon. Sorry to be abrupt. Did you see Lee leave the building, awhile ago?”

“No. Didn’t know she had.”

“She left from the garage. Have you been in the lobby for the last few hours?”

“Yes. Talking to Mrs. James.”

“So you’d have seen if anyone came in?”

“Yes, and nobody from outside did. Is she OK?”

“Yes, and no. Have to go.”

Guy retrieved Martinelli’s number. He paused, his hand on the talk button. He was calling to ask police to take prints, amongst other things. Only a week ago, he’d dreaded that they might do just that, on the pole he’d been wielding, over a drowned man. How could he ask police to intervene in this instance but not the other, not expect them to wrench open that Pandora’s box he and Bert had attempted to close? He didn’t care. Someone had tried to kill his daughter.

Late Monday morning, as Kitty was routinely checking her messages she learned, in a brief e-mail self-described as a courtesy, that her application for the twirler position was no longer under consideration. Her references were less than satisfactory, she read between the lines. Kitty abhorred rejection at the best of times. On Monday mornings, she found it intolerable.

“Stupid twirlers,” or words to that effect, leapt along the shafts of sun piercing her eastern windows. She had neglected to pull her room darkening shades last night and savagely now corrected that oversight, plunging the den into a relative murk more conducive to her current foul mood. She decided to hate twirlers forever and of course this would require getting back at them all, or at one, it wouldn’t matter.

She lit a concoction of candles, using as a taper the brightly tangerine-colored flyer slipped under her front door sometime over the weekend.  A sketch of a cat vanished, Cheshire-like, in the flame. The candles drew in light; around them, the room darkened. She felt more at home.

There were multiple messages on her phone from the lately disgraced school principal to please call him to discuss their situation. What situation was that? He’d fallen for her months ago, when he’d approached her after a presentation she’d given, to parochial school principals, about getting the best out of their teachers in uncertain times. She’d ignored him until Greg ditched her, then for something to do last week, she’d called him and offered to get together. It was like taking candy from a baby. A bit of stroking, and he’d followed her like a lamb, right to his own inevitable slaughter. She erased his number.

In a more promising message, she heard she was still under review for a much easier job. She’d be available as a panelist – for evangelism, on the web – ready to discuss, for example, how to communicate effectively, how to incorporate community culture into an institutional message, or how to use creativity to increase a local presence. She was well grounded in all of these subjects, had incorporated these concepts freely while perfecting her own approaches to a notable, executed success. And, as it was up to each separate, and undoubtedly sloppy, organization to check her credentials, it wasn’t as likely that she’d lose this chance. But she would recast her image, brush up on song leading skills, burnish the facts. The upside of this web exposure would be to get picked up for some of the huge touring events and ministries, as a opening act speaker to thousands, with national demand and big bucks close behind. With her nose under the revival tent floor, reaching the inner sanctum would be a breeze. After all, men were in charge, weren’t they? Not like the impenetrable twirler sisterhood.

The idiot across the hall also e-mailed; the one with no pupik – under the gun with a picture pointed straight at him – was supposed to be doing all of the paperwork for buying her condo. He was weaseling on that now; to schedule a closing, she had to produce a title for her unit. Title companies would work with individual property owners to do this, he wrote, or she could do it through a real estate person, or an attorney. She didn’t want the bother; forget the realtors. She’d call an attorney at the firm she used, White, Choyce, and Wong. Today, she had an appointment with a pastor she’d met – at a forum on mission scenario planning – to join his local, vibrant, astoundingly affluent church, and to steal a sterling reference from off his silver plates.

Down in the garage, she backed the car out of her space. Now, every time she was there, she checked around, alert to profitably witness the  unfortunate behavior of others. There was nobody else around. Passing the Karon’s double space, she saw that Guy’s dark gray car and Carrie’s light gray car were gone. She braked, reversed, and put the car in park. She’d glimpsed a bicycle leaning up against the back wall. A woman’s bike, newish, by the looks of it. A twirler’s bike, as she recalled.

