Q: So tell me about your next boyfriend.
A: That would be Deron.
Q: (laughing) Deron, huh? A nice Jewish boy.
I listened to this kind of crap for the next four hours, riding around my hometown in circles. Down Chestnut Street, over on Sixth, then up Walnut, all the way to West Philly and back again. The Raiders fan stayed on the bus for two round-trips and he wasn’t the only person riding aimlessly, maybe because the bus was air-conditioned. During that time, the back row filled in and emptied out. Riders came and went. Nobody spoke to me or even gave me a second glance.
The day turned to an overcast evening, the tapes ran to their end, and no other clues announced themselves during Eileen’s inane interviews. If anything, the tapes were more significant for what they didn’t say. Eileen barely mentioned Bill Kleeb, he was a footnote to her fascinating life story, and there was no mention of any drug use, or of Sam. On the last tape, a jailhouse interview, she told the fabricated story of the CEO’s murder as if she had been my dupe, the pawn of a crazed radical lawyer. I could only shake my head. We used to give jail time to frauds like Eileen, now we gave them book deals.
I rewound the tape and listened again to the part about Renee Butler, but learned nothing more than I already had. I played the tape over and over as passengers climbed off and on the bus at the end of the workday, toting briefcases and shopping bags for the trip home.
I hadn’t gone anywhere, but I’d made progress. I was narrowing in on Renee, developing the next questions to be answered. What legal clinic had she worked in? I knew every public interest law center on the East Coast and didn’t remember any of them listed on her résumé. We’d gotten her right out of Penn Law, so maybe it was the law school clinic, staffed by students.
It could have been. Renee could have met Eileen there. But would she really kill Mark and frame me for it? I remembered our conversation in her office. Maybe her anger with me that day was all an act. The best defense is a good offense. It would make sense, and she would testify against me so she could drive in the final nail.
A siren blared suddenly on my right. Two squad cars came racing toward my bus, which squeaked heavily to a stop. I slunk down in my seat, my breathing shallow. A middle manager searched my face inquiringly. The police cars screamed past my window, then tore down the street. A near miss but my pulse refused to return to normal. The middle manager got off at the next stop, with a quizzical look back at me. Was he going to call the cops? I couldn’t take the chance. My stop wasn’t for three blocks, but when the manager was out of sight I stood up and got off the bus.
I had no time to lose. My head down even as night fell, I hurried down the blocks to my building and strode through the employees’ door acting for all the world like I owned the place. The Trident gum I’d stuck in the door’s lock had worked like a sugarless charm. Inside, I fumbled in my purse for the penlight I’d bought instead of the red lipstick at the dime-store.
I hustled as fast as I could down the corridor, behind the jittery pinpoint of light. My feet swelled in my heels and my silk top grew damp as the corridors got hotter and hotter. I slipped my shoes off and walked through the transformer room, tiptoeing behind the gray boxes to avoid any maintenance types still around, maybe an evening shift.
I snuck into my little hovel, closed the door, and switched on the light. The place hadn’t been disturbed since yesterday and the smell of dope was almost gone. Whoever’s hiding place this was had been working harder lately, which was fine with me. I’m all for American productivity.
In fact, I had a job to do myself. I reached under the bed for my clothes and changed into a navy pantsuit with retro bell bottoms, the closest thing I had to burglary wear. Then I shoved my puffy toes into the heavy black clodhoppers that said Dr. Martens Air Cushion Sole inside. What was this personal shopper thinking? You’d have to pay me to wear these in the daylight. I laced them up, grabbed my penlight, and went out into the night.
Bouncing along to a break-in.
36
Renee Butler’s rowhouse was a typical Philadelphia trinity, so called because there were three floors with a single room on each floor. It looked like a tiny brick box with pale white shutters; white flower boxes over-flowed with leggy purple pansies and vinca vines. A women’s house, and tonight its owners, Renee and Eve, were throwing a party.
I stole into a dark alley across the street and watched, disappointed. Even I didn’t have the moxie to break and enter during a house party. But what kind of party was this? And so soon after Mark’s death?
Music floated from the open windows, a syncopated jazz rhythm, not Green Day. Odd. Nobody was dancing, either, and in the windows I could see people chatting over iced drinks. I spotted a waiter through the window on the second floor, serving hors d’oeuvres to guests in shirts and ties. A waiter? What gives? This wasn’t the type of party the associates usually gave at R amp; B. But then again, there was no more R amp; B.
A head turned suddenly on the first floor. Renee. Her coarse hair was slicked back into a glossy twist and huge silver hoops dangled from her ears. She wore a long dashiki, looking like she’d lost some weight. Suddenly she walked to the window and lifted the sash.
I dodged back into the alley and waited a beat. Except for the party, the street was quiet and still, one of those cobblestoned Philadelphia backways that’s too narrow even for a car. I popped out again. I wanted to see what Renee was doing.
She appeared to be chatting up a good-looking man in a suit. Who was he? Who were these people? I heard voices coming down the street and flattened against the building, edging into the alley.
A couple approached, the man holding the woman by the elbow. She was giggling as she negotiated the cobblestones in pumps. When they got closer I could see it was Bob Wingate, dressed in a real tie, with the ever-perky Jennifer Rowland. I turned my head to the darkness to avoid being seen.
So there were other R amp; B associates at this shindig. Did they know about Grady’s arrest? I waited until I could hear the front door close and Wingate’s voice had disappeared inside. Then I peered out again.
On the second floor, I could see Eve in a tight tan dress, flanked by a tall man. I couldn’t tell who it was because his back was to the window, but when she leaned over to whisper something to him, I caught a glimpse of his steely-glassed profile. Dr. Haupt from Wellroth. Beside him stood Kurt Williamson, the general counsel, with a chiffoned battle-ax I assumed was his wife. Around them stood a circle of sycophants, like corporate ringworm.
Of course. This wasn’t the usual associate party. The faces were older, the hair was silvered, and the couples were married. These people were corporate clients. No wonder nobody was having any fun.
“Quiet, please!” someone shouted inside. The music stopped abruptly and the conversation trailed off. Heads turned in the direction of Dr. Haupt, who raised his glass in a toast I couldn’t hear. Eve beamed and everyone sipped their champagne. Then I understood. The joint venture must have gone through. Everyone was clapping and Eve mock-curtsied. Only Renee, watching her roommate, barely smiled behind her goblet.
What was going on behind those dark eyes of hers? I had to find out, but I didn’t know what to do if I couldn’t search the house. I needed a Plan B. I took an inventory of what I knew. Renee Butler was connected with Eileen Jennings and their connection was Penn’s legal clinic. If I couldn’t find out this way, I’d find out another.
Either way you looked at it, the party was over.
I cleared my throat, squared my shoulders, and prepared to confront my umpteenth security guard in a week’s time. I’d met old ones, young ones, black ones, and white ones, and yet was rapidly coming to the conclusion there were too many guards in the world and not enough security. Too many police and not enough safety. How could it be otherwise, when a girl like me was on the run?