Dead End Street (20 page)

“You do know how to live!” I waited as she gathered up her bag and jacket, and we walked out of the building together, and down to our usual sandwich place on the next block. We ordered, then found ourselves a table next to the window.

“Thanks for that information on Edward Perkins.”

“Oh, that's right—you were meeting with him this morning. How'd that go?”

“Very, very well. There are some interesting things in the works, but I can't talk about them yet. But let me say
that the Society will benefit mightily. Not necessarily with money, but with prestige and visibility, which might ultimately lead to more money.”

“Well, that's nice to hear. Did the information help?”

“Yes, it helped to confirm that Mr. Perkins is a man of his word and has the resources to back it up. That's rare these days.”

Our sandwiches arrived, and we settled down to eat. Halfway through my sandwich, I commented, “I had another odd call this morning, from Vee Blakeney. You know her?”

“Can't say I recognize the name. Who is she?”

“She's Tyrone Blakeney's wife, and she's a hotshot investment banker at a big firm here in the city.”

“What do you think she wants with you?”

“I haven't a clue. It sounds like another mysterious project. I have to say, we must be doing something right, because at least people are looking to include the Society in their hush-hush projects. You can take some of the credit for that, getting our name out there.”

Shelby smiled. “What about you? You've been in the paper plenty recently.”

“Yes, but usually for the wrong reasons. I'm not sure how crime solving fits in with high finance or community development. But I'm more than willing to listen to other people's ideas.”

“Well, here's to us!” Shelby and I clinked our bottles of iced tea.

After lunch I returned to my office and let Eric know
that I'd be leaving for a meeting at about quarter to four. Then I called James.

He answered with his professional voice. It occurred to me that I'd never seen his office at the FBI. Did he occupy a desk in a bullpen situation, or did he have his own office with a door that closed? Was there anyone who could overhear his conversations? Or were they all being recorded? “James Morrison. Oh, Nell, hi. Something up?”

“Three things.” I could be businesslike, too. “One, the meeting with Mr. Perkins was great, and I'll fill you in later. Two, Detective Hrivnak told me that a drug dealer named Raheem Hill paid one of his flunkies to shoot at the car last week. And three, I'm meeting Tyrone Blakeney's wife, Vee, at her office at four to discuss something she wouldn't reveal to me over the phone. Can you meet me there?”

“Five thirty work for you? Give me the address and I'll park somewhere and meet you downstairs.”

“That's fine.” I told him where to find me coming out of the building. “See you then.”

The FBI listeners would have nothing to giggle about after
that
romantic conversation.

At quarter to four I gathered up my things again, said good-bye to Eric, and set off for Vee Blakeney's office. It was located in one of the high-rises that lined Market Street on the other side of City Hall. I was certainly getting some exercise this way, but it felt good. When I reached the building I had to check the listings in the lobby: Vee worked for Dillingham Harrington, one of those firms that
had resulted from multiple mergers of the old-guard firms after the financial ups and downs of the past decade or more. I didn't pay much attention to who was who these days, since I had nothing that vaguely resembled an investment, unless you counted my half of the Chestnut Hill house. And the Society had been using the same small, local bank for decades.

The building was gleaming, the elevator was swift and silent, and the lobby of Vee's firm was quietly impressive. I introduced myself to the receptionist, who announced my presence through her discreet earpiece/phone, and a minute later Vee came down a hallway to meet me.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice. I know that Tyrone appreciated your stopping by the hospital to see him.”

“I wanted to be sure he was all right. I was a bit surprised he left the hospital so quickly, with his injuries.”

Vee smiled. “I think he was trying to prove he was stronger than he actually is. Some men are like that. Are you married, Nell?”

“No, not at the moment.” I was still struggling with how to answer that. Well, I wasn't married currently, although I had been once. I was in a committed relationship—that sounded stiff. I had a partner—silly. I lived with my boyfriend? For heaven's sake, he was an FBI agent! Gentleman friend? Paramour? I stuck with the simplest answer: no. “Have you and Tyrone been married long?”

