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  “Yeah, I remember that. So tell me about this Laura.”

  Her name’s Laura Fleming. She’s about our age, a year or two younger, been teaching in the city since she graduated from college. She was over at Prospect, teaching 5th grade, but kindergarten’s what she really wanted, so when Louise’s position was posted, she applied and got it.”

  “And you immediately thought, here’s the love of Jeremy’s life, I’ll just put the two of them together and get out of the way of the sparks. Ang, my social life is quite all right.”

  “Your social life sucks, Jeremy,” she said. “Hell, if it weren’t for Simon and the kids and me, you wouldn’t even have a social life, not recently, anyway.”

  As I stood up to get more coffee, I said, “You know, I don’t have to come here to be insulted. I can go anywhere in this city and be insulted by any number of people.” I looked over at Simon, and he shook his head no, so I just poured coffee for myself and sat back down again. “And, let’s be honest here, Ang, you don’t have the greatest track record in the world when it comes to setting me up.”

  “Are you going to bring up Cecelia Johnson again, Jeremy? How long’s it going to take before we put that unfortunate situation behind us? And, anyway, getting back to Laura, she’s one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. You two would be good together.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because, you idiot, even though it pains me to admit it at the moment, next to my husband, you’re the best man I know.”

  I looked across the island at Simon and said, “Next to Simon?”

  He grinned and said, “She’s known both of us a long time, JB. One would assume she’s in a position to make a valid comparison here.”

  Angie came around the island and put her arms around me from the back.

  “Jeremy, I asked Laura to come out for a cookout a week from this Saturday. You come, too, and if the two of you hit it off, great. If not, no harm, no foul, okay?”

  “Does she know this is a set-up?”

  “Uh-huh, she does. I told her I wanted her to meet a friend of mine.”

  “How’d she react?”

  “About like you did, only with even more emotion.”

  “What about after you described my Adonis-like looks and rapier wit?”

  “She agreed to come—”

  “Ah-hah!”

  “But only after I promised to give up my prep next Monday morning and help her kids cut out penguins to put on the wall.”

  “Huh?” I said.

  “These are five-year-olds, Jeremy. There’s paste involvement.”

  “Oh.”

  Angie turned me around so that we were facing each other.

  “Seriously, Jeremy, Laura’s a great person. Just meet her, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said, “I’ll come over a week from Saturday and meet her. But that’s it, that’s the extent of my commitment here, right? Drop by, say hi, grab a burger, then I’m outta here. Nothing else.”

  “Trust me, Jeremy, after you meet Laura, you’re the one who won’t want to go home early.”

  I gave Simon an inquisitive look.

  “Sorry, JB, can’t help ya. I haven’t met the lady myself yet.”

  “Okay,” I said, getting off the stool. “I’ll meet Laura. And I’ll call Rachel when I get home. Anything else?”

  “Could you pick us up a quart of milk?” Simon asked. “I noticed we’re almost out.”

  I gave him my stare, which had absolutely no effect whatsoever. Maybe it didn’t work on weeknights.

  Angie walked me to my car.

  “Thanks again, Jeremy, about Rachel.”

  “No problem, Ang. I’ll give her a call. It’s probably what you said, she just needs to talk to someone about it.”

  “And,” she said, “a week from Saturday, you’ll be thanking me for introducing you to Laura.”

  Getting into my car, I told her, “That’ll be the day, Ang. That’ll be the day.”

  * * *

  When I got home, I called Rachel Pendleton. The phone rang several times before she picked up.

  “Hello.”

  “Mrs. Pendleton?”

  “Yes. Who is this, please?”

  “This is Jeremy Barnes, Mrs. Pendleton, Angie Ventura’s friend. She said you wanted me to call.”

  “Oh. Yes. Thank you for calling, Mr. Barnes. Yes, I would like to speak with you. Would tomorrow be all right? I’m not back at work yet, and even if I were, well, I’m a free-lance writer, so I do most of my work here at home.”

  Her voice was flat, no inflection, no emotion.

  “I can see you whenever it’s convenient for you, Mrs. Pendleton,” I said.