Kitty opened the glove box, retrieved a pair of fine leather driving gloves and yanked them onto her flexing fingers. Her ever present pocket knife wouldn’t do. Releasing the trunk lock, she slid out of the car, raised the trunk lid and opened her toolbox, a kit full of devices she’d needed at presentations from time to time, tools for adjusting signs and tools for building displays. Extracting a pair of wire cutters, she strode towards the resting bike, checking once over her shoulder to the elevator doors, and quickly bent and snipped the rear brake cable just where it emerged from its housing.

She heard the grind and pull of the garage door opening. She had the necessary time. She would not be caught, not she. The front cable next neatly severed, seconds later saw her back at the trunk of her car, in full view of the incoming vehicle, where she was apparently making some forgotten or required adjustment.

Mrs. James and Hans, arriving back from their meeting, pulled into the relative darkness of the garage. As they blinked, their eyes adjusted to the sight of Kitty Doyle’s attention-getting red car stopped in the aisle well past her own space, and Kitty by the open trunk.

“What’s she up to now?” said Mrs. James, pulling into her own space.

Looking for new photo ops, Hans thought, but did not say. He also did not say that he would soon be taking her place, literally. Once the deal was done Kitty would be gone forever, he profoundly hoped he would be able to say, unlike the familiar cat of song who came back the very next day and wouldn’t stay away.

Monday was a day off from school and Lee, up early from habit, had already taken a morning spin. She loved her new bike and as summer was approaching, with its hours of freedom and miles of bike trails to explore, she’d resolved to gradually build up her riding time, in anticipation of those longer day trips. This afternoon, she and a classmate had just made a last minute plan to ride together up to Bayshore Mall, using the east side trails. They were going to meet up in fifteen minutes, out in front of the POPS. She refilled her water bottle, pocketed her keys and wallet, left a phone message for her Dad about what she was doing, and scribbled a note to leave on the table, too.

In their building, there was a rule against bringing a bike up in the elevator – it might scuff the walls – but leaving the bike in the garage was allowed, as long as the rider walked it up and down the ramp and stayed out of the way of cars. She stood by the elevator, waiting as usual, until she realized that she’d have to hurry. She ran down the stairs to the garage level, and grabbed the bike. It wasn’t locked; who was going to take it, inside a locked garage, her Dad had said. She pressed the button to open the garage door and pushed her way up the ramp and around to the front of the building, scanning the driveway for her friend.

“Hi, Gwen! I’m here.” Lee called out.

“Ready? Do you know the best way from here?”

“Follow me.” Lee hopped her bike, and wheeled away.

“What did you get out of all that, Mrs. James?” Hans inquired, once in the confines of her car.

“On the one hand, it all appeared crystal clear. On the other, I’m sure I’ll wake up at three, panicking over what then seems an unresolved question. Maybe that’s just me. What did you think?”

“That the POPS, as an association, is completely in the clear, your crystal clear, but that it remains to be seen whether any association member might be found individually liable, in a criminal sense.”

“Tell me, do you worry that we’ll incur extra expenses over this? I don’t mean to be crass but it is an issue for the association.”

“Depends what everyone votes to do, if we introduce alternatives. Example. Say we adopt, as a building security update, an electronic fob system, as opposed to our current standard keys. That’s going to cost us, and there are frustrations with and limitations to that technology, too. And the $64,ooo question is, does that extra layer of security, of being able to change the codes at regular intervals, offset our concerns about unwanted access to the building, as we have apparently experienced?”

“But it’s still not certain at this point that our victim got in on his own. If one of us let him in, that won’t prevent anything next time, God forbid.”

“Yes, it’s the classic solving of a problem that doesn’t exist. So, I certainly wouldn’t rush into it.” Hans knew, in this instance, that this solution would have indeed solved part of this particular problem. Peter had been gone long enough that the code would have been changed in the interim. Without that new code, he wouldn’t have been able to get in the building himself, much less bring anyone else along. Hans also knew that this wouldn’t have changed the possibly criminal behavior, individual or group-think, that had occurred, according to Mrs. James, even after Peter had ‘left’ Rusty in the pool. No, there were more problems than met the eye; swapping in new keys could never unlock dark hearts.

“Speaking of problems, was it ever a problem for you personally that the Alchemy might be built? I mean, I know you’re advising the committee. Only, my views wouldn’t have been affected and neither would yours.”