“More than ten years. We met just after college. He was already involved in community organizing activities then, but I decided to get an MBA at Wharton, so I went in a different direction.”

“You told me you'd been involved with John Street's initiative—you must have been fairly new here then.”

“I was, so I ended up doing a lot of the tedious work. But Tyrone's insights into the community were invaluable to me, and helped me capture the attention of some of the more senior members. And in a sense, that's why I asked you here today. As I told you, that original project has had a fairly decent track record, and now that it's wrapping up, the firm is interested in carrying it forward, at least in spirit, and has asked me to take the lead on it. Have you heard the term
impact investing
?”

“No, I can't say that I have. What is it?”

Vee smiled. “Let me explain it to you, and tell you what it can do for the city of Philadelphia.”

“I'm sorry,” Vee said, “I'm forgetting my manners—it's been a long day. Would you like something to drink? Tea, coffee, sparkling water?”

I took her offer to mean that this visit would take more than a few minutes. “No, I'm fine.”

“All right, then.” Vee sat back in her leather swivel chair behind her spotless desk, her back to the spectacular view of city hall through the floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows. “In simplest terms, impact investing is investing that generates both a financial and a social return. It addresses social problems by making capital available from a variety of sources to fund programs that improve people's lives and communities. It's not new—it's been around for perhaps two decades in an organized manner, and now one dollar out of every nine is invested in ways guided by social or environmental concerns. DH has decided to create a
new department within the firm to address ways of bringing new capital to finance community and economic development.”

It took me a moment to translate
DH
to
Dillingham Harrington
. While I was not versed in the ways of public finance, I caught the drift of what she was saying. “You're talking about raising money to support neighborhood projects? Like Tyrone's?”

“Yes, in essence, although giving to his group would no doubt be construed as favoritism. But broadly speaking, we here at DH can bring together a range of investor types, combining different vehicles, in order to diversify the risk to the individual investors, who in turn are willing to accept a somewhat lower return with the knowledge that they are doing something worthy. Affordable housing has been the prime example, because there is an anticipated income stream of rental payments and subsidies. Public funding, from the City or the state, and pure philanthropy cannot meet all the demands of projects such as these, but we can work closely with those entities to assemble successful packages.”

It sounded good. It probably looked good on paper. Did I believe her? I wasn't sure. “Do you need the City's support, or at least their blessing, for this?”

“The mayor is firmly behind this. But we would also hope to pull in corporate financing from local companies, and on the flip side, to create equity investment opportunities to provide capital for other collaborative enterprises.”

“It sounds very persuasive. But isn't there an intermediate step? I'm sure you know neighborhoods like the one
I visited with your husband last week. They're dangerous wastelands. How do you persuade anyone to invest in such a disaster zone?”

“That's an intelligent question, Nell, and an important one. No one is promising that this will be easy, but it's something that needs to happen, and we believe in it. We are still in the early phases, but we've spoken to some important construction firms who we think are on board, and as I mentioned, the City is behind us. As well they must be, since they hold a substantial number of properties in the areas we're addressing. This has to be a collaborative effort.”

Time to cut to the chase. “I'm impressed. But why am I here? I'm assuming it's not for the money, because the Society has none to give.”

“It was Tyrone who first approached you, right? I think he was on the right track. Your Society can provide the human element for what, for want of a better term, will be our sales pitch. You have the resources to show what the city's neighborhoods once were, and what we hope they can be again. We can talk about numbers and wave handsome architectural drawings around, and then watch investors' eyes glaze over; you can make the neighborhoods real to them.”

I studied the woman in front of me. About my age, better dressed than I was, clearly intelligent and articulate. Did she believe in this venture? Or did she see it as a stepping-stone to a vice presidency at the firm? Assuming, of course, that the venture wasn't a total bust. It wouldn't be the first time: Philadelphia was littered with failed projects.

“Why do you think this can be successful?” I asked. “Haven't there been other efforts like this, such as Street's initiative?”