  “How about ten tomorrow morning?”

  “That will be fine,” I told her. I realized that I was also speaking in a monotone now. It was as though the fact of her husband’s death was somehow there with us, in the conversation, and to display any sign of life, or even animation, would be somehow disrespectful.

  She gave me directions to her house, and we said good-bye and hung up. Quietly.

  Chapter 4

  The next morning, I got up at seven and went downstairs for juice before starting out on my run. I live in a two-story townhouse in the Shadyside section of Pittsburgh, about five miles from the city’s downtown area. Shadyside’s gone through some changes lately. Up until a few years ago, its small, seven-square-block business district was comprised mostly of privately-owned, boutique-type shops that catered to the yuppies who had taken over the surrounding residential area. There was little in the way of public parking, because most of the people who patronized the stores lived close enough to walk. Then, almost overnight, Shadyside became one of the “in” places to shop, especially around the holidays.

  At first, the owners of the various businesses were happy with the increased profits, even if their regular customers complained about the traffic and congestion on the area’s narrow streets and sidewalks. But then the landlords, the folks who owned the buildings that housed all the little shops, began jacking up the rents, figuring that they, too, were entitled to a share of the new revenue streams. The next step was inevitable: many of the landlords were offered relatively huge sums of money by the chain stores, offers that were too good to refuse. Thus, as leases expired, the small shops were forced to relocate or, in some instances, close altogether, and suddenly, Shadyside took on a whole new look, a look that many of the area’s longtime residents hated.

  Instead of the cozy little art galleries and card shoppes and ethnic eateries, almost every block now has a Starbucks or a TCBY or a Banana Republic. Word is that a Gap is coming soon, along with a multi-level parking garage. I find I have mixed feelings here. On one hand, the area in which I live has become a microcosm of what’s happening throughout this country: the homogenization of America. On the other hand, I kinda like that Starbucks.

  Throwing on an old gray sweatsuit and my Sauconys, I went out the door and started running. Until a couple of years ago, I’d rented an apartment just down the street from my current place. Then I saved one of the downtown insurance firms a bunch of money by uncovering a false claims scam run by a couple of their middle-management people. The insurance company showed its appreciation by cutting me a check that was large enough for a down payment on my townhouse, which is just a few blocks from Shadyside proper.

  I try to do five miles or so most mornings. Sometimes, I’ll stretch it out a bit. Of course, on those occasions when I have an overnight guest of the female persuasion, I skip the running altogether.

  It’s been a while since I missed a morning.

  Today I ran one of several routes that I use, this one taking me to nearby Frick Park, with its miles of hiking and jogging paths. The park used to belong to Henry Clay Frick, the Pittsburgh industrialist who made a fortune in the early part of the 1900s. In fact, it was part of the backyard of his family mansion, which I often run past on my way to the park. When she was introduced to society at the age of twenty,
Frick’s daughter, Helen, asked her father to give the children in the city a park like the one she had, and that’s how Frick Park came into existence.

  As I entered the park, I saw a few other runners, along with several people out walking their dogs. I knew some of the folks by sight, and we exchanged hellos as I ran by them. The route I followed today kept me in the upper part of the park, and I ran all the way to the little elementary school that marks the border between the park and the Regent Square area of the city. As I ran by the school, I thought about the years I had spent as a teacher myself. Another world. Another life.

  By the time I got back home, I’d done about eight miles and managed to work up a good sweat. The first floor of my place has a living room, a dining room, a powder room, a small kitchen with a laundry room off to one side, and what used to be a utility room, which I’ve converted to a weight room. I belong to the local Y, but sometimes my hours can get strange, and I’ve found that it helps to be able to work out whenever it’s convenient for me. I went back to the weight room now and, after putting on a Wes Montgomery CD, spent half an hour pushing myself through various exercises. Sometimes I hit the weights first, sometimes, like today, I run first. It all depends on my mood.