Hans was not yet ready to tell her that a move across the hall was going to mightily change his perspective on the Alchemy. “Of course I have a professional interest in any development, much less one right next door, it’s quality, whatnot. As to the impact on the entire building, that’s a Realtor type question.”

“As I understand it from R.M., if the comparable sales decline on an impacted side, they’ll tumble on the other as well. It’s a relative thing.”

“The counter argument is that several proximate, high quality buildings increase a sense of neighborhood value.”

“But how do we measure value? Not like a bunch of hack politicians going on about family values.”

“No. Not so fake as that.”

“The Alchemy is supposed to be a fake. A fake lighthouse. Can that be right? Does that offend you?”

“What if it’s an accurate fake? What if it’s made with some of that wood from shipwrecks that’s pulled out from the bottom of the Great Lakes?”

“OK. But what if that wood is assembled incorrectly, even with the best of intentions, like those badly written recipes?”

“Maybe then we are holding developers to a higher standard than everyone else. Why shouldn’t developers get to pick and choose, especially if they’re envisioning the growth of a city, dragging it into the future?”

“Well, personally, I like things that are pleasant to look at – buildings, or gloves, or pictures – but pretty is often fake, too.”

“The artist would argue that, while pleasant, those things have no meaning. They may be original in a way but they don’t add inherent value.”

“Antiques were originals, once. I mean, who hasn’t picked up an antique something or other sometime, or a small piece of art separated from it’s source? Isn’t it better to hold on to it, even if it’s only a tiny bit of the past? So we can remember? Or are you saying that remembering is more important than the memento.”

“If you apply that same reasoning to architecture, nothing ever changes, nothing new ever gets built. It’s true that the same building can be used in various ways – the old warehouse that’s converted into condos – but that doesn’t change it much on the outside, usually. In fact, the intention most often is to preserve as much of the exterior as possible. The opposite is a facade built to cover over the outside of a building that’s still sound and worth keeping but dismissed as ugly, or not worth preserving.”

“I don’t know much about either art or architecture, or antiques, for that matter. But I do know that, in history and in religion, imitation was used to change something, like Christmas superimposed on a pagan festival, so the new could absorb the old. Or, old movies become the inspiration for a new version. The same stories are endlessly retold. Recycling, or nowadays, we’d call it ‘upcycling’, or ‘repurposing’. But it’s not plagiarism, is it? Manuscripts were endlessly copied by monks…”

“Yes, to make new copies. The only thing they added was?…”

“New artwork. I take your point, Hans.”

“But even when you get inside these high-rise buildings, there’s still the imitation or repetition you describe. In our building, as in most others, we have what’s called a stacked floor plan, with every floor essentially the same. We all think we’re so unique but so much of our daily lives must be the same, the same walk from the elevator, into the similar bathroom, the same piece of the sky out the windows, night and day.”

“I’ll bet mine’s the only one with a yarn stash, though!”

“I’ll give you that difference. Of course, there are differences between us but similarities might balance out the scale.”

“That’s only human, perhaps. So, will the Alchemy ever be built? What do you think?”

“First, we wait for the engineering report, the extent of the instability of the bluff.”

‘I knew you’d say that. I guess I’m also asking about intention. Do you think that these events will have blown the wind out of Morrie Mangold’s sails?”

“Will he back out, do you mean, for personal reasons? Two bad omens, a death and a mudslide, making this an unpromising place to continue?”

“Things like that, yes.”

“There’s a lot of money in play, Mrs. James. Not sure. The real lighthouse might not be replaced by a fake one, after all.”

“Grave robbers.”

“Grave robbers?”

“Thieves who take money or treasure from graves, or even right from on top of the ground. It just comes to mind. When R.T. and I visited the White Sands in New Mexico, I confess that I, rather furtively, gathered a sample of that gypsum sand, even though that was prohibited. I wanted some for the collection on my mantelpiece. It was so different from the loess sandbanks in Missouri, or Mississippi mud, or the Lake Superior dunes. I rationalized this theft of natural resources as I observed the busloads of schoolkids on field trips there, repeatedly sledding down those dunes. There must have been acres of sand exit, in their shoes alone.”

“Whether it was intentional or not, the net loss is the same.” Hans concluded, as they pulled into the POPS driveway and waited for the door to open. “Sledding down sand? Seriously?”