“Yes, of course. The neighborhoods problem in the city is not new, and the City, the state, and even the federal government have thrown money at it. Realistically, it's usually too little, and it dries up too quickly. But times have changed. Impact investing has a decent track record. We've been careful about jumping in, waiting to see how other efforts have fared, and what mistakes were made. We think the time is right to move on this now.”

“What does Tyrone think?” I said, mainly to satisfy my own curiosity.

Surprisingly, Vee looked away. “If I may be honest, Tyrone thinks I'm selling out. That I'm going to ride this currently fashionable trend to get what I want, which is both money and job security. I won't defend investment banking in general—a lot of established firms managed to tarnish their own reputations and have paid the price—but I believe in DH and their sincerity in advancing this effort. And I want to be part of it.”

She looked past me, and I wondered if she was checking to be sure the door to her office was closed. Then she looked back at me. “Nell, I don't often bring this up, but I was raised in the same neighborhood as Tyrone. I know what the problems are. I've worked hard to get where I am today, but in part that's because I feel I can be more effective in bringing about real change from here, rather than on the streets like Tyrone.”

That, I would never have guessed. “And how do you
feel about what Tyrone is doing?”
Which may have gotten him shot?

“I respect my husband, Nell. He is truly committed to saving his neighborhood. My own opinion is that he's pouring a lot of energy into his efforts, but they're too small to really make a difference. It takes too much money and power to make the changes he wants to see happen, and he'll never be able to access that through a small community organization.”

I studied her for a moment. “It sounds like your goals are the same, but it's your methods that differ.”

“That's true. Philadelphia is our home and always has been. It breaks my heart to see neighborhoods going downhill the way they have, even within my lifetime. I have the chance to make a real difference, and I've fought to make this firm see that. I hope Tyrone will be on my side. We want the same thing.”

I gave myself a mental shake. It was getting late, and we needed to get down to details. “What would you like to see from us? And what's your timetable?”

Did Vee look relieved? “We hope to announce a fully fleshed-out project after the first of the year. Any sooner and it would get lost in the holiday muddle. In any event, it will take that long to get all the players lined up. Once we define a specific project, we'd like to see your Society put together a presentation on the ‘before' aspects on the area—something we can distribute to investors. Something professional.”

“With plenty of pictures? No, I'm not being sarcastic—I know that people like the old pictures, and that sometimes
they don't bother to read the words. But bear in mind that I wouldn't want to put out anything that didn't reflect conscientious scholarship, or that misrepresented the past. You know, not just happy children playing in the streets, or colorful festivals. These neighborhoods were diverse and vital—they had schools and shops and churches, and people knew one another, even watched out for one another. I hope that's what you want to convey.”

“Exactly. And I wouldn't presume to interfere with your selection.”

“I assume there would be some financial consideration?” Awkward phrasing, but not as crude as asking,
How much?

“Of course.” She named a figure that almost made me swallow my tongue. Just for a bit of responsible research? That we might even do anyway, pro bono? If she was trying to buy my support, she was doing an excellent job of it.

I struggled to recover my balance. “If you're successful, perhaps we could consider combining the individual portions as a book, sometime in the future?”

“An excellent idea. So, are you interested?”

“I can't commit for my institution without consulting with my board”—not exactly true, but I was trying to be cautious and allow myself time to consider all sides of the idea—“but I'm sure they'll be interested in your proposal. When do you expect to make a public announcement?”

“Probably in January. Is that a reasonable amount of time for your people to pull together something we could use?”

Maybe the cold and snow will keep the most active criminals behind closed doors and allow for some photo ops
, I thought to myself. I glanced at the elegant crystal clock on her side table: nearly five thirty. “I'm sure we could manage that, as soon as you nail down which part of the city you want to target first. I'm sorry—I should be going. I'm meeting someone.”

“Of course. I appreciate your taking the time to meet with me. Why don't we walk out together? I'm finished for the day. Just let me gather my things and check with my secretary. Unless you're in a terrible hurry?”

“No, that's fine.” Now that she thought she'd won me over, she was certainly being friendly.