  Once I’d regained enough energy to move again, I went upstairs. In addition to my bedroom and bathroom, there’s another bedroom with bath up there, along with a small study that I use as an office. Actually, I have an office a few blocks away, on the perimeter of the Shadyside business district. It’s in an old building that has somehow managed, so far, to escape the notice of the yuppies, so the rent isn’t too bad. I’ll usually meet prospective clients there, and it’s where I do most of my paperwork, but I like having an office at home, too. On rainy days, if I want to sleep late, I can always tell myself that I’ll be “working at home today.”

  After I shaved and showered, I put on a pair of light brown khakis, a dark green cotton T-shirt, and casual loafers. I grabbed a cream-colored, lightweight jacket and headed out the door. Within ten minutes, I’d walked to the Starbucks, where I sat at the counter and had a cup of coffee and two oatmeal-raisin scones while making idle chatter with Irv, the assistant manager. Irv’s a graduate student at Carnegie Mellon University, and the Starbucks gig helps pay the part of his tuition that isn’t covered by his scholarship. He’s a computer science major, and he’s already forgotten more about computers than most of us will ever learn. Last year, he helped me out on a case that involved a gang of techno-nerds who were stealing people’s credit card numbers off the Net. I’d asked a couple of computer experts at a local firm for assistance, but they were no help at all. Then one morning, I mentioned the case, in general terms, to Irv, and he’d offered to see what he could do. We went to my office, where he spent fifteen minutes reading my files, then told me exactly what the bad guys were doing and how to stop them. When I got my fee for that job, I passed along a good chunk of it to Irv, and we became friends.

  When I left Starbucks, I walked back home, washed up, and went down to the garage, where I keep my six-year-old 4Runner. Feeling sufficiently buffed and stuffed from the morning’s activities, I left for my meeting with Rachel Pendleton. It was nine-thirty, and rush hour traffic had died down enough that I made the trip in less than twenty minutes. She was waiting for me at the door.

  Chapter 5

  The Poplars has been described as an enclave of elitism in the middle of a pocket of poverty, which just goes to show you what some journalists will do in the name of alliteration, although, to be honest, there’s probably more truth than fiction to that description. The Poplars is a community of moderate-to-very-expensive townhouses and single-family dwellings located just a short distance from the Hill District, one of the city’s poorer areas. The attraction of The Poplars, and the reason why the developers were willing to build in that location in the first place, is its convenience to downtown. Many of the residents of the beautiful homes I drove past on my way to the Pendleton place were upper-level-management types who had wearied of the trip in from the suburbs every morning, and opted to cut their drive time by living closer to work. When I arrived at 425 Sycamore Lane, I parked in the driveway of the two-story colonial and went up the curved stone walkway to the front door. As I approached, I could see a figure standing behind the narrow rectangle of glass beside the door, and when I rang the bell, Rachel Pendleton appeared almost immediately.

  “Mrs. Pendleton? I’m Jeremy Barnes.” I gave her one of my cards. Just my name and office number printed in black on a plain white background.

  She glanced at the card and said, “Yes. Hello, Mr. Barnes. Please come in.”

  As I followed her into the living room, I looked around and noticed the expensive furniture and tasteful decorating. Someone, Rachel or her husband or someone else, had done a good job here. As for Rachel Pendleton herself, she was in her early thirties, about 5’5” tall and slender, with dishwater blonde hair that curled down to her shoulders. She was wearing a pink oxford-cloth shirt tucked into faded blue jeans. White athletic socks, no shoes. Very little makeup, perhaps none, and her face had the drawn look of someone who hadn’t gotten much sleep lately. Even so, I had the idea that she was one of those women who, although not beautiful in the classic sense, could be very attractive when she put her mind to it. There was an ease in the way she moved, the way she sat in the large wing chair in the living room and curled her legs up under her, that indicated a woman who was comfortable with her body. She’d motioned that I should take a seat, and I did so on the sofa opposite her.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Pendleton.”

  “Thank you. Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Barnes, I should have offered you something,” she said. “Would you like some coffee, or tea or . . .” She paused for a minute and then said, “Listen to me. I sound like a flight attendant, don’t I?”

  “I had breakfast just a little while ago,” I told her. “And please call me Jeremy.”

  “I’m Rachel, then,” she said. The voice was the same monotone I’d heard last night. Angie was right. This was a lady in pain.