“I'll be only a moment.” She hurried out to her secretary's desk outside her office and began speaking to her. To give her privacy, I walked to the windows and gazed down at the city laid out below. There was city hall, the heart of the city, at the intersection of Broad Street and Market Street. Just as William Penn had envisioned more than three hundred years earlier. Much had changed, but history was still very much with us. And beyond it lay North Philadelphia, but there was nothing to be seen in that direction, just flat ground or what was left of the old row houses. I had to admit that some of the public commentators had got it right: it looked like images I'd seen of World War I war zones. I wondered if Vee had recognized the irony of her office location: looking back at the place she had come from, to the center of things. She had done well for herself. Maybe she saw this impact investing as her way of giving back, not merely a smart and trendy
business idea. If it worked, she would probably accomplish far more in practical terms than Tyrone could hope for. What did he think about what his wife was doing? And why had he come to me before she had? Were they working together, or did they have separate agendas?

Vee came up behind me. “All set. Wonderful view, isn't it?”

“It is. And it looks so different than what you see from ground level.” My office, albeit in a corner, had a wonderful view of a defunct night club, a parking lot, and—the only saving grace—one of the city's murals. Maybe this view versus Tyrone's summarized the two differing viewpoints: Tyrone saw individual people on the ground, while Vee saw the big picture, where old and new, rich and poor met.

“Shall we go?” Vee asked.

“Fine.” I followed her out to the elevator banks and we took an express to the ground floor. “Do you drive to work or take public transportation?” I asked, mainly to make conversation.

“I walk when the weather permits. You know where we live—it's not far. I call for a car if the weather is bad, or if I have an early or late appointment.”

Must be nice. But then, I had a car and driver, at least for the moment—and they should be waiting for me downstairs.

We walked out of the lobby on the Market Street side. Traffic out of the city was peaking. I scanned the curb for James's car, but it wasn't in sight. I wasn't worried, since I was a few minutes early.

“It was great talking with you, Nell,” Vee said. “I'll call you when I have more information. I'm heading home now.” She turned to walk toward the river, when suddenly her path was blocked by a large black man with a shiny bald head. He looked respectable enough, with a newish leather jacket that fit him well, and a large gold watch on his arm. Vee stopped just in time to avoid walking into him. “What do you want, Raheem?” she asked, her voice icy.

Raheem?
It couldn't be a coincidence, could it? Raheem the North Philly drug dealer? Raheem who had arranged for that punk shooter? What was he doing here on Market Street?

“Hey, Ronnie, just wanna talk with you. You don't return my calls or nothin'.” His words seemed innocent enough, but his tone was cold. Wait—he knew Vee? Or
Ronnie
?

“We don't have anything to say to each other, Raheem,” she said stiffly.

“You be wrong about that, I'm thinkin'. After what I done for you.” The man wasn't budging.

I tried to figure out what to do now. I could melt away and pretend I'd never seen him. Or I could jump to Vee's aid, although apparently she knew the guy. Or I could call the police and give them some wild story and they'd send somebody, just to see if it was true. Or I could call James, although if he was driving I wasn't sure he'd answer. I was reaching into my bag to find my cell phone when Raheem's gaze shifted to me. It wasn't friendly.

“You—you the lady been all over the news this week, right? You a friend of Tyrone's?”

Vee turned to me and frowned. Was I supposed to play
dumb? The man had already recognized me from the papers. “We've met,” I said neutrally.

He nodded once. “Me and Ronnie here, we got things to talk about. We gonna go somewhere and talk. You can go.”

I looked at Vee, and now I thought I saw a flash of fear. “I'm not sure Vee wants to go with you, Raheem.”

Raheem had somehow managed to inch closer to Vee, and now he looked down at her. He must have outweighed her by a hundred pounds, easily. If he fell over on her, she'd be flattened. “That right, Ronnie? You don't want to talk with me?”

“I'm not going anywhere with you, Raheem. Leave me alone.” She took a step back, but he closed the gap again.

“Jes' wanna talk, Ronnie. About you and that little bitch your man was hangin' around with.”