  “I don’t know how much Angie told you, Jeremy, about why I wanted to speak to you.”

  “Just that you had some concerns about your husband’s death.”

  “Concerns. Yes, I guess that’s the best way to put it. Concerns.”

  “What sorts of concerns?”

  “I’m not exactly sure, but I do know that I don’t agree with the police. They seem to think that Terry’s death was a simple case of a mugging that got out of control.”

  “And you think there was more to it than that?”

  “Yes, I do,” she said, and for the first time, there was some emotion in her voice.

  “Okay,” I said, “take your time and tell me about it.

  She took a breath.

  “Terry worked for Chaney and Cox. They’re a small law firm downtown.”

  “I’ve heard of them,” I told her.

  “Terry’d been with them for a little over five years. He worked for another firm for a few years after he graduated from law school, and then Chaney and Cox made him a very good offer, so he went with them. We were expecting him to eventually become a partner. Everything seemed to be going along according to schedule.”

  “Until?” I prodded.

  “Until the night before he was killed. I mean, it wasn’t anything bad. In fact, it was good. Terry came home that night and told me that he thought he might make partner sooner than we’d thought. He was excited. I remember teasing him about it, because Terry never got excited about anything. He was the most laid-back person I’ve ever known. We had a great time that night. We opened a bottle of good champagne we’d been saving for a special occasion and we . . . had a great time together.”

  “Did Terry say why he thought he might be made a partner sooner than you’d thought?”

  “No, just that things were going very well at work. He said he’d met with the senior partners that afternoon, and he was going to meet
with them again the next day, and he expected to have good news for me after that.”

  “I’m not sure I understand how all of this ties in with Terry’s death”

  “Don’t you see? The police said Terry tried to fight off a mugger. Why would he do that, with all that he had to look forward to?”

  “Why don’t you tell me what happened that morning, Rachel?”

  “Terry got up and dressed for work. He said he didn’t want any breakfast, but he often didn’t have breakfast at home, so that wasn’t unusual. He seemed eager to get started on the day. I closed the door after he left, about seven o’clock, and I went back to the kitchen to clean up a few things. A couple of minutes later, I opened the back door to let Sammy in. He’s our toy collie. As soon as he came in, he ran right to the front door, which was strange. Usually, Sammy heads straight for his food bowl when he comes inside, but that morning, he went right to the front door. I thought . . . well, I don’t know what I thought. I went to the window and looked out. Terry was lying on the sidewalk in front of our house, curled up like someone had punched him in the stomach. I ran out and . . . and . . . then I saw . . .”

  “Okay, Rachel,” I said. “That’s okay. I want to ask you a few questions, all right?”

  She nodded, and I said, “The police say that Terry was the victim of a robbery attempt. Was anything missing, his wallet or money clip or anything like that?”

  “No, nothing. The police said that Terry must have tried to fight off his attacker, and the person panicked after shooting Terry and just ran away.”

  “When you looked outside, did you see anyone, anyone at all?”

  “No . . . but I wasn’t really looking at anything else. Just Terry, lying on the sidewalk.”

  “Were you aware of any problems your husband was having with anyone at Chaney and Cox? Was he working on a case that was giving him particular trouble?”

  “Terry worked mostly on contracts and mortgages, high-end stuff, like shopping centers and downtown development deals. He almost never went to court, and he got along with everyone at the firm. But, Mr. Barnes, none of this makes sense. That stuff about Terry trying to fight off the robber? That just doesn’t sound like him. Terry wasn’t a big guy, and he always tried to resolve any dispute with logic. He never resorted to violence of any kind. We used to talk about what to do if someone tried to mug one of us. I grew up in a small town, but Terry was born and raised in Philadelphia. He told me to just give my money to anyone who demanded it, not to try to resist or argue or anything, just give the person the money, because no amount of money was worth dying for. He told me that all the time, no amount of money was worth dying for. So why would he risk his life for the few dollars he had in his wallet that morning, especially if he was expecting to be made a partner in his firm? I just think there’s more to this than the police believe. Will you try to find out for me? I just want to know the truth, that’s all